The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  The waitress brought two glasses and a bottle of Coeur de Méditerranée merlot and set it down in front of them. She pulled out a corkscrew, opened the wine, and poured it.

  Vail was focused on the passing landscape above. When the waitress left, she turned to DeSantos, who was shoulder to shoulder with her in the romantic booth. “Seriously, Hector. How smart do you think this … dinner cruise is?”

  “It was my idea, so naturally I think it was very smart.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  In a low voice, she said, “We’re being pursued by the police and we’re sitting in a boat made of windows riding through the heart of Paris. With no way to get off.”

  “Like I started to explain before, it’s a sightseeing boat. The idea is that the tourists—that’d be us—get to see the city. That’s why it’s so dark in here. We can see out, but it’s tough to see in. And we’re moving at a pretty good pace. We’ll be fine.”

  “Does this boat stop anywhere?”

  “Only when it returns to port. It’ll hit the end, then they hang a U-turn and head back.”

  She thought about that a moment. “If I’m Paris PD, I’d be looking at all avenues of escape in the vicinity we were last seen. And that includes this boat. They could be radioing the captain right now to prepare for our capture when we get back. Or he could be arranging for the boat to do an emergency docking at a low risk place where they’ve moved a tac team into position.”

  “Must you always think like a cop?” DeSantos asked as he poured the wine.

  “Can’t help myself. It’s in my DNA.”

  He lifted his glass and handed the other one to Vail. “It’s why we keep you around, my dear.”

  “‘My dear.’ Is that a new saying for you?”

  “I’m growing kind of fond of it.”

  DeSantos clinked his glass against Vail’s, then took a sip. He leaned back in his seat, staring out at the passing vista of older buildings. “How likely do you think it is that the cops are onto us?”

  So he is taking me seriously. Vail examined her merlot. “The Paris police are generally pretty efficient. The chances are too high for us to risk it.”

  DeSantos chewed on that. “So they’ve got a couple of hours to figure it out and get their counterterrorism police in position to take us in. Unless they decide to force us to stop somewhere along the way.”

  The waitress stepped in front of them and set down plates of sear-roasted wild salmon with leek and artichoke ragù, according to the menu card on the table. An assistant followed with pear-shaped rolls and two cans of Coke.

  They waited till the serving staff walked off before Vail leaned in close. “But if there’s a fire in the kitchen, they have to dock immediately, right?”

  DeSantos tilted his head back and eyed her. “Again with fire? Are you some closet pyromaniac or something?”

  Vail looked at him. “I seem to recall a certain bonfire-type diversion outside the cathedral that was your doing.”

  “It did the trick, didn’t it?” DeSantos dug into the salmon, turning serious. “I don’t know what the ship’s protocols are for an emergency docking. Gotta be something they can’t put out with fire extinguishers.”

  She watched him chew and stab another bite. “How can you just eat?”

  “Spec Ops 101. You eat when you have the chance to eat, you shit when you have a chance to shit. Besides, it’s really good. You should try it.”

  Vail was starving so she lifted a big bite of the fish to her mouth. It did taste good—but she couldn’t enjoy it. “Unless you have a better plan, the kitchen fire’s our best shot. It’ll create a commotion, and if they don’t start heading toward the nearest port, we can jump and swim.”

  DeSantos scooped up another bit of salmon and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I could call the police and tell them I planted a bomb in the Musée d’Orsay. After what’s happened in DC, New York, and London, they’ll overreact and divert everything they’ve got to the museum.”

  Vail looked at him a long moment. “You’re right. Not about this, about what you said before about why you have me on the team.”

  “They wouldn’t overreact and divert everything they’ve got?”

  “No. Because of what’s happened, they’ve got more police on the streets. They’d mobilize their bomb squad and a counterterrorism unit to handle the threat. Won’t do us any good.”

  DeSantos absorbed that a moment. “Fine. But there’s a problem with your plan. A ship’s galley only has electric cooking equipment, for obvious safety reasons.”

  So obvious I didn’t think of it. “So what the hell are we gonna do?”

  “I didn’t say they never use open flames. They use a torch to caramelize sugar, make crème brûlée, or a flambé dish like crêpe suzette or cherries jubilee.”

  “Crêpe suzette is on the menu.”

  DeSantos grinned. “Yes it is, my dear.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “My guess is they’re going to do it in the living room for the spectacle—it’s very dramatic in a dimly lit interior. So once the flame crests, I’ll tip the cooking pan over. The liquid will burn anything it touches.”

  “I’m worried about collateral damage.”

  “I’ll set it off in a way that will minimize injury, okay?”

  Vail studied his face in the candlelight. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

  “Of course.”

  Asshole. Vail’s gaze roamed the interior. Despite all the predicaments she had found herself in since her unwanted affiliation with OPSIG, she never thought she would be resorting to arson to accomplish a mission. She hated to have to do this, but she could not think of another way out.

  Sometimes the greater picture had to be considered, DeSantos told her. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

  “Is that some sort of OPSIG mantra?”

  “Nope. Star Trek.”

  Vail shook her head. “I would’ve felt better if it was some moral principle the black ops world had developed in situations like this.”

