The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “I’m the one who built the vest he used,” Yaseen said. “I’m the one who strapped it to his body.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m the one who chose him for that mission. I gave him the courage to do it. And I’m the one who detonated the bomb.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Mo,” Uzi said, stepping in front of his colleague. “Walk away.”

  Fahad pushed Uzi aside. “Walk away? Is that what you did when you came face-to-face with Batula Hakim?”

  Uzi felt the bile rise in his throat, his blood pressure rising. “I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands, to feel the life drain from her body.”

  “You see,” Yaseen said, “we are not all that different. Jew, Muslim—we all enjoy killing.”

  “We value life,” Uzi said. “That’s the biggest difference. Nothing is more sacred. To you, and those like you, a boy is just a tool for fighting your cause, a means to an end. An object that can be bought. Like when you pay a family for their son’s death after he blows himself up and kills innocent civilians. You’re a cancer, Yaseen.”

  “And now you’re going to get some justice,” Fahad said. He nodded at Claude, who opened the toolbox. Knives, pliers, hammers, ice picks, and other assorted gadgets were visible.

  Uzi leaned forward, both hands on his knees, making direct eye contact with Yaseen. “We can avoid all that unpleasant stuff. It’s up to you. We’ll start with some simple questions. All you have to do is answer them truthfully. Like, what attacks do you have planned for the United States?”

  “I’m not involved in the planning,” Yaseen said. “I just build the bombs and help recruit the soldiers.”

  “The soldiers,” Fahad said. “Like my nephew.”

  “Yes,” Yaseen said matter-of-factly, without much emotion. “Like Akil. Allahu Akbar.”

  Fahad stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of Yaseen’s hair. “Bastard. Don’t use Allah’s name in conjunction with murder. That’s not what Allah is about. It’s not what Islam is about.”

  “Isn’t it? Strike down all infidels! Nonbelievers must be killed. What am I missing?”

  “I’m not convinced you’re just a bomb maker, an engineer, and a recruiter,” Uzi said. “But I’ll let you slide on that. For the moment. If you’re not the guy planning the attacks, who is?”

  Yaseen turned away.

  Uzi stood up. “Look, asshole. We know how this is going to go, right? I’m going to ask you a question, you’re going to refuse to answer, we’ll spar a bit, and then Claude here will go to work.” He walked over, closed the toolbox, and set it down at Yaseen’s feet. It was heavy and the metal instruments shifted inside, rattling loudly. “I think we can both agree that you don’t want to see Claude open it again. Because if he does …” Uzi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll cut off a finger. Or two. Or an entire hand.”

  “Or I’ll gouge out an eye. Or two.” This from Claude, who seemed to say it with satisfaction. Uzi thought it was a bit disturbing. The way he saw it, torture of any sort was best avoided. At the very least, the more severe forms of enhanced interrogation, whether waterboarding, permanent physical harm, or overt pain, were a last resort, when lives were on the line. And even at that, it was a means to an end. Not a source of enjoyment.

  His cell buzzed. He checked the display and read the text from Vail: she and DeSantos were en route. Uzi rested both hands on his hips. “I don’t like you, Yaseen. And yet I’m willing to spare you pain and suffering. By the looks of things, I’m the only one here interested in treating you like a human being. The others are like sharks in a pool of water. And you’re the chum. They can’t wait for me to turn you over to them.”

  “Bad cop/good cop, is that it?”

  Uzi blew air through his lips. “I don’t think you get it, asshole. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Problem is, I’m more concerned for your well-being than you are. Tell us what we want to know.”

  Yaseen looked away again.

  “I don’t think he believes you,” Fahad said.

  Uzi turned to Aziz. His face was moist with perspiration despite the fact that the temperature was no more than fifty. “Your turn. Who’s the one calling the shots for al Humat?”

  “Kadir Abu Sahmoud. And Nazir al Dosari.”

  Uzi drew his chin back. “Who’s Dosari?”

  “Sahmoud’s—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Yaseen said.

