The Lost Codex (28 page)

44

T
he sensation matched what DeSantos and Uzi had described: like she was dropped into a wind tunnel. They kept moving through the chilled air at a good clip, flat and stable with the drogue chute deployed until DeSantos pulled the rip cord and opened their main chute. They slowed and glided toward the ground.

Vail looked down and saw a blinking red light from somewhere below. It appeared as if DeSantos or the GPS was steering them right for it, and she surmised the beacon was emanating from the person who would be collecting them and driving them to their destination.

A moment later they did a standup landing and touched down onto firm, low cut, perfectly manicured turf. It was a comfortable landing, followed seconds later by Uzi and then Fahad.

Piece of cake.

They quickly gathered up the chute and stuffed it into the backpack, then unhooked the harnesses and balled them up. If someone crossed their path they would look like lost hikers.

“Golf course?” Vail asked, swiveling her head in all directions as they walked due east.

“Golf de Dieppe Pourville in Seine-Maritime,” Fahad said. “Upper Normandy. France.”

“You speak French?”

“I was stationed here for a couple of years. I had to learn French as part of my assignment.”

“That might come in handy,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

DeSantos checked his GPS and corrected their direction to a northwest bearing. “Back at the base, while you were talking dirty with your fiancé, Uzi and I were plotting things out. We’ve got two mission objectives in France: first is the flat they mentioned in that document we found on the computer in London. We need to locate it, infiltrate it, and hopefully engage one or more of our most wanted men.”

“Second?”

“Find the document in the Louvre and see if it’s what we’ve been ordered to recover.”

“If it
is
in the Louvre, what then?”

“Then we ask to see it and verify it’s the one we’re looking for.”

“And how do we verify it?”

“We’ve been given some parameters. Basically, if we have reasonable suspicion, we’ll make a request of the museum archivist or curator for evaluation.”

“I’ve also got a backup option for verification,” Uzi said, “just in case we need it.”

“The CIA has set up a cover for you,” Fahad said.

“For me? When were you going to tell me about this?”

“Now.”

Smartass.

“You have a background in art history.”

“Not the same as rare manuscripts.”

“Close enough,” Fahad said. “You’ll be the person sent to the Louvre to examine the document based on a prior conversation you had with someone here who happens to be on holiday now. They won’t know what you’re talking about, of course, because this is all bullshit.”

No kidding.

“If he’s above board,” Fahad said, “it won’t be an issue. He can check out your credentials, which the Agency has constructed during the past few hours. You’re a pretty impressive executive with the Museum of Middle Eastern Affairs in Washington.”

DeSantos pulled out a night vision monocle and peered into the darkness. “If he’s colluding with al Humat, or a front group, he’ll hedge and deny.”

“And then what?”

“I see him.” DeSantos stuck the GPS device in his jacket pocket and gestured ahead.

“Hector, then what?”

“Then, we think outside that box you’re so fond of avoiding.”

45

T
hey met up with their contact, a CIA operative by the name of Claude, who dumped their stuff into the trunk of his Peugeot. He chauffeured them with an occasional comment in French to Fahad, who was seated in the front. Vail was sandwiched between the large bodies of Uzi and DeSantos for the two-hour drive.

Heeding their own rule of getting sleep when possible, they curled up against one another and grabbed some fitful shuteye.

They were jolted awake by a traffic light somewhere in downtown Paris. Claude pulled to the curb and met a man who emptied the trunk, then filled it with four bulging dark-colored rucksacks.

“What’s going on?” Vail asked as she rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the dried goop from the corners.

Uzi swiveled his torso as best he could in the tight quarters. “Claude is exchanging cargo with another operative who’s going to dispose of our American-issue parachutes. And he brought us backpacks filled with a couple changes of clothes and a Dopp Kit.”

“And how do you know this?”

Uzi turned back to face Vail. Instead, he met DeSantos’s gaze. “She continues to question us.”

“When do you think she’ll finally get the fact that we’re just
really
good?”

Claude returned and pulled the shift into drive. As they reentered the avenue, Fahad again started conversing in French. Five minutes later, Claude turned onto Rue du Champ de Mars and parked.

