The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “Why don’t we do something to stop it?” Vail asked.

  Fahad grinned sardonically. “We’ve got a saying at Langley: the devil you know is better than the one you don’t. We’re in no rush to push anyone out the door.”

  “Last year,” Zemro said, “a senior security officer for Fatah sued a top Palestinian Authority official, claiming he stole over a billion dollars from Palestinian coffers.”

  “It’s a lot worse than that,” Fahad said. “Hamas and al Humat leadership control the smuggling tunnels they’ve built from Egypt into Gaza. The stuff that’s brought through—food, cement, oil and gas, medical supplies, you name it—it’s all highly taxed with the graft going to their personal bank accounts. In the US we call it organized crime. In any civilized country, it’s called a damn shame. The people need that money.”

  “You said they profit from the terrorism.”

  “Oh yes,” Zemro said. “If there is no uprising, no ‘resistance’ fight with Israel as the bad guy, the money does not flow in from Qatar, Kuwait, Iran, Saudi Arabia. Big fund-raising is done for the welfare and relief of the Palestinian people. But the people do not get the money. Or welfare or relief. The terrorist leaders and their families, they get rich.”

  An hour later Zemro was navigating the surface streets outside the walls of the Old City. He found a curb spot on King David Street and they walked through the modern Alrov Mamilla Avenue, an outdoor shopping center with upscale retailers and restaurants on both sides of a central walkway. Constructed of masonry block designed to mimic the Western Wall, it incorporated open air arches above the pedestrian promenade to help the mall blend with the adjacent Old City’s architecture.

  “I’m going ahead,” Fahad said. “Best that I’m not seen with you. I run into someone I know, or if your CI knows I’m with the Agency—or if he even associates me with law enforcement because of you guys, I’ll blow my cover.”

  “Where you headed?” Uzi asked.

  “I’ll see if I can find some people I know, ask around, get some intel. Let me know when you’re done with your meeting.”

  The rest of them continued through the mall, but most of the stores were still dark.

  “We’re early,” Zemro said as he led them to a contemporary-looking coffee shop. “The place I’m taking you to isn’t open yet. We’ll get something to eat, kill some time.”

  Vail was both tired and hungry, so she welcomed the caffeine and muffin. They sat in the sleek café nursing their drinks, Vail examining the chocolate brown cup with Hebrew lettering. “What does this say?”

  Uzi, who seemed preoccupied, glanced over. “Aroma. It’s a chain of cafés in Israel. Like Starbucks, much smaller scale.”

  A few employees from nearby shops filtered in to get their coffee as stores across the pedestrian walkway began opening for business.

  “Probably best if I wander about on my own too,” DeSantos said. “There are people in the biz I could run into. Not worth taking the chance being seen with a former Shin Bet operative. Don’t know who you can trust to keep their traps shut. Let me know how your meet goes.”

  As DeSantos headed out the door, Zemro gestured at the wall clock. “We should go. It’ll take us a little while to get there.”

  THEY WALKED THROUGH THE PROMENADE and exited the mall, crossing Yafo Street. The sun had risen about ninety minutes earlier and the developing morning light cast an orange-yellow glow on the sand-colored rock of the ancient stone fortifications that bordered the Old City. Its ridged castle-like teeth along the top gave it the appearance of a garrison—which it had to become millennia ago because of invading armies that repeatedly attacked, and sacked, Jerusalem.

  As they approached the Jaffa Gate, one of eight entrances to the walled-off city, Vail pointed at something in the stone facing. “Is that?” She stepped closer. “Are those bullet holes?”

  “From the War of Independence,” Uzi said. “It’s always been a place under siege, even in modern times.”

  They followed Zemro through the Christian Quarter, past the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—which Vail would have liked to see, regardless of the Jesus Scroll’s revelations—and into the Muslim Quarter.

  They moved down the myriad streets and alleys of the Arab souk, a long, narrow flea market comprising stalls where vendors sold a variety of items from shawls, hats, trinkets, and Holy Land postcards to cured meats and costume jewelry.

