The Lost Codex (29 page)

Vail studied his face. “Sent it where?”

“That, Miss Vega, was not my concern. And, I might venture to state, neither is it yours.”

“Do you have a business card? In case I have any other questions? I appreciate your honesty and apologize for my rudeness.”

Raboud ran a tongue across his lips, clearly considering the request. Then he reached into his suit coat and pulled out a sterling silver case. He handed her the card with a bow of his head. “Again, it’s a shame you wasted your time.”

Vail broke a smile. “I’m in France, in the world’s greatest museum. It’s not all bad.”

Raboud shared the grin—though Vail could tell it was not genuine. “Indeed. Stay the day, enjoy yourself. If any of my staff can be of service, please let Mr. DuPont know.” He nodded again at DuPont—a dutiful gesture—and then walked out.

47

U
zi and Fahad sat in the Citroën watching the entrance to a building that one of Fahad’s contacts had directed him to. The woman was friends with a seamstress who stitched together material, elastic loops, pockets, and Velcro enclosures for “utility vests” that bore a curious resemblance to those that suicide bombers used to strap explosives to their body.

Although the woman had suspicions, she claimed not to know their true use. Regardless, her brother delivered the finished products in boxes to a particular address in the south—where Uzi and Fahad were now parked. It was in the general area of Paris that was alluded to in the encrypted documents, so Uzi felt there was a decent chance the intel was solid.

They were in the Montmartre district, known for its history as an artist colony where the likes of Claude Monet, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and Vincent van Gogh had studios. Blocks away, up on the summit of a steep hill, was the domed Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, a landmark visible from many parts of the city.

The cobblestone roadway inclined fairly aggressively ahead of them, with a few businesses and bars on both sides of the Rue Muller and apartment buildings above. The area was fairly well maintained, though it was clear the neighborhood had seen its share of crime. First-floor windows were barred and occasional graffiti adorned the buildings.

Their car was parked at the curb, among many that lined the street.

“So your nephew was a suicide bomber,” Uzi said. “That must’ve been tough.”

Fahad pulled his gaze off the building for a moment. His eyes scanned Uzi’s face. “Harder than you can know.” He turned back to their target. “I didn’t agree with his methods, even though I understood what he was feeling. He got taken in by the rhetoric and became frustrated, wanted to do something about it. But the people he fell in with, they were using him. They knew it. I knew it. But Akil was young and naive. He didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I’m sorry he took his own life. I’m sorry he killed innocent children. I wish there was a way to work all this out. But there aren’t any easy solutions. This business with the Aleppo Codex and the Jesus Scroll only makes matters worse. As if it needed anything to make it worse.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“Where do you stand on all this?”

“You mean the peace talks? The two-state solution? Jerusalem? Refugee status? Or whether or not a Palestinian state should be allowed to have an airport and military capabilities?”

Uzi laughed. “I just mean … well, where do you stand on the land issue? Are you in the camp that believes Jews never lived in Israel, that the Palestinians should have all the land and kick the Jews out?”

Fahad shook his head. “Look, I’m a reasonable guy. I know the Jews have lived in Israel for what, four thousand years? I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe that by repeatedly denying something it’ll eventually become the truth. There are ancient Islamic texts that talk about the Jews living in Jerusalem. I’ve seen them, so I’d be a fool to make believe those documents don’t exist.”

“There’s a but.”

“There is a ‘but.’ Arabs did live in Palestine. We had homes there that we abandoned during the war. That’s why the UN declared two separate states back in 1947, one for the Jews and one for the Arabs. We have legitimate claims to the land.”

“All the land?”

He thought a moment. “Compromise and conciliation don’t go over well there.”

“I don’t think those words are even in their dictionaries.”

They laughed, but Fahad’s tone faded to one of introspection. “We should’ve accepted partition. No negotiation, no compromise needed. We would’ve had our state and you would’ve had yours. And a lot of young men would never have died in suicide bombings. A lot of death and destruction would’ve been avoided. But we’ve been our own worst enemy. We had a leadership vacuum, got some bad advice.”

“You talking about Arafat?”

