The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  She saw cameras in the hallway but nothing—as yet—inside the lab.

  “Please wait here,” DuPont said. “I’ll go retrieve Mr. Raboud.”

  “While you’re doing that, I need to use the restroom. Can you point me in the direction?”

  “I will escort you. I can’t allow you to wander around here unattended. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He led her past a number of men and women who were bent over workstations lit indirectly with full-spectrum bulbs, some of whom were peering through high-powered microscopes or jeweler’s loupes strapped to their foreheads.

  DuPont stopped opposite two doors in a corner of the facility and gestured at the one on the left. Vail proceeded in and made a quick assessment: it was a fairly basic facility with a single sink, two stalls, and a ventilation duct about six feet off the ground. She stood on her toes and tried to get a look inside but was a couple of inches short.

  She waited a few seconds, then flushed the toilet and washed her hands.

  DuPont was waiting outside with another man.

  “This is Lufti Raboud, the Louvre’s director of ancient documents.” He was a bald, thick man of about forty with a clean-shaven, pock-marked face from childhood chicken pox, by Vail’s guess. He wore a black suit and white tie, looking formal and official.

  “A pleasure,” Vail said. “I’ve come all the way from Washington to examine the Aleppo Codex. But apparently there’s been a bit of a snafu and I need your authorization to see it.”

  Raboud’s face was as expressionless as that of a stone statue. “We are not in possession of that document. I’m sorry you’ve come so far. This was, indeed, a miscommunication. Was it our fau—”

  “I know you have it here,” Vail said. “Mr. DuPont and I have already been through the charade.”

  DuPont lifted an index finger. “That’s not exactly what I—”

  “So let’s save us both a little time. Just let me do my job. I only need ten minutes, at most, with the codex. Whatever safeguards you insist upon will be fine with me.”

  “I cannot let you see that which we do not have. I apologize if Mr. DuPont led you to believe otherwise.” He forced a smile. “Now, mademoiselle, I have a meeting I’m late for.” He nodded at DuPont—a stiff, unpleasant gesture—and turned to leave.

  “You’re a skilled liar, Mr. Raboud. Does it come naturally or did you have to learn it?”

  Raboud spun and faced her. His face now showed some character: it flushed in anger.

  “Whatever your reason for denying that you have the codex doesn’t concern me. Those are administrative matters. I’m solely interested in verifying the art and establishing the document’s place in history.”

  Raboud chewed on that a moment, tapping his right oxford dress shoe. Then he took a step forward and bit his lower lip, apparently still deciding how to respond. “We had a document that some thought was the codex. Because of its controversial nature, we did not want it known that it was in our possession. It would’ve created difficulties with the Israelis, the Americans, even the Vatican. I was relieved, to say the least, when it turned out not to be the codex. Either way, it’s no longer here. We did some minor cleaning and sent it on its way.”

  Vail studied his face. “Sent it where?”

  “That, Miss Vega, was not my concern. And, I might venture to state, neither is it yours.”

  “Do you have a business card? In case I have any other questions? I appreciate your honesty and apologize for my rudeness.”

  Raboud ran a tongue across his lips, clearly considering the request. Then he reached into his suit coat and pulled out a sterling silver case. He handed her the card with a bow of his head. “Again, it’s a shame you wasted your time.”

  Vail broke a smile. “I’m in France, in the world’s greatest museum. It’s not all bad.”

  Raboud shared the grin—though Vail could tell it was not genuine. “Indeed. Stay the day, enjoy yourself. If any of my staff can be of service, please let Mr. DuPont know.” He nodded again at DuPont—a dutiful gesture—and then walked out.

  47

  Uzi and Fahad sat in the Citroën watching the entrance to a building that one of Fahad’s contacts had directed him to. The woman was friends with a seamstress who stitched together material, elastic loops, pockets, and Velcro enclosures for “utility vests” that bore a curious resemblance to those that suicide bombers used to strap explosives to their body.

  Although the woman had suspicions, she claimed not to know their true use. Regardless, her brother delivered the finished products in boxes to a particular address in the south—where Uzi and Fahad were now parked. It was in the general area of Paris that was alluded to in the encrypted documents, so Uzi felt there was a decent chance the intel was solid.

  They were in the Montmartre district, known for its history as an artist colony where the likes of Claude Monet, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and Vincent van Gogh had studios. Blocks away, up on the summit of a steep hill, was the domed Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, a landmark visible from many parts of the city.

  The cobblestone roadway inclined fairly aggressively ahead of them, with a few businesses and bars on both sides of the Rue Muller and apartment buildings above. The area was fairly well maintained, though it was clear the neighborhood had seen its share of crime. First-floor windows were barred and occasional graffiti adorned the buildings.

  Their car was parked at the curb, among many that lined the street.

  “So your nephew was a suicide bomber,” Uzi said. “That must’ve been tough.”

