The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “I rigged his cell phone.”

  “Rigged, how?”

  “Something Uzi taught me. He called it a cross between Bluebugging and some other techno-hack stuff I didn’t understand. He built some kind of app that looks to exploit weaknesses in Bluetooth and cellular signal technology. I took care of it while you were looking over that ancient manuscript. Bottom line is that if what I did worked, we’ll be able to read the data on Ramazanov’s phone—and eavesdrop on his calls. Supposedly we can even send texts from his phone to people in his contact list.”

  “Without him knowing?”

  “Uzi’s the one to ask, but I think so. He made it as dumb-shit proof as possible because when it comes to tech, I’m—”

  “A dumb-shit?”

  “Challenged.” DeSantos looked around and appeared indecisive as he led her down the Rue Le Champs Elysées, past a large government-looking building, the tire tread channeling away the rain water that had settled on the pavement and making a swishing sound as the vehicle moved along the roadway. A white and charcoal chiaroscuro choked the expansive sky before them. A hazy misty pall hung over the city and partially obscured the Eiffel Tower, which rose above all buildings in the vicinity.

  “Where to?”

  “Good question,” DeSantos said. “I screwed up.”

  “What?”

  “Too open here. I’d wanted to get us into an area with alleys and narrow streets. That’s our main advantage on these things.”

  “So far so good. No one’s chasing us. No cops, no sirens.”

  As soon as she said that, a police car appeared, a blue striped white Citroën Jumper minivan that bore a red crest labeled “Police Nationale.” Its two blue lights were swirling as the vehicle slowed half a block away.

  “So much for ‘no one’s chasing us.’”

  “They’re turning right. Keep going, don’t panic. We’re just tourists taking a glide on a Segway.”

  On cue, another cruiser’s siren wound up and the vehicle started moving in their direction.

  “We need to get off these things.”

  “Not yet.”

  “No,” Vail said, “Now. Someone probably put out a stolen vehicle code, and the police put it together with what they’ve now realized was a ruse at the Louvre. Not hard to add it up to a man and a woman on a couple of stolen Segways.”

  “Fine. There’s a Métro station up ahead.” He slowed and nodded at a red sign mounted on an antique light post. “Oh, shit. Métro Champs Elysées Clemenceau.”

  “Why’s that bad?”

  DeSantos glanced around. “Because on your left is the Grand Palais. And down that street to your right is the Élysée Palace, where the president of France lives.”

  “Nice work, Hector.” White police cars were stationed up and down the streets in all directions. “It’s like we rode right into a hornet’s nest.”

  “Let’s not get stung. We’re already on the cameras. Let’s ditch these and split up, head into the station and catch the next train. Wherever it goes doesn’t matter. As long as it’s away from here.”

  Vail leaned back to slow the vehicle and brought it to a stop in front of a parked car, partially hidden from view of many of the police vehicles and about thirty feet from the Métro entrance. She yanked off the helmet and set it on the Segway’s foot pads and crossed the street. Keeping her head down, she approached the station and descended the steps. As if she had any doubt where she was, the word METRO was literally set in stone, carved into the decorative concrete bannister that faced commuters as they headed down toward the subterranean platform.

  She purchased a ticket, trying to appear calm and casual in case she was under surveillance, keeping her chin down as much as possible while she waited for the train to arrive.

  Where’s Hector?

  There were two dozen or so people in the area chattering with one another or reading iPads. A few sat on white chairs that were shaped like shallow ice cream cones.

  As the seconds ticked by, she grew concerned. Had the police arrested him before he had a chance to get down into the station?

  She heard a whistle, which sounded like a bird call. She glanced left and saw DeSantos standing about thirty or forty feet away, pretending to type on his smartphone.

  The train pulled in and stopped and they got into different cars. As Vail took a seat, two men walked on carrying an accordion and a portable speaker. The taller one began playing an upbeat French tune while the younger musician shifted the amplifier to his left hand, pulled off his hat, and held it out for commuters to toss in euros. Several obliged.

  DeSantos worked his way toward her, walking through the long train that lacked doors between cars but instead had rubberized connectors that bent, contracting and expanding when the Métro negotiated curves in the track. He came up beside her, facing the opposite direction. He said, gazing forward, “Our eavesdropping plan just paid off. The guy made a call.”

  “To who?”

  “Arabic. Don’t know. Well, I know a little but not enough to stake lives on it. But Uzi built the app so it records all tapped calls. I emailed the audio file to him.”

  “Hopefully it’s a lead.” After a moment, she realized DeSantos was distracted by something. “What’s up?”

  He tilted his head slightly to the right.

  Far down, approximately two car lengths away, were three police-types dressed in SWAT-style riot gear with articulated shoulder pads extending down to their elbows. Their dark-colored, rain-slick jackets bore large white alphanumerical designations: 1A, 4C, 2B.

  “Apparently there are several teams out looking for us,” DeSantos said.

  Several teams with submachine guns slung across their bulletproof vests. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but this is not good.”