  Fahad pulled his Glock and shoved it between Yaseen’s lips and into his mouth—taking a few teeth with it. The man’s eyes widened—either from the loss of his pearly whites or because a powerful handgun was now a trigger squeeze away from ending his life. Hard to say.

  Uzi took a deep breath. He had crossed the line as far as Bureau procedure went: if he was witness or party to any type of interrogation tactics that involved torture, he had to report it. But he was not here as an FBI agent; quite the opposite. “You were about to tell me who Dosari is.”

  “Sahmoud’s protégé,” Aziz said. “Anything happens to Sahmoud, Dosari takes over al Humat.”

  “Second in command,” Uzi said with a nod. “Very good, Tahir.” He walked over to Aziz and gave him full attention. “So tell me what your role is in the organization.”

  “I’m a member of the cabinet, the council of elders.”

  “But you were involved in the Madrid bombing. Were you the engineer?”

  “That mission was mine. I planned it, executed it. And I was rewarded for it.”

  Uzi sucked on his upper lip. “You worked your way up. Congratulations on the promotion. Obviously in the minds of the council, you earned it. So being someone so high up in the organization, you know what targets are going to be hit. Tell me.”

  Aziz’s eyes swung right, toward Yaseen. The Glock was still in his mouth. Fahad looked angry, just about daring either of them to refuse to answer.

  “Tahir,” Uzi said evenly, “I’m running out of patience. I’m going to give you one more chance. What targets have you selected?”

  Aziz licked his lips. His entire body was now drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest. “If I—if I tell you, I’d be throwing away years of planning. Dishonoring many who died.” He shook his head. “No. I will take the knowledge to the grave with me. To heaven, as a martyr in the holy jihad.”

  Uzi’s shoulders slumped; he could not hide his disappointment. He did not question Aziz’s resolve. Religious zealots put their beliefs ahead of their personal well-being. He had gotten all he was going to get for that line of questioning. “Then tell me something that won’t betray your faith. Where are the Aleppo Codex and Jesus Scroll?”

  Yaseen whined and shook his head as best he could with the Glock in his mouth. Fahad grabbed his hair and steadied him, yanked back, and shoved the gun barrel in farther. Yaseen started to gag.

  “Tell me!” Uzi said as his phone buzzed. He straightened up, glanced at the display, and gestured to Claude to get the door. Vail and DeSantos had arrived. While Claude’s shoes slapped against the dirt-strewn cement floor, Uzi faced Aziz. “Where are they? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  “The codex is on its way to the West Bank, Sahmoud’s office. Or it will be.” He turned away. “Doka Michel’s the only one who knows the address.”

  “And the scroll?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Best guess.”

  Aziz’s eyes moved up, left, and right as he pondered the question. “Knowing Sahmoud, he’d keep it somewhere close.”

  Uzi nodded at Fahad, who extracted the Glock from Yaseen’s mouth.

  “You idiot,” Yaseen shouted. He spit out broken pieces of tooth material. “You’ve betrayed all you are.”

  “Who cares about some old book and parchment?” Aziz asked. “It has no meaning to us. It’s just a tool, a leverage point.”

  The door
opened and closed and Uzi’s head snapped up. Vail and DeSantos were headed toward him.

  THE MILDEW IRRITATED VAIL’S NOSE. The building’s interior was dark except for a high-lumen lantern resting on the ground, pointed toward the ceiling. Uzi, Fahad, and Claude stood in front of two chairs. And in those chairs—

  “Give me a few minutes,” Claude said. “I’ll get the information.”

  Vail sensed that something was not right with Claude the night they met him. She hadn’t expended much energy thinking about it, but now she knew. He was a psychopath, possibly an assassin who used his need-driven behavior to “legally” kill—and get paid doing it.

  Uzi hesitated.

  “Trust me,” Claude said. “I’ll get the info we need.”

  “No.” Fahad walked over to the nearby wall and picked up what looked like two tactical vests. “We’ll do it my way.” He handed one to Claude and carried the other to Yaseen.

  “What are you doing?” Yaseen asked.