“He tops my list but he’s not the only one.” Fahad shook his head. “Things could’ve been so different with better leaders, smarter leaders, people with a vision. I’m very frustrated for my people.” He went silent, staring ahead at the building they were surveilling. “We call the armistice agreement that divided the land al Naqba, the catastrophe. Difference is, I think of it as a catastrophe because of what we could have had. Instead of accepting the agreement, the Arab nations declared war. We lost and got decades of problems. We have to take some responsibility.”

“One could say your leaders are still at war to have it all.”

Fahad nodded absently. “I wish I could disagree with you.”

“Some of my people are wrapped up in that same fight.” They sat there a moment in thought. “It’s a shame more Palestinians don’t recognize Israel for all the good it’s done. Forget the technology and medical advancements it’s brought the world. Forget that it’s the first to send help when an earthquake or tsunami or some other catastrophe hits somewhere. No other Middle Eastern country goes to the lengths that Israel does to protect human rights or practice social justice. No Middle Eastern country offers women equal rights—except Israel, where women have the same rights as men.”

“Muslim countries in the Middle East aren't concerned with equality between men and women the way the West is.”

“No, I guess not. But isn’t it ironic that the Arabs living in Israel are treated better than Arabs anywhere else in the region? Israel’s the only country in the Middle East where you’re free to practice your religion, worship your God. And despite all the crap that’s gone on with Gaza, Israel still donates tens of millions of dollars in humanitarian aid to Palestinians—and opens its hospitals to any Palestinian in need. Even terrorists, as bizarre as that sounds.” He looked at Fahad. “Doesn’t any of that count?”

Fahad shrugged. “For my people, to the men in charge, the land is the only thing that counts. None of the other things you mentioned matters to them.”

“It should. It’s important.”

Fahad chuckled disdainfully. “They are blinded by their single-minded fixation. Their resistance.”

“You really think things would’ve been different? Wouldn’t the extremists have followed the same plan of action?”

Fahad stared out the window, considering the question. Finally he said, “Would we be in the same place we are now? I honestly don’t know. But yeah, it’s possible.”

“Let’s hope that one day the Hamases, al Humats, al Qaedas, and Islamic States of the world will go away, that the extremes on both sides will find common ground and see the benefit of working together. Of living together in peace where each side recognizes the legitimacy of the other.”

“I share that hope. But after all you’ve seen? You really believe that can happen?”

Uzi considered the question. “A friend of mine, a peace negotiator during the Oslo talks, a vocal supporter of Palestinians having their own country, used to say, ‘You never know. Anything can happen.’”

“
Used to
say?”

“He was killed in a suicide bombing.”

Fahad looked at him.

“No, I’m not kidding.” Uzi took one last glance around the street. “It’s quiet. I think we’re safe to take a poke around. If everything looks good, we can break into the flat and go hunting.”

Fahad checked his Glock, then pulled his jacket around to cover the handle. “Let’s do it.”

Uzi grabbed Fahad’s arm. “I’m sorry. For how I acted after we met, not trusting you with Amer Madari.”

“Hey, I’m not only your sworn enemy but I’m CIA—no one trusts us.” He winked. “Apology accepted.”

UZI ENTERED THE BUILDING FIRST, followed two minutes later by Fahad. They proceeded separately up to the flat, Uzi by stairs and Fahad by elevator. They both wore their eyeglasses and baseball hats in case there were cameras.

When Uzi and Fahad met down the hall from the apartment, Fahad said that he had not seen any surveillance devices.

“I didn’t either. What about the dark blue minivan down the block?”

“Couldn’t get a read on who was inside. Looked like two men but there was too much reflection off the glass.”

“That’s about what I got too. Could be trouble. But we’re here, let’s go as far as we can. You’re up. Go knock.”

Fahad would be the “face” of this phase of the operation because he was of the same nationality and could more easily pass for a nonthreatening presence.

He balled his fist and rapped on the wood door. After waiting a long minute, he tried again—but got the same response.

“Hey, it’s me, open up,” he said in Arabic. A moment later he signaled Uzi down the hall.

Uzi removed a small toolkit from his pocket and proceeded to jimmy the lock. A few seconds later, they were inside. They split up and began searching the flat, which looked like the one in Greenwich: sparse furnishings, a computer, and the detritus of bachelors living in close quarters: the acrid smell of Turkish cigarettes lingered in the air and dirty clothing littered the bedrooms, where bare mattresses sat on worn wood plank floors.

