The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “So are you closer to catching the terrorists?” Jonathan asked.

  Vail shushed him as she glanced around. “You know I can’t talk about it.” Jonathan’s face scrunched a bit, tense from concern. “We’re making headway. We’ll get ’em. Just stay away from public gatherings.”

  “Police are all over the place. Barricades up on half the streets around campus. Freakin’ pain in the ass.”

  “One of the exciting things about GW is that it puts you at the intersection of politics, law, and power. You can’t walk a block or two without hitting a building of significance to the country—or the world. The International Monetary Fund, the White House, Supreme Court, Con—”

  “I get it, Mom.”

  “That makes us a target,” Robby said. “More bang for the buck than hitting Kansas or Wyoming, you know?”

  As he said that, Vail felt a gust of wind rattle the large glass storefront window to her left. “Did you feel that?”

  Robby nodded slowly as he swiveled in his seat and looked out at the people on the sidewalk and across the street in Washington Square Park. Most had stopped and were craning their necks in all directions. A few started to run and—

  Vail’s Samsung began buzzing. It was a text from Uzi:

  new attack. eastern market. meet me there.

  on my way, im close

  Shit, that wasn’t a gust of wind, it was blowback from an explosion.

  “Gotta go.” She rose from the booth.

  “Everything okay?” Jonathan asked.

  Vail looked at her son. Even if she had thoughts of lying to him, she knew he would know. “Another bomb,” she whispered.

  Robby started to rise but Vail waved him back down.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  VAIL ARRIVED AT THE INTERSECTION of 7th Avenue SE and North Carolina Avenue and pulled her car against the curb in front of Port City Java. Several Metro Police cruisers were lined up along 7th, blocking access to the wide cobblestone road that fronted the market.

  But what caught Vail’s eye was the carnage before her. The covered pavilion that ran the length of the brick building had been toppled, the steel columns supporting it knocked out from beneath the roof and folded in half as if struck with a baseball bat.

  Bodies lay sprawled on the pavement, paramedics and first responders triaging the injured and yelling orders to others in the vicinity. Vail jogged along 7th, headed toward a concentration of police cars, fire engines—and a SWAT van.

  She pulled on crime scene booties and moved closer. The double wood doors at the entrance to the market—doors she had passed through many times over the years—were missing, the opening enlarged by what appeared to be an armored truck, the rear of which was partially protruding from the building’s interior.

  DeSantos, wearing a wool overcoat, was inside talking to a CSU technician. He caught Vail’s gaze and waved her in.

  She made her way over the chunks of cement and fragmented brick, getting some assistance from another officer who helped her across the debris-laden threshold.

  Inside, devastation. The normally bustling marketplace, which featured vendors and restaurants on both sides of a central aisle, was in pieces. Bloody bodies, and parts of others, were strewn across the wreckage—as far as she could see.

  “What the hell happened here?” she asked under her breath.

  DeSantos apparently heard her because he said, “Just setting off a bomb must be getting boring for them.” He handed a piece of the rubble to a nearby technician. “Best we could tell—I only got here about ten minutes ago—they drove up 7th in that armored truck and crashed through the pavilion, mowing down as many people as they could. They swung right into the building, plowed through the entrance. Then they got out.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, best we can tell.”

  “What happened after they got out of the truck?”

  “They started moving through the crowd, firing AK-47s. Two cops saw the truck hit the pavilion, so they were on scene immediately. They came in through the east entrance, drew down, and that’s when the jerkoffs detonated their vests.”

  Vail climbed atop the front bumper of the truck and looked out over the interior. Headed in her direction was Uzi, stopping to render assistance to medics who were administering to some of the fallen victims. The scene looked like a war zone.

  “So, what do you make of this?”

  Vail turned. “What?”

  “Instead of loading explosives into a backpack or suitcase, they used a truck, assault rifles, and suicide vests. I’m not a detective, but I do understand the concept of MO. And they just changed their MO completely.”

