The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “No,” DeSantos said, behind the officer and pressing something into the back of the man. “You don’t understand. The lady said she doesn’t want to go with you. Take your hands off her.” He gestured at Vail—a look that told her to take the handgun from the cop’s holster.

  Vail did so surreptitiously and placed it in her jacket pocket.

  “Now, DeSantos said, “back up slowly. No fast moves.”

  He guided the officer a few feet toward his compact Peugeot sedan and opened the back door. “Get in.”

  Vail looked around, hoping the cop’s partner was not in the vicinity—if he had a partner—and saw a commotion half a block away, in the plaza, near a trash bin. People were drawing close to it, trying to see what the fuss was about.

  “Don’t worry about it,” DeSantos said, clearly noticing Vail’s concern.

  He was right—and she refocused her attention on the officer, who was now in the sedan. She knew the Paris police had budgetary issues, so perhaps patrols were done solo. I sure hope that’s the case here.

  “Hey,” DeSantos said, taking care not to use her name. “Cuff him.”

  She pulled a flexcuff from her pocket and strapped his wrists together. Another one secured him to the headrest of the front seat, which would prevent him from moving or leaving the car.

  DeSantos slammed the door and turned to survey the street.

  “You started the fire?”

  “A diversion. I needed to get as many eyes off you as possible. Let’s get out of here.”

  They moved quickly down the block, outside the grouping of locals and tourists, who were watching the flames lick higher and wider in the plaza. The fire brigade’s sirens were approaching in the distance.

  “There’s an RER station,” Vail said, indicating directly ahead.

  DeSantos suddenly diverted left. “Negative. LE approaching, near the entrance,” he said, using the abbreviation for law enforcement.

  They walked against traffic on the sidewalk, along a concrete retaining wall.

  And that’s when things got dicey.

  55

  Uzi’s phone vibrated—and jolted him and Fahad to attention. He dug it out and answered Tim Meadows’s call.

  “The first set of prints Mr. DeSantos sent me, which looked like they were pulled off the screen of a cell phone, belong to Amin Qamari, a Moroccan assassin who’s wanted for several murders in Amsterdam.”

  “We’ll have to tell our Dutch friends at the General Intelligence and Security Service Mr. Qamari can be removed from their most wanted list. He’s dead.”

  “Well, that’s a damn shame.”

  “Notify Director Knox,” Uzi said. “He’ll take care of the notification when the time is right. What else you got?”

  “One of the other prints matches Doka Michel, the leader of the French Islamic movement, Sharia Law for France Now. Its goal—as the group’s name implies—is to oversee the transition from traditional French government to traditional Islamic Sharia law using rapid population expansion and voter mobilization to transform the country.”

  “Sounds so innocuous and official. Like the mission of a real diplomatic envoy.”

  “He’s also suspected in planning several terrorist attacks, including the one on the Lyon police station last year that killed nine officers. According to what I was able to dig up, with Hoshi Koh’s assistance—and by the way, she’s a wasted talent in your office, Uzi. You really—”

  “Tim, back on track. What’d you dig up?”

  “Michel has colleagues in Belgium and the Netherlands, all focused on that one goal: taking over their respective countries by instituting Sharia law.”

  “Michel … why do I know that name?”

  “I was wondering how long it’d take you to clue in on that. He’s the son of Alberi Michel—”

  “The man who stole the Jesus Scroll from the Qumran caves in the late 1950s.”

  “Give that man a gold star. Well, let’s make it a silver because you took—”

  “Anything else?”

  “Still working on the others.”

  “Thanks, Tim. Let me know when you’ve got something.” He disconnected the call and sat there, wondering what it meant. He related Meadows’s findings to Fahad, who nodded.

  “The Agency has been monitoring these Sharia movements for a while.”

  “So what will Parisians do in twenty years when the Muslim majority votes in Sharia law?”

  Fahad thought a long moment and said, “A lot can happen in twenty years.”

  “So you don’t think it’ll come to pass.”

  “Our Agency analysts don’t see anything that’ll stop it. The French culture will disappear. There’ll be some radical shifts pretty much immediately. As you’d expect. There’ll be a purge of nonbelievers. A civil struggle, riots, maybe a civil war.” He chuckled. “The Agency will probably get involved, agitate some of it themselves. We’re good at that. But the bottom line is that the popular majority will be Muslim. This is the extremists’ plan, we know this. They’ve told us for years now that this is a war that they’re waging with population overbreeding. They’re outbreeding the native Parisians six to one? Something like that. And their plan is to do this throughout Europe.”

  “Seems like an incredibly effective strategy,” Uzi said.

  Fahad nodded. “I have nothing against Islam. I’m a Muslim myself. But the system of governing is archaic. It’ll set women’s rights back centuries. It’ll set everything back. Not just here. Lots of cities in Europe will lose their culture. You saw what happened in Iraq with Islamic State. Wherever they could they obliterated entire civilizations, cultures that were different from theirs. They were ‘infidels’ who did not believe. According to a literal interpretation of the Koran, which is what the extremists follow, if you don’t believe, you’re supposed to be killed.”

