The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  38

  “Anything?” Vail asked in a low voice.

  Uzi clacked away at the keys, stopped, waited, and then started typing again. “No. I’ll get it, I think. Question is when. You find anything?”

  “Place is pretty clean for a bunch of bachelors.”

  Uzi glanced up. “Find anything that resembles ancient scriptures? Like the missing Aleppo Codex pages or the Jesus Scroll?”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice. No, the place is kind of barren, actually. A few Korans, prayer rugs. Some porn magazines.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Anything good?”

  Vail gave him a look.

  “Right.” Uzi turned his attention back to the screen. “I saw you emailing someone. Nothing personal, right?”

  “Actually, I was sexting Robby. What do you think I am, a black ops rookie?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “I was posting to Facebook. A photo I took of Hector on the C-17.” She winked at Uzi. “Yes, I’m kidding. But Hector’s very smart, you know that?”

  “I’ve worked with him a really long time, on and off for a dozen years or so. Of course I know. You’re suddenly realizing that?”

  “I’m not ‘suddenly realizing it.’ But I did just realize why he bought makeup for me and stuck it in my duffel.”

  Uzi went back to the keyboard. “Because he wants you to look hot on our op.”

  She play slapped him in the back of the head. “You’re saying I need makeup to look hot?”

  “Don’t repeat that to Robby,” he said with a chuckle. “The powder and brush are for lifting latent prints.”

  She stood up straight. “Yeah. I thought that was good, resourceful thinking on the fly.”

  “You don’t think it was a bit sexist? That he put the makeup in your duffel?” A grin broke his face, but he kept focused on the monitor.

  “Not at all. If we were stopped and searched, it made perfect sense. Last I checked you guys are as straight as it gets and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing makeup.”

  “If we were stopped and searched, makeup in a man’s luggage would be the least of our problems. We’d be in the shit because of the Glocks. We’re in England, remember?”

  How could I forget?

  “He also bought me clear packaging tape, which I used to lift a bunch of prints. I dusted and photographed them, then emailed them to Tim Meadows. That’s why I was on the phone. And yes, I deleted the email and the photos afterward with that ShredderApp.”

  “You’re learning, very good.” Uzi hit a key, waited, then pumped a fist. “Got it. I’m in.”

  THE SHOTS ECHOED on the flat waters of the Thames.

  But more importantly, despite the dim light, they were on target and must have struck the inflatable portion of the Zodiac. It veered right toward the shoreline and DeSantos took off in a sprint around the timber and glass buildings on the promenade that fronted the pier and the foot path that paralleled the Thames.

  He came upon a complex of large, regal, limestone-columned buildings—the Trinity Laban Conservatoire and the Old Royal Naval College.

  Passing the line of trees, he glanced at the river to his left. In the cloud-obscured moonlight, he saw the RIB, its outboard engine still running, heading toward the shore.

  He hopped over the wrought iron fence and crossed the strip of grass and slipped between the benches that were normally populated with people watching the maritime traffic on the Thames.

  DeSantos climbed another railing and landed in the coarse sand of the river’s edge. As he drew his Glock, he realized that the Zodiac had caught on something because it was stuck about a dozen feet away, its engine still running. More disturbingly, he did not see anyone in it.

  How can that be? He saw them get in and pull away from the dock.

  DeSantos looked around: no one was in the vicinity. He removed his cell phone and set it down beside the pistol on the beach. He patted down his pants to make sure he did not have anything else that would be damaged by the water, then drew his Boker Recurve knife and waded into the cold Thames.

  After his last experience in the river, he had learned that the temperature was around sixty-five—not dangerous but certainly uncomfortable in the winter. Of greater concern was the water quality—severe bacterial infections like leptospirosis were common, and dangerous. He was taking a significant risk by wading in, but as he so often had told himself over the years when he found himself in do-or-die situations, he had done worse things in his career.

  As he waded toward the Zodiac, he realized it was not a RIB but an IBS, also known as “inflatable boat–small,” which sported a rigid rollup deck. Both were military grade vessels used by Special Forces operators, not undertrained terrorist suicide bombers. They were dealing with a different breed here: dangerous, well funded mercenaries who had a sense of what they were doing.

  By the time he reached the Zodiac, he was hip deep in the filthy water.

  He carefully peered inside—and saw a single body laid out in the floor of the boat. The man was not moving and he had no weapon in his hands. DeSantos flipped the knife closed and clipped it to his shirt, then pulled himself into the inflatable. He cut the engine, which he noticed was a 55-horsepower outboard, and glanced around: no sign of where the others might have gone. They had not left anything of use behind.

  But he had to deal with the body—fast, before law enforcement responded. The Metropolitan Police had a marine division with stations strategically located along the Thames. Where the closest one was, he had no idea.

  Was it better that they found the dead tango? Would Buck then take Knox’s warning more seriously? Or was it worse because DeSantos’s forensics were all over the crime scene, thus telling Buck he’s in London and severely handicapping their ability to carry out their mission?