They reconvened in the den five minutes later.

“I’ve got a desktop,” Uzi said, “which means if we want to pull anything off it I have to do it here.”

“Can you copy the data and take it with us?”

“I can try.” He sat down on a folding chair at the makeshift desk, a coffee table with a couple of thick phone books piled on top of one another to bring the monitor up to eye level. A webcam was attached to a nineteen-inch widescreen LCD.

Fahad checked the time. “I’m gonna stand watch in the hall. I see or hear something, I’ll knock twice. It’s a small building so I probably won’t be able to give you more than a few seconds’ notice.”

“Understood,” Uzi said as he tapped away at the keyboard.

“Think you can you be done in five minutes?”

“If it’s a simple drag and drop, yeah. If they’ve got things encrypted, no way.” Uzi looked up. “You’re worried about that minivan.”

“I’m naturally paranoid.”

“If there’s one thing I learned a long time ago, Mo, it’s that a little paranoia can be an operative’s best friend.” Uzi glanced at the clock in the computer’s system tray. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll grab what I can, then we’ll get out of here.”

UZI HAD BEEN AT IT FOR SEVEN MINUTES, keeping one eye on the time as he worked to decrypt the data. It was as he had feared: if the cell in Greenwich secured their documents it was likely al Humat’s standard operating procedure. It made sense: they were a sophisticated organization, disciplined, intelligent, well organized.

He was perspiring profusely, decrypting on the fly and loading the data onto his flash drive as he went, when something caught his eye. He pulled his phone and dialed Richard Prati.

“I don’t have a lot of time so just shut up and listen.”

“I’m listening,” Prati said.

“They’re bringing nuclear material in, but they’re not using a tunnel. They’re coming across the Atlantic, then going down the St. Lawrence River between Canada and the US. About 125 miles southwest of Montreal—near Hill Island—they’ll be offloading it onto a truck and crossing into the US on Interstate 81 which runs south through upstate New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. They could be taking it into Jersey or Philly but I’m betting they’re gonna take another shot at Manhattan.”

“I’ll run with this,” Prati said. “You know when it’s going down?”

“No. If I find anything else I’ll let you know.”

Uzi hung up and flicked his eyes to the system tray’s clock. He had less than a minute before he had to leave. As he dragged several more documents onto his drive, an email hit the inbox. It was in Arabic, so he did a quick translation.

Meet me at noon, roof of the Arc de Triomphe. Don’t be late.

I have new orders for you from KAS.

It was not signed, and the email address was merely a string of numbers at Gmail. KAS. Uzi searched his memory—who the hell was KAS?

And then it hit him: Kadir Abu Sahmoud.

Uzi looked again at the time: noon was twenty-one minutes from now. What to do? He had promised he would be out of there in ten minutes—which was smart regardless of whether or not he had made a commitment to leave.

The decision was clear: take what he had, shut down, and get over to the Arc de Triomphe.

He and Fahad could return and finish going through the files later, assuming it was safe. But the ability to intercept a message from Sahmoud—and potentially capture one of his lieutenants—was now the priority.

He pulled out his USB flash drive and powered off the PC. Seconds later he stepped out into the hallway.

Fahad was not there.

48

V
ail joined DeSantos in the Denon wing on the first floor—Room 6, known simply as “the Mona Lisa Room.”

Vail had texted him when she left the document restoration laboratory and he suggested this location as an innocuous place to rendezvous: it was crowded and one of the busiest exhibits in the museum, not to mention the most famous.

Vail entered the large, high-ceilinged space. There was an echo of hushed voices off the tall, flat, patterned gold walls. Aside from two rows of framed Renaissance paintings hanging by chains from channels in the walls, the room felt bare.

A crowd of a couple hundred people was concentrated in front of one modestly sized work, however, that hung alone—the
Mona Lisa.

Arms extended up from the masses, digicams and cell phones aimed at the painting, almost as if she were conducting a press conference and the cameras were microphones recording every word. Off to the right and left were large red and black signs warning people that pickpockets operated in this room: while you studied the famed portrait, criminal elements emptied your person and pockets of euros, watches, jewelry—anything of value. They did not discriminate.