  Uzi stopped at one and bought Vail a black scarf, which he told her to wrap over her hair. “You’ll blend in better. It’s a good idea for where we’re going.”

  They came to an area that contained traditional storefront businesses, including one that bore a large sign in both English and Arabic that read:

  Khaleel’s Antiquities

  Wholesale & Retail

  Artifacts & Numismatics

  A gray-bearded man was sitting on a chair in the front. Zemro shook hands with him—and Vail was fairly certain he had deposited a monetary note of some sort in the elder’s palm as he passed.

  They walked into the shop, which was large and filled with backlit display cases of antique oil lamps, coins, jars—dozens of shelves around the entire room, including a central showcase that was, likewise, full of ancient items, all bearing a written explanation of what they were, when they were found and where, and their purported age.

  “I know this place,” Uzi said as he and Vail followed Zemro to the rear of the store. “Been here once.”

  Zemro knocked three times on a door and a tall man answered it. He stepped aside to let Zemro pass, but froze when he saw Vail and Uzi.

  “Friends,” Zemro said.

  The bodyguard hesitated, gave them a once over, then waved them all in.

  The room was large and packed with books, papers, and items similar to the ones on display but still in the process of being categorized. Behind a large metal desk was a heavyset man of about fifty, a rank-smelling Turkish cigarette burning in an ashtray and a cup of dark coffee steaming by his left elbow.

  “Mr. Zemro, my friend. What brings you here? And so early in the day.” He turned to Vail, his gaze traveling the curves of her body as if negotiating a slalom course.

  She let him look. If it helps us get the information we need, I’ll open the top three buttons of my blouse. And lean over your desk.

  “Friends of mine,” Zemro said with a jerk of his head in their direction. He did not bother to provide any more details as he took the lone empty chair. Aside from the bodyguard who had answered the door, two other men were in the room. “Khaleel. I need some information.”

  “I did not think you were here for a drink. But you are certainly welcome to have one.”

  “I never pass up a Turkish coffee.”

  Khaleel gestured to one of the men. “Cup for Zemro.” His assistant walked to the side of the room, where the brewer sat on a cabinet. He busied himself and returned a moment later with a small mug of what looked like thick black liquid.

  Vail thought of asking for some—she was curious and it smelled good—but since Khaleel had thus far ignored them, other than undressing her with his eyes, she and Uzi were obviously unwelcome guests.

  “You sell antiquities,” Vail said.

  Khaleel jumped backward as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket. He recovered quickly and forced a smile. “Is it that obvious?” He coughed a raspy laugh then reached for his cigarette and took a long drag.

  “I’m known for my ability to point out the obvious. And for being blunt.” She set her hands on the back of Zemro’s chair. “What do you know about the Aleppo Codex?”

  Khaleel locked gazes with Zemro. “Who is she?”

  “She is me,” Vail said. “My name’s not important. But I’m curious if you’ve heard anything about where the codex is being kept.”

  Khaleel tore his eyes away and looked at Vail’s face for th
e first time. “No one knows where it is. Half of it is missing.”

  “Yeah, the ‘important’ half. But a man like you, doing what you do, you know where it is.”

  Khaleel lifted his cigarette from the metal tray and took another drag. He blew the air toward the ceiling and leaned back in his chair. “And if I do?”

  “Tell us.”

  Khaleel gestured to the two assistants, a quick flick of his fingers and wrist to send them on their way.

  “I’d prefer if they stayed,” Uzi said.

  Khaleel seemed to suddenly become aware of Uzi’s presence. He looked at him with disdain as he tipped his coffee back and drained the mug. “More,” he said and held the cup out to one of his men.

  Vail figured Uzi wanted to prevent them from making a call to someone who would follow her and Uzi when they left the store. When dealing with the grime of terrorism you could not be too careful. It was easy to disappear in the busy backstreets of the souk, only to emerge a year later on a desolate strip of desert in an orange jumpsuit with a machete at your throat.