  “Objective was to kill as many as they could. Invoke fear. What better way to do that than by changing the method of attack? You don’t know what’s coming next. You can’t draw a pattern. More terror that way.”

  “Why hit the market?” asked Uzi, who was approaching.

  “We’ve increased police presence and restricted access to important buildings, made it more difficult for them to go after hard targets. So they chose a soft one.”

  “Smart.”

  “Scary smart. They’re well organized, prepared, flexible, and as we know, well funded.”

  Uzi’s phone rang. He glanced at the display and said, “I gotta take this.”

  GIDEON AKSEL’S VOICE WAS TIGHT, concern permeating his tone. “I’ve got something for you, Uzi, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “I’ll be the judge. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Just so you know, I’ve verified this. There is no question of its accuracy. None.”

  “Got it. What’d you find?”

  “You wanted info on Mahmoud El-Fahad.”

  “Anything and everything.”

  “January ’03. The suicide bombing in Haifa.”

  “The commuter bus?”

  “The bomber, he was Fahad’s nephew.”

  Uzi glanced over at Vail and DeSantos, still chatting by the armored truck. “His nephew was a suicide bomber?” Uzi closed his eyes. “Fahad’s nephew was a radicalized terrorist?”

  “It sounded like this man meant something to you, so I knew you weren’t going to like it. But facts are facts.”

  Uzi found a clearing and sat down on a damaged metal stool that had belonged to a now-destroyed deli. The prone body of a dead security guard was laid out before him. He averted his gaze. “Was Fahad involved?”

  “Answer me. This man is important to you, no?”

  “In some ways, yeah.” He wanted to give Aksel more, but he was already dangerously close to stepping over the line.

  “I don’t know if he was part of the plot, Uzi. I dug around, talked with the men involved in the investigation. Mossad’s got nothing. Shin Bet had nothing on Fahad. Now that could be a good thing—”

  “Or it could mean nothing.”

  “Or it could mean nothing. I can tell you he was there. He saw his nephew blow himself up.”

  Uzi could not help but cringe. “Anything else in Mossad’s file? Did we have any contacts with Fahad?”

  “Only one. Nothing of any significance. He was questioned. The interrogators noted that he seemed distraught but he denied any knowledge that it was going down. There was no proof either way, so he was not held. We had no further contact with him. He left the West Bank five months later for the US.”

  Uzi remembered being told that Fahad had lived in the West Bank and knew Gaza well. “Has he been back?”

  “Multiple times. Nothing unusual about his visits.”

  And he’s a CIA operative whose territory included those areas. Uzi rubbed the back of his neck. He turned and saw Vail walking toward him.

  “Thanks, Gideon. I’ll look into this.”

  “Why are you asking about him? Any reason for u
s to be concerned?”

  Uzi thought about that a second. “I honestly don’t know. He’s—and you didn’t hear this from me—he’s working for us. So he should be fine. But …”

  “But if his nephew was a suicide bomber, someone he was close to, you just don’t know.”

  “Thanks, Gideon. Gotta go.” He disconnected the call as Vail stepped in front of him.

  “Everything okay?”

  Uzi rose from the stool and took a long look at Vail. He did not know if he should say anything about what he had just learned so he went with how he genuinely felt: “We’re under attack and our enemy has been able to do anything they want, whenever they want. No, everything’s not okay.” In the distance, Uzi caught sight of Fahad approaching.

  “There’s something else. That call.”

  “Yeah, that call.” He watched as Fahad closed to within twenty feet then stopped and looked at one of the victims sprawled facedown across a vegetable counter: a man wearing a backpack, a brown bag still clutched in his right hand. “Let’s go see what our new task force member thinks of what happened here.”

  VAIL AND UZI CAME UP BEHIND FAHAD, who was examining a deceased sweat-shirted male slumped over a vending stand.

  “Mahmoud,” Vail said.