  DeSantos turned back toward the window ahead of her. “As our friend Clive Reid is fond of saying, shite.”

  53

  Uzi was tapping his foot as Fahad drove toward the terrorists’ flat. He did not know what to expect—if there would be Paris counterterrorism officers combing the building and neighborhood—or if the tangos had booby-trapped the apartment, fully expecting the two of them to return to exact revenge or to finish what they had started when the bogus email came through.

  As he pondered those questions, his Lumia vibrated. He read DeSantos’s email and then put the handset on speaker. “Listen to this. Hacked call from a forger, a known associate of al Humat. Santa tapped his smartphone.”

  The recording started—a conversation in Arabic between a man DeSantos identified as Borz Ramadazov and an unknown accomplice:

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “You didn’t lose the codex—”

  “It’s safe. I showed them a different book from a few hundred years later and insisted it was the codex. Their expert knew it wasn’t but they didn’t think to search the safe.”

  “So you got lucky.”

  “I got lucky. But we need to get it out of the country. They said they were French intelligence, but they weren’t government people, I could tell. All I know is that they were Americans. No idea who they work for.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “They tied me up and were going to tell the police who I am but I cut myself free and I took the codex with me.”

  “Listen to me. Sit tight and await instructions. I’ll talk with—”

  “Can’t. The museum’s on lockdown so I had to get out. If those people figure out what I did, they’ll come after me. Can’t take a chance.”

  “So you’re no longer in the museum?”

  “I needed to get out of there, to a safe place. I had to assume my cover’s blown so I couldn’t stay. And I can’t go home. The police will be looking for me, if they’re not already. And I have a feeling those Americans will be too.”

  “He’
s not going to be happy if this is going to cause problems with your ability to—”

  “I’ll get it done.”

  “Who were these Americans?”

  “Woman said her name was Katherine Vega, but that’s bullshit. No idea about the male. But there was something about him. Not sure what it was. But he’s dangerous.”

  “Bring the document to the safe house. Not the one on Rue Muller. It’s been compromised. Go to the one in Montparnasse. Be there at seven.”

  Uzi disconnected the call and shared a look with Fahad, who pulled the car over to the nearest available parking spot.

  “So forget about Rue Muller. How the hell are we gonna find a flat somewhere in Montparnasse?”

  “How far is that from here?”

  “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Depends on lights, traffic.”

  The rain picked up and began pelting the windshield in a rhythmic patter.

  “Let’s head over there. I can get us a location. I built the app so that it coordinates with the phone’s GPS. If the wireless was off on the target phone, it turns it on. It picks up Wi-Fi signals along the way—a café, a company, a business, a residence—and the GPS puts the phone on a map. I’ll get the location from Santa.”

  “That's a nice little app you designed.”

  “Santa, call me. I need GPS info on that phone.” Uzi hung up and leaned back in his seat. “We’ve got plenty of time to get the address and get over there, scope the place out. See who comes and goes.” He started dialing again.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Tim Meadows. He’s gotta have an ID on some of those prints from London by now. Assuming the lifts were good enough. Makeup powder is far from ideal.” He listened a second then let out a sigh. “Hey Tim. Uzi. Call me as soon as you get anything on those prints we emailed.”

  He hung up and put his phone away. “You think we’re close?”

  Fahad looked out at the dreary Parisian rain storm, the dark sky, and the angry clouds. “Just when I think we catch a break and cut off a tentacle, new ones appear. It’s like a sea monster.”

  “The Loch Ness. We catch glimpses, and sometimes we even feel like we’ve seen it.”

  “But catching it proves elusive.”

  “Yeah.” Uzi balled his fist. “A monster, all right. One we’re going to slay.”

  54

  Vail exited the RER station, followed a minute later by DeSantos. The RER, or Réseau Express Régional, was a modern underground rail that supplemented the century-old Métro subway. It featured fewer stops and faster arrival times—which served Vail and DeSantos well.

  After seeing the officers who were on the first train, they switched lines to the RER and then quickly emerged from the subterranean system, hoping they had kept their faces off whatever security cameras the Paris police had access to.

  They stood outside the Saint Michel Notre Dame station, a light rain falling steadily. As large tour buses passed, their wheels whooshed along the wet pavement, making a sound like steaks being grilled over a high flame.

  Vail squinted against the precipitation and ventured forward along the sidewalk, using the canopy of mature trees to give her some cover. Being barren this time of year, they were of minimal benefit.

  They bought a couple of nondescript tourist baseball hats lettered with “Paris” on the front. They considered buying umbrellas to shield them further, but the wind would almost certainly pull them inside out.

  A block later they came upon a brasserie that had an outdoor take away stand for boissons, sandwiches, and crepes. “Think we’ve got time to eat? I’m starving.”

  DeSantos glanced around. “Now is as good a time as any. Go ahead.”

  Vail told the Frenchman behind the permanent stainless steel stand what they wanted while DeSantos kept watch. The cook spread the crepe batter on the griddle, pulled the top down and then brought it up and spooned on some butter. The wind whipped up and blew in their direction, ruffling the overhanging red canvas canopies.