  It was a fine balance, she was sure, as Khaleel might be less inclined to talk with witnesses present. It depended on how much he trusted his men.

  Khaleel considered Uzi’s request, then nodded.

  That settled, Uzi shoved his hands into his front pockets. “The codex,” he reminded Khaleel.

  Khaleel snorted and turned to Zemro.

  Zemro reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bills—shekels. He peeled off a few and placed them on the desk.

  Khaleel looked at them. Without lifting his eyes, he said, “It’s in Gaza. A man by the name of Kadir Abu Sahmoud has—”

  “We know who Sahmoud is,” Vail said. “And we already knew he has it.”

  Another drag. “Then you know it’s not there yet.” Exhale, smoke directed toward the ceiling. “But it will be soon.”

  “When?”

  “This I do not know. I only know what I hear.”

  “Where does Sahmoud live?” Uzi asked.

  Khaleel laughed. “That I do not know either. But I have some photos if you want to try to figure it out.”

  “How’d you get pictures?” Zemro asked.

  Khaleel took the refilled mug from his assistant. “Everything is for sale, is it not?” He took a sip then set it down and faced his laptop. He banged away at the keyboard, struck a final key with a flourish, and then appraised the photo he had called up. “I can get places the Mossad and Shabak cannot,” he said, using the acronym for the Shin Bet. “I take pictures, I get money. Sometimes I buy pictures, sell for more money. I’m a businessman.”

  A businessman who may not live long enough to enjoy his riches.

  Uzi swung the laptop toward him and Zemro. “What do you think?”

  Zemro squinted at the screen, then zoomed in on the picture. “Hard to say.” He stared at it a long moment then moved the image around, taking in the buildings in the vicinity. “I think I might know where it is. You sure this is Sahmoud’s house?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  As Zemro scrolled left, Uzi pointed at the monitor. “Hold it. Zoom out a little.”

  Zemro did as asked. Uzi placed his fingers on the touchscreen and moved the photo to the right.

  “That’s Sahmoud, right?”

  “Yeah,” Zemro said.

  “That guy,” Uzi said, poking at a grainy image beside Sahmoud. “I recognize him.”

  “From where?” Vail asked.

  “I don’t know. It was—it wasn’t that long ago.”

  “New York? London? Paris?”

  “Not sure.” He turned to Khaleel, then angled the laptop toward him. “Who is this?”

  Khaleel tilted his head. “I’ve seen him but I don’t have a name. He’s important. He’s in a lot of my Sahmoud photos.” He paged through the others, but all were shot with a telephoto lens in suboptimal light.

  Uzi found the best image and took a picture of the screen with his phone. Vail watched as he sent it off to Richard Prati and Hoshi and asked them to scour their servers, including the DEA narcoterrorism database, for an identity and background sheet.

  “What about the Jesus Scroll?” Vail asked. “Where is that?”

  “If I knew, I would not tell you.” He laughed, exposing nicotine tarred teeth. “More coffee!” He pulled out a marijuana joint and ignited the tip with a lighter from his drawer. After taking a long toke, he leaned back in his chair. His large belly stretched his nylon shirt. “I do not know where the scroll is. I have asked, sent out feelers. But there are a lot of dealers, wealthier than me, willing to bid just about anything for that. And the codex pages.”

  “Do you know Doka Michel?” Uzi asked.

  Khaleel took another puff. “I know him because of his father. I have heard rumors that he has the scroll. But he is someone I cannot get near.” He squinted at Uzi then leaned forward in his chair. “You need something. A coin from the Maccabean times? Excavated by your Western Wall. A necklace.” He grinned. “Bring you luck.”

  Uzi frowned but humored the man. He reached down his shirt and pulled up a gold chain, the bottom of which contained a small coin. It was worn beyond recognition. “Already got one. Bought it here, in fact.” He winked.

  That seemed to make Khaleel uncomfortable as the smile disappeared from his face. Uzi peeled off some shekels and set them in the top of an oil lamp that sat on the man’s desk. “Thanks for your information. You hear anything, let Raph know.”

