The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “When?”

  “Soon. I don’t know exactly.”

  “And?” Vail asked. “You talked them out of it?”

  Aziz hesitated.

  “Answer her,” Fahad said firmly.

  “I thought so. But Yaseen said he was told to expect the delivery. He was in charge of coordinating the movement of the material once it got into the US. Two cities were being discussed.”

  “Which two?”

  “Yaseen insisted on New York. Sahmoud and Dosari wanted Washington.”

  Vail turned to the chair that once held Yaseen. It was now a pile of rubble, blood spatter, and, no doubt, flesh.

  “We need to get out of here,” Uzi said. “The explosion. Police and fire will be here soon.”

  “They won’t know where to look,” DeSantos said. “The building’s already condemned. The walls are intact. We’ve got another minute or two.” He swung toward Aziz. “Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, DC. Where else?”

  “I can only tell you the places we discussed. Abu Sahmoud and Dosari, they’re the ones who make the final decision.”

  “We know about New York,” Vail said. “When are the others going down?”

  “Next week. That’s all I know.”

  “Okay,” Uzi said, advancing on Aziz. “Claude, call your people and have them meet us somewhere to pick him up. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “Then what?” Vail asked.

  DeSantos and Uzi cut Aziz free of the chair. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

  Vail lifted the lantern and toolbox; they had to get rid of any trace that could be tracked back to them. She noticed Fahad standing in the dark, staring ahead at the spot where Yaseen had been sitting.

  “You okay?”

  “I thought it would make me feel better.” He faced her. “Revenge. But you know what? It doesn’t change anything. Akil is still dead.”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I know.”

  60

  Claude spent the entire drive on the phone, jabbering in French to several people. The first call, he explained, was to the man who had brought Vail and DeSantos to the abandoned building. They met him a mile south, passing two police cars that Vail surmised had been dispatched to the general area in response to what sounded like an explosion—even if no one could pinpoint its location.

  The handoff went smoothly in the parking garage of a building that Claude identified as one that did not have security cameras. Uzi and DeSantos removed Aziz, blindfolded and bound, from the trunk and transferred him to the other vehicle and then both left the garage, thirty seconds after arrival, with no words spoken. Aziz apparently understood what was happening, as he did not resist. He was probably relieved to have survived being blown to bits and was accepting his legal fate in the hands of Americans—an infinitely better disposition than his colleague had received.

  The second phone call, now that they were free of their prisoner’s ability to hear, was to a man who was to arrange safe passage out of France. After hanging up, Claude explained they would be leaving from Le Bourget Airport, about nine miles from downtown.

  The plane was parked at a secluded gate and they were ushered to the tarmac in darkness. It was late and the airport was ready to close for the night, but they were able to file a flight plan and keep the control tower personnel dialed in until they went wheels up.

  “Headed where?” Vail asked.

  “Ben Gurion airport,” Uzi said. “You’ll like it. Very modern.”

  I may like the airport. Not so sure about what will follow.

  While en route, DeSantos called Knox to update him and tell him they were headed to Israel to secure the documents and apprehend Sahmoud. They talked in coded language to neutralize eavesdroppers, but DeSantos felt like he got the message through and Knox understood the major points.

  Shortly after ending the call, Uzi’s phone rang. “It’s Prati.” He pushed the speaker button. “Tell me you’ve got good news, Richard.”

  “You were spot on with that intel. The barge came through Canadian waters, right where you said. They offloaded onto a cabover van. We had a squad there but they couldn’t intercept because of the terrain. We’ve got surveillance teams in unmarked vehicles lined up along the interstate, passing the eye.”

  Vail knew that “passing the eye” meant that a tailing law enforcement vehicle dropped off the suspect as another one, down the road, picked him up. It prevented the target from realizing he was being shadowed.

  “We’ve identified a stretch of roadway,” Prati continued, “two hundred miles outside the city that’s thinly populated. It’s being evacuated right now and state troopers are getting ready to deploy a tire deflation device in front of the van.”