  As he parsed the scenarios of what would happen if they found the corpse, he became aware of the ticking clock in his head.

  They were on UK soil to take care of business—and at this point, involvement from Scotland Yard or MI5 could hamper their ability to do their job. No, this body had to be disposed of … or at least the discovery delayed as long as possible.

  There was no pulse but there was a rather gruesome head wound. He patted down the man, removed his billfold and a mobile, then shoved the former into his own pocket and used the camera to take photos of the tango’s face. One thing was certain: he was not Yaseen or Aziz.

  After wiping off the phone’s screen, he pressed the deceased’s fingers against the glass. He was not sure they could lift a clear latent off it, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He huffed on the surface and was able to see a print. Whether it was good enough to run through a database for comparison remained to be seen.

  He looked around at the swiftly moving but smooth Thames water, wondering what happened to the other men that had to have been in the Zodiac.

  Did they bail when he had started shooting? They had to be in the water. Dead? Or did they escape to the shore on the other side of the river?

  Given all the gunshots, he was running low on time and high on risk. DeSantos put the mobile in his shirt pocket, then lowered himself back into the cold water. He felt around the boat’s exterior and found the source of entanglement. He removed the Boker and sliced away the fibrous mesh that had snagged the bow, freeing the Zodiac. He used the discarded strips of netting to secure the man’s wrists and ankles to the aluminum deck’s tie down hooks.

  DeSantos had used these IBSs on a number of missions, so he was intimately familiar with what kept them afloat—and what made them sink. Using short, quick strokes he stabbed the inflatable’s neoprene fabric in multiple places, making sure to hit each of the air chambers. Combined with the weight of the motor, it would put the boat, and the corpse, below the surface.

&n
bsp; That done, he started up the outboard. The strong smell of diesel irritated his nose and he brought his forearm up to fight back a sneeze.

  The roar of the engine in the quiet morning hours was like a jackhammer on a country road: people tended to take notice. He set the throttle at a low speed and watched the damaged Zodiac head back down the Thames. If he was lucky, it would sail a decent distance before it went under—and go deep enough not to be discovered when river traffic started in two or three hours.

  The four of them should be gone from the area by then, and if they were successful in avoiding the surveillance cameras it would take time to sort out who was involved in this morning’s activities.

  DeSantos waded back toward the shore. His body shivering from the cold, his legs feeling like they weighed twenty pounds apiece, he headed toward the place where he had left his phone and Glock.

  But before he reached them, he saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. He felt a sharp pain in his head as something fast and hard struck him broadside.

  39

  Uzi studied the screen. “Do you see a thumb drive anywhere? Or an external hard drive?”

  Vail searched the bedroom, where the offenders had set up a makeshift office. “I’ve got my COFFE device, but that’s only got like a gig of space on it.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  Vail pulled out the drive and handed it over. “You should run the program too.”

  “Roger that.”

  The COFFE was a program developed by Microsoft to aid law enforcement cyber units in the capture of temporary, cached files that disappear when a computer is powered off. The captured data often yield traces that a criminal does not realize get left behind when they open documents, visit websites, and transact business.

  She pulled out her phone and tried calling DeSantos, but it went to voicemail. Fahad was next—but he did not pick up, either.

  “They’re not answering,” Vail said.

  “Just busy chasing bad guys,” Uzi said as he copied files onto the USB drive. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

  DeSANTOS WENT DOWN HARD and tasted the sandy silt at the river’s edge. A blow to his ribs hurt like hell and he recoiled instinctively—but knew he needed to get up—now, while he still could.

  He rolled away from the attacker, his intercostal muscles in spasm and dammit, he probably had a fractured rib.

  For now, his sole concern was disabling the assailant who meant to kill him.

  Despite the darkness—he could only make out the vague form of a large man in dark clothes in front of him—he was able to hear just fine.

  And the sound of a round being chambered got DeSantos’s attention.

  But that gave DeSantos one bit of vital information about his adversary: he was not a professional—and he was not law enforcement or military, either. Any of those would not have to prepare their weapon. It would be ready to fire. Just like his was.

  He rolled two more times and got to his feet—but not before scooping up his Glock. The problem of not being able to see was a two-way street—and it gave DeSantos an extra second to level his handgun and fire.

  The shot was exceedingly loud, echoing off the berm to his right and reverberating off the open waters of the Thames to his left. DeSantos dropped to a knee and fired again, and the hulking silhouette of the man crumpled to a ball on the sand.

  DeSantos approached slowly, circling his prey, ensuring that the man was truly incapacitated and not merely luring him closer to get a high percentage shot.

  But his aggressor was still, and blood was seeping into the porous surface of the beach.

  He approached, stepped on the man’s wrist, and pulled away his weapon. DeSantos shoved it into his waistband and put his knee atop the man’s chest. He was still breathing.

  “Who are you?”

  The perp spit at him.

  DeSantos wiped his cheek with a sleeve. “What’s your name?”

  Silence.