  Fahad made a show of admiring the workmanship. “Nicely made. I see the pride you put into each one.” He held it up. “This is what you strapped to my nephew’s body? His fifteen-year-old body?”

  Uh, not tactical vests. Suicide vests.

  Yaseen did not respond.

  Fahad unfurled the garment, slipped it behind Yaseen, and turned to DeSantos. “Cut his hands loose.”

  DeSantos looked at Uzi—and Uzi nodded agreement. DeSantos sliced the flexcuffs, moved Yaseen’s hands through the vest’s cutaway shoulders, and re-secured his wrists. Yaseen winced away the pain of having his arm twisted.

  They followed the same procedure for Aziz, but Fahad and DeSantos moved him to the opposite end of the cavernous room and set him down.

  Vail hurried to Uzi’s side and whispered in his ear. “What the hell are they doing?”

  “Fahad’s nephew, the suicide bomber? Qadir Yaseen recruited him, turned him into a jihadi. Yaseen’s the kind of guy you chase, Karen. A psychopath, a serial offender who uses religious extremism to get his kills.”

  Vail considered this a moment. “Psychopaths need the connection to the kill. Giving someone a bomb to wear is too removed for their needs. It doesn’t fulfill the hunger. It’s like eating a chocolate bar that has no taste. It’s just not enjoyable.”

  “I get that. But here’s the thing. He detonates the bombs remotely. His finger is literally on the trigger. And he watches.”

  “Okay,” Vail said. “But what makes you think he’s a psychopath?”

  “He’s got a vacant look in his eyes, the pupils are—I don’t know, strange. Cold, empty, pinpoints of darkness. He killed Mo’s nephew and has no remorse, no guilt. He’s dispassionate, coldhearted, has no empathy for the pain Mo feels.” He recounted the key points of their interrogation thus far.

  Vail nodded. “You may be right. But there’s more to it than—”

  “Does it really matter?” Claude asked.

  Vail turned; she was not aware he had been listening in. In fact, we might have more than one psychopath in the room. “It could. In terms of determining the right way to question him.”

  Claude looked past her shoulder at Yaseen. “He’s done talking. And so are we.”

  “No we’re not.” She walked over to Yaseen and stopped a foot from his chair. “Give me some space.”

  “No.” Fahad broadened his stance. “We gave him every chance to cooperate. Whatever happens now is his fault.”

  Vail clenched her jaw. “Move. Aside.”

  A moment passed. He finally yielded and backed away.

  Vail tilted her head and observed their prisoner. He defiantly spit tooth fragments at her. She did not move. “When that bomb explodes, the ground shakes, smoke rises, body parts go flying. It’s quite an extraordinary moment for you, isn’t it?”

  His right eye twitched.

  “The fear, the pain on the faces of your victims. Their screams, their moans. Their shrieking when a limb is blown off. You’re aroused by it. Seeing your victims’ response to the pain you inflict … it’s exhilarating. Deeply exciting.”

  Yaseen’s lips parted. She had his attention.

  “When you press that button and watch your bomb explode …” She waited for that image to fill his thoughts. “When you hear the women and children wail and cry …” She leaned in close and whispered. “You’re sexually aroused. Aren’t you?”

  His eyes, riveted to Vail’s, narrowed. His head tilted. “Yes.” Barely audible.

  “You’re a sexual sadist, Yaseen. People are just objects to you. Things to be used, manipulated. You’ve got no emotional connection to them. Their agony, their suffering are inconsequential.”

  He drew back and licked his lips.

  She stood up straight. “You get off on risk taking and thrill seeking. And let’s face it. There’s no job on the planet that’s more dangerous than a bomb maker. You’ve obviously lost fingers from an explosion or two, and yet you keep on doing it. Because taking greater and greater risks excites you.”

  Yaseen laughed, exposing a row of jagged front teeth. “You know me better than I know myself.”

  “Karen,” Uzi said. She turned and headed back toward him, where Fahad and DeSantos were now standing with Claude.

  “How does that help us?” Fahad asked.

