The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “How do you know Amer Madari?” Uzi asked above the din.

  Vail turned to Uzi. “Who’s Amer Madari?”

  “Yeah,” Fahad said. “Who’s Amer—Madari, you said?”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Uzi said firmly. “I know you met with him this morning.” He was talking to be heard over the ambient noise, but his demeanor, and perhaps his tone, made it sound as if he was angry and shouting.

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Amer Madari,” Uzi said, turning to Vail but speaking so that DeSantos could hear him, “has been to Pakistan, Syria, and Gaza the past couple of years.”

  DeSantos was staring at Uzi, but Uzi could not make out his expression: He could tell he was not pleased. But was he angry that Uzi had been spying on his team member or was he angry that Uzi had not mentioned it earlier? Or both?

  “Why were you meeting with him?”

  “I’m CIA, Uzi. Sometimes we go dark to follow up on leads. I’m on this team because I’m Palestinian, because I’m trusted in the Arab community, because I have contacts in the community. Some of those are going to be suspect, some are going to have records, some may even have a history in terrorism. It’s no different than you meeting with a confidential informant who uses drugs or who’s committed a felony or who’s—”

  “Blown stuff up?”

  “Yeah. Even someone who’s blown stuff up.”

  “And what about your nephew?”

  Fahad’s face blanched. The rattle and the rocking motion of the fuselage, as the plane gained speed and rolled along the runway, made his head bob left and right.

  “Your nephew,” Uzi said, “the suicide bomber who blew up a school bus full of innocent children in Haifa in 2003.”

  DeSantos leaned forward, his chest straining against the seat restraint. “What the hell are you talking about?” He pulled his gaze away from Uzi and faced Fahad. “What’s he talking about?”

  Fahad bit his bottom lip. He closed his eyes but did not answer DeSantos’s question.

  “Answer me, or so help me God, I will have this plane turned around—”

  “It’s true,” Fahad said. “I don’t know how you found out about it, but it’s true.”

  DeSantos, Uzi, and Vail shared a concerned look.

  “You didn’t think this was important for us to know?” Vail asked.

  “Yeah,” Fahad said, “I could imagine how well that would go over. The Palestinian, the guy you don’t trust to begin with, had a nephew who was a suicide bomber, a radical. You really don’t understand why I didn’t say anything?”

  “How the hell did you get into the CIA?” DeSantos asked.

  Uzi chuckled. “I know the answer to that. Tasset gave you the chance to prove yourself. And he had something on you, so when the shit hits the fan, you owe him. Big. You’ll support him, do whatever he needs you to do, because you have no choice. He’s got a secret on you. Am I right?”

  Fahad nodded.

  “After we texted you to meet us at the crime scene, did you tip the sniper that I’d be at city hall this afternoon?”

  “No—why would I do that?”

  “Did you or anyone else you know, or anyone you’re affiliated with, plant the bomb in my car?”

  “What bomb?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No,” Uzi said. “I’m lucky to be alive. So forgive me for asking tough questions you don’t want to hear.”

  “I had nothing to do with that. Nothing.” He shook his head. “Look, I understand this doesn’t look good. But when I saw my nephew get on that bus and blow himself up, something snapped inside me. I knew he had these crazy ideas but I never thought he’d do something so stupid. But for me, it had the opposite effect. I didn’t channel his anger. I realized it was a stupid, ill-advised idea. That’s when I came to the US and started a new life, got into the CIA.”

  “Tasset knew who you were.”

  “I told him. And I told him I wanted no part of it. Not only did I not want any part of it, I wanted to help find others like my nephew before they had the chance to kill other innocent people.” He made eye contact with each of them. “You have to believe me.”

  “It wouldn’t be an issue,” DeSantos said, “if you’d told us up front. Or—if you’d just been in touch with us, told us what you were doing—or at very least, that you had a meet or two. But going dark for a good chunk of the day … that doesn’t work when you’re on this team. We rely on each other to be there for each other. No secrets.” He glanced at Uzi, then turned back to Fahad. “For now, we’ll accept your story—and your explanation. We’re headed into enemy territory, for lack of a better term. We all need to be on the same page. And that means we tell each other where we’ll be, and when, who we’re meeting with, and if we learn new info.”

  Fahad leaned back and took a deep breath. “Fine. I get it. I’m not used to this. I work alone or with a handler. I’m not a team player.”

  “Wrong,” Vail said. “You are a team player. Starting right now.”

  He sucked on his front teeth a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

  The whine of the engines increased and the front of the large plane rose. A second later they felt the lift and they were airborne.

  Uzi leaned close to Vail’s ear. “How did the assholes know I’d be there?”

  “Be where?”

  “City hall. The crime scene, the sniper. The guy who planted the bomb in my car.”

  “You’re thinking Mo tipped them after getting our text to meet us there?”

  Uzi shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. But maybe I’m too close. What’s your impartial, rational opinion?”

  “I’m your friend, so I’m not sure I’m impartial. I’ve got a roomful of people back at the BAU who wouldn’t use the word ‘rational’ to describe me. That said, here’s what I think. It could be as simple as the perps planted the radiological bomb. They knew we were in the city investigating, so when the truck was discovered, they knew we—you—would be there at the scene. No hidden agendas, no moles.”