“These are your accommodations,” Claude said in French-accented English. He gestured to the hotel a few doors down and across the street.

It was a well maintained six-story building with a small but welcoming entrance, which featured a frosted glass sign that read, Relais Bosquet. A black wrought iron canopy and slate tile sidewalk gave it a classy look.

“That black Smart car and brown Citroën in front of it are yours,” Claude said as he handed over two sets of keys. “You need anything else?”

“We’re good,” DeSantos said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I did the easy part.”

Yeah, tell me about it.

“Beware,” Claude said. He turned to Vail, his penetrating gaze locked on her eyes, and said, “The police and soldiers are everywhere.”

Shouldn’t we be more worried about the assholes who are trying to blow us up?
Vail looked at Uzi, then back at Claude. “Right. Thanks for the tip.”

DeSantos pulled himself forward in the seat. “We’ll go in pairs. Karen and I will hang out here for a bit.”

Uzi and Fahad got out and retrieved their backpacks from the trunk, then headed across the street.

“So I noticed you arranged for us to sleep together again.”

DeSantos consulted his watch and kept his gaze there as he answered. “Yes, I did, my dear. You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t.” She paused, then said, “But Robby might.”

A few moments later, after another check of his watch, DeSantos popped open his door. “Our turn.”

They got their gear from the back and started across the street.

“Claude’s a bit creepy,” Vail said.

“Is that any way to talk about a man who risked his life to help you out of a jam?”

“His eyes are strange. Not like a serial killer’s, but kind of … empty.” Vail took in the hotel’s entrance as she stepped onto the curb. “Nice place.”

“What we need it for, it’s more than adequate.”

They walked into the lobby, which had a warm, cozy feel. The registration desk was painted ivory like the rest of the earth-toned lounge, which opened into a sitting area with upholstered couches and easy chairs. Large windows looked out onto the Rue du Champ de Mars.

They were attended to by a thin Frenchman who spoke intelligible English. He checked them in, gave them a password for wireless internet access, and told them that breakfast would be served in the adjacent dining room.

They headed down the glass-walled hallway to the narrow staircase and proceeded up to the third floor. Vail used her key card and opened their door to yellow comforters, yellow walls, and red, green, and yellow floral curtains, with a matching headboard.

“I see the prevailing color theme here.” Vail tossed her backpack onto the closest mattress. “How best to describe this room? Small? Cozy? Tiny?”

“Efficient use of space,” DeSantos said absentmindedly as he examined the lamps, sconces, drawers, and LCD television looking for, presumably, covert cameras and listening devices. He turned and leaned his buttocks against the bureau. “Two beds.”

“Other than stating the obvious, you sound disappointed.”

“I enjoyed sleeping with you in London. Even if you did threaten me with that imaginary line in the sand bullshit.”

“Same goes here. If you value your manhood, you’ll stay on your bed. Remember, Uzi gave me that Tanto. Although I did read somewhere they can now grow penises in the lab. I guess that’s something.”

DeSantos scrunched his face. “Sensitive subject. Don’t joke about things like that.” He checked his watch then parted the curtains and looked out the window. “We’ll grab dinner then walk through the mission again.”

DeSantos unzipped his backpack and rummaged through the contents, then hung up the shirts. Vail followed suit, and a moment later they left for the Café Central a block or so from the Relais Bosquet on Rue du Champ de Mars. It was a charming eatery with white tile and red brick walls, and unfinished wood plank floors. Cigarette smoke wafting in from the covered outside patio bothered DeSantos, but the dessert pastries more than made up for it.

Uzi and Fahad ate at a nearby table but did not converse with them or otherwise make eye contact. They exchanged a few texts as to their plans for the morning and agreed to be on the road by 9:00
AM
.

Vail and DeSantos would go to the Louvre while Uzi and Fahad would track down the location of the flat mentioned in the encrypted documents.

Back in their room, Vail washed up and got her kit ready for the morning.

“My bed,” she said, pointing to the one closest to the window. “And that’s yours. Just so we’re clear.”