  He turned, a frown etched into his face. “Call me Mo.” He gestured at the body, which showed evidence of multiple bullet entry wounds across its back. “These bastards aren’t going to stop unless we stop them.”

  Kind of like a serial killer.

  “This is not like any attack I’ve seen carried out by Hamas or al Humat,” he said. “Completely different methodology.”

  “Hey. Boychick!”

  They turned to see DeSantos walking toward them, negotiating the ruins littering the market’s floor.

  “We got something.” Two Metro police officers brushed past, an injured man wedged between them, his arms draped around their shoulders. “A finger.”

  “A finger?” Vail asked.

  “A severed finger, probably from one of the bombers.” DeSantos handed her an evidence bag containing the bloodied digit.

  “You’re giving me the finger?”

  “I think they’ve already done that,” Uzi said.

  “No kidding,” DeSantos said as he took the bag back. “CSU found it several dozen feet from the remnants of the bomber’s vest. When a suicide bomber blows himself up, the direction and location of the explosives sever the head and send it flying clear of the blast.”

  “Thanks for that image,” Vail said.

  “In this case,” DeSantos continued, “because of the double blast, both their heads were obliterated. This finger may be our only lead in terms of giving us an ID.”

  “Well if it isn’t Aaron Uziel.”

  They turned to see Tim Meadows, an FBI forensic scientist, approaching from the opposite direction. “Should’ve known you’d be working this case.”

  “The worst criminals bring out the best and the brightest the Bureau has to offer,” Uzi said. “Except that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “I see our agent with the name of a submachine gun is locked and loaded with humor.” He turned to DeSantos and eyed him a moment. “No offense, but if you’re on the case, that’s not a good sign.”

  DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that depends on how you look at it. I think it’s a good thing. Actual work is going to get done.”

  “And my favorite female shrink,” Meadows said, giving Vail a hug. “Or maybe just my favorite female.” As he leaned back he seemed to notice Fahad for the first time. “Hmm. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Mahmoud El-Fahad. CIA.”

  “Guess we’re pulling all the cans of alphabet soup off the shelves for this one, eh?” Meadows chuckled.

  Alphabet soup was a common slang term to describe the government’s acronym and abbreviation nomenclature for its agencies: CIA, FBI, NSA, DoD, among dozens of others.

  “We’ve got a finger,” Uzi said gesturing at the evidence bag in DeSantos’s hand. “Can you make sure it’s processed—”

  “ASAP, yeah, I got that. Don’t you know that I’ve come to realize that if you’re on a case, it’s automatically important?”

  Uzi leaned back. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’ve learned that certain things are not worth fighting. Death. Taxes. Bureaucracy. Aaron Uziel.”

  “That’s some great company, Uzi,” Vail said.

  Uzi frowned. “Yeah, whatever. When can we get an ID?”

  Meadows rocked his head side to side. “How about ten minutes?”

  “Don’t play with me, Tim.”

  Meadows took the bag from DeSantos and held it up to the light. “I’ve got a mobile lab outside. Let me see what I can do.”

  MEADOWS WAS WRONG: he didn’t have an answer for them in ten minutes. He had something for them in eight.

  “The digit was intact, so I didn’t have to play with it to raise the print. I scanned it, uploaded it, and the computer got a match.”

  “Can you email it to me?” Uzi asked.

  Meadows pulled out his phone, tapped and scrolled and the image of whorls and ridges was on its way.

  Uzi forwarded it to Gideon Aksel the second it hit his inbox, with a request for information.

  Vail, who had taken a look around the remains of the market, its deceased shoppers and retailers, returned to the group.

  “Anything?” Fahad asked.

  “Death and destruction,” Vail said. “But you knew that already. You?”

  “We got a hit on the print.”

  “An ID? This fast? Tim, you’re setting a dangerous precedent.”

  “I got a hit, not an ID. Sorry to get your hopes up.”

  “Then I take it back. No precedent. Just disappointment.”

