The Jericho Pact

by Rachel Lee

  “He will do it,” Miguel said. “But where do we look for this codex?”

  “We look for the man who took it,” Steve said. He drew a slow breath. “The man in Guatemala. You saw him. Can you draw a picture of him?”

  Miguel nodded. “I think so.”

  “Do you remember Miriam?”

  “The American policewoman? Yes.”

  “If you can draw it well enough, she might be able to identify him.”

  “You will call her?”

  Steve shook his head, smiling sadly. “No. She is no longer in the police but high in government. But I can get the drawing to her through Monsignore Veltroni and our Papal Nuncio in Washington, I think.”

  Miguel smiled. “Yes. Your Vatican contacts should not go totally to waste.”

  “I hope she remembers me,” Steve said.

  And, he thought, he hoped Miriam had forgiven him for abandoning her in the jungle.

  After Miguel had drawn the man’s face, Steve took the drawing to an Internet café. They had a scanner, and for only a few euros he was able to scan the drawing and send it to Veltroni’s private e-mail address.

  Steve had appended the words “God will know his own” to the drawing. He hoped Miriam would figure out the code and find him in Béziers. For he had decided that would be the next stop on his journey. Somewhere in that ancient city must lie another clue to the bonne femme.

  A prayer, he decided, might be a good thing right now.

  Rome, Italy

  “This sounds far-fetched, Renate,” Jefe said.

  “I know it does. It probably is. But believe it or not, this is the least far-fetched of the ideas Margarite and I kicked around today.”

  Jefe chuckled. The least far-fetched, huh? He wasn’t sure if that strengthened her speculation or was merely evidence that two of his best agents were losing their minds and in need of some leave time. In the end, his decision was constrained by the fact that he had no one to replace them. And since he couldn’t give them leave, it was better to consider that they just might be right.

  “Okay, let’s say I think this isn’t totally nuts,” he said. “How can we verify it?”

  “We killed three men in Strasbourg when we took down Kasmir al-Khalil,” Renate said. “They were European, not Arab. Then there’s Paxti Lezeta, who Lawton killed here in Berlin. He was a European security agent, except Lawton swears he saw Lezeta throw a Molotov cocktail into the Muslim demonstrators. Get identities on the Europeans we killed in Strasbourg and run their backgrounds against Lezeta’s. If Margarite and I are right, there will be a nexus.”

  “And that nexus will be someone very close to Jules Soult,” Jefe said. “We can get into Interpol’s database. But that will only help if these guys had criminal records. Any idea where this Lezeta is from, in case we need to get into national databases?”

  “Hold on,” Renate said. After a muffled conversation, she returned. “Margarite says it sounds Basque to her. That narrows it to southwest France or northeast Spain. She has a contact in the French Interior Ministry who can search their records if we need to.”

  “Hold off on that,” Jefe said. “Let me try it through Interpol first. I’d rather leave as few tracks as I can.”

  “Das stimmt,” Renate said.

  Jefe laughed and shook his head. “Sorry, Renate, but unless you know Spanish, you’ll need to stick to English or pidgin Italian with me.”

  “Es tut mir leid,” she said. “Ich habe mit dir übereingestimmt.”

  “Y’know, Renate, sometimes you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “With Lawton out of touch, I figured you needed one,” she said. In his mind’s eye, he saw the briefest flicker of a smile on her face. When she spoke again, it was in English. “And by the way, all I said was that I agreed with you.”

  “Let me get busy here. Call me tonight.”

  “Ja,” she said. “Bis heute Abend.”

  That much he understood as until this evening. He’d never considered Renate as having a sense of humor before. In fact, as he thought about it, he realized that, in the years they’d worked together, he’d never seen her joke. A blissfully ignorant man would have taken her humor as a sign that she was fine. But Jefe was neither ignorant nor in a state of bliss. He’d learned not to ignore it when people acted out of character.