  “What if there really is a nuclear device onboard?” DeSantos asked.

  “There is,” Prati said. “We’ve got mobile sensors picking up higher than normal background radiation. Enough to raise the alarm.”

  “And you still think blowing out the tires is the way to go?” Vail asked.

  “Obviously there’s risk,” Prati said. “But we’ve been over it and that’s our best option.”

  “We just got some other information,” Vail said, “about al Humat bringing in Iranian nuclear material through the Cortez tunnels.”

  “When? Where?”

  “All we know is Mexico. No idea when. Probably soon.”

  “And,” DeSantos said, “they’ve apparently got an operative at a defense contractor in Los Angeles. Which one, we have no idea.”

  “Does Knox or Bolten—”

  “No one knows yet.”

  “I’ll bring them up to speed,” Prati said. “We’ll check it all out.”

  Ten minutes later they arrived at Le Bourget Airport. Claude led them to the tarmac and onto a set of self-deploying stairs that led to the hatch of the Boeing business jet.

  They followed him inside—as Vail tried to keep her jaw from dropping open. It did anyway.

  “A modified 737,” Claude said. “It’s got the range to take you where you need to go. Master bedroom, showers, dining area, living room.”

  Four plush ivory leather seats were arranged around a polished walnut table opposite a matching couch that stretched half the length of the room.

  Claude looked around, seemed satisfied, then shook DeSantos’s hand. “Bon voyage.”

  They thanked him for his help and he left the cabin, heading back down the steps.

  Despite her misgivings about him, Vail appreciated his dependability and assistance. Don’t ever let me find out that you’re a serial killer, Claude. Because then I’ll have to track you down and arrest you.

  The captain left the cockpit and introduced himself. “I’ve filed a false flight plan that’ll use a specially outfitted transponder to make us appear to be traveling half our air speed and heading toward Germany. On the return flight I’ll pick up that flight plan and return here. No one will know where we really went.” He nodded at a satchel sitting on the table. “It’s all we could put together on short notice.”

  DeSantos peered inside. Vail saw what looked like satellite phones—and money in Israeli notes—shekels.

  “We’ll make do,” DeSantos said. “Thanks.”

  “The phones have one special feature you should know about: RF fibers on a microchip. Pop the chip out and you’ve got a tracking device.”

  “How long in the air?” Vail asked as she sat down on one of the plush leather seats.

  “Five hours. There’s food, drink, beds, showers. My orders are to get you out of French airspace ASAP. We’ll be pushing back in two minutes.” He returned to the cockpit, where it looked like he was joined by a copilot—which Vail assumed was another Agency employee or contractor.

  “I suggest we grab three hours of sleep,” DeSantos said, glancing at his watch. “Then we�
�ll meet back here for a mission briefing.”

  PART 3

  “Blessed be he who preserves it and cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it, and cursed be he who pawns it. It may not be sold and it may not be defiled forever.”

  —Aleppo Codex preamble, 930 CE

  “It is the Holy Land. It’s called that for a reason. It’s holy to the three great monotheistic religions. That’s two billion Christians, one billion and a half Muslims, and 14 million Jews. That’s almost half the world. So what happens there matters.”

  —ETHAN BRONNER, NEW YORK TIMESDEPUTY NATIONAL EDITOR, WNYC ON THE MEDIA PODCAST, OCTOBER 9, 2014

  61

  Approach to Ben Gurion International Airport

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Three hours passed too quickly. When Vail’s phone alarm went off, she did not want to open her eyes, let alone get out of bed. It took her a moment to orient herself—but a short bump of turbulence was enough to shake her mind back to the present. They had given her the master bedroom, which, with a pillow-topped mattress, provided the most comfortable experience she had ever had on an airplane.

  This is the way to travel.

  They convened in the main cabin in leather chairs that surrounded the table. Large mugs of coffee were at each seat, black and steaming.