“If I forget when I get up to pee during the night and accidently find myself snuggled up to you, wake me before reaching for the knife, okay?”

She looked at him.

“Just sayin’. It could happen.”

Vail fluffed her pillow then pulled back the sheets. “If you value your package—and future relations with your wife—you will not make that mistake.”

46

T
he Smart cars may be economical, but they’re tiny as hell. And claustrophobic.”

“If we’d thought of it before,” DeSantos said, “we could’ve taken the Citroën.”

“This thing looks like it got stuck in a vise and accidentally compressed.”

“Welcome to Europe. Narrow streets, tight spaces, small cars.”

He navigated the roads like a native, taking Avenue Bosquet to Rue Saint-Dominique. Vail watched the French storefront shops, restaurants, and cafés pass by. A guide led about two dozen tourists on Segways across the street in front of them while they sat at a red light.

“Looks like fun.”

“Great way to see a city. Better than bikes. And you can cover a lot more ground.”

As they crossed the Seine River via the Pont de la Concorde bridge, Vail realized she needed to focus on her assignment, get into the mind-set. For a short time, she was essentially going undercover.

“We’ll be there in five minutes. You ready, Katherine Vega?”

“That’s
Miss
Vega to you. And yeah, I’m ready.”

They parked the car blocks away and hiked toward the Louvre. The sky had turned threatening, the clouds getting darker, the air cooler. It was starting to drizzle.

They walked through Jardin des Tuilieries, a sprawling 450-year-old public park and gardens that abutted the Louvre with statues, decomposed granite paths, mature trees, acres of deep green grass, and a large central fountain.

As they passed under Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, a six-story triumphal arch commemorating Napoleon’s military victories, they saw hundreds of people massed in the Cour Napoleon, the Courtyard of Napoleon. In the center of the square stood the iconic seventy-foot glass Pyramide du Louvre that served as the main entrance to the museum complex. Tourists were snapping photos, a few climbing atop a short stone light post and taking forced-perspective pictures where they pretended to be holding the pyramid by its apex. The modern structure sat in stark contrast to the classical baroque design of the surrounding buildings.

DeSantos gestured at the long line waiting to enter the base of the glass structure. “There’s an alternate way in that won’t be nearly as crowded.”

They descended into the Carrousel du Louvre mall, which featured cafés and gift shops, including a Starbucks and an Apple Store. They passed through the narrow high-ceilinged limestone-walled corridor that was lined with vendors on both sides, as they headed toward the expansive Hall Napoleon, a cavernous atrium that featured an inverted glass pyramid, a mirror image of the one above, pointing down into the gallery.

DeSantos led her past two curving staircases that led to and from street level—the pyramid base where the tourists had been waiting to enter.

As they made their way toward the museum, Vail locked on six police officers congregated in the center of the large lobby. She nudged DeSantos.

“It’s the largest museum in the world. What did you expect?”

“A walk in the park?”

“We did that on the way over here.” She adjusted her faux glasses and ascended the escalator to the “Control des tickets” booth at the Sully entrance. They paid with the euros Claude and his team had supplied and were handed two large vouchers that read “Musee,” along with the date and time of arrival.

Vail took a moment to glance at a foldout map that clearly delineated how massive the Louvre was—652,000 square feet containing 380,000 objects.

They split up, DeSantos hanging back and pretending to view the nearby exhibit while Vail proceeded to the office of the curator in charge of Middle Eastern antiquities, a thin, suited man who seemed surprised to be called to the front desk.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Katherine Vega.”

He squinted lack of understanding, but politely replied, “I’m Pierre DuPont.”

“I know. Thanks for agreeing to help us.”

He tilted his head. “Help?” He said it as if he had just tasted bitter lemon. “I’m sorry, Miss—”

“Vega. I was told you’d be expecting me.”

“Well, I assure you I was not. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I came all the way from the United States—Washington, DC—I’m the Middle Eastern artifacts curator with the Smithsonian International Gallery.” She dug into her pocket and found the packet of business cards that had been placed in her backpack by the order of the CIA station chief, along with her clothing and identification documents.