  She had already taken an inventory of the interior and determined that there were no security cameras on board. DeSantos paid with cash so there was no traceable means back to them other than public identification. And most people were focused on the windows and the sights of downtown Paris, their meals and wine—certainly not their fellow passengers.

  “Let me ask you again,” he said. “Given your intimate knowledge of police procedure, how certain are you that Paris PD will be searching this boat when we get back to port?”

  “Count on it. They’d have to be pretty incompetent to miss that detail. Someone’s going to think of it. This is Detective 101 stuff.”

  He checked his watch then motioned to her plate. “Then I suggest you finish up. Because the crêpe suzette is next—and that means we’re going to be evacuating this boat in the next few minutes.” He pulled out his phone and consulted Google Maps, then looked out the window. “Pont de l’Alma is coming up. Now would be a good time.” He rose from the chair and looked toward the setup in the middle of the dining room where the staff was prepping the dessert. “Food was delicious,” he said, tossing his napkin aside. I think I’ll go give my compliments to the chef. She’s very hot, you know. Or—she will be in a couple of minutes.”

  “Be careful.”

  DeSantos winked at her. “Thanks for the concern. But I’ll be fine.”

  “I was talking about the others in the dining room. No collateral damage, remember?”

  After DeSantos rose from his seat, Vail pulled out her cell and saw that she had missed Uzi’s text message. She turned toward DeSantos, who had disappeared somewhere into the dimly lit interior.

  She texted Uzi back, apologizing for the late response and lett
ing him know they had to “manage a situation with LE” and that her unnamed partner would be back in a few minutes. He replied a moment later.

  tim came thru

  prints match doka michel

  leader of islamic movement sharia law for france now

  could be lead on scroll b/c michel is son of man who stole it in 1957

  need gps location on that phone i hacked asap

  The Eiffel Tower swung into view and all heads turned in unison, a number of people pointing at the iconic structure, brilliant amber-gold lighting enhancing its profile against the dark nightscape.

  There was a loud clang as something hit the wood floor, followed by a whoosh and a draft of warm air. An alarm began ringing. The serving staff froze for a second, then rushed inward from wherever they were stationed—and seconds later Vail saw DeSantos, making his way along the periphery toward their table. When he arrived, he said, “Now we see what their emergency protocol is.”

  Vail screamed, then yelled, “Fire!” DeSantos did the same, followed by a couple off to their right. People scattered away from the flames, regardless of their proximity.

  An announcement blared over the ship wide intercom—first in French, then in English:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. Please move toward the stern, the back of the boat, where you boarded. We have a minor fire in the dining room and we’re working to put it out as quickly as possible. I will keep you posted.”

  “Minor?” Vail asked.

  “Sounds better than, ‘We’re fucked. But don’t jump overboard just yet,’ doesn’t it?”

  DeSantos and Vail joined the crowd, which was moving steadily but haphazardly toward the exit—many pushing, screams and gasps coming from a variety of distraught people.

  DeSantos glanced back, concern evident on his face, assessing how efficient the staff’s firefighting methods were. “In five seconds we better start moving toward Port de Suffren. It should be right there, ahead on the left.”

  Vail looked, but it was hard to see because the bright light from the building fire had illuminated the interior and reversed the effect of the windows: it was now easier to see in than see out.

  Add in the heat and thickening smoke and everyone was pushing toward the exit, attempting to get outside into the fresh air.

  As she turned back toward the exit, the boat shifted direction.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs … Ladies and Gentlemen …”

  “Here we go,” DeSantos said in her left ear. “Soon as we get off, we need to put as much distance between us and the group as fast as possible. Without making it obvious.”

  The staff helped corral everyone in an orderly fashion toward the exit. They continued to work the fire with extinguishers, and the ceiling sprinklers clicked on and began dispensing water, dousing the passengers—which made them push forward faster toward the stern.

  As they debarked, Vail glanced over her shoulder and saw thick smoke billowing from the boat’s upper cabin into the dark gray sky. “Jesus, Hector …”

  “More smoke, less fire. Looks worse than it is. And no major casualties. Thought you’d be happy.”

  “I am. And since we’re off the ship and not in handcuffs, I’d say you did well. By the way, did you see Uzi’s text, about the location he needs?”

  “I gave him what I had. Safe house is the same place as the address Hoshi found for Doka Michel.”

  They stopped on the quay and looked in all directions, casually searching for a police presence. Seeing nothing in the immediate vicinity, they shuffled with the group toward the sidewalk, just outside an RER station. Off to their left and a hundred yards or so away, the Eiffel Tower rose into the sky.

  “Everyone, please stay together,” Dominique shouted. “We’ll arrange for refunds and transportation …”

  But what interested Vail more were the sirens blaring in the distance. “I think this is where we make our exit. Into the RER?”

  DeSantos glanced around then said, “Yeah. Now.”

  They started down the stairs when they heard a voice from behind: “You two. Just a minute!”

  57

  Uzi and Fahad pulled up to the apartment building in Montparnasse in the heart of Paris’s Left Bank, once the haunt of artists, writers, philosophers, and counterculture intellectuals such as Chagall, Picasso, Degas, Hemingway, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound.