  “Caffeine,” DeSantos said, setting a carafe of milk next to Uzi. “Drink up, get your heads in order.”

  Uzi rubbed his eyes and did a couple neck rotations. “Let’s get started.”

  “Some information’s come in while we were sleeping,” DeSantos said. “First, Prati said they took down that van without a fight. They found the same radiological material that was packed into the truck in New York City. The tangos were arrested and are being questioned. All the defense contractors in LA are in lockdown. All incoming and outgoing communications for the past year are being checked. Hard drives and servers are being examined. It’s a friggin’ mess, but they’ll find him. Or her.”

  “And the Cortez tunnels?” Fahad asked.

  “They’re working on it.”

  Vail suddenly did not need the java to wake up.

  “Second,” DeSantos said, “Knox is en route. And we’ve got new orders.”

  They waited for him to elaborate. Instead, he took a drink from his cup.

  “The president does not want us to apprehend Sahmoud,” he said after another swallow. He’s concerned it’d send the wrong message while he’s trying to negotiate peace.”

  Vail slammed her hand on the table. “Arresting a notorious terrorist, number three most wanted, who’s launched attacks on the US and killed scores of people—that’s sending the wrong message?” She turned to Uzi. “You have a relationship with the president. Why don’t you talk some sense into him?”

  Uzi broke a smile. “We don’t have a relationship. I was at his inauguration.”

  DeSantos took another drink. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not going to obey those orders.”

  “We’re not?” Fahad said, eyebrows arched. He tilted his head. “Shouldn’t we put this to a vote?”

  DeSantos stared him down. “No, Knox and Secretary McNamara are on board.”

  Fahad squirmed in his seat. “You’re sure. The director told you this.”

  “In so many words. He used a passphrase.”

  “A passphrase.” Fahad glanced at Uzi, then back at DeSantos. “I think we need to be absolutely clear on this.”

  “Let me be clear,” DeSantos said. “You can accept what I’m telling you, or you can stay on this plane when we land. Or you’re welcome to parachute out at any time during the next ninety minutes.”

  “Okay, let’s all just take a breath,” Vail said slowly. “Hector. Knox gave you new orders but then told you not to follow them. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Right. Maybe someone was there with him, so he had to be appearing to tell me one thing when in fact he was telling me the opposite. Bottom line, nothing’s changed. But I wanted you to be aware of what was going on.”

  That’d be great if I really knew what’s going on.

  “Boychick, you got us set up with wheels?”

  “A friend’s going to pick us up at Ben Gurion. Raphael Zemro. Former Shin Bet—Israel’s security agency—which is where I met him. He’s now a contractor. He may still do stuff for Shin Bet or Mossad, I’m not sure. But he understands what we’re doing. He speaks our language. We’ll be able to rely on him.”

  They talked strategy for the next thirty minutes then DeSantos left them to their own thoughts during the approach to Israel.

  Vail watched as the landscape took shape, darkness enveloping the region for as far as the eye could see, except for brilliant pinpricks of light in one particular area, which she was fairly certain was Israel.

  They were on the ground ten minutes later. It was a quiet arrival—the airport was, for all intents and purposes, still closed. Jumbo jets, mostly 747s emblazoned with the El Al Israeli flag logo, sat on the tarmac awaiting the morning’s travelers.

  They were met at the gate by an Israel Defense Forces colonel, which had been arranged by Knox with cooperation from his counterpart at the Shin Bet.

  Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad were ushered through Ben Gurion airport. They strode along the strongly sloped arrivals hall beside a divider made of tall, thick panes of glass. On the other side was another walkway sloped in the opposite direction, bounded by large bricks constructed to look like the Kotel, or Western Wall, one of the last vestiges of the ancient temple in Jerusalem and Judaism’s holiest site.

  They hit the main terminal, a spherical room that featured a two-story, circular waterfall that cascaded down from the ceiling to a shallow trough in the center of the floor.

