The Lost Codex (31 page)

Thirty or so feet behind the guards, DeSantos was approaching on the run.

Vail headed toward the men, then threw her hands up to her ears. “How do I get out? The alarm’s so loud, I can’t stand it anymore! Help me get out of here, please.”

“Down,” one of them said, obviously unimpressed with her acting abilities. “Get down on the ground now!”

51

U
zi descended the stairs and realized that, with the elevator broken, this was the only way in and out. That meant any second now he could come face-to-face with the Paris police. And unlike their brethren in England, these guys were armed.

After forty or fifty steps he turned into a dimly lit room that looked like a small museum: there was a sizable scaled mockup of the arch, a vending machine that dispensed Medaille Souvenir from Monnaie de Paris—collector’s coins stamped with the arch’s image—and sculptures that appeared to commemorate French military victories.

Had Fahad found the other tango? Was the guy lying in wait? Or bleeding out somewhere?

Uzi pushed those thoughts aside. He had to concentrate on evasion and escape. There was no place to hide—at least, not effectively. But he had to figure something out because he heard the boots of men rapidly ascending the stairs.

He swiveled, saw a restroom, and knew it was his only option. He ducked inside and pulled the Glock from his waist band. He looked at it a long moment and again debated what he should do. Even if he hid the weapon in here, it would be discovered sooner rather than later. If he kept it with him at least he had a chance that it would not be found.

Uzi shoved the pistol back in his pants, then set his ear against the door, listening for when it