  After a postwar decline, the area had taken on a cosmopolitan character but had lost its avant-garde spark.

  And now it harbored a safe house for some of the most virulent and scheming terrorists outside the Middle East.

  Uzi and Fahad sat in their car on Boulevard de Vaugirard, across the street on the other side of a traffic median, the mature, though barren trees offering a modest canopy of cover from the apartment where their targets were supposedly gathering.

  “Just us,” Fahad said. “Frontal assault?”

  “Only if we want to get our asses handed to us. We know what Aziz and Yaseen look like but we’ve got no idea how many men they have or what kind of weapons or booby traps they’ve got. We need a covert approach.”

  “Makes sense,” Fahad said with a quick nod.

  “What do a group of guys want, whether they’re Islamic terrorists or bachelors getting together for poker?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Exactly. I’m sure they’re getting hungry plotting murder and mayhem.”

  “So let me get this straight: you want to buy these assholes—who’ve killed countless numbers of people—dinner? How about some fine Bordeaux while we’re at it?”

  “A bit over the top.” Uzi pulled out his phone, did a search, and found Pizza Pino a few blocks away. He ordered a large margherita pizza, then started the car. “I’ll pick it up and you’ll deliver it.”

  Nineteen minutes later, they were entering the building, the aroma of mozzarella cheese, basil, and tomato sauce wafting behind them.

  “Wish we had the time and equipment to do this right,” Uzi said. “A full-on SWAT team with MP5s, snaking optical cameras, flash bangs—”

  “And stun grenades.” Fahad shook his head. “Instead, we’ve got a dozen slices of pizza.”

  “Remember, we want these guys alive. We shoot to wound, not kill.”

  Fahad balanced the box on his left outstretched hand and used his right to check the Glock, which was perched in the small of his back with a round chambered. “Ready.”

  They walked up the two flights and down the corridor, then Uzi flattened himself against the wall, out of the sightline of the door. Fahad knocked, then waited. A moment later, he rapped again.

  “What?” came a terse voice from inside.

  “Delivery from Pizza Pino,” Fahad said in French. “Large margherita pizza, extra cheese.”

  “Not ours,” the man said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Some guy called it in and told me to deliver it at 7:00. I’m fifteen minutes late so the pizza’s free, along with our apologies.”

  The door swung open and the man said, “Give it to me.”

  Fahad moved his right hand beneath the box and took a half step forward while extending the pizza. As soon as he took it, Fahad grabbed his wrist and gave him a quick hard yank into the hallway. Uzi swung around and jammed his Glock against the perp’s head while Fahad clamped a palm over his mouth.

  “Name?” Uzi asked in Arabic into his ear.

  “Abdul.”

  “How many others in there?”

  “Four.”

  Uzi did not need to ask if they were armed; he knew they were. He twisted the barrel of the Glock into the loose skin of Abdul’s temple.

  “How many bedrooms?”

  Abdul winced and tried to pull his head away from the handgun, but he was wedged against the wall. “One.”

  “Only one?”

  “It’s a small f
lat.”

  That was all he needed to know, and all he had time to ask. He reached back and cracked Abdul across the forehead with the Glock’s handle. Abdul crumpled to his knees and Uzi hit him one more time on the base of the skull to make sure he was unconscious.

  Uzi pulled a flexcuff around his wrists and quickly dragged him half a dozen feet down the hall while Fahad picked the pizza box off the floor and moved it aside.

  “Yo, Abdul!” A voice from the apartment, approaching. “Where are you, man? Why do I smell pizza?”

  The second man stepped into the corridor and Fahad shoved the barrel of his Glock against the man’s temple while covering his mouth and pulling him backward down the hall.

  Uzi went through the same routine: three men left inside; his name was Hijaz—not one of their major targets—so Fahad likewise rendered him unconscious, followed by a flexcuff around the wrists, affixed to Abdul’s restraint. Even if they regained their wits, it would be difficult for them to get to their feet and maneuver effectively.

  Three left, Uzi said to Fahad using hand signals. He hoped they were named Aziz, Yaseen, and Michel. Along with two ancient, extremely important Hebrew documents.

  Two against three were odds they could manage, particularly considering the added benefit of a surprise incursion.

  Uzi looked into the flat: there were no lights above the narrow wood entryway that could cast shadows and alert the tangos of their approach. He stepped inside and led the way, making no effort to quiet his Timberlands. He was considerably larger than both Abdul and Hijaz, but he doubted the other men would notice the weight differential during the course of a dozen footsteps.

  He made a quick assessment of the floorplan as he went: the voices of men speaking Arabic echoed in the room at the far end of the hall, which he suspected was a den—and must lead into the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen—because there were no other doors he could see.

  Uzi stopped a few feet from the end of the corridor and waited for Fahad to inch up next to him. He whispered in Uzi’s ear:

  “On three. One, two, three—”

  They swung into the den and instantly sized up the situation: two men, sitting on a couch huddled over a laptop, arguing. Third one not visible.