  Fahad pulled his gaze off the building for a moment. His eyes scanned Uzi’s face. “Harder than you can know.” He turned back to their target. “I didn’t agree with his methods, even though I understood what he was feeling. He got taken in by the rhetoric and became frustrated, wanted to do something about it. But the people he fell in with, they were using him. They knew it. I knew it. But Akil was young and naive. He didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “I’m sorry he took his own life. I’m sorry he killed innocent children. I wish there was a way to work all this out. But there aren’t any easy solutions. This business with the Aleppo Codex and the Jesus Scroll only makes matters worse. As if it needed anything to make it worse.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Where do you stand on all this?”

  “You mean the peace talks? The two-state solution? Jerusalem? Refugee status? Or whether or not a Palestinian state should be allowed to have an airport and military capabilities?”

  Uzi laughed. “I just mean … well, where do you stand on the land issue? Are you in the camp that believes Jews never lived in Israel, that the Palestinians should have all the land and kick the Jews out?”

  Fahad shook his head. “Look, I’m a reasonable guy. I know the Jews have lived in Israel for what, four thousand years? I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe that by repeatedly denying something it’ll eventually become the truth. There are ancient Islamic texts that talk about the Jews living in Jerusalem. I’ve seen them, so I’d be a fool to make believe those documents don’t exist.”

  “There’s a but.”

  “There is a ‘but.’ Arabs did live in Palestine. We had homes there that we abandoned during the war. That’s why the UN declared two separate states back in 1947, one for the Jews and one for the Arabs. We have legitimate claims to the land.”

  “All the land?”

  He thought a moment. “Compromise and conciliation don’t go over well there.”

  “I don’t think those words are even in their dictionaries.”

  They laughed, but Fahad’s tone faded to one of introspection. “We should’ve accepted partition. No negotiation, no compromise needed. We would’ve had our state and you would’ve had yours. And a lot of young men would never hav
e died in suicide bombings. A lot of death and destruction would’ve been avoided. But we’ve been our own worst enemy. We had a leadership vacuum, got some bad advice.”

  “You talking about Arafat?”

  “He tops my list but he’s not the only one.” Fahad shook his head. “Things could’ve been so different with better leaders, smarter leaders, people with a vision. I’m very frustrated for my people.” He went silent, staring ahead at the building they were surveilling. “We call the armistice agreement that divided the land al Naqba, the catastrophe. Difference is, I think of it as a catastrophe because of what we could have had. Instead of accepting the agreement, the Arab nations declared war. We lost and got decades of problems. We have to take some responsibility.”

  “One could say your leaders are still at war to have it all.”

  Fahad nodded absently. “I wish I could disagree with you.”

  “Some of my people are wrapped up in that same fight.” They sat there a moment in thought. “It’s a shame more Palestinians don’t recognize Israel for all the good it’s done. Forget the technology and medical advancements it’s brought the world. Forget that it’s the first to send help when an earthquake or tsunami or some other catastrophe hits somewhere. No other Middle Eastern country goes to the lengths that Israel does to protect human rights or practice social justice. No Middle Eastern country offers women equal rights—except Israel, where women have the same rights as men.”

  “Muslim countries in the Middle East aren't concerned with equality between men and women the way the West is.”

  “No, I guess not. But isn’t it ironic that the Arabs living in Israel are treated better than Arabs anywhere else in the region? Israel’s the only country in the Middle East where you’re free to practice your religion, worship your God. And despite all the crap that’s gone on with Gaza, Israel still donates tens of millions of dollars in humanitarian aid to Palestinians—and opens its hospitals to any Palestinian in need. Even terrorists, as bizarre as that sounds.” He looked at Fahad. “Doesn’t any of that count?”

  Fahad shrugged. “For my people, to the men in charge, the land is the only thing that counts. None of the other things you mentioned matters to them.”

  “It should. It’s important.”

  Fahad chuckled disdainfully. “They are blinded by their single-minded fixation. Their resistance.”

  “You really think things would’ve been different? Wouldn’t the extremists have followed the same plan of action?”

  Fahad stared out the window, considering the question. Finally he said, “Would we be in the same place we are now? I honestly don’t know. But yeah, it’s possible.”

  “Let’s hope that one day the Hamases, al Humats, al Qaedas, and Islamic States of the world will go away, that the extremes on both sides will find common ground and see the benefit of working together. Of living together in peace where each side recognizes the legitimacy of the other.”

  “I share that hope. But after all you’ve seen? You really believe that can happen?”

  Uzi considered the question. “A friend of mine, a peace negotiator during the Oslo talks, a vocal supporter of Palestinians having their own country, used to say, ‘You never know. Anything can happen.’”

  “Used to say?”

  “He was killed in a suicide bombing.”

  Fahad looked at him.

  “No, I’m not kidding.” Uzi took one last glance around the street. “It’s quiet. I think we’re safe to take a poke around. If everything looks good, we can break into the flat and go hunting.”

  Fahad checked his Glock, then pulled his jacket around to cover the handle. “Let’s do it.”

  Uzi grabbed Fahad’s arm. “I’m sorry. For how I acted after we met, not trusting you with Amer Madari.”

  “Hey, I’m not only your sworn enemy but I’m CIA—no one trusts us.” He winked. “Apology accepted.”

