The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

Arms extended up from the masses, digicams and cell phones aimed at the painting, almost as if she were conducting a press conference and the cameras were microphones recording every word. Off to the right and left were large red and black signs warning people that pickpockets operated in this room: while you studied the famed portrait, criminal elements emptied your person and pockets of euros, watches, jewelry—anything of value. They did not discriminate.

  “They had to close the place down yesterday,” DeSantos said. “Because of the pickpockets. The workers went on a one-day strike to protest. They were being threatened. Apparently the gypsies operate in gangs now and they’ve gotten violent, even threatening the security guards. Leave them alone or they know where you live and they’ll go after your family.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope. While I was waiting, a young couple told me they’d planned to come yesterday, got here, and were turned away. They had to rearrange their trip to come back today.” He nodded toward the left portion of the crowd. “The guy in black, the woman in gray. Watch him get the wallet out of that tourist’s pocket.”

  Vail saw their methodology: they worked in a group, an attractive female pushing up against the mark while the male crowded him from behind. She engaged the victim, apologizing or making some comment about how packed it was—while her accomplice removed the booty with practiced skill.

  Vail set a hand on her concealed Glock and took a step forward—but DeSantos grabbed her arm.

  “You’re not a cop here, Katherine Vega. Let it go.”

  Vail growled, then stepped back—but did not take her eyes off the perpetrator.

  “Find anything out?”

  DeSantos’s question refocused her. “Yeah. The curator was under ‘orders’ to deny that they had it.”

  “He just told you that?”

  “Kind of. I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

  DeSantos lifted his brow. “Go on.”

  “I ended up speaking with the director of ancient documents, Lufti Raboud. Seems as if the order to deny their possession of the codex came from him. I sent his prints to Tim Meadows.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “I got his business card. I went into the ladies’ room, dusted it, and emailed it to Tim. Because of the time difference it may be a while before we get something.”

  “Nicely done.”

  “I could tell Raboud was lying and I called him on it. He came clean and said they did have a document they thought was the codex but it turned out not to be the case.”

  “Shit.”

  “Not exactly. I’m pretty sure that was a load of crap too. He said that when they determined it wasn’t the codex, he was relieved because of the controversy surrounding it.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, not okay. The Louvre’s director of ancient documents relieved he didn’t have the ability to examine, to touch, one of the most important manuscripts of all time? I’m not buying it.”

  DeSantos bobbed his head. “Good point.”

  “He’s either an imposter, a sleeper operative, or he’s on al Humat’s payroll.”

  “Our focus is the codex.”

  “He said the document that they did have was cleaned and sent away.”

  DeSantos nodded slowly, then said, “You don’t believe him.”

  “Assuming it’s real, and assuming it did need some restoration, which is certainly reasonable, I may know where it is.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “In the restoration workshop. Pretty cool lab in the basement.”

  “Then we should have a look around,” DeSantos said as he scanned the large room. “They’re open late, till 9:00 or 10:00. We can’t just sit here and wait for it to close.”

  “You’re right. Why pass the time actually enjoying one of the finest collections of art in the world?”

  “Given your background in art history, I can see why that’s appealing to you. Ain’t happenin’.”

  “Knew you were going to say that.”

  “Coming back later in the same day would look suspicious if anyone happens to notice.” He turned his body to face both Vail and the Mona Lisa. “So we have to make something happen.”

  “Knew you were going to say that too.” A few seconds later, she said, “We could set off the fire alarm.”

  DeSantos scanned the room. “Don’t see any. Not sure how that works in a museum anyway. Can’t be hooked up to sprinklers. The art would be damaged or destroyed. Must be heat sensors and smoke detectors. We don’t smoke, so unless you can spontaneously generate intense heat, we have to find another way.”

  “You always tell me I’m hot.”

  “Hot enough to trigger my sensors. But not hot enough to trigger the heat sensors. I’ve got another option. The gypsies.”

  “I think they prefer the term Roma.”

  “Fine. The Roma.”

  “You want to pay them to break in and steal it for us?”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Problem is we’d never get it back from them. No, we use them as a diversion.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Five minutes later, he had the seed of a plan: they would observe the behavior of the Roma pickpockets and then select one to approach with an offer: they would pay him €500 to cause a distraction significant enough to draw security to the area. It was likely they had compatriots in other areas of the museum, so if they coordinated the disturbance, security—and those monitoring whatever surveillance cameras the Louvre had—would be drawn to respond. When they were done, assuming they performed as agreed, DeSantos would meet his contact outside and give him another €500.

  “I’m not sure I like this.”

  “I’m not crazy about it either. But it’s the best I can come up with that won’t put our asses on the line or our faces on camera. The Roma are used to brushes with the guards—and because of what happened yesterday, I’m sure the guards are on edge about it. The response should be bigger than usual.”

