The Lost Codex (16 page)

23

V
ail found the address for Menachem Halevi, the Aleppo rabbi and safe deposit box holder, on the way back to their SUV. He lived in the Borough Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, an Orthodox Jewish enclave bordering its Italian counterpart not far from the Verrazano Bridge.

“That’s a little surprising,” Uzi said on the ride over. “An Aleppo rabbi would live in Flatbush, on or around Ocean Parkway, not in Borough Park.”

“Is that some kind of rule?” Vail asked.

Uzi chuckled. “Borough Park is mostly Hasidim of European background. It’s unusual to find Syrian Jews here, but not impossible, I guess.”

They parked on 50th Street and walked to the corner at 14th Avenue where they found the seven-story brick apartment building that, by the look of it, dated back at least several decades. Signs above schools and storefront shops bore Hebrew and English lettering.

As they walked through the small courtyard formed by the two wings of the complex, a man in a black overcoat and matching felt hat was coming through the glass doors.

“Hold that,” Vail said, showing her FBI credentials.

The religious man averted his eyes, as the Orthodox are inclined to do around women, but stopped and kept the door from closing.

Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi entered the building and proceeded straight ahead to the elevator. Uzi pulled open the steel door and they stepped into the car.

“This is pretty friggin’ old,” Vail said. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen an elevator like this.” A tarnished penny was stuck inside the cross-hatching of the small glass window of the door that swung closed. She thought about taking the stairs instead, but DeSantos shouldered her aside.

“Deal with it. It’s a short ride.”

A moment later they arrived at the fifth floor. They found the apartment at the end of the hall and pushed the chime. There was a ruckus inside, the sounds of young children playing and roughhousing.

“Good thing today’s Sunday,” Uzi said. “Saturday, the elevator wouldn’t have been working and no one would’ve answered the door.” He apparently noticed DeSantos’s inquisitive head tilt, because he said, “The Sabbath.”

Vail knocked firmly—the weak “ding-dong” was no match for the yelling kids—and seconds later a man in his forties appeared.

“Yes?”

As Vail studied his face, formal dress, and demeanor, she had a feeling he looked older than he probably was.

“I’m Aaron Uziel, FBI. We’re looking for Rabbi Halevi.” He held up his credentials for the man to peruse—which he did, with a backward tilt of his head so he could view them through the reading portion of his glasses.

“What does the FBI want with him?”

“We’re following up on the bank robbery eighteen months ago. We’ve got some questions.”

The man lifted his brow. “You found him. Come in.” Leaving the heavy gauge metal door open, he turned and proceeded into the apartment. Well worn olive carpeting led to a dining table wedged along the left wall. Directly across was a living room of modest size, about a dozen feet wide and fifteen long. Five children, ranging in age from what Vail estimated as three to nine, were running around, slashing at each other with fake swords and jumping off plastic play structures.

“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” Vail said, “but these questions couldn’t wait.”

Car horns—loud and long—blared outside on the street.

Halevi sat on a chair near the knot of children. Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos sank into the couch against the long wall. The youngsters seemed unfazed by their visitors and kept playing as if they were not there.

One of the boys stopped suddenly and looked at Vail. In fact, he was staring at her. He pointed and said, “Is that a real gun?”

Vail looked down—and quickly brought her jacket around, covering the protruding handle. “It is. I’m a police officer.”

“Police officers protect people,” he said. “Can I see your gun?”

“Isaac,” Halevi said, “don’t bother the nice lady. Go back to playing.”

A woman a few years younger than Halevi walked in, wearing what appeared to be a wig, but as with her husband, her style and demeanor gave the impression of someone senior to her true age. “We have guests, Menny?”

“This is my wife, Miriam.” He handed her a box of crayons from the coffee table. “They have questions about the robbery. At the bank.”

Her forehead rose in surprise. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

The three of them declined and Miriam took a young girl with her into the kitchen. Isaac hopped into his father’s lap, his eyes riveted on Vail.

“A year and a half goes by and we don’t hear anything, and then suddenly three FBI agents show up with questions. On a Sunday, no less. Something doesn’t quite seem right.”

