The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “I’m actually holding one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The same one that my zayde—my grandfather—held.” He gestured to the thick stack of pages at his right elbow. “And the Aleppo Codex. We found it. We really found the codex.” He shivered. “Sorry. I just … I feel like I’m touching my history. My cultural essence.” He shook his head. “I’m babbling.”

  “I understand.” Vail inched closer for a better look. “It is extraordinary.”

  A moment later, Uzi straightened up suddenly. “We’ve gotta get going. Go help Santa finish our search. I’m gonna pack this stuff up. All we have to do now is get it to the Antiquities Authority.”

  UZI EMERGED with four containers. “I’ve divided up the documents into these cases. Safer that way. Something happens, one or two of us is more likely to make it through. Avoids the all eggs in one basket thing.” He kept a mailing tube for himself, handed another one to Vail, and gave the portfolio to DeSantos, who also took Fahad’s satchel.

  “We’ve been here too long,” DeSantos said as he consulted his satphone. “We need to go. Call Fahad, get a status.”

  Vail did so and headed for the stairs. Fahad answered immediately. “Mo, we’re coming upst—”

  “We got a problem.”

  Vail stopped at the bottom of the steps, phone pressed against her ear. “What kind of problem?”

  “Vehicles approaching. Army vehicles. Shit, Karen. It’s al Humat. And they’re armed. We’ve gotta get out of here, now!”

  They ran up to the main level, where Fahad was waiting. DeSantos handed him the satchel as they all moved to the back of the house. “We’ve divided up the docs, each of us has a part.”

  “Good idea,” Fahad said as he slung the bag over his shoulder.

  Uzi pulled the back door open. “Split up, meet at the Shrine of the Book. Go!”

  75

  Vail ran through the yard in a northerly direction, scaled a masonry wall, and ended up in a lightly landscaped greenbelt. She fastened her scarf as she continued on past palm trees and meticulously pruned hedges, then made her way back to the street.

  Fifteen minutes later, after finding a dark, well shielded area, she stopped to try to get a bearing on where she was. She knew that Google Earth and Bing Maps did not provide clear satellite imagery of Israel and the Palestinian territories, so she had to rely on regular street maps and general topography. Unless—

  Is the drone still overhead? She pulled out her satphone and tried to call up the real-time imagery. It was no longer online—but then she remembered she had the booklet tucked in her waistband.

  That it was written in a foreign language was challenging, but she was able to get a sense of the area using the coastline and beach as a reference point. There were a couple of tunnels into Israel that appeared to be nearby.

  She plugged in the GPS coordinates of the closest one and followed the screen to set off in the right direction. By her estimate, she was about three miles away. What would the entrance look like? She had seen CNN videos during the war, but those were mostly the openings on the Israeli side, holes that emerged from rock outcroppings in rural areas.

  For now, her main concerns were finding a way to traverse the distance and arriving safely. Not knowing who she could trust and not speaking Arabic, she could not pass for anything other than what she was: an American, or at best, a westerner. Who was working with al Humat or Hamas or Islamic Jihad? It would be impossible for her to tell.

  She had to think like a Special Forces operator, not an FBI agent. When I get back, if Knox insists on keeping me in OPSIG, I want more training. I need to know what the hell I’m doing. Enough of this on-the-job bullshit.

  The air had grown chilled, the sky overcast. A light drizzle had begun falling.

  Vail came to a suburban neighborhood, not nearly as well kept or affluent as the area of Gaza City and resort community she had seen. Plain-faced concrete apartment buildings rose all around her. Graffiti marked the sides of most structures in all directions. The streets were illuminated, but not well lit, which both played to her advantage and placed her in greater danger.

  She perused the parked cars and tried the driver’s doors as she passed. All were locked. Even if she got into one, it might take her a while to remember how to hotwire it. The last thing she wanted to do was get caught trying to steal someone’s vehicle in Gaza—especially since her clothing was soaked in blood.

  She placed a hand on her Glock and walked down the street. A moment later, a dark sedan turned the corner, headed toward her. Engage or not? She stepped in front of it and held up a hand. A woman standing in the rain. In distress, with blood on her clothes. How could he ignore that?

  As anticipated, the driver stopped. Vail smiled broadly and moved around to the window, which cranked open, revealing a male who looked to be in his mid-twenties. He said something in Arabic, then flashed a grin of his own. It did not last long, however, as Vail brought the Glock up and shoved it into his temple.

  “Get out,” she said firmly by his ear. Vail did not know if he spoke English, but he seemed to understand the language of aggression because he put the car in park and opened the door. Vail kept her handgun trained on him as he got out.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Very sorry. I’ll take good care of it.” She pulled the beat-up Honda into gear and accelerated away from him. After making a few quick turns, she pulled out the satphone and checked the display to see if she was pointed in the right direction. The receiver was having a difficult time getting a signal.

  Shit, the clouds. The weather, it can’t get a lock on the satellite.

  It flashed a blinking red warning across the display: NO SATELLITES. Five intolerable seconds passed—during which Vail held her breath—before a green message appeared: RETRIEVING SATELLITE DATA. The mapping image populated the screen and she sighed relief.