  “I guess it’s a part of the natural course of political evolution. Every culture, every civilization falls eventually. That’s been one of history’s lessons. Everything eventually comes to an end.”

  “That’s kind of dark.”

  Uzi bit his lip. “As much as I don’t want to admit it, it’s just the way it is. Futurists have been predicting the end of American society for years. Let’s hope their future is not ours.”

  Uzi dialed DeSantos again, and again it went to voicemail. “C’mon, Santa …”

  His phone vibrated almost immediately: a text from Hoshi Koh.

  “DeSantos?” Fahad asked.

  “My colleague. She got an address for Doka Michel.”

  “How the hell did she get that?”

  Uzi smiled. “She’s been paying attention to my hacking lessons. And she’s really, really good.”

  “Hacking lessons?”

  “Start the car. Until or unless we get something better from Santa, this is our priority.”

  56

  The voice came from behind them: the unmistakable bark of a law enforcement officer ordering them to stop.

  And like most criminals who did not want to be caught, Vail and DeSantos did like all the perps they despised: they ran.

  “Split up,” DeSantos said, pushing her away from him. “I’ll call you,” he yelled, holding his hand up to his ear, mimicking a phone call, as he headed away from her.

  Vail ran left and DeSantos right. She did not know how many cops were behind her, but she was not going to look. She needed to escape—without landing a bullet between the shoulder blades.

  The drizzle had stopped, but she took extra care not to take a header on the slick pavement. She slowed to a brisk walk, ducking in between cars that were stopped in traffic and around tourists and locals who were out for an early dinner.

  She thought of the foot pursuits she had engaged in during her career. In each case it became a race in which she or her partner o
utflanked the perp. She was in unknown territory now, where the next turn she took could mean coming face-to-face with armed officers.

  Vail crossed the street and headed back toward the cathedral, into a lush greenbelt with small trees, tall hedges, and dense shrubbery. It would give her some cover where she could change direction outside the view of the police.

  Except that when she reached the bushes she nearly ran into the retaining wall—beyond which lay the Seine, the five-hundred-mile river that coursed through the heart of Paris.

  Vail flashed on her escapades with London’s River Thames. I don’t have good luck with these.

  Still, she was out of options—and, apparently, out of room. She turned right and ran along the Premenade Maurice Carême, which paralleled the Seine, using the wall of greenery as cover. She shed her jacket and pulled it inside out as she ran. The charcoal gray coat became azure. She pulled off her hat and glasses and fluffed her red mane as she emerged from the promenade.

  Up ahead was a narrow span that crossed the Seine, the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger, or “Cardinal Lustiger’s small bridge.” Several people were seated on a stone wall along the adjacent roadway, a few chatting, some reading, one on her phone.

  Vail hopped on top, pulled out a Métro map from her 5.11 cargo pocket and quickly unfolded it. She dropped her chin and pretended to study it.

  “Avez-vous besoin d’aide?”

  Vail reluctantly turned to the man beside her. He was in his thirties, square jaw, pleasing Parisian face. She laughed, disarming and warm. Playful even. Robby flashed through her thoughts and she felt dirty. “English?”

  “I do,” he said, displaying a broad white smile. “Do you need help?”

  Another time, another place. Five years ago would’ve worked. Stop it, Karen. Focus.

  “I’m trying to get to the Eiffel Tower,” she said, picking the first thing that came to her mind. Can I sound more inept?

  “I’m Jean-Claude. Where are you from?”

  “I’m … Roxxann,” she said, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than normal. “From Canada.”

  “And you don’t speak French?” He put his index and thumb together. “Not even a little?” He squinted, friendly disbelief.

  “I live on the west coast.”

  She was suddenly aware of the police officers no more than fifteen feet away—she saw their boots and navy pants. But she did not dare look their way. Her goal was to hide in plain sight. And it didn’t get much plainer than fifteen feet away.

  She lifted the Métro map. “Which line do I get on?” she said, flirting a bit with her eyes. “It’s all so confusing.”

  “Here, let me show you.” He leaned in closer, no doubt noticing that she did not have a ring on her finger. “Are you in Paris alone?”

  “I’m here with a friend. But we went our own way today. And it’s been a challenge getting around. I had no idea. I didn’t know big cities could be so confusing.”

  “Well. Here we are,” Jean-Claude said, pushing slightly into her left shoulder. “And this is Tour Eiffel. You want to take this line, right here, the—”

  “You know, Jean-Claude, would you mind walking me to the right station?”

  He sat up straight—as if this conversation might lead to something more than just a chance encounter on a bridge by the Seine.

  “Of course. I could take you to the tower, if you would like.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after six. Have you eaten dinner?”

  Vail lifted her brow—as if the thought had not occurred to her. Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “I haven’t. Do you know a good restaurant?”

  “I know many.” He slid off the retaining wall and held out a bent elbow, helping her off. They turned right, and Jean-Claude, who was a good six foot two, gave her some cover as he led her in the direction of the Métro.

  They had just crossed the street when her phone rang. It was DeSantos. “Excuse me, Jean-Claude. My friend.” She put the handset to her face. “Maggie, hi.”

  DeSantos hesitated. “You in trouble?”