“Can’t argue with that,” DeSantos said, conceding the point. “We think the robbery could be important to another case.”

“How can I help?” Halevi asked.

Another boy climbed onto his father’s unoccupied leg and started bouncing.

“Shmu, sit still, please.”

“We think the robbers were after something very specific,” Uzi said. “We’re taking an inventory of what was stolen.”

“I told the detective and that FBI agent back when it happened. They wrote it all down.”

“So some cash, jewelry, a few bonds. That’s it?”

“Sounds right. There wasn’t much. More sentimental than valuable.”

“How much jewelry?”

Halevi shifted his legs and moved the children a bit. “Just a few family heirlooms. A gold ring with some diamonds, an opal broach, and two pendants from my parents. Worst of all, my grandparents’ Shabbat candlesticks. It’s all I had left from them.”

“That it?” DeSantos asked.

“Like I said. It had more meaning to us than value to others. If it was someone looking for something specific that had a lot of value on the open market, I don’t think we were the target.”

“But you had a large box,” Uzi said, “two feet by two and a half feet by six inches. Why would you need such a large box for only a few pieces of jewelry and a couple of candlesticks?”

Halevi swallowed noticeably. “It was the only one they had available at the time. Sometimes these boxes, there are waiting lists.”

Uzi nodded, accepting the explanation. But Vail sensed that something was not right. She glanced at DeSantos, who seemed to have similar concerns.

“You sure?” DeSantos asked. “The case we’re handling is very important. It’s not just a bank robbery. As you noted—quite astutely—there are three federal agents sitting in your living room on a Sunday.” He let that hang in the air as the three of them observed the rabbi.

The younger boys went flying into Halevi and he fought to keep himself upright and the other kids balanced on his lap.

“Hey,” Isaac said. “Cut it out.”

“Please. Raffi, calm down.” Halevi swiveled his gaze to Uzi. “If we’re done here—”

“No,” Vail said. “We’re not.” She had one card to play, and she decided now was the time—even if it meant revealing sensitive information. “We have reason to believe that al Humat was behind the bank robbery.”

“Karen.” Uzi’s complexion shaded red.

She ignored him and focused on Halevi, whose face now sprouted perspiration that glistened in the light streaming in from the nearby windows.

Car horns blared again outside.

“So, rabbi, let me ask you once more. Why would al Humat target you?”

He leaned back and yelled into the kitchen. “Miriam! Can you take the kids?”

She walked in and clapped her hands. “Come with me, we’ll make Play-Doh. Who wants to help?”

They yelled and ran out, leaving Vail and Halevi staring at each other.

“I think we’ll go for a walk,” Uzi said, elbowing DeSantos—who reluctantly complied.

As they left the apartment, Vail sat back in the couch.

“You need to talk with my father,” Halevi said.

“Your father? The owner of the box was Rabbi Halevi. You said you’re Rabbi Halevi.”

“My father is also Rabbi Halevi.” He shrugged. “We’re orthodox. This is not unusual. And you didn’t say which Rabbi Halevi you wanted to talk with.” He rose from the seat and walked into the hallway and turned right. Two minutes later, he returned with an aged man, white bearded and slow of gait, with a dark complexion.

Halevi helped his father to the chair and explained who Vail was and why she was there.

“Rabbi, the case my colleagues and I are working is extremely important. I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s been going on in Washington and what happened today at Times Square. And now three federal agents show up at your door asking about a bank robbery from a year and a half ago. I can’t say anymore, but I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

“Tell her, Father.”

“No,” he said with a raspy voice. “This is not something we speak of.”

“Father—”

“Rabbi,” Vail said firmly. “Let me make something clear. Withholding information in a federal investigation is called obstruction of justice and it’s a crime we take very seriously—especially when lives are on the line.”

The elderly man craned his stiff neck up to his son, who nodded. “Lives are on the line?”

“They think al Humat was behind the bank robbery,” Halevi said.