  As they left the store, Uzi and Zemro scanned the area to make sure they were not being surveilled—or targeted. They melted into the souk when Uzi suddenly stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Vail asked.

  “That guy in the photo. Trying to figure out where I know him from.” Uzi glanced up, left, right … and then snapped his fingers. “It’s the guy—” He physically shivered. “It’s the guy Fahad met with in New York. His CI.”

  “You sure?”

  Uzi pulled up the photo and studied the screen. “No doubt whatsoever. Unless he’s got a twin.”

  “Your friend’s CI is a terrorist?” Zemro asked.

  “He certainly seems to be associating with one. One who happens to have a huge bull’s-eye on his forehead at the moment.” Uzi tapped out an email and then started dialing the satphone.

  “Who are you calling?” Vail asked.

  “Richard Prati.” A moment later, Prati answered. “Richard, listen. Can you look into something for me? … No, it can’t wait. You’re gonna be late to your meeting. I need you to look into a guy named Amer Madari. He was in Manhattan several days ago. I was told he’s a CI. He supposedly doesn’t have a criminal history, but we need to rethink that. Run the photo I just emailed you through the facial recognition database, see if you get a hit for a terrorist with any of the known organizations. Start with al Humat, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Muslim Brotherhood.”

  “And the narcoterrorism database,” Vail said.

  “And the narco—right.” Uzi listened a second, then said, “Yeah. I think this could be a bad dude. A real bad dude.”

  62

  This was the day Mo went AWOL?” Vail asked.

  Uzi leaned his buttocks against a wall. “Yeah.” He brought the handset back to his mouth. “I need this info ASAP, Richard. I saw him meeting with my partner. We may have a real problem. Call me as soon as you’ve got something.” He dropped the phone from his face and craned his head up to the sky.

  Zemro scratched the back of his head. “So you talked with this Madari when Fahad met with him?”

  “No.” Uzi licked his lips—but his face displayed a pained expression, wrinkles, and jowls. Tension. “Fahad went off the grid for the better part of a day and didn’t have a real good explanation for what he was doing. I had some surveillance done—I didn’t know
him back then and, well, being Palestinian, after what happened with Dena and Maya, I—I didn’t trust him. He met with the man we just saw in the photo back at Khaleel’s. I had my people run the image and I got a name—Madari—but he was clean.”

  Vail stepped closer, the three of them forming a tight huddle against the side of the building. “And now, we see this Madari hanging around with Kadir Abu Sahmoud, the number three most wanted terrorist in the world.”

  Zemro seemed to be thinking it through. “No good explanation for this, Uzi. He wasn’t delivering pizza.”

  “No.”

  Vail’s satphone rang. It was DeSantos’s number. “Do we tell Hector?”

  “He’s had it out for Mo since London. I—maybe we should get confirmation, if that’s possible, before we say anything.”

  “You’re afraid he’ll overreact.”

  Uzi looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe Santa’s been right all along. But back in Paris—” Uzi lowered his voice, which was soft to begin with—“what Mo did to Yaseen. That wasn’t an act, was it? I mean, was his nephew really killed?”

  “You should tell your partner,” Zemro said. “He needs to know.”

  Vail answered the call.

  “You still in your meeting?”

  “No, we’re done. Come find us.”

  Zemro suggested a location to meet—in the Jewish Quarter, at the Western Wall.

  Ten minutes later, they descended a series of steps that led to Kotel Square, a plaza dominated by the ancient but well preserved ruins of the fortification wall where the Jewish Second Temple once stood.

  The gold topped Dome of the Rock rose from above the top of the five-story Western Wall, an area also known as the Temple Mount—where the First and Second Temples once stood, Uzi explained. “The Kotel—which is another name for the Western Wall—is two thousand years old and extends another ten stories underground. It’s pretty cool. They give tours but you’d never be able to go down there.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.” She took in the length of the wall. “Much bigger than what I imagined from the pictures I’ve seen.”