  One left turn later and she was on track, headed for the tunnel.

  FAHAD MADE IT SAFELY AWAY from Sahmoud’s house, but not without a brush with a trailing al Humat SUV. He felt it was best to make a non-stealth exit, moving through the adjacent yards before emerging on the side of a home and appearing to be coming from the garage. He had examined his clothing for blood earlier, while standing guard, and reversed his jacket to hide the lone blood spatter.

  The satchel was in his right hand as he walked along the sidewalk, glancing over his shoulder at the military vehicles bearing the familiar al Humat window sticker.

  He had hoped to avoid contact but was almost inviting it by strolling past their convoy. When the militant stopped his car and whistled at Fahad to approach, he pointed at his chest and asked in Arabic, “Me?”

  The man extended his hand out the window and wiggled his fingers. “Come here.”

  Fahad stepped off the curb and had started toward the SUV when shouting down the street caught the driver’s attention. He swung his head toward the disturbance, then accelerated hard, burning rubber.

  Fahad figured they had discovered one or more of the dead guards. He continued on down the street, casually glancing left and right, counting the seconds until he was out of their view.

  He passed the security booth where another al Humat officer was examining the guard. His neck was broken, so there were no overt signs of death like a gunshot or knife wound. It would take him a bit to determine why the man was not responsive.

  Fahad picked up his pace and covered at least half a mile before turning right down a side street.

  CIA Director Tasset had put him on the OPSIG team to deliver the codex and scroll to one of several safe houses the Agency maintained throughout the world—including one on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

  But Knox had directed them to turn the artifacts over to the Israelis.

  His course of action should be clear. He was a CIA officer and he was given orders—his sole reason for being on this operation was to secure the do
cuments for the Agency. He answered to the director. But he only had a portion of them. Was his role, his covert mission within a black op, still significant?

  He pivoted 360 degrees. The apartment building he was looking for was nowhere to be seen. In its place was a vast lot and an enormous pile of concrete rubble—likely one of the many Hamas structures destroyed during the recent Gaza war. An Agency informant claimed that a lot of the money donated to Hamas for rebuilding had been stolen and diverted—which could explain why the debris was still sitting there.

  He stopped a woman coming down the street with her young son and asked if she knew where his friends had moved. She turned and pointed. “It’s an apartment building, on the corner, two blocks away. Second floor, I think.”

  Fahad slung the satchel over his left shoulder and proceeded down the street. He turned onto the broken cement path that led to the front door and consulted the listing of names posted at the foot of the stairs. He ascended a couple of flights, and a moment later a middle-aged woman came to the door.

  “Mahmoud!” Karima stepped forward and gave him a hearty embrace, then leaned back and appraised his face. “What are you doing here?”

  “In for a visit, to see my family. Pay my brother a visit.”

  Her bright expression sagged. “Your brother?”

  “We’ve patched things up.”

  Karima stepped back. “Good. That’s good.” She took his hand and turned, leading him toward the kitchen. “When did you get in?”

  “This morning.”

  Karima let go of his hand, turned around, and smiled. “It’s wonderful to see you. You look good. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “I’ve still got that job in Virginia. Things have been busy. And you?”

  Her smile faded. “Things are not so good with Hamid. He—” She stopped, glanced around, found Fahad’s eyes and said, “he’s mixed up with al Humat. I told him it would only bring bad things to our family. But the money is …” She shook her head. “He said he wants to do this.”

  Hamid’s involvement with al Humat introduced a variable Fahad had not anticipated. He rubbed at his temple. “Hamid’s always had a rebellious streak.”

  “So have you.” She grinned again, tried to lighten the sudden tension in the air. “Sit down, stay awhile. Coffee? Hamid will be home soon. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  “Hamid and I didn’t exactly leave things in a good place.” Fahad’s forehead sprouted perspiration. The last thing he needed was to confront Hamid. Was he merely a sympathizer? Soldier? Official? Knowing his friend, it was all three: he was not someone who followed; he led.

  With what Fahad was holding in the satchel, and the fresh news that Kadir Abu Sahmoud had been killed, running into Hamid could be disastrous. He took a step back out of the kitchen. “Besides, I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop by and see how you two were doing.” He had come to ask a favor, but now his sole focus was to get out of the apartment.

  Before Karima could reply, a key slipped into the front door and the lock turned. Fahad’s head whipped around as his free hand slid toward his Glock. A second later, a man walked in wearing a black shirt. With an embroidered al Humat patch.

  76

  DeSantos was huddled in an alley behind two cars and a dumpster. He pulled out his cell and called a friend of his who lived in Sderot, a town bordering Gaza that had borne the brunt of Hamas rocket fire—until those rockets became more powerful and were able to reach deep into major Israeli cities dozens of miles away.

  The psychological trauma of living in a constant state of readiness, of having mere seconds to flee to a bomb shelter, of having your young children grow up playing in indoor schoolyards and “parks” because it was unsafe for them to be outside, was far-reaching and had damaged an entire generation.