The man squinted. “I don’t understand. Terrorists don’t rob banks. Why would they do that? For money? If they wanted money, they’d rob the
bank
, not safe deposit boxes. No?”

“Al Humat gets all the money it needs from its … collaboration with other criminal organizations. Robbing a bank in Brooklyn is a high risk act. There had to be something inside that would give them more than money.”

“There was.” Halevi nudged his father.

The elderly man shook his head. “She would not understand.”

“Maybe. But her partner would. Aharon Uziel,” he said, using a Hebrew pronunciation of Uzi’s first name. He turned to Vail.

She pulled her cell and texted Uzi to come up immediately. He returned less than two minutes later, sans DeSantos.

When he walked in, he seemed surprised to see the elder man. Vail explained who he was and that there was, indeed, something of importance in the pilfered box.

“You said, rabbi, that I would not understand. Because I’m a woman?”

He looked at her a long moment, as if he was determining if he could discuss this with her present. “If I’m going to share this secret with you, please call me Yakov. Good? Yes?”

Vail grinned. “Yes.”

“And we need a drink.”

Halevi rolled his eyes. “I’ll go get something.”

24

D
o you know much about the Jews of Aleppo? Agent Uziel?”

Uzi pursed his lips. “I know some. There was once a thriving community in Aleppo. Until 1947 or 1948, and then the Syrians turned on them and destroyed the synagogues, their homes. They harassed and killed them.”

“Good enough,” Yakov said. “The Aleppo Jews had lived in Syria for three thousand years. They were part of the culture, a part of the land. But these men and women had something even more significant: custodianship of one of the most important books in the history of Judaism, perhaps Christianity—and all other religions that arose from Judaism. Do you know what book this is?”

Vail shrugged. “The Bible?”

Yakov’s head bobbed up and down. “Emphasis on
the
. The authoritative book, the oldest, most accurate text of the Hebrew Bible.”

“So you’re talking about an actual book. A rare manuscript.” Vail’s mind flitted back to her time in London when she dealt with another rare manuscript, one that touched off a rough time in England that nearly got her killed.

“Calling it rare is doing it an injustice,” Yakov said. “It’s been known as the Crown, the Crown of Aleppo, and the Aleppo Codex. What it
is
is the most important book in history.”

“What’s so special about it?” Vail turned to Uzi. “Have you heard of it?”

Uzi laughed. “Yes. I even got to see a few pages once at the Israel Museum in Jerusalem, where they keep the Dead Sea Scrolls. I asked to see more, but it’s locked away in a vault that requires three keys, a magnetic card, and a six-digit code. It’s an ancient manuscript steeped in mystery.”

“We’ll get to that,” Yakov said. “First, you wanted to know what’s so special about it. It’s one of a kind. But even that’s not what makes it so special. There are plenty of ancient manuscripts that are one-offs. To understand its significance you must understand the time, what was going on.”

Yakov cleared his raspy throat and leaned forward slightly. He lifted a wrinkled hand and gestured as if delivering a soliloquy. “Around the year 930
CE
, Judaism was splintered. Its traditions and teachings had been handed down by oral tradition for millennia, covering everything from how they should relate to one another, how they should treat the land, and most importantly, how they should speak to God.”

Halevi walked back in with a tray containing eight glasses, half of which were filled with ice cubes and water and the other four a milky-white liquid. In the center was a clear bottle featuring a green and gold label that contained Hebrew lettering.

“By the time of the First Temple,” Yakov said, “they were beginning to write down these oral traditions and laws—which really were their bible, their
manual
for how to live and act. But the Temple was their spiritual, religious, and community center. When it was destroyed by the Babylonians, the Jews scattered. They eventually rebuilt the Temple, but then the Romans destroyed it and the Jews lost their unifying center of life.

“They needed something that could survive the leveling of a building, something that could be taken with them to whatever region or land they found themselves in. Something that couldn’t be wiped out by an invading army.”

“A book,” Uzi said. “Or a Torah.”

Halevi handed out the glasses.

Vail took a sip and drew her chin back.
Whoa.
“What is this?”