  Something was wrong. He scribbled a note to talk to Margarite later, at a time when Renate would not overhear, then walked over to the data room. He found Assif Mondi, one of the best computer minds in Office 119, hunched over a terminal and muttering in Hindi.

  “That doesn’t sound positive,” Jefe said.

  “Positive,” Assif said, “would be the Frankfurt Brotherhood sending me decrypted copies of their e-mail. This, Jefe, is called reality.”

  “I have some more reality to dump in your lap.”

  “I’m standing,” Assif said, without looking up. “No lap. Sorry.”

  “Then I’ll dump it on your back,” Jefe said. “This is a no-shit, get-it-done job, Assif.”

  Assif straightened, meeting Jefe’s eyes for the first time. For a moment the young Indian man seemed angry, then inscrutable. Finally he smiled. “Okay, boss. Sorry. I’m just frustrated. There’s been a ton of Brotherhood traffic in the past forty-eight hours, and they’ve updated their encryption software. I hate knowing those bastards are up to something and not knowing what it is.”

  “Then a break will help you,” Jefe said. “This ought to be easy by comparison. I need to get into the Interpol database.”

  Assif let out a sigh of relief as he moved to another data terminal. “You’re right, that will be easy. I still have a Trojan listening to a socket on their firewall from when I worked for the New Delhi police. I just run my t-exec to telnet in and I’m on at the root.”

  “Doesn’t anyone speak English anymore?” Jefe asked.

  “That was English. What I said was—”

  Jefe put up a hand. “Don’t bother. Just do it, please. I need to know the identities of three men we took down in Strasbourg. And I need everything you can get on the man Lawton killed in Berlin, Paxti Lezeta. Margarite and Renate think there’s a connection. I need to know if they’re right, or if we’re chasing wild geese. And I need it in two hours.”

  “Now you’re doing reality again,” Assif said. “These things take time.”

  Jefe shook his head. “Not this one. I wasn’t kidding when I said it’s a no-shit, get-it-done job. We have an agent in jail, Assif. Make it happen.”

  Assif nodded, already typing at the keyboard. “It will go faster without you standing over my shoulder.”

  Jefe gave the man a pat as he left, realizing that Assif was doing the best he could in a job where his every action was probably illegal. Jefe knew that, and usually he handled these things better.

  Maybe it wasn’t Renate who was going out of her mind. Maybe it was him.

  17

  Berlin, Germany

  P osing as Lawton’s cousin, Renate gained permission to visit him. The visitors’ room was tiny, just enough space for the two of them to sit at a table. There was no sign of cameras or listening devices, nor should there have been. Until convicted of a crime, a prisoner in Germany was treated with every courtesy.

  “We have a theory,” she said. “Jefe’s checking out some connections. Suffice it to say, your encounter with the security guard, as unfortunate as it has been for you, has proved a valuable piece of information.”

  He nodded. “I need to get out of here.” The warrant had been issued by the judge yesterday, as he had expected, and since then he had begun to look drawn. Captivity did not at all agree with him.

  “We are working on it. Believe me.” Forgetting all the rules about collegial relationships, she reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I feel responsible. I brought you into this.”

  “You weren’t the one who went off half-cocked.”

  “You were only acting as you were trained. I cannot criticize that.”
/>   “Margarite sure has.”

  “Margarite would find something to criticize in the color of the sky.”

  At that he cracked a half smile. “She told me to stop acting like John Wayne.”

  Renate actually smiled. “John Wayne is one of the things many Europeans like about Americans. Remember, the French preferred Jerry Lewis.”

  At that he genuinely laughed, as she had hoped he would. “So what is this theory?”

  She hesitated, trying to think of a brief way to sketch it for him without getting into a full-blown discussion that could, if someone happened to overhear, reveal too much.

  He seemed to understand her concern, for he nodded and glanced toward the door. It was closed, but she knew that just because no one should be attempting to listen, in reality…

  “The man you attacked worked for EU security.”