DuPont took the card, frowning as he examined it. Without looking at her he said, “And what is it that you’re here for?”

“As my office told your office when we called two weeks ago, we’re looking for a rare Middle Eastern artifact from the tenth century. A man of your stature surely knows of it.” She waited for him to meet her gaze. “It’s a Hebrew text that runs about two hundred pages.”

DuPont blinked then lifted his brow and shook his head. He handed Vail back her business card—which she did not mind taking—and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have anything like that.”

She laughed. “Surely you must’ve just forgotten. It’s known as the Aleppo Codex, or the Crown of Aleppo, or just the Crown. It arrived about three months ago.” She was extrapolating based on information Uzi had told her he had retrieved from the laptop. “My assistant discussed this with your staff.”

“And who’d she speak with?”

“It’s
he
. And I don’t remember who Jason spoke with. I didn’t think it was important. I never expected the Louvre, of all the institutions in the world, to give us a problem.”

“I can’t show you what we don’t have, Miss Vega.”

“That’s a shame, because one of our major benefactors was considering a sizable donation to your efforts to purchase the Teschen Table.” According to the backgrounder the Agency had prepared for her, it was one of the world’s most unique pieces of furniture, an eighteenth-century masterpiece. “I’m told you came up short earlier this year to raise a million euros.”

“Yes, well, that effort is ongoing—”

“And the donor I’m talking about is prepared to make a €150,000 contribution.”

DuPont tugged at the knot of his tie, looked up at the ceiling, and then said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Vega, but the document you are looking for is not here.”

“But one matching its description is. I want to examine it. The Smithsonian sent me quite a distance based on representations your staff made—”

“Unfortunately, that document is being restored in our lab and unavailable for viewing at the moment. I don’t believe it’s the codex you’re looking for. But the one in our lab is in good hands, I assure you.”

She snorted. “With all due respect, Mr. DuPont, given your recent history of art restoration, you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust your assurances.”

DuPont’s face shaded red.

“It’s no secret that da Vinci’s
Virgin and Child with Saint Anne
restoration went horribly wrong—”

“That is patently not true!”

“Mr. DuPont,” Vail said, keeping her voice calm and even, “I’m not going to debate that with you. I haven’t seen it, so I’m merely going by what I read in the news. But I
am
intimately familiar with the restoration process. I’m not looking to photograph or even handle the manuscript without following proper protocols. In fact, a conservator can handle it. No harm would come to it. I just wish to examine and authenticate it.”

That last part is actually true. Now, what happens after that …

DuPont’s face returned to normal flesh tones. He took a breath and thinned his lips. “The restorers are doing just that. And despite your assertions to the contrary, our staff is among the finest in the world. So—”

“I have my instructions. I can’t leave without seeing that document. And I give you my word that I’ll make a strong recommendation to Mr. Buffett that he make that donation for the Teschen Table.”

“
Warren
Buffet?”

“I did not say that.” Vail maintained a poker face. “In fact, I’ve already said more than I should.”

DuPont pressed his lips together, a look of frustration. “My instructions are that no one is to examine that document. I’m not even supposed to acknowledge that we have it on premises.”

“Whose decision was that?”

“The director of ancient documents, Lutfi Raboud.”

Sounds like a Muslim name. Stop it, Karen. Not all Muslims are extremists. This is France, with a large Muslim population. It’s very possible he’s a perfectly legit museum officer.

“It’s out of my hands,” DuPont said. “When a painting or antiquity is brought to the basement laboratory for examination, conservation or restoration, it’s administratively transferred to another department. The Center for Document Restoration. I get regular updates on its progress but I’m not involved in the process unless there’s a question or my input is otherwise required. It is indeed unfortunate that you had to travel all this way for nothing. And I apologize if my assistants were uninformed or in any way misled you. Believe me, the Louvre would like to cooperate in any way possible. But there’s nothing I can do.”

“Can I speak with Mr. Raboud?”

DuPont audibly sighed. He was getting tired of dealing with Vail and—she hoped—was willing to pawn her off to the person she needed to meet … and evaluate behaviorally.

“Come with me.”