Uzi laughed. “Arak. A Middle Eastern distilled drink made from grapes and anise seed.”

“Interesting,” Vail said as she held up her glass. “Continue, rabbi.”

Yakov sat back and thought a moment. “In the seventh century, Masoretic linguistic scholars in Israel who stressed the rabbinic teachings began standardizing the variations in the Hebrew language that had developed after the Temple was destroyed. Early in the tenth century, Rabbi Aaron Ben Asher was tasked with taking all this work and writing a reference text that set out Hebrew’s vowels and grammatical rules as well as how the prayers were chanted—its cantillation.”

“Cantillation?” Vail asked.

“Melodies,” Halevi said. “Forgive my father. He’s been a teacher all his life. What he’s saying is that the scholars were trying to preserve Judaism’s tradition, culture, and religion for future generations by standardizing the language and cultural nuances that had developed. They created a system of vowels and melodies, chapter and verse to organize the teachings and make it so anyone could learn the language. Three hundred years later, Ben Asher and the scribes brought it all together in an authoritative reference text—the codex. It was to be something that could culturally and religiously connect the thousands of communities that had fled to different countries.”

Yakov set his drink down, stroked his long white beard, then reengaged eye contact with Vail. “Discrepancies in the Torah, ambiguities, differences in interpretation, had to be avoided to keep the religion together, to keep it from splintering. Ben Asher’s goal was to create the perfect,
official
text.”

Uzi held his glass up to the light that streamed in through the windows. “Not to rush you, rabbi, because I’m enjoying this history lesson. But this case, we’re up against the—”

“I’m getting to the point,” Yakov said, waving a wrinkled and arthritic hand. “Be patient, my son.”

Uzi squirmed on the couch cushion. Vail placed a hand on his knee, telling him that she sensed there was, indeed, a point to Yakov’s discourse.

“Animal skins were prepared and special permanent ink was mixed from crushed tree galls, iron sulfate, and black soot. It took Ben Asher and his scholars decades to research the codex and it took the scribes five hundred or so pages to write it. Almost two hundred years later, in July 1099, the Crusaders sacked Jerusalem, murdering thousands and destroying the Jewish quarter, their places of worship, Torahs, and books. One book in particular survived, however. Do I need to tell you which?” He tilted his head at Vail, then Uzi.

Uzi said, “The Aleppo Codex.”

“Yes. Except that it wasn’t called The Aleppo Codex. Not yet. Even then, the codex’s importance was known. The Crusaders captured it, and other holy works, and demanded money. The Jewish community took out a loan from Egypt to pay the ransom—this is all documented in letters archaeologists have found—and that’s where the codex remained, in Egypt, until about 150 years later.

“During that time it was used by one of the world’s greatest philosophers and physicians, Moses ben Maimon—Maimonides. Maimonides used the codex as one of his main tools for creating the Mishneh Torah, books that provided a simplified description of Jewish law and rituals—a guide used even today.”

“Around 1375,” Halevi said, “Maimonides’ great-great-great-grandson left Egypt and brought Maimonides’ library with him—which included the codex. He settled in Aleppo and for safe keeping, placed the codex in a synagogue, locked away in a stone and iron chamber. It was removed only for certain scholars and dignitaries.”

“And that’s where it stayed until 1947,” Uzi said.

Yakov nodded slowly. “Yes. The Aleppo community considered it their divine purpose to safeguard it. They believed the codex was not supposed to leave Aleppo. There’s an inscription on the first page that reads, ‘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.’

“They took this very seriously. Even when Syrians were turning against the Jews and killing them, burning their synagogues and books, the Aleppo elders refused to move the codex to Jerusalem, where the new country’s president wanted to place it in the national museum. In the end, with Aleppo’s Jews being smuggled to safety in Israel—the codex was moved, rather circuitously, to Jerusalem.”

“But something happened,” Halevi said. “Sometime around its arrival in 1958, part of it went missing.”