  Uzi sat back and considered her analysis.

  “Yes? No?”

  “I have to admit,” he shouted, “that was a pretty impartial explanation. And definitely rational.”

  “Would you mind engraving that on a plaque and hanging it on my office door?”

  “Only if your boss is okay with it. He tends to yell at me whenever he sees me.”

  “Same here.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know he’s going to be my father-in-law.”

  They both laughed again. “Makes for fun Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, I guess.”

  As the fuselage jostled against the turbulence, Uzi could not help but wonder if Vail was right. Or if something more sinister was at work.

  “These seats suck,” Vail said over the din.

  Uzi let his head roll left, closer to her ear. “You should’ve asked the guy about your cheese plate while you had the chance.”

  35

  Royal Air Force Mildenhall

  United States Air Force, 100th Air Refueling Wing

  Suffolk, England

  They slept on the plane, adhering to the special forces mantra of taking sleep where you could get it, when you could get it. Vail thought it would be impossible to nod off given the environment, but the drone of the engines had a hypnotic effect, and without flight attendants or passengers squeezing by and bumping her shoulder or ill-timed pilot announcements, she caught a few hours before she felt the deceleration and descent toward the British countryside.

  When the ramp lowered, the chill, damp air blew in. They powered up their throwaway phones that Knox had provided. They had a message waiting for them: Twitter was abuzz with exchanges between al Humat membe
rs and Americans.

  “Can’t say I’ve seen this before,” Vail said. “Listen to this one: ‘We’re in your neighborhoods, your cities, your schools. You’re not safe anywhere. #alahuakbar.’”

  “And the two-part reply,” Uzi said. “Don’t mistake our @president’s weakness as a weakness of #Americans. US is as strong as its people and we are bound and determined to find you, make you pay. #Americathebeautiful.’”

  “Here’s another,” DeSantos added: “‘We’re going to track you down and take you out, you POS. #askBinLaden.’” As he shoved the phone into his pocket, he nodded at Fahad. “You got a problem with this?”

  “Should I?”

  “It’s your own people who are launching these attacks. Our job is to take them down.”

  “My people are not terrorists. Al Humat, Hamas, Islamic Jihad … they’re killers disguised as religious crusaders. Truth is, they’re a cancer that’s made it impossible for my people to get their fair shake. So no, I’ve got no problem. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

  Vail nodded. “Can’t say I blame the Americans who tweeted those threats. They’re angry. I feel the same way.”

  “Difference is,” Fahad said, “the four of us are in a position to do something about it.”

  Uzi pushed himself up off the makeshift seat. “So let’s go do something about it.”

  THEY WERE DRIVEN TO THE BASE PERIMETER and given the keys to an unmarked sedan that could not be traced back to anyone—including the United States government.

  With Vail driving, Fahad opened his jacket and pulled out four small oblong cases. “I brought us each a gift. Courtesy of the CIA.”

  DeSantos opened his and held up a pair of eyeglasses. “You trying to tell me something?”

  “For defeating the ubiquitous CCTV cameras in and around London.”

  “Nice thought,” Uzi said. “But glasses don’t work. The facial recognition software basically ignores them.”

  “These aren’t regular eyeglasses. Granted, they’re experimental—but the concept is that the lenses contain built-in one-way prisms that fool the cameras’ biometric algorithms. They make the distance between the eyes appear larger, or smaller, than they really are. The technology is pretty simple, really, and is based on existing lens refraction optical tech that’s been around for decades. Only instead of correcting eye muscle coordination from the inside out, it works on the cameras in the reverse, from the outside in.”

  “But it’s experimental,” Vail said. “Meaning we’re guinea pigs.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Great. Glad we’ve got that out of the way.” She took her glasses and slid them onto her face. “How do I look?”

  “Very sexy,” DeSantos said. “Good frames on you. I think you should keep them. Robby’ll like ’em. Speaking of which, did you tell him where you were going?”

  Vail looked at DeSantos in the rearview mirror. “You know the answer to that question.”

  DeSantos grinned. “Indeed I do.”

  She had told him she was going away for a few days but could not say where she was headed—just that she would be going dark and would be in touch if possible. He knew the deal and accepted it, though he was clearly not happy about it.

  “So what’s the plan?” Vail asked. “I assume our orders were in that satchel Knox handed you.”

  “NSA captured the cell numbers of both Aziz and Yaseen. Wasn’t easy, but we’re talking about the NSA. They’re very good. We’ll get to see just how good they are because when either of them gets a call, NSA will triangulate and get us a location. If the yahoos don’t get a call, NSA will send out signals to ping the phones and get us a twenty. We’ll then go there and try to find the assholes before they leave.”

  It was 1:00 AM when they reached the outskirts of London.

  Vail pushed the glasses up her nose, suddenly conscious of the potential for security cameras—both police and private—everywhere and anywhere.

  Uzi sat up and stretched, then looked out the side window to get a bearing on where they were. “Let’s find a dark residential street. Without CCTV feeds.”