  “To determine the most effective way to question him, I had to find out if you were right. You are. And I can tell you that his psychopathy governs who he is. He’s not going to talk here, no matter what you guys do to him.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Fahad stepped to his right and held up two remotes. “Do you know what these are?” He looked at Yaseen, then turned ninety degrees and showed them to Aziz. “I know you recognize them,” Fahad said to Yaseen, “since you built them.”

  “So here’s how it’s going to work,” DeSantos said. “We’re gonna ask you again what we want to know. Whichever one of you gives us the answers gets to live. The other one will not.”

  Vail nudged Uzi.

  “Just a scare tactic,” Uzi said under his breath.

  “It’s not gonna work.”

  “Mo insisted on trying.”

  “What targets have you selected for the US?” Fahad asked.

  “Chicago,” Aziz said. “O’Hare.”

  Yaseen jostled his chair, scraping it an inch along the cement. “Shut up, you idiot! They’re not going to kill us. Their Constitution prevents it. They have no proof of anything our lawyer can’t twist into a pretzel. We are in control, Tahir. Don’t let them fool you.”

  “I’m going to give you one last chance, Yaseen,” Fahad said. “Tahir gave us some answers. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’ve been through worse than anything you can do to me, preparing for a day like this. I’m at peace with what must be done. I’ll be martyred. I’ll have my virgins. And my family will be well compensated.”

  “Now what?” Uzi asked near DeSantos’s ear.

  “Last chance,” Fahad said. He lifted the remote and turned it on, showed the red blinking light to Yaseen.

  Uzi placed a hand on Vail’s shoulder. “I think Santa’s right. We should turn him over to Claude and have the Agency get him to Guantanamo to stand trial.”

  Fahad began counting. “Five … four … three …”

  “I’m fine with that,” Vail said. “Except how are we going to explain—”

  A thundering blast blew debris into Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, Fahad, and Claude. Vail drew her Glock and swiveled on the balls of her feet, her ears ringing and her heart pounding in her head. What the hell happened?

  She wasn’t sure if she said it aloud—and her hearing was so muffled that she would not have heard it if she had verbalized the thought. One thing was certain, however: the chair occupied by Yaseen was now an empty, twisted hunk of metal.

  “You out of your min
d?” DeSantos said. He had Fahad by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him backwards into the brick wall.

  “Get the fuck off me.” He shoved DeSantos away and shrugged his coat into place. He faced Aziz, who was in shock. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide.

  “Tell us what we want to know!” Fahad said. He was hyperventilating.

  “Mo,” Uzi said. He waited till Fahad looked at him, then set his jaw and said slowly, “Dial it down.”

  “I want answers!” He pointed at Aziz as he advanced on him. “Where are the attacks planned?”

  “I told you,” Aziz said, recoiling, shrinking into himself. “Chicago.”

  “Where else?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Vail wanted to intercede. But if there was a chance of getting Aziz to reveal the information, it was this very moment, when he believed that Fahad would press that button. Objecting, attempting to rein in Fahad, would undermine him, make him impotent. She only hoped he had not completely lost it. Fahad's brutal murder of Yaseen was unexpected, and yet it was not: one of the oldest motives in humanity’s long, bloody history was revenge. While their orders were to eliminate Yaseen, it was best done quietly, efficiently, without malice. And without leaving evidence behind.

  Fahad stopped a safe distance from Aziz.

  “Last chance. You saw what I did to Yaseen. Now it’s your turn. Five. Four—”

  “Los Angeles, the defense contractors. We have someone on the inside.”

  “Which one?” Vail asked. “Look at me, Tahir. Which one?”

  He turned to face her. “I don’t know. One of the major ones.”

  “Man? Woman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about nukes?”

  “We had plans. A dirty bomb. I told them no, it was crossing a line.”

  “How were they going to do it? Where’d the nuclear material come from?”

  “Iran, we got the material from Iran. We had two plans. We’d bring some in through South America. The drug cartel—Cortez—was going to take it from Mexico into the US, through their tunnels. The other way was through Canada. I don’t know which Sahmoud chose, or if he did both.”