  Vail hesitated.

  “You got a better idea?”

  “No.”

  “How sure are you that Raboud was lying?”

  How sure am I? Good question. She took a moment to replay the conversation, reconsider his body language. “Sixty-forty. Maybe seventy-thirty.”

  DeSantos considered that. “We’re here. The codex may or may not be here. I say we go for it.”

  Of course you would.

  “You have doubts?”

  She leaned close to him. “We’re in a foreign country on forged passports, about to break into the Louvre’s document restoration lab and steal an invaluable ancient artifact that may or not be there. With no valid exit strategy. And we’re relying on a criminal enterprise to help us.” She shrugged. “What’s there to doubt? Sounds like a flawless plan.”

  “Good, then we’re in agreement.”

  She gave DeSantos a look but it did not deter him.

  “Let’s take some time to pick the right guy to go after.”

  “And how do you know who’s Roma and who’s a tourist?”

  “The tourists come and go. They look, they gawk, they shoot photos, and then move on. The thieves move in, do their thing, and then shuffle over to another area.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve been watching. Very little gets by me, Katherine.”

  “I could provide plenty of examples, but what would be the point?”

  “You realize you just said that out loud.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  DeSantos shook his head in disappointment. “Are you with me or not?”

  “Do you really have to ask?”

  “I was being courteous. Now go take a position on the far side and observe. Be discreet.”


  “Thanks for the advice. I was going to make it really obvious.”

  They wandered off and watched the area for ten minutes before DeSantos rejoined her. “I’ve got our candidate. Give me €500.” He held out his right hand and she peeled off the bills. “Hang back here.”

  He walked over to a male who appeared to be in his early twenties and whispered in his ear. He listened a moment then nodded. DeSantos shook hands with the man—the handoff of the money—and walked back to Vail.

  “We’re good. He’s spreading the word to his brother, who’ll go set it up with his cousins in three other rooms. That should be enough.”

  “How can we be sure?”

  “Because he’s sure. And he makes his living here. He’s been working here for nine years.”

  “Did you say ‘working’ here?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Nine years? He’s what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

  “They start young. Children can get away with a lot more because we automatically assume they’re innocent. They’re very effective tools.”

  “Children are tools. Another figure of speech?”

  “Shut up. We need to go get ready. When he signals us, we have to be in position.”

  As they made their way toward the elevator, Vail said, “What’s the signal?”

  “A smiley face texted to my throwaway. That and we’ll hear the fire alarm.”

  “Fire alarm? That was my idea.”

  “And it was a good one, so I used it. They know how to set it off. That way we’ll clear the lab.”

  “Maybe the entire museum.”

  “Works for me.” DeSantos led the way into the empty car. “Now where are the cameras? We still need to avoid them because if they get a sense it was intentional, we don’t want our faces on a recording going into a restricted area.”

  “The only ones I saw were in the corridor outside the lab.”

  “Nothing inside?”

  “Unless they were well concealed, no.”

  As they exited the elevator on level B1, DeSantos pulled out his phone. “That’s it. Got the text.”

  Before Vail could acknowledge, the fire alarm started blaring. It was shrill and high-pitched.

  “Standard fire evacuation protocol for a building is using the stairs,” DeSantos said over the din. “Know where they are?”

  “End of the hall on the right.”

  “Let’s give it a minute, then we’ll make sure the hallway’s clear.”

  A moment later, they moved up the corridor, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras as best they could.

  “We can’t be sure everyone’s evacuated.”

  “It’s a fire alarm,” DeSantos said. “Most people are gonna get out. And if there’s one or two who don’t, we’ll deal with it.”

  I was afraid you were going to say that.

  They approached the door and Vail entered the four digit code as DeSantos discretely wrapped his fingers around the grip of his handgun.

  The lock clicked and she pushed on the metal handle. As it swung open she saw a red ceiling light blinking in the corner of the room.

  They gave a quick look around, then signaled each other: all clear.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  49

  Uzi rubbernecked his head. Fahad was nowhere in sight. First objective was to get out of the building safely and the second was to get to the Arc de Triomphe. Third was to find Fahad.

  Bypassing the elevator, he saved time by running toward the stairwell. He pushed through—and saw Fahad standing over the bodies of two unconscious men.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “French counterterrorism officers. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”

  They fled down the steps and hit the ground floor in seconds. After making sure there were no other cops in the immediate vicinity, they walked out, headed back to their car in a falling rain.

  “Anything?”

  “I think we’re good.” He handed Fahad the keys. “You drive. We’re headed to the Arc de Triomphe.”

  As they navigated the streets en route to the monument, Uzi told Fahad of the email that had come through.

  “Not sure we’re gonna make it. Gonna be very close.”

  “Police,” Uzi said.