He led the way out of his office and down the hall to a service elevator. He pressed B1 and the car descended. Seconds later they emerged in a tiled corridor leading to glass doors that opened into a modern, state-of-the-art restoration facility.

DuPont pressed four numerals into a keypad and an electronic lock clicked. Vail memorized the sequence.

“We have a number of restoration workshops in the Louvre, depending on the medium being cleaned and repaired. Our statuary restorations are done in a very large room. It’s low-tech, naturally lit with a skylight in the ceiling. The technicians work on wood surfaces that sit atop sawhorses—very different from what you see here.”

For a second Vail lost herself, marveling at the tools and instruments she wished she could have spent hours playing with. When she was in college studying art history, never in her dreams did she see herself in the bowels of the Louvre, staring at priceless antiquities.

She reminded herself why she was here and glanced around to get an idea of what type of security measures they had in place.

Vail was sure they were stringent—but, then again, it was best not to assume. One would have thought the White House had surveillance cameras installed all along its periphery—but that did not happen until recently when a gunman took a rifle and buried several rounds into a window where the First Lady was napping. The bulletproof glass prevented injury—but the Secret Service was unaware of the attack and had no “eyes” on the periphery, allowing the sniper to escape. It was but one example of a facility that should have been one of the most secure in the world, yet was woefully under protected.

She saw cameras in the hallway but nothing—as yet—inside the lab.

“Please wait here,” DuPont said. “I’ll go retrieve Mr. Raboud.”

“While you’re doing that, I need to use the restroom. Can you point me in the direction?”

“I will escort you. I can’t allow you to wander around here unattended. I’m sure you understand.”

“Absolutely.”

He led her past a number of men and women who were bent over workstations lit indirectly with full-spectrum bulbs, some of whom were peering through high-powered microscopes or jeweler’s loupes strapped to their foreheads.

DuPont stopped opposite two doors in a corner of the facility and gestured at the one on the left. Vail proceeded in and made a quick assessment: it was a fairly basic facility with a single sink, two stalls, and a ventilation duct about six feet off the ground. She stood on her toes and tried to get a look inside but was a couple of inches short.

She waited a few seconds, then flushed the toilet and washed her hands.

DuPont was waiting outside with another man.

“This is Lufti Raboud, the Louvre’s director of ancient documents.” He was a bald, thick man of about forty with a clean-shaven, pock-marked face from childhood chicken pox, by Vail’s guess. He wore a black suit and white tie, looking formal and official.

“A pleasure,” Vail said. “I’ve come all the way from Washington to examine the Aleppo Codex. But apparently there’s been a bit of a snafu and I need your authorization to see it.”

Raboud’s face was as expressionless as that of a stone statue. “We are not in possession of that document. I’m sorry you’ve come so far. This was, indeed, a miscommunication. Was it our fau—”

“I know you have it here,” Vail said. “Mr. DuPont and I have already been through the charade.”

DuPont lifted an index finger. “That’s not exactly what I—”

“So let’s save us both a little time. Just let me do my job. I only need ten minutes, at most, with the codex. Whatever safeguards you insist upon will be fine with me.”

“I cannot let you see that which we do not have. I apologize if Mr. DuPont led you to believe otherwise.” He forced a smile. “Now, mademoiselle, I have a meeting I’m late for.” He nodded at DuPont—a stiff, unpleasant gesture—and turned to leave.

“You’re a skilled liar, Mr. Raboud. Does it come naturally or did you have to learn it?”

Raboud spun and faced her. His face now showed some character: it flushed in anger.

“Whatever your reason for denying that you have the codex doesn’t concern me. Those are administrative matters. I’m solely interested in verifying the art and establishing the document’s place in history.”

Raboud chewed on that a moment, tapping his right oxford dress shoe. Then he took a step forward and bit his lower lip, apparently still deciding how to respond. “We had a document that some thought was the codex. Because of its controversial nature, we did not want it known that it was in our possession. It would’ve created difficulties with the Israelis, the Americans, even the Vatican. I was relieved, to say the least, when it turned out not to be the codex. Either way, it’s no longer here. We did some minor cleaning and sent it on its way.”