  As the griddle sizzled, loud bells began to ring. DeSantos came up beside her, facing away, keeping an eye on the landscape for trouble. “Notre Dame Cathedral. In case you’re interested.”

  Vail turned and saw the imposing Gothic structure directly across the small side street from them. She craned her neck to the top, at the spires and gargoyles and chimeras and columns that stretched toward the sky.

  There was a modest line of people along the side of the building preparing for a tour of the tower, according to the sign.

  As she turned to check on the food, she saw three police cars converge on the plaza. But before she could say anything, DeSantos grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

  Her stomach contracted in disappointment as they abandoned the crepes and crossed the street toward the church.

  “They may not be here looking for us,” she said.

  “No, but they probably have our description. And once they see us, we’re in the shit.”

  He pulled her toward the entrance of the cathedral. They got in line, but DeSantos pushed his way closer to the entrance, saying something about their lost child inside and they had to find him. No one objected.

  “Keep your hat on and don’t look up. I’m sure there are cameras in here.”

  Seconds later they entered the cathedral and followed the flow of people as they shuffled into the dark church.

  Whoa. Vail craned her neck up and around, taking in the enormity of the space—and the intricacy of the sculptured stonework.

  “What happened to keep your head down?”

  “Sorry.” She pulled her gaze lower as they moved deeper into the nave before turning left toward the exit. A low murmur filled the vast chamber. “I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice. The scale is hard to appreciate.”

  DeSantos took her hand and picked his way past the slow-moving tourists. “Between this and the Louvre, you’re having your arts and culture fill for the year. All in one day.”

  “What are we doing in here?”

  “The police were outside, so we’re inside. Soon as it’s clear we can leave.”

  “Kind of like taking sanctuary in a church.”

  “Kind of not.”

  “You don’t think they’ll check in here?”

  “We’d have to be fools to come in here. No way to maneuver, few places to hide, and no easy, quick exit.”

  Vail looked at him. “So what does that make us?”

  “Very smart.”

  “You feeling okay? Because you seem to be confused.”

  “We’d be so stupid to come in here that they won’t bother checking. Reverse psychology.”

  “That’s not reverse psychology. But I’ll accept your point—only because we’re not being swarmed by teams of gun-toting, pissed off cops.”

  DeSantos stationed himself by the large doors that led to the plaza out front.

  After five minutes of people pushing past them and leaving the cathedral, Vail tugged on his arm.

  “How we doing?”

  “Not sure. Getting dark, harder to see. We’re gonna have to chance it.”

  “This is a stupid problem to have,” she said. “We’re the good guys and we’re here to catch the bad guys.”

  Another tourist pushed by and went out the door. DeSantos shifted left and right to get a look. “I’ll go first, scout things out. Count to thirty then follow. Stay within view of each other, walk deliberate but don’t look rushed. We’ll grab a cab or take the Métro—whichever’s closest.”

  DeSantos walked straight ahead into the plaza while Vail hung back and did as instructed, passing the seconds as she looked into the busy square. She did not see any police vehicles parked along the curb. Because they were white, spotting them was easier than the officers’ dark uniforms.

  Although they had been inside
no more than ten minutes, the dense cloud cover and bad weather had conspired to bring nightfall a bit earlier than usual—which Vail considered a benefit. If it was harder for them to see law enforcement, it would be more difficult for law enforcement to see them.

  The rain was still falling steadily but had slowed to a drizzle. She ventured out into the plaza and turned right, toward the tree-covered sidewalk of Rue du Cloître, not far from where they had attempted to purchase crepes.

  Before she could step off the curb, however, a man grabbed her forearm firmly and said, “Se il vous plaît venez avec moi. Je me pose des questions pour vous.”

  Vail turned and saw the navy windbreaker of a Paris police officer, his matching baseball hat sporting large white lettering that read, POLICE.

  “I—I don’t speak French. In English?” But she had a pretty good idea of what he wanted.

  “We have some questions for you.”

  “About what? I’m here on vacation, I didn’t do anything wrong. Well, I crossed the street outside the crosswalk, but a lot of people were. It wasn’t just me. I didn’t know. Is there a fine in France for jaywalking?”

  Come on, Hector. Where the hell are you?

  The man—who looked to be in his twenties—loosened his grip and squinted. “Just come with me,” he said in heavily accented English. “I’ll explain.”

  “But I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend for dinner. She’s gonna wor—”

  “You can call her from the police station.” He tugged again, pulling her toward the curb—where, dammit, now she saw it. A white police cruiser.

  The cop’s hands were large and they had a good grip around her forearm.

  “Police station? Whoa, wait a minute. What’d I do? In America, you have to tell someone why you’re arresting them.”

  “We are not in America, no?”

  Smartass.

  “But—”

  “Also, mademoiselle, you are not under arrest. Yet.”

  Vail used her body weight to stop their forward progress. “If I’m not under arrest, I’m not going anywhere except to that restaurant to meet my girlfriend.”

  “I do not think you understand.”