“They had to close the place down yesterday,” DeSantos said. “Because of the pickpockets. The workers went on a one-day strike to protest. They were being threatened. Apparently the gypsies operate in gangs now and they’ve gotten violent, even threatening the security guards. Leave them alone or they know where you live and they’ll go after your family.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. While I was waiting, a young couple told me they’d planned to come yesterday, got here, and were turned away. They had to rearrange their trip to come back today.” He nodded toward the left portion of the crowd. “The guy in black, the woman in gray. Watch him get the wallet out of that tourist’s pocket.”

Vail saw their methodology: they worked in a group, an attractive female pushing up against the mark while the male crowded him from behind. She engaged the victim, apologizing or making some comment about how packed it was—while her accomplice removed the booty with practiced skill.

Vail set a hand on her concealed Glock and took a step forward—but DeSantos grabbed her arm.

“You’re not a cop here,
Katherine Vega
. Let it go.”

Vail growled, then stepped back—but did not take her eyes off the perpetrator.

“Find anything out?”

DeSantos’s question refocused her. “Yeah. The curator was under ‘orders’ to deny that they had it.”

“He just told you that?”

“Kind of. I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

DeSantos lifted his brow. “Go on.”

“I ended up speaking with the director of ancient documents, Lufti Raboud. Seems as if the order to deny their possession of the codex came from him. I sent his prints to Tim Meadows.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I got his business card. I went into the ladies’ room, dusted it, and emailed it to Tim. Because of the time difference it may be a while before we get something.”

“Nicely done.”

“I could tell Raboud was lying and I called him on it. He came clean and said they did have a document they thought was the codex but it turned out not to be the case.”

“Shit.”

“Not exactly. I’m pretty sure that was a load of crap too. He said that when they determined it wasn’t the codex, he was relieved because of the controversy surrounding it.”

“Okay.”

“No, not okay. The Louvre’s director of ancient documents relieved he didn’t have the ability to examine, to touch, one of the most important manuscripts of all time? I’m not buying it.”

DeSantos bobbed his head. “Good point.”

“He’s either an imposter, a sleeper operative, or he’s on al Humat’s payroll.”

“Our focus is the codex.”

“He said the document that they did have was cleaned and sent away.”

DeSantos nodded slowly, then said, “You don’t believe him.”

“Assuming it’s real, and assuming it did need some restoration, which is certainly reasonable, I may know where it is.”

“And where’s that?”

“In the restoration workshop. Pretty cool lab in the basement.”

“Then we should have a look around,” DeSantos said as he scanned the large room. “They’re open late, till 9:00 or 10:00. We can’t just sit here and wait for it to close.”

“You’re right. Why pass the time actually enjoying one of the finest collections of art in the world?”

“Given your background in art history, I can see why that’s appealing to you. Ain’t happenin’.”

“Knew you were going to say that.”

“Coming back later in the same day would look suspicious if anyone happens to notice.” He turned his body to face both Vail and the
Mona Lisa.
“So we have to make something happen.”

“Knew you were going to say that too.” A few seconds later, she said, “We could set off the fire alarm.”

DeSantos scanned the room. “Don’t see any. Not sure how that works in a museum anyway. Can’t be hooked up to sprinklers. The art would be damaged or destroyed. Must be heat sensors and smoke detectors. We don’t smoke, so unless you can spontaneously generate intense heat, we have to find another way.”

“You always tell me I’m hot.”

“Hot enough to trigger
my
sensors. But not hot enough to trigger the heat sensors. I’ve got another option. The gypsies.”

“I think they prefer the term Roma.”

“Fine. The Roma.”

“You want to pay them to break in and steal it for us?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Problem is we’d never get it back from them. No, we use them as a diversion.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m thinking.”

Five minutes later, he had the seed of a plan: they would observe the behavior of the Roma pickpockets and then select one to approach with an offer: they would pay him €500 to cause a distraction significant enough to draw security to the area. It was likely they had compatriots in other areas of the museum, so if they coordinated the disturbance, security—and those monitoring whatever surveillance cameras the Louvre had—would be drawn to respond. When they were done, assuming they performed as agreed, DeSantos would meet his contact outside and give him another €500.