  “First,” DeSantos said, “we’ve got another car to pick up. Divide up our assets. In case a couple of us get caught, we won’t jeopardize the entire mission.”

  “Kind of like putting all your eggs in the same sedan?” Vail asked.

  “I don’t think that’s the saying. But that’s the concept.”

  Vail drove to the location of the waiting vehicle, left by a CIA asset, and dropped off DeSantos and Fahad before continuing on, looking for a location that met Uzi’s requirements.

  Twenty minutes later, three blocks from DeSantos’s car, they pulled to the curb in a poorly lit neighborhood that did not seem to have any visible cameras. They removed their seat belts and stretched out … until a minute later, when Uzi’s phone vibrated.

  “Start the car,” he said as he manipulated the phone to get the address. He read it off to Vail as he plugged it into his phone’s GPS. She pulled away from the curb, taking care not to burn the tires.

  “Where we headed and how far?”

  “It’s a bar,” he said. “One of the oldest in London. I’ve eaten there a couple times over the years. The Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden. About ten minutes. Turn right up ahead.”

  They arrived nine minutes later and parked a block away; DeSantos and Fahad followed suit, approaching from a different direction.

  Vail and Uzi headed toward the pub together, holding hands. Behaving like a couple going for a drink after a show was a reasonable cover and looked natural.

  Fahad had no history in the country so he was at less risk than the others. Regardless, being seen in public—and potentially on camera—was a gamble for all of them.

  Vail and Uzi headed down the narrow, cobblestone Rose Street that led to the front entrance to the pub. The area was relatively quiet, with only the low rumble of chatter from a number of patrons standing outside the bar, drinking at the ledges designed for overflow customers—a popular feature of many London drinking establishments.

  As they neared the building, Vail saw a sandblasted circular Lamb & Flag logo in the top glass panel of the door as well as a couple of signs that caught her eye: a laminated no smoking placard and the more disturbing red posting: “These premises are protected by CCTV.”

  CCTV? In a bar? No wonder we were screwed last time we were in London.

  Shortly after lifting off in the C-17, DeSantos had distributed photos of their two wanted men to review—and then commit to memory—before he destroyed the pictures. They had a fairly good sense of what Yaseen and Aziz looked like. The question was, were they still there? Or did one of them merely make a call outside on the corner before getting in a cab?

  Vail reseated the glasses on her face. She felt naked—like walking through an airport full body scanner—with no true way of covering up. There was nothing she could do but hope that MI5 and the Met did not retain their biometric data. She did not know how extensive Knox’s effort was in getting Aden Buck to purge their system, but she hoped it was substantial—and successful. If not, she, Uzi, and DeSantos were in for a rough time.

  They sat down at the bar. The interior was charming, with wide plank wood floors and handcrafted chairs that were worn and nicked from decades of use. A shelf above the counter suspended by polished brass columns was filled with clean beer mugs, something Vail had not seen before. It was a cool effect.

  Vail ordered a Butcombe Bitter and Uzi a Fuller’s Wild River. They took their glasses to a side booth to get a better angle of the area. An order of fish and chips for Vail and a sausage in French bread sandwich for Uzi arrived ten minutes later, and they quickly dug in, not knowing when they were going to see their targets—or be called away to another location.

  As Vail chewed her second bite, her phone buzzed. She roote
d it out and grabbed a peek. It was DeSantos telling her that they had a good view of the upstairs bar; they had cleared the restroom and neither man was present. She set the handset aside and took another nibble of her fish. “Nothing on the second floor.”

  “So they were here and didn’t stay long,” Uzi said. He snatched up a fry and glanced at his watch. The patrons were thinning out. “At some point we’re gonna have to get out of here. Fewer people, more we stand out.”

  Vail agreed and sent a text back to DeSantos suggesting they get going soon.

  But they didn’t have to wait long, because moments later her phone buzzed again: They had another hit, and because of the time—closing in on 2:00 AM—this one had more potential as being a place where the men would be remaining for a while, possibly even where they would be settling in for the night.

  They returned to their car and Uzi plugged the address into his phone’s GPS. The flat was in Greenwich, a decent drive away. “Looks like a half hour,” Uzi said. “I’m gonna recon the area while we’re en route.” He pulled a laptop from his satchel and inserted a device into a side port.

  “Where’d you get that?” Vail asked, glancing over at the computer.

  “In the PX. I configured it on the flight over.”

  I was configuring something else. The inside of my eyelids.

  “What’s that thing you plugged into it?”

  “A satellite internet transceiver.”

  “What do you need that for?”

  “Uh, the internet? Ever hear of it?”

  Vail gave him a look.

  “I figured we’d be on the move, so we can’t steal a nearby wireless signal. We needed something that can transmit and receive. The key is connecting to a server that takes satellite downlink and connects to the internet. It goes from my laptop to the satellite, from the satellite downlink to a server, a server to the internet. Got it?”

  “I … yeah, of course.” Not a word. Well, that’s not true. I understood “internet.” “How is that going to help us?” she asked as she negotiated a curve.