The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

  “Stop! Get down,” they yelled in Arabic.

  Uzi stumbled to a jog, then pulled up and dropped to his knees. “I’m American,” he said as they surrounded him. “Being pursued by two or three armed al Humat—”

  “Check it,” the lead officer said. Four of the men headed down the corridor the way Uzi had come. The cop then pulled his two-way and barked orders in Hebrew. He lowered his radio and knelt in front of Uzi. “What are you doing in Gaza?”

  “I have an appointment with Director General Aksel.”

  The man shared a glance with one of his underlings as if to say, “Did I just hear right?”

  “We need to search you,” one of the others said. “Don’t move.”

  Uzi glanced up and saw the three-bar insignia on the senior officer’s shoulder: a sergeant major. Peretz, by his nametag.

  “You’ll find a Glock and a Tanto,” Uzi said, “and a satphone and a Lumia.”

  “Call it in,” Peretz said to one of his men. “And get a medic over here.”

  The cops emptied the pockets of his 5.11s and backed away from their detainee, showing Peretz the cache—which was exactly as Uzi had described—except his satphone’s screen was shattered and his Lumia was missing.

  “Get up,” Peretz said. “Name?”

  Uzi got to his feet. “Aaron Uziel.”

  Peretz pulled an Israeli bandage from the backpack of one of his men and began applying the compression dressing to Uzi’s arm. “Mind telling us what you were doing in Gaza? And why you have an appointment with the director general of Mossad? You’re no ordinary American.”

  Uzi chuckled. “Trust me, Sergeant Major. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

  Peretz frowned. “Actually, if your friend is Hector DeSantos, I might, in fact, believe you.”

  VAIL ARRIVED AT THE LOCATION of the tunnel entrance. But the sky was now completely black save for a sliver of moonlight that was fighting to be seen through the otherwise dense cloud cover.

  There was barely enough illumination to keep her from stepping in a hole as she navigated the hard, rocky soil.

  With the satphone in her left hand and the Glock in her right, she stumbled her way to the coordinates. She hoped no one engaged her, because staring at the backlit screen destroyed her night vision. If someone approached she would not be able to see him.

  After five minutes of searching—and the phone losing its satellite signal, then regaining it—she stopped at a rock outcropping, where the tunnel’s mouth was supposedly located. You’ve gotta be kidding. It better be here.

  She turned on her Samsung’s flashlight and found the entrance behind a large boulder. Then it hit her: she was headed underground into a tunnel. How long it was, how tight it would be, she had no idea.

  Claustrophobia or not, she had no choice but to push forward. Safety resided on the other side of the border.

  She wrapped her left arm around the tube and looked into the abyss: there was a metal ladder bolted to the wall that led straight down, perhaps thirty feet. Holy shit.

  Vail took a deep breath and started descending, one rung at a time. As she neared the bottom, her right foot slipped on the next to last step and she hit the ground hard. A jolt of pain shot through both ankles.

  Shake it off. Keep going.

  She held up the flashlight. Ahead of her the tunnel stretched as far as she could see, with a bend near the end. Was it the end, or merely a turn?

  Standing there and debating it was fruitless. Vail turned off the satphone to conserve the battery—there was no reception down here—and trudged forward, keeping the light in front of her. There was electrical conduit mounted along the left wall and bare bulbs every thirty feet or so. But she did not see a switch.

  The spherical tunnel was constructed of formed concrete bunker-style sections and stood about six feet across at its widest point and about six feet tall at its apex. At five foot seven, as long as Vail remained in the center, she would be able to stand straight.

  Another hundred yards—and she heard a noise. She stopped, painted the area with her flashlight. Nothing.

  She reached for her Glock—but it was gone. Shit. Shit!

  Vail spun around and peered into the darkness behind her. Might’ve fallen when I fell off the ladder. Go back? No. Could’ve also dropped it up top. I may never find it. It’d totally suck if I got captured looking for my gun.

  As it was, she did not expect to find anyone else down here. And once she reached the end, she would no longer need it.

  Vail rested her palm on the handle of her Tanto and continued forward. She kicked something made of glass and it bounced repeatedly ahead of her, ultimately striking the concrete wall.

  Her heart, already beating hard, felt like it skipped a beat. Perspiration blanketed her body and she felt clammy. Between the anxiety of claustrophobia and the stress of not knowing what lie ahead in the darkness, she would not be surprised if she had a coronary.

  Stop it, Karen. Nothing’s lurking in the darkness and you’re not gonna have a heart attack.

  Vail reached the bend but was dismayed to see that it continued on. That, however, was not the problem. The road forked—and the two options led in opposite directions.

  She stood there trying to reason it through based on which direction she was headed on the surface and where the satphone image had indicated Israel was located. It was a nearly impossible equation because she did not know which direction she had been walking when she entered the tunnel.

  Vail turned left to see if there was any indication as to which way she needed to go. But as she took a step forward someone grabbed her from behind.

  77

  The man’s forearm was locked across her neck, cutting off the blood flow to her brain. She would lose consciousness in a matter of seconds.