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“I’m not crazy about it either. But it’s the best I can come up with that won’t put our asses on the line or our faces on camera. The Roma are used to brushes with the guards—and because of what happened yesterday, I’m sure the guards are on edge about it. The response should be bigger than usual.”

Vail hesitated.

“You got a better idea?”

“No.”

“How sure are you that Raboud was lying?”

How sure am I? Good question.
She took a moment to replay the conversation, reconsider his body language. “Sixty-forty. Maybe seventy-thirty.”

DeSantos considered that. “We’re here. The codex may or may not be here. I say we go for it.”

Of course you would.

“You have doubts?”

She leaned close to him. “We’re in a foreign country on forged passports, about to break into the Louvre’s document restoration lab and steal an invaluable ancient artifact that may or not be there. With no valid exit strategy. And we’re relying on a criminal enterprise to help us.” She shrugged. “What’s there to doubt? Sounds like a flawless plan.”

“Good, then we’re in agreement.”

She gave DeSantos a look but it did not deter him.

“Let’s take some time to pick the right guy to go after.”

“And how do you know who’s Roma and who’s a tourist?”

“The tourists come and go. They look, they gawk, they shoot photos, and then move on. The thieves move in, do their thing, and then shuffle over to another area.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve been watching. Very little gets by me,
Katherine
.”

“I could provide plenty of examples, but what would be the point?”

“You realize you just said that out loud.”

“No I didn’t.”

DeSantos shook his head in disappointment. “Are you with me or not?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I was being courteous. Now go take a position on the far side and observe. Be discreet.”

“Thanks for the advice. I was going to make it really obvious.”

They wandered off and watched the area for ten minutes before DeSantos rejoined her. “I’ve got our candidate. Give me €500.” He held out his right hand and she peeled off the bills. “Hang back here.”

He walked over to a male who appeared to be in his early twenties and whispered in his ear. He listened a moment then nodded. DeSantos shook hands with the man—the handoff of the money—and walked back to Vail.

“We’re good. He’s spreading the word to his brother, who’ll go set it up with his cousins in three other rooms. That should be enough.”

“How can we be sure?”

“Because he’s sure. And he makes his living here. He’s been working here for nine years.”

“Did you say ‘working’ here?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Nine years? He’s what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“They start young. Children can get away with a lot more because we automatically assume they’re innocent. They’re very effective tools.”

“Children are
tools
. Another figure of speech?”

“Shut up. We need to go get ready. When he signals us, we have to be in position.”

As they made their way toward the elevator, Vail said, “What’s the signal?”

“A smiley face texted to my throwaway. That and we’ll hear the fire alarm.”

“Fire alarm? That was my idea.”

“And it was a good one, so I used it. They know how to set it off. That way we’ll clear the lab.”

“Maybe the entire museum.”

“Works for me.” DeSantos led the way into the empty car. “Now where are the cameras? We still need to avoid them because if they get a sense it was intentional, we don’t want our faces on a recording going into a restricted area.”

“The only ones I saw were in the corridor outside the lab.”

“Nothing inside?”

“Unless they were well concealed, no.”

As they exited the elevator on level B1, DeSantos pulled out his phone. “That’s it. Got the text.”

Before Vail could acknowledge, the fire alarm started blaring. It was shrill and high-pitched.

“Standard fire evacuation protocol for a building is using the stairs,” DeSantos said over the din. “Know where they are?”

“End of the hall on the right.”

“Let’s give it a minute, then we’ll make sure the hallway’s clear.”

A moment later, they moved up the corridor, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras as best they could.

“We can’t be sure everyone’s evacuated.”

“It’s a fire alarm,” DeSantos said. “Most people are gonna get out. And if there’s one or two who don’t, we’ll deal with it.”

I was afraid you were going to say that.

They approached the door and Vail entered the four digit code as DeSantos discretely wrapped his fingers around the grip of his handgun.

The lock clicked and she pushed on the metal handle. As it swung open she saw a red ceiling light blinking in the corner of the room.

They gave a quick look around, then signaled each other: all clear.

Except that it wasn’t.