  He nodded. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Well, that is the clue I mentioned. The hint. Being American, you may not know much about…historical events in the 1930s. Here in Germany.”

  “I’ve done some reading.”

  “Do you remember the Brownshirts?”

  Now his eyes narrowed, and she could see that he was thinking very hard. “I see,” he said finally, his voice heavy.

  She nodded. “We think Soult may be using EU security forces in this way.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His hand slipped from beneath hers, and she regretted the loss.

  Finally he opened his eyes. “What does Jefe say?”

  “He thinks we are crazy and fears we may be correct. He is researching persons of interest.”

  “I hate to think this may be true.” He shook his head. “I’m an American, Renate. Like most Americans, I’m rather proud of my country, but I also feel somewhat envious of European sophistication.”

  Renate shrugged. “The Margarites of the world would very much like it if you continued to feel that way. But our sophistication is born of the many terrible things we have done and experienced. And so-called sophistication does not prevent us from repeating our mistakes. We hold up the EU as a beacon of hope for the future, yet we could not agree on a constitution for it. That would be the easy part, would you not think?”

  “Well, it was a complicated issue.”

  “Yes. It attempted to enshrine business and economic arrangements in the same breath as human rights. But that is beside the point. Look at us now, Lawton.” She glanced down briefly. “We—the sophisticated Europeans, with our vaunted EU—seem poised to unleash another Holocaust.”

  “I thought you were for the EU?”

  “I am for peace and justice. Herr Vögel saw that Soult’s path would bring neither.”

  “A good reason to get rid of him.”

  “Ja. For all her weaknesses, Germany’s economy is stronger than that of France. If she were to withdraw from the EU, many would be angry.”

  “And Vögel had threatened that,” he said.

  She nodded. “Now Germany has a chancellor who does Soult’s bidding, but still he has angered many by insisting that those who are moved must be compensated. And twice this week there have been fights at train stations. Today Chancellor Müller said he may suspend the relocations.”

  “So he’s not Soult’s puppet.”

  “Not entirely,” Renate said. “Every day there are more Germans in the streets protesting the relocations and fewer marching to support them. I do not think Herr Müller can remain loyal to Soult and retain his position. And if he breaks with the EU, there will be repercussions.”

  “And all that is tied up in my case,” Lawton said.

  Renate nodded. “When you tackled Paxti Lezeta, you peeled back the curtain on something that could be very embarrassing to whomever sent him. There are powerful forces who would like to keep that truth buried.”

  “You mean keep me buried,” Lawton said.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But once it is established that you are an ordinary citizen, it will benefit those same persons to see you freed without a trial. The German justice system requires that your claims in your own defense must be investigated as thoroughly as the charges against you. I think those behind Lezeta will not want that kind of deep investigation. So you may be lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky at all.” He sighed, then fell silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “I killed a man.”

  She knew how he felt too well. But unlike her own experiences of killing, Lawton had not acted in cold blood. “Lawton, it was an accident. You did see him commit a crime, and he was reaching for a gun when you were chasing him. What were you supposed to do? Wait for him to draw it and shoot you?”

  She could tell he didn’t like what she was saying. Nor did she. Ever since she had discovered the activities of the Frankfurt Brotherhood while working as an agent of the BKA, she had lost a great deal of innocence. She had lost even more when they tried to kill her and had instead killed her best friend, and still more when they murdered her parents. With each day, it seemed, she lost more and more of the goodness within her.

  Like it or not, the corridors of true power in this world were hidden from public view. When people wondered at the way events played out, all they needed to do was look at the money. Always follow the money. But money was not simply a motive. It was also a means to cover one’s tracks, to make one’s enemies disappear. She had followed the money, and it had struck back…hard.

  A heavy sigh escaped Lawton, and he shook his head. “You shouldn’t even be here in Berlin, Renate. The Brotherhood knows you’re still alive.” He managed a weak smile. “But I must admit, you look great with dark hair.”