  His other arm was around her torso, pinning her limbs to her body. Vail dropped her phone and the tube and tried to raise her arms up—but she could not pry them loose.

  As he dragged her backward she dug her heels into the dirt, hoping to throw him off balance. But he maintained his center of gravity.

  The darkness was disorienting, the only light coming from her cell lying somewhere on the ground. And even that was fading as he squeezed harder and she started to lose consciousness.

  Using her legs, she pushed herself side to side—and drove them both into the concrete wall. His grip loosened, enough for her to get some oxygen, enough to free a hand.

  She reached back to grab him—and felt cold metal. A gun! She got her fingers on it and pulled, but he jerked her back and it went flying somewhere into the darkness.

  Fuck. She swung her left foot out, hoping to kick the weapon away to prevent him from getting to it. She hit it once but could not tell if it traveled any distance.

  He jerked her hard to the right—and she was able to reach down low enough to touch the handle of her Tanto.

  But he rocked her back the other way and then yanked her toward him, arching her spine and regaining control over her free hand.

  Her head struck the ceiling of the tunnel and her fingers slipped off the knife’s grip.

  He shouted something in Arabic and she screamed something in English.

  She began rocking on the balls of her feet, bucking left and right—and again his grip weakened enough for her to pull a hand from his grasp. She grabbed the Tanto and jerked it from its sheath, then fought to draw her forearm forward.

  He pulled. She pushed.

  She yelled long and loud to summon her strength—and then slammed her heel onto the top of his foot.

  He recoiled and she drew the blade back hard, toward his body. And stabbed him in the thigh.

  He screamed.

  Now there’s a language I understand—

  She jabbed at his body again and again, blindly using him as a pin cushi
on. But none of the thrusts were deep enough to do life-threatening damage.

  He tugged back on her neck, compressing her larynx, but she kept stabbing, hoping the pain would eventually force him to try to get the knife away from her—which meant he would have to loosen his grip on her throat. And once he did that he would no longer have control.

  A few seconds, that’s all she needed.

  She continued thrusting and he continued yelping—until Vail got the window she was waiting for. He reached for her arm and grabbed her wrist, but she had already transferred the knife to her other hand.

  Vail twisted out of his grip, spun, and started slashing, left, right, left, as if the Tanto were a sword and she were a swashbuckler. She struck something soft, but in the darkness it was hard to know if she did any damage.

  She couldn’t blindly thrust because if he got hold of her arm, he could take the knife from her. And then he would surely make her pay for treating him like a cooked Thanksgiving turkey.

  Get away from him!

  Vail backed down the tunnel, running the palm of her left hand along the wall to give her some bearing.

  She stopped suddenly and listened, doing her best to slow her respiration, to keep noise at a minimum. She could no longer see the light from her phone but she could hear the tango breathing loudly.

  Let him come for you.

  Vail stood there, back flat against the cement. One minute. Two.

  She slowly reached into her pocket and rooted out her spare magazine. She tossed it away, about ten feet to her right, hoping to hit the wall. It did—and seconds later he advanced.

  Vail waited a beat, then stuck out her leg and he ran right into it, then struck the ground with a thud. She pounced on his back and jabbed the Tanto into his neck, then grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. A final slice across the front of his throat and all movement stopped.

  She slid off his body and fell onto her side, her heart thudding, her hands shaking. Hyperventilating.

  VAIL PUSHED HERSELF UP and stumbled away, slamming her back into the wall and her head into the curved ceiling.

  Focus, Karen. Calm down.

  She took some deep breaths, slowed her pulse, then licked her lips and pushed forward, back the way she had come, hoping to find the pistol she had dislodged—and the tube Uzi had given her. A couple of minutes later she had both in hand.

  She chambered a round and sheathed the Tanto.

  Continuing a few paces farther, she came upon the fork in the tunnel—which she recognized only because of the slight breeze she felt coming from the other shaft she had taken from the surface. She felt around—hoping to find something that the tango had—a drawing, a diagram of some sort—that could show her the way out of here, one that would take her into Israel.

  Wait, the booklet I found at Sahmoud’s.

  She reached back—and it was still there, wedged into her waistband.

  If only I could see it.

  Then she remembered the satphone. Its screen should throw off enough of a glow to read the map.

  She powered it up and held it over the page, traced her tunnel with a finger and determined she needed to take the path where the dead militant lay. She moved forward and found her Samsung and reactivated the flashlight.

  As she gave a final sweep of the area, she saw what appeared to be a cot against the wall along the other corridor. She jogged over and took a quick look: the tango had been sleeping down here. Why? To guard what? She moved a bit farther in and saw wood crates stacked along the wall with Arabic writing on them. She pulled one down and used her Tanto to pry off the top. Grenades, assault and sniper rifles were nestled among Styrofoam popcorn bits. She thought of taking one of the rifles with her, but the ammo must have been in a different box.

  She headed down the tunnel, stepped past the bloody al Humat militant, and continued on. If the map was to scale, she had another ten minutes of brisk walking to reach the exit.