  DeSantos met Inbar Ramon during an op in Moscow in the 1990s. She had been working for Mossad as a swallow, a female sexpionage operative whose mission was to seduce a finance official to get a line on corruption payments that they surmised were finding their way to an Iranian proxy in Lebanon. Both Israel and the US Department of Defense had an interest in stopping the flow of money.

  After the mission, Inbar and DeSantos had a brief romance that ended when he left Russia and she went back to Sderot. Two months later he met his wife Maggie. A year later Inbar got married.

  After quickly dispensing with small talk, DeSantos explained that he was in Gaza and needed to get through the security barrier.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

  “Hector, what you ask … as you can probably guess, the border is very tightly monitored, for obvious reasons. Where are you?”

  “I saw a sign for Sheikh Za’id. Know where that is?”

  “Let me see what I can do. I know someone at the Erez border crossing. You’re a few miles away. I’ll text you directions. What name are you using?”

  “DeSantos. Mossad knows I’m here, no point in trying to use a cover.”

  “While waiting to hear from me, make your way over to the border. Call you back in ten.”

  UZI HAD HITCHHIKED to within two miles of the Erez crossing. The youth who had given him the ride—for twenty shekels—made small talk with his passenger when the young man touched on the news that Kadir Abu Sahmoud had been found murdered.

  Uzi had figured they would drive through the checkpoint after their operation. But news of Sahmoud’s demise traveled faster than he had anticipated and touched off what he expected to be a severely escalated alert level among both Palestinian and Israeli forces. He imagined that Israel was denying a role in the murder—or at the very least was refusing to comment, as Israelis often did, regardless of whether or not they were involved.

  At times like these, with the border locked down tighter than usual, each individual was highly scrutinized. But he did not see an option.

  He was a quarter of a mile away when five masked men approached, armed with submachine guns. “What are you doing here?” one yelled at him in Arabic.

  “Headed to the crossing. I have to visit my father in Nablus. He’s ill.”

  “Past curfew. They won’t let you through.”

  “I know,” Uzi said, “I need to try.”

  “What’s in there?” the taller militant asked, nodding at the tube.

  “Some blueprints of a house I designed for my boss. I wanted to show my dad. He’s a retired architect.”

  “Bullshit,” the man in front said. “Get down on the ground.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. Because Kadir Abu Sahmoud was killed. Because there’s a curfew. Because you look suspicious walking around out here in the rain. And we’re searching everyone.”

  As a general rule it was smart to submit to law enforcement when you were told to do so. But these men were not law enforcement—and Uzi was not in an area where the rule of law was respected.

  “Okay,” he said.

  They were not well trained, as they had approached him casually, overly confident, cocky, and ill prepared to take action. Their weapons were not in a position of readiness and they did not have good spacing. Two were stacked behind their colleagues.

  They stood only about fifteen feet away, but with the poor illumination and their ski masks on it was impossible to tell how old they were.

  “Get down now!”

  Even with a balky knee, Uzi was still plenty fast. Could he outrun them before they got their submachine guns into firing position?

  Uzi slowly crouched down while shielding his right hand from the men. He pulled his Glock and started firing. He hit two—but because of the way they were closely aligned, his shots were more efficient, and three of the militants hit the pavement.

  He turned and ran, the roll tucked under his left arm as he put the trunks
of nearby palm trees between him and the pursuing tangos. He had gotten about thirty yards when he felt the burn of a gunshot wound sting his arm. He recoiled and dropped the tube. Rounds struck the pavement at his feet and a metal pole near his head, so he ducked and spun around and began running a zigzag route, his Timberlands slapping puddles and mud as he passed the Erez Industrial Park ruins.

  Ahead was the caged screening corridor, a three hundred yard cement-walled passageway featuring a blue and white sign that read, “Welcome to Erez Crossing” written in Hebrew, English, and Arabic, along with the following warning—in Arabic only: Continuing with violence results in the withholding of ease of access and luxury for the people.

  The border control pavilion was a secure facility that consisted of passageways, gates, turnstiles, doors, high-tech body scanners, and identity checks. The army and Israel police monitored each phase remotely behind blast proof concrete-and-glass enclosures.

  Uzi knew that for security reasons, there were no direct human contacts with Israeli personnel until the very end. And there were delays at each phase of the crossing. As a result, if his pursuers followed him into the complex, he would be leaving it in a pine box.

  He ran into the corridor made of tall concrete blast walls. Behind him he heard the footfalls of at least two men. Then, shouting in Arabic for him to stop. Were they serious?

  About a hundred yards ahead he saw the remote-controlled turnstile bounded by a tall chain-link fence. He started flapping his uninjured arm, gesticulating, turning and pointing behind him as he continued toward the gate. He knew the police were watching through surveillance cameras. The only question was, were they paying attention? And if so, would they get there in time?

  If he drew his Glock, there was no way the police would approach him. He hoped they also saw the al Humat men pursuing him and understood that he was the good guy in this scenario.

  The area was brightly illuminated, though another thirty yards later a spotlight hit him in the face and a blaring klaxon sounded. Several police officers in blue uniforms came through a thick metal door, clad in tactical vests and helmets.