  She considered the compliment, wondered if it was mere humor or something more, and decided to let it pass. “I won’t be in Germany long. But you needed me.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “Damn, I feel so helpless.”

  “This is Germany. No swearing.”

  He smiled again. “Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

  “Under the circumstances, I’ll overlook it.” She had brought him a cake, and now she edged it across the table toward him. “You will like this. It is not too sweet.”

  “Thank you. Does it contain a file?”

  For an instant she missed the allusion, but then she caught it and laughed. “That won’t be necessary, Lawton. You’ll see.”

  Rome, Italy

  “This is madness!” Abdul al-Nasser said.

  Ahmed Ahsami could not disagree. As he watched, three more buses pulled up, loaded with Italian Muslims being relocated to this already crowded neighborhood. The people climbed from the buses and gathered what few belongings they had brought with them. Then the buses pulled away, having deposited the people at the curb like so much human refuse.

  The sight sickened him to his soul.

  “We must strike back at them,” al-Nasser said. “Our people cannot go quietly, like Jewish sheep.”

  Ahmed turned to his companion. “And what, exactly, will we accomplish by such a strike? Do you think if we kill enough innocent people, the Europeans will decide we are fit to live among them?”

  “There are no innocent Europeans,” al-Nasser said. “Not when they stand by while this happens.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Perhaps that is true. But if it is so, then there are no innocent Muslims, either, not when we have stood by while the most rabid among us have murdered in the name of Allah. Collective guilt flows both ways, my friend.”

  “You have spent too much time in the West,” al-Nasser said. “It has polluted your thinking. Surely you can see the difference between a holy warrior and an infidel?”

  “What I can see,” Ahmed said, again looking at the crowd in the street, “is misery and death, paid one for the other, back and forth, until all is misery and death. It is our duty, as good followers of Allah, to end this cycle.”

  Al-Nasser’s lips were tight. “Oh yes, we will end it. We will teach the infidels the price of oppress
ing Allah’s people. Then they will cower before us.”

  Ahmed shook his head and walked out of the restaurant. He could not waste time arguing with al-Nasser. The most he could do was to keep the man—and the many other young men in this neighborhood who felt as al-Nasser did—firmly in check. The idea that Europeans would ever cower before Muslims was laughable. Camels would fly first.

  He began to move through the crowd, seeking out fathers, the traditional heads of households. In his hand, he carried a sheet of paper upon which he had compiled a list of available lodgings in the area. It was slow work, for he spoke little Italian and many of them spoke almost no Arabic. Yet he pressed on, trying to match families with flats and men with jobs, trying to ensure that these new arrivals—like those who had come yesterday and the day before that, and those who would come tomorrow and the day after—would have places to live and ways to feed their families.

  It was largely thankless work, and not at all what he had envisioned four years earlier, when he had first begun to build Saif Alsharaawi. His lofty aspirations of a pan-Islamic institution were collapsing into sectarian war in Iraq and a looming Holocaust in Europe. He felt less a mediator, less a spokesman, and increasingly a fireman rushing from one blaze to another. He was not acting, only reacting.

  And yet he found a certain kind of peace in the work he now did. The Islamic traditions of hospitality were as old as the deserts in which they were born, and while Rome was not a sandy wasteland, this neighborhood must seem equally inhospitable in the eyes of those being shuttled in here. Many of the jobs Ahmed helped to distribute were being created by and for the relocation itself. They were neither glamorous nor lucrative, but as the mass of people grew, so, too, grew the need for streets to be kept clean, for food, clothing, medicine and other essentials to be gathered and distributed, for children to be watched and taught, for those with special skills to be matched to those with needs.

  He was, he realized, helping to create a city within a city, with all the administrative headaches that attended such a task. If Saif Alsharaawi was ever to achieve his dream, it would be because of work like this, because of matching resources with needs in a way that ensured the safety and security of those involved.