  When she climbed the ladder to the surface, she found a metal covering and a fair amount of brush obscuring its opening. Upon emerging, she dropped to her knees and breathed in the fresh, damp air. While crouched there, at the edge of what looked like farmland, a light drizzle prickled her cheeks.

  Seconds later two headlights struck her face. She shielded her eyes and got to her feet. The driver pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window.

  “I need some help. Do you speak English?”

  “Of course I speak English.” He squinted, leaned closer and said, “You’re bleeding!” He got out of the car and came around to walk her over to the passenger seat.

  “I’m fine, it’s not my blood. I got into a fight with an al Humat soldier.”

  “Al Humat? Where?”

  “In a tunnel. There’s an opening a few feet from where you found me. They’ve got a cache of weapons down there.”

  The man pulled out his phone, made a call and jabbered Hebrew at someone on the other end. He hung up, then thanked her for the information.

  “During the war, they came out of the tunnels, attacked the kibbutzim—our communities—then disappeared back inside.”

  “I heard.”

  “I have to ask. What were you doing down there?”

  “You don’t have to ask and you don’t really want to know.”

  He looked her over, his eyes resting on her blood-soaked shirt. “What can I do for you? To repay the favor.”

  “I need a ride to the Israel Museum.”

  His brow rose. “In Jerusalem?”

  Vail tilted her head.

  “Okay, okay. It’ll take us a bit. You need something to eat? Drink?”

  “No time. Just get me there as soon as possible.”

  He laughed. “You know how Israelis drive?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Crazy. Fast. Hang on.” He accelerated hard and Vail was slammed back into the seat.

  78

  The man was telling the truth. He drove like a demon, zipping around cars and getting Vail to Jerusalem in just over an hour. By the time he pulled into the Israel Museum’s parking lot at 8:00 PM, the rain had stopped.

  A few vehicles were still there, likely staff and whoever else they were supposed to meet. A curator? Police? A Mossad officer? Vail realized that in the rush to get out of Sahmoud’s house they had gotten no details as to what was going to transpire when they arrived.

  As she neared the entrance, she passed through security barriers and walked by a rectangular reflecting pool. She saw a sign for the museum offices as well as those of the Israel Antiquities Authority.

  If they knew what I had in this tube, they’d be out here with a red carpet.

  A sign directed her to the gallery entrance, where she was met by two black-suited men with close-cropped hair and earbuds. If she had been in the US, she would have guessed they were Secret Service agents.

  “Karen Vail?” one of them asked.

  “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  He looked her up and down, lingering on the blood stains soaked into her shirt and pants.

  The other agent gestured at the tube. “We’ll take that.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  He looked at her a long moment, his expression stern, as if he were deciding whether to challenge her. He finally said, “Come with me,” and he led her through the admissions area and into the museum, up a long corridor with dark walls and a charcoal granite floor. Dramatic exterior spotlighting illuminated the frosted glass windows to her right.

  They passed ancient floor-to-ceiling mosaics, which, according to the posted sign, were from sixth-century Beit She’an ruins.

  First the Louvre, then the Israel Museum … someday I’m going to visit all these places with Robby. No guns, no bad guys. No killers. No terrorists with bombs or chemical weapons.

  A girl can
dream, right?

  The agent led her outside, where they crossed a long, narrow cement promenade that stretched into the distance to her left. Ahead was a dark gray freestanding rectangular wall, and to her right a shiny white brick dome with a nipple on the top.

  “What’s that?” Vail asked.

  The agent slowed, turned, and said, “The roof of the shrine. It’s designed to look like the lid of the clay pots that contained the Dead Sea Scrolls.” He swung back and continued on and Vail hustled up beside him. They entered an area designated “The Shrine of the Book,” then descended a series of stone steps with a glass-sided railing that led into a small plaza.

  Several suited men and women were standing there—which Vail immediately pegged as part of Knox’s protection detail.

  Her escort stopped at the door and said, “Inside. They’re waiting for you.”

  Vail walked into a dark corridor with museum displays on each side. They appeared to deal with the discovery of the scrolls in the Qumran caves, but she did not stop for a look.

  She proceeded straight ahead into a dramatic atrium that had a dome-shaped ceiling; she was underneath the white brick structure she had seen outside a minute ago. In the center sat a circular display case five steps up on a raised platform that contained a Dead Sea Scroll that had been unfurled.

  On the main level, along the periphery, were wall-mounted exhibits featuring scroll sections and informational placards.

  Vail ascended the stairs where two women and several men were standing—two of whom she knew: Gideon Aksel and Douglas Knox. Knox had been pacing. He stopped and looked up when she entered the room.

  Vail swallowed deeply and suddenly became aware of the tube she had tucked under her left arm—and its significance.

  “Agent Vail,” Knox said. “You have something for us?”

  “Yes sir.” She stepped forward and handed it to a woman who reached out and took it from her with extreme care. If you only knew what I just put it through.

  “I’m Tamar,” the woman said. “Thank you. For bringing this to us.” She and three of the other men descended to the main level where a temporary table and an assortment of magnifying lenses and tools were located.