  “Fine. Have it your way.” DeSantos put the barrel of his Glock to the right eye socket of the man’s forehead. “Last chance. You have five seconds. Four … three … two … one.” The man tried to spit again—so DeSantos pulled the trigger.

  He rocked backward off the assailant’s body and patted him down, finding nothing other than a cell phone. He turned it on and took a photo of the man’s face. It was a good likeness, other than the blown-out orbit.

  He wiped off the screen and went through the same procedure of pressing the man’s fingers against the glass. He tried to catch the stray moonlight to see if it had worked, but it was too dark.

  DeSantos gently placed the handset in his pocket and blew air out of his mouth. His head ached from getting clocked and his ribs were sore from getting kicked. He had a problem—what to do with the body so that it would not be discovered for a while.

  The best answer was to weight it down with rocks and set it in the Thames. Like the disabled boat, it would hopefully find the bottom of the river.

  He gathered up as many stones as he could find and shoved them into the perp’s pockets. He wiped off the handgun and slid it inside the man’s jeans. It probably was not enough to overcome the buoyancy.

  He gathered up his phone and dusted off the sand, then called Fahad. There was no answer so he tried Vail. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, I need you to pick me up about, I don’t know, maybe a hundred yards, maybe two hundred yards from the pier. Due east, along the shoreline. And bring something heavy.”

  “Something heavy?”

  “Yeah. Like some bricks. I need to weigh down a body so it sinks.”

  “Jesus. I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “You do. But not now. Hurry. And bring me a bath towel from the flat and a change of dry clothes from my duffel.”

  “Be there ASAP.”

  “Faster than ASAP. I may have fired my weapon once or twice. Or five times. Someone might’ve heard.”

  “Terrific.”

  “And tell Uzi to be careful. One tango might’ve gotten away.”

  VAIL ARRIVED FOUR MINUTES LATER. She drove the car as close as she could to DeSantos’s approximate twenty, but there were no roads that went to the waterline. She headed down Eastney Street, parked at the dead end, and ran the last hundred yards or so. The duffel across her shoulder flapped against her back as her feet struck the pavement.

  When she got to an area that she felt might be near DeSantos, she called him on his cell and he directed her to his location. She saw the body lying on the sand and cursed under her breath.

  “What’d you bring?”

  “Found some bricks in the back, by the dumpster. I brought as many as I could fit in the bag. Hope it’s enough. I’ve never done this before.”

  “I have.”

  Vail shook her head. “Life with you is never boring, Hector.”

  They prepared the body and then DeSantos handed over the phones and Glock to Vail. He dragged the body out into the Thames as far as he could reach—a bit farther than he had gone when he retrieved the Zodiac—and let go. At first the corpse remained on the surface, but with his help it took on water and eventually settled below the waterline.

  When he got back he was shivering. Vail helped him undress and towel off, then slip on the fresh clothing she had brought.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

  “What?” he asked as he dried his feet. “That you saw me naked?” He turned to her and gestured with his right hand. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

  “For what?”

  “I showed you mine. Now you show me yours. Then we’ll be sworn to secrecy.”

  “Yeah. Not happening.” But I did enjoy the show.

  “Seriously. You think getting undressed in front of you bothers me?” He balled up the towel and shoved it into the duffel w
ith the other wet clothes. “I’ve got a lot more to worry about. We’ve got a lot more to worry about. I gave up modesty a long time ago. C’mon, let’s get back to the car.”

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE FLAT they hoped—and expected—to find Fahad waiting for them. But he was not there. DeSantos tried his phone—and though he still did not answer, he texted back:

  on way be there soon

  DeSantos related that to Uzi and Vail. He felt gross and thought he smelled like river water. He desperately wanted to shower but did not want to leave trace DNA behind in the flat.

  “At some point one or both of those bodies are going to surface and they’ll find this apartment,” DeSantos said. “We need to make sure there’s nothing that points to us.”

  Another text:

  coming up the stairs

  let me in

  three light knocks

  He showed the display to Vail and she made her way to the door. They heard a light shuffle of footsteps in the hall, followed by the gentle rapping Fahad had mentioned.

  Vail pulled open the door and he stepped in, looking slightly disheveled, but no worse for the pursuit of his man, certainly compared to what DeSantos had endured.

  “Where’s your guy?” Uzi asked, still at the desk, working the keyboard.

  “Got away.”

  DeSantos advanced on him. “You’re shitting me. I chased one of the assholes into the goddamn Thames. You were on foot. How the hell does a guy like that get away from you? You’re a highly trained operative.”

  Vail looked like she was going to jump to Fahad’s defense—but stopped. DeSantos figured she wanted to see how he handled the questioning. More importantly, she probably wanted to know if he was worthy of her support.

  “It happens,” Fahad said. “I had him for a good three hundred yards, but it was dark and he went into a blind, and I lost him among the trees.”

  “That was, what? An hour and a half ago? Where the hell were you all this time?”

  Fahad squinted. “What’s your problem?”

  “Just trying to account for your time.”

  “Santa,” Uzi said, still focused on his work. “Calm down. And lower your voice.”