  “Ouch,” Meadows said. “But before you judge me, since our bomber’s print was in AFIS, I did some more digging to see if our muskrat’s got a record.”

  DeSantos turned away from an ATF agent he had been conferring with. “Hold on. This muskrat got a name?”

  “I’m sure he does,” Meadows said. “I just don’t know what it is. Yet. But he was apparently storing up nuts for a long, cold winter.”

  Vail looked at Meadows. “Kill the friggin’ muskrat. Just tell us what you found.”

  “Latents from a New York City crime scene matched our bomber’s print.”

  “Homicide?” Vail asked.

  “Bank robbery, eighteen months ago.”

  “From bank robber to suicide bomber?” DeSantos pulled his chin back. “You trying to be funny?”

  Meadows held up one of his hands. “I’m only telling you what I know. I didn’t say it made sense.”

  “So what’s the connection between the bombing and the bank heist?” Vail asked. “What was stolen?”

  Uzi pulled out his phone. “I’ll see if Hoshi can set up a conference call with the detective on the case.”

  “My old stomping grounds,” Vail said. “I think we should go there, meet with the guy, talk with the bank administrators, look at who’s got accounts there.”

  “Set it up,” Uzi said. “We’ve all got go bags. Let’s meet at the field office in an hour.

  19

  They arrived in New York City at 6:00 PM, avoiding the typical weekday rush hour traffic.

  En route, Knox informed them that Secretary Bolten had convinced the president to raise the threat level and go public with the terrorism connection—something Vail and Uzi felt was long overdue.

  Vail also called her buddy Carmine Russo and asked him to track down the detective who handled the bank robbery case. Since it was a shared jurisdiction with the FBI, she also attempted to reach the special agent who spearheaded the investigation, but he had not returned her call.

  The detective,
Steven Johnson, agreed to meet them over a beer at Reade Street Pub & Kitchen, a favorite watering hole of Feds—and some cops.

  As Uzi navigated the streets and drove along the West Side Highway, Vail tensed—a visceral reaction.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Vail looked away. “I lost a partner near here a long time ago.” She coiled in the front seat, bringing her knees up and grabbing them with her hands.

  “Care to talk about it?”

  “Car accident. Ironically, we were chasing a van filled with explosives. Sedan came out of nowhere.”

  Uzi nodded, checking his mirrors before glancing back over at Vail. “All worked out, though, right?”

  “My partner died.”

  “Right. Except for that.”

  Except for that.

  “Then there was 9/11. I was in a high-rise not far from here. A few blocks.”

  “On 9/11? You never told me that. You were there?”

  Vail drew her legs onto the seat, close to her chest. “Not something I want to talk about.”

  “No shit. Your body language says all I need to know.”

  Vail mentally appraised herself—and released her grip on her shins, let her feet fall to the floor.

  “We’re close,” DeSantos said.

  “And who is this guy we’re meeting?” Fahad asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in his seat.

  “Have a nice beauty nap?” DeSantos asked.

  He yawned widely and groaned loudly. “Oh, man. Sorry. Haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately. You take it when you can get it.”

  “We’re meeting with Detective Steven Johnson,” Vail said, “out of the 6-6 precinct. He and Special Agent Patrick Tarkenton handled the bank robbery. Haven’t been able to reach Tarkenton. We’ll see what Johnson can give us.”

  Fahad ruffled his black hair and rubbed his cheeks with both hands, trying to wake himself up. “I need a coffee.”

  They found curb space half a block from the Reade Street Pub & Kitchen, then passed under the green awning and entered the restaurant. The place was comfortable and homey, with a model train running on an oval track suspended from the ceiling.

  They saw a man meeting the description of Detective Johnson—chocolate brown head shaved bald—and still dressed in a dark suit from his workday. He had taken a table near the bar with his back to the brick wall, which featured a large green and yellow neon sign that read “Reade Street Pub.” The place had an unfinished ceiling with exposed ventilation pipes—built decades before such a style was in vogue.