  “I should be able to manage. Where are you?”

  “On the edge of the Seine, the Quai du Marché Neuf, right below the Pont Saint-Michel, alongside a dinner boat. Cross street Boulevard du Palais. Meet me there now. Boat’s leaving in five minutes and we need to be on it.”

  “A dinner—” She stopped herself, realizing Jean-Claude was listening. “Okay, no, I understand. I’ll be right there.” She looked up—and realized she did not know which way to go.

  “So sorry, Jean-Claude. My friend—she’s, she’s booked us a place for dinner and it’s our last night, I didn’t want to say no. Can you point me to the Pont Saint-Michel? That’s a bridge, right?”

  Jean-Claude smiled—disappointment evident on his face, but ever the gentleman, he was going to help her. “You’re very close, five minutes at most.”

  Five minutes? How can I run without running?

  He pointed her in the right direction and she gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Again, I’m sorry. I was looking forward to dinner.”

  He handed her his card. “Call me next time you’re in town.”

  She smiled. “I will.” Over his shoulder, she saw a cop—so she turned abruptly, headed toward DeSantos.

  Vail walked briskly, trying to appear casual while attempting to figure out how she was going to get there before the boat sailed. A dinner boat? What’s he thinking?

  She passed the line of cars that were parked at the curb, staying as close to the vehicles as possible. After a cluster of motorcycles she came upon a shop called Souvenir’s Factory; if she had more time she would’ve bought a cheap Parisian pullover sweatshirt and a different hat. But she could now see the bridge up ahead on her left, which she was certain was Pont Saint-Michel.

  As she approached, she saw two officers—and whipped her head to the side, trying not to make eye contact as she crossed the street and approached the sign that displayed both English and French:

  Diners – Croisière

  Dinner – Cruise

  Embarquement

  Boarding

  An arrow pointed down toward the river.

  She saw one of the officers looking directly at her as a large two-car articulated bus crossed in front of her, forming a screen. She used the cover to run toward the stone staircase, then descended the steps to the water’s edge, where a long glass-ceilinged blue and white boat was docked. DeSantos was standing on the ramp talking with a uniformed man who looked the part of a ship’s captain.

  “I’m here,” Vail said as she approached the vessel. She wanted to glance up, to see if the officers had realized where she had gone once the bus had cleared their line of sight, but DeSantos had her hand and was literally pulling her aboard—and into the cabin.

  “When I said five minutes, I wasn’t kidding. I had to give the captain some dinero to wait.”

  “We’re in France and you’re speaking Spanish?”

  “Money’s the universal language, no matter what you call it.”

  They walked into the dining room, glass comprising a majority of the ceiling and walls, with a wood floor down the center and red carpeting along the periphery. Sunken tables and built-in chairs ran in two rows along the sides of the boat. Passengers were busy snapping photos of one another.

  Up above, on street level, Vail saw the two police officers standing on the Quai du Marché Neuf with their backs against the retaining wall, rotating their heads left and right, looking as if they were wondering where she had gone. One was chattering on his radio.

  DeSantos, clearly clued in to her concern, said, “Idea is for people to see out, not for people to see in.”

  “Not sure I’m willing to stake my life on that.”

  As soon as she said that, another cop ran over to the officers. Don�
�t look down. Don’t look down. Vail rubbed her forehead with a hand. “When the hell are we gonna start moving?”

  “Shhh,” DeSantos said. “Relax. You look like you’re under extreme duress. People are going to wonder what the hell’s the matter with you.”

  “I’m a New Yorker. I’m a stressed out aggressive bitch.”

  DeSantos looked at her.

  She cracked a broad smile. “That better?”

  He squinted and said, hesitantly, “I think so.”

  The boat started moving, slowly, the landscape above them sliding by.

  “Thank god.” She looked up at the cops and watched them recede into the distance, her shoulders dropping in relief—only to see a dozen others standing on the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger as they neared the cathedral. “Poor Jean-Claude.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She sighed deeply as they glided under the bridge, putting distance between them and the police. “Now what?”

  “‘Now what?’ Karen, I thought you were resourceful. We haven’t eaten. This is a dinner cruise. We’ll chow down, have a glass of wine, clear our heads and think.”

  Vail looked at him in disbelief. “You’re amazing.”

  “I know. And thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean that in a nice way.”

  “Then choose your adjectives better.”

  “How about infuriating? Or ridicul—”

  “Welcome aboard, I’m Dominique,” said a young hostess dressed in a black formfitting tux. “Would you like to take your seats?”

  “We would,” DeSantos said. “Can you wrap them to go?”

  Dominique giggled. “I’m sorry, Monsieur, you are funny.”

  “That’s what my wife says.” He smiled at Vail. “All kidding aside, Dominique, how about a window seat?”

  The woman giggled again. “But Monsieur, they’re all window seats.”

  DeSantos made a point of looking around. “Indeed, you’re right, my dear. Window seat it is.” He turned to Vail and offered his bent elbow. “Honey?”

  Are you kidding me? He’s flirting? Vail rolled her eyes. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Unbelievable. Insufferable. And damn good at what he does.