  UZI ENTERED THE BUILDING FIRST, followed two minutes later by Fahad. They proceeded separately up to the flat, Uzi by stairs and Fahad by elevator. They both wore their eyeglasses and baseball hats in case there were cameras.

  When Uzi and Fahad met down the hall from the apartment, Fahad said that he had not seen any surveillance devices.

  “I didn’t either. What about the dark blue minivan down the block?”

  “Couldn’t get a read on who was inside. Looked like two men but there was too much reflection off the glass.”

  “That’s about what I got too. Could be trouble. But we’re here, let’s go as far as we can. You’re up. Go knock.”

  Fahad would be the “face” of this phase of the operation because he was of the same nationality and could more easily pass for a nonthreatening presence.

  He balled his fist and rapped on the wood door. After waiting a long minute, he tried again—but got the same response.

  “Hey, it’s me, open up,” he said in Arabic. A moment later he signaled Uzi down the hall.

  Uzi removed a small toolkit from his pocket and proceeded to jimmy the lock. A few seconds later, they were inside. They split up and began searching the flat, which looked like the one in Greenwich: sparse furnishings, a computer, and the detritus of bachelors living in close quarters: the acrid smell of Turkish cigarettes lingered in the air and dirty clothing littered the bedrooms, where bare mattresses sat on worn wood plank floors.

  They reconvened in the den five minutes later.

  “I’ve got a desktop,” Uzi said, “which means if we want to pull anything off it I have to do it here.”

  “Can you copy the data and take it with us?”

  “I can try.” He sat down on a folding chair at the makeshift desk, a coffee table with a couple of thick phone books piled on top of one another to bring the monitor up to eye level. A webcam was attached to a nineteen-inch widescreen LCD.

  Fahad checked the time. “I’m gonna stand watch in the hall. I see or hear something, I’ll knock twice. It’s a small building so I probably won’t be able to give you more than a few seconds’ notice.”

  “Understood,” Uzi said as he tapped away at the keyboard.

  “Think you can you be done in five minutes?”

  “If it’s a simple drag and drop, yeah. If they’ve got things encrypted, no way.” Uzi looked up. “You’re worried about that minivan.”

  “I’m naturally paranoid.”

  “If there’s one thing I learned a long time ago, Mo, it’s that a little paranoia can be an operative’s best friend.” Uzi glanced at the clock in the computer’s system tray. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll grab what I can, then we’ll get out of here.”

  UZI HAD BEEN AT IT FOR SEVEN MINUTES, keeping one eye on the time as he worked to decrypt the data. It was as he had feared: if the cell in Greenwich secured their documents it was likely al Humat’s standard operating procedure. It made sense: they were a sophisticated organization, disciplined, intelligent, well organized.

  He was perspiring profusely, decrypting on the fly and loading the data onto his flash drive as he went, when something caught his eye. He pulled his phone and dialed Richard Prati.

  “I don’t have a lot of time so just shut up and listen.”

  “I’m listening,” Prati said.

  “They’re bringing nuclear material in, but they’re not using a tunnel. They’re coming across the Atlantic, then going down the St. Lawrence River between Canada and the US. About 125 miles southwest of Montreal—near Hill Island—they’ll be offloading it onto a truck and crossing into the US on Interstate 81 which runs south through upstate New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. They could be taking it into Jersey or Philly but I’m betting they’re gonna take another shot at Manhattan.”

  “I’ll run with this,” Prati said. “You know when it’s going down?”

  “No. If I find anything else I’ll let you know.”

 
Uzi hung up and flicked his eyes to the system tray’s clock. He had less than a minute before he had to leave. As he dragged several more documents onto his drive, an email hit the inbox. It was in Arabic, so he did a quick translation.

  Meet me at noon, roof of the Arc de Triomphe. Don’t be late.

  I have new orders for you from KAS.

  It was not signed, and the email address was merely a string of numbers at Gmail. KAS. Uzi searched his memory—who the hell was KAS?

  And then it hit him: Kadir Abu Sahmoud.

  Uzi looked again at the time: noon was twenty-one minutes from now. What to do? He had promised he would be out of there in ten minutes—which was smart regardless of whether or not he had made a commitment to leave.

  The decision was clear: take what he had, shut down, and get over to the Arc de Triomphe.

  He and Fahad could return and finish going through the files later, assuming it was safe. But the ability to intercept a message from Sahmoud—and potentially capture one of his lieutenants—was now the priority.

  He pulled out his USB flash drive and powered off the PC. Seconds later he stepped out into the hallway.

  Fahad was not there.

  48

  Vail joined DeSantos in the Denon wing on the first floor—Room 6, known simply as “the Mona Lisa Room.”

  Vail had texted him when she left the document restoration laboratory and he suggested this location as an innocuous place to rendezvous: it was crowded and one of the busiest exhibits in the museum, not to mention the most famous.

  Vail entered the large, high-ceilinged space. There was an echo of hushed voices off the tall, flat, patterned gold walls. Aside from two rows of framed Renaissance paintings hanging by chains from channels in the walls, the room felt bare.

  A crowd of a couple hundred people was concentrated in front of one modestly sized work, however, that hung alone—the Mona Lisa.