  The area was ringed by shops that were dark. The quiet of the airport was a bit unnerving.

  The colonel led them through customs, stopping briefly to speak Hebrew to another soldier who had an MTAR-21 “Micro Tavor” assault rifle strapped across his shoulder. Minutes later, they were at the arrivals curb outside baggage. A dark-skinned man in his forties was leaning his buttocks against his black Chevrolet SUV, smoking a cigarette. When he saw Uzi, he tossed the butt to the ground and advanced rapidly, a smile on his face and his arms spread wide.

  “Raph. Great to see you.”

  The two men embraced, then Zemro leaned back to appraise his friend. “You look like shit. See, you never should have left Israel.”

  “I had to, you know that. And you—a little less hair, but you’re looking good. Still smoking, though.”

  “Old habits, you know?”

  Vail snorted. Yeah. I know.

  Uzi introduced everyone and they shook hands.

  “Call me Raph.” Zemro’s accent was thick but his speech clear and easy to understand.

  Zemro was an Ethiopian Israeli, Uzi explained, having been one of the many who were rescued in Operation Solomon, a covert military operation in 1991 that airlifted over 14,000 Ethiopian Jews to safety in a space of thirty-six hours when the Ethiopian government was on the verge of falling.

  As they piled into Zemro’s vehicle he looked around and said, “No bags?”

  “Packed light,” Vail said. In fact, they had left their belongings behind at the Relais Bosquet. Claude and his team had already picked them up and, by now, had disposed of them.

  Zemro made a quick assessment and nodded his understanding. “Anything you need, I’ll do my best to get it for you. Shower, clothes, food—”

  “We could use some information,” DeSantos said. “We’re looking for Kadir Abu Sahmoud and Doka Michel. Sahmoud’s office and a safe house Michel’s using.”

  Zemro laughed, then reached forward and turned over the engine. “My friends, you realize these are—what do you say, a tall order?”

  Vail chuckled as well. I’d like to change my orde
r, if you don’t mind. Something on the safer side.

  “You know what’s gone down in the US,” Uzi said. “And England.”

  “I understand what’s at stake. I’m just reminding you of what things are like here. I think you should be realistic.”

  “Being realistic isn’t part of this op,” DeSantos said.

  Zemro shrugged. “I can take you to see a guy, one of my informants. I don’t know if he’ll be able to help you. This is more than anything we’ve ever asked of him.”

  “Something’s better than nothing,” Vail said. “Maybe he can point us in the right direction. Informants sometimes know more than they think. If they’re given the right enticements.”

  Zemro grinned and he winked at Vail. “I like the way you think. This is true. But Hamas, al Humat, Islamic Jihad, these are bad people, you know? The worst of the worst. Very dangerous. They profit from the terrorism. Very much.”

  “Profit?” Vail asked. “What do you mean?”

  Zemro accelerated and merged onto Highway 1 headed for Jerusalem. “Things are not like you know in America. The PLO—you know what PLO is, right? Palestinian Liberation Organization, they run the PA, the Palestinian Authority.”

  “Yeah,” Vail said. “Got that. I read the news.”

  Zemro laughed again. “Then you know nothing. The news, the journalists, they are tools of the PLO and Hamas propaganda. Most of them, the media doesn’t know they’re being manipulated. Some don’t care. But back to your question. The Palestinian Authority’s taken money, billions of dollars from international donors—including your country—to build out its government, to make jobs, a police force and other institutions for the people. But most of that money never got spent on any of that. It went to corrupt politicians, their personal bank accounts.”

  “And no one knows about this?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  Vail turned around to Fahad, who was seated behind Zemro. “Mo, you know about this?”

  “Like Raph said, it’s not a secret. Arafat was the worst. His personal estate is worth billions, holed away in foreign countries. He skimmed, he stole, he diverted. I wish I could tell you things are different now. But—”