“The first two hundred pages,” Yakov said, the glass in his hand. He took a drink, his hand trembling. “The search for those pages went on for twenty-seven years. Problem was, no one knew when they disappeared. Some claimed they were destroyed by the fire that Syrians set in the Aleppo synagogue during the riots. And there were burn marks on the corners of the surviving pages, so it looked like those two hundred pages were lost forever. But scientists later realized that the damage to the pages wasn’t carbon from a fire but some kind of mold. Eyewitnesses came forward and said the codex survived the fire and that the pages were lost while being snuck out of Syria.”

“We started hearing stories,” Halevi said, “of parts of the codex showing up in other countries. Pages, fragments of pages.”

Uzi sat up. “A black market. Dealing in antiquities and rare manuscripts.”

Those words caused a contraction in Vail’s stomach.

Halevi pulled over another chair and sat. “Mossad got involved, the IDF, the court system, even psychics. And then in 1985, they heard that the missing pages were buried in Ein Ata, a village in southern Lebanon. Israel controlled that area at the time, but because it was so unstable, a search party went in under IDF escort. They came up empty. But an Aleppo Jew, Joshua Ashear, the one who tipped them off that the codex might be there, stayed behind with a friend of his. Two days later, they found the pages hidden in a dealer’s attic. Not wanting to entrust the pages to anyone but people the man knew, Ashear passed them to an Aleppo rabbi, who transported them to the Aleppo Jewish community in São Paulo, and then on to Panama City. Two years later, they were brought here, to Brooklyn.”

Oh shit. That’s what was in the safe deposit box.

“I see where this is leading,” Uzi said. “You had the pages. That’s what the bank robbery was all about.”

“How did al Humat know?” Vail said.

“There were rumors for years they were in Brooklyn,” Yakov said. “A fragment was found in a rabbi’s wallet when he died. His daughter didn’t know what it was but when she met with a reporter she talked about seeing me bring a sheaf of pages to their home when she was a child. That innocent comment spread through the community like a contagious disease. It wasn’t a secret any longer that I had most of the missing pages.” He shrugged. “I thought it was a secret within the Aleppo community. I was wrong.

“We moved to Borough Park, away from the other Aleppo Jews. But it didn’t matter. A few weeks later I was approached by a man who said he was an Israeli antiquities dealer. Sometimes you can’t tell if they’re Jews or Arabs. If they speak Hebrew, know Israel, it’s hard to trip them up. I asked some questions, he seemed legitimate … but now thinking about it … who knows.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to buy the missing pages for $100 million. I didn’t deny having them—I told him I wasn’t in a position to sell them. And I might’ve told him they have no business being bought and sold on a black market. If they went anywhere, they’d go to the Israel Museum, where the other half is kept.”

Uzi snorted. “You basically told him you had them.”

“I suddenly had visitors from the government, scholars, the Israel Antiquities Authority, journalists from the
New York Times
. Even a man who was writing a book about the codex.”

“Forgive me for asking,” Vail said, “but why didn’t you turn them over to the Israeli government?”

“The pages weren’t yours,” Uzi said. “They belonged to the Jewish people. It’s one of the most important artifacts of our religion—of
all
religions that grew out of the Torah—what some call the Old Testament.”

Halevi sank back in his chair. He finished the Arak in his glass and stared into its empty bottom. “The Aleppo community was given the codex for safekeeping. We protected it for six hundred years. We were never supposed to let it out of our sight. And as soon as it left our hands, the most important part of it—the first two hundred pages—were stolen. We’re talking about almost the entire Torah, the foundational narrative of the Jewish people. The Five Books of Moses. Genesis all the way to Deuteronomy.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Uzi said.

Yakov looked at his son, who nodded vigorously, silently urging him to come clean. But the old man sat there a long moment, staring at the carpet.

The sounds of the children playing in the other room wormed their way into Vail’s thoughts. Cars honked outside. And in the back of her mind, an internal clock was going off like an alarm, telling her she needed to figure out how this fit with the terror attacks.

Yakov said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I was protecting us from ourselves. What’s in those pages would make it impossible for Israel to ever have peace with the Palestinians.”