  Fahad hung a left and sped up to the next intersection and turned right on Rue de Londres.

  Uzi lowered his chin. “Another two cops. And a soldier with a rifle.”

  He turned again and accelerated. “These detours are slowing us down.”

  “And if we get pulled over, our entire mission could be blown.”

  Fahad swung right onto Rue Le Champs Elysées, the equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue: a wide, upscale shopping and residential district lined with patisseries, designer chocolatiers, and specialty stores such as a Bang & Olufsen audio showroom.

  “How close?”

  “Up ahead. Half a mile, give or take.”

  “Counterterrorism officers,” Uzi said. “Either they were watching us or they were watching the same guys we were watching. That van we saw parked at the curb.”

  “Yeah, they were probably doing surveillance, waiting for the assholes to come home. Instead, it was us.”

  “We were pretty careful. You think they had bugs inside the flat?”

  “That’s what the Agency would’ve done. I think it’s likely.”

  They had not used each other’s names, so all the French authorities had on them were voiceprints.

  Their tires made a sizzling sound against the rain-soaked asphalt as they swerved in and out of the slower-moving traffic.

  Uzi consulted his watch. “Four minutes.”

  Ahead of them, in the center of a busy traffic circle, was their destination. Built in the same design as its smaller cousin, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, which stood just outside the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile was almost three times its height at nearly seventeen stories and proffered an unimpeded 360 degree view of downtown Paris.

  “Ever been here?” Fahad asked.

  “To the arch? No.”

  “Carved marble’s beautiful. And the thing’s so big someone once flew a biplane through the center.”

  “I’ll enjoy it some other time.”

  As they approached, Uzi was on the lookout for a place they could leave their vehicle where it would not get towed—or attract the attention of law enforcement. Problem was, as in any metropolitan area, parking was scarce.

  They passed a building that featured a massive outcropping of large glass panes mounted on a metal skeleton that protruded at odd angles and directions, as if the facing had been twisted by an earthquake.

  “We’re gonna have to leave the car at the nearest curb space and hope it’s here when we get out.”

  “It’s got a clean title,” Fahad said. “The Agency made sure it won’t be traced back to them. If we have to abandon it, if it’s towed, so be it.”

  He pulled to the right side of the street and they got out, walking briskly, and separately, toward the entrance.

  Uzi cursed under his breath as they approached four police officers wearing dark jackets and large black-on-white POLICE placards on their backs with white, red, and blue patches on their arms.

  “They have no idea what’s about to go down right under their noses,” Uzi said as they descended the marble steps to a long tunnel that ran beneath the street and up into the massive monument. A curved ceiling with up-lighting from the sides gave the passageway a contemporary feel.

  “We have to buy tickets,” Fahad said, pointing to a booth up a few marble steps off to the left.

  “You’re shitting me. We don’t have time.”

  “Path of least resistance. We don’t want those cops to come running when we force our way
through security.”

  “Fine.” As Uzi paid, he glanced at his watch. The meet was starting in one minute, assuming they were punctual.

  “Shit,” Fahad said, gesturing at the posted sign. “Elevator’s out.”

  They began running up the cement stairs, its metal facing worn-through to its substructure—evidence of the number of tourists who had visited the monument during the past 190 years.

  They ran up the tightly winding stairwell, using the iron railing as leverage after they passed the first two hundred steps. They wove past the occasional person walking down and finally stopped for a breath around number 250. Chests heaving, they glanced down at the spiral they had just ascended, then continued upward.

  They hit the roof—or terrace, according to the sign—and exited through a glass-enclosed covering.

  The view was spectacular despite the low-hanging charcoal clouds and constant drizzle. Off in the near distance stood the Eiffel Tower, unimpeded by the low buildings of downtown Paris.

  Uzi scanned the area, which featured an elaborate smooth marble floor that stepped up in multiple tiered levels amid a network of metal drain grates. A continuous row of five foot tall steel rods ringed the perimeter to prevent people from falling, or jumping, off the edge to the street below.

  The center of the roof was consumed by a raised section that divided the top into a narrow passageway along the length of the monument and a wider area on the short dimension, where the exit/entrance staircase was located. A glass-enclosed security booth sat empty.

  They split up, Uzi going left and Fahad right. They were looking for anyone fitting the description of an Islamic extremist—which meant the pool was too great to accurately characterize. It could be a Frenchman, an Englishman, an American—along with a host of other nationalities including Chechen, Syrian, African, Moroccan. Because of the universal nature of the threat, it was difficult to put a physical face on the enemy.

  There were only a handful of people on the terrace. A few were milling about, taking in the view of the Parisian streets and buildings, others walking along the slick marble toward another vantage point.

  Uzi turned the corner of the short end and headed down the narrower pathway. A young couple was standing about thirty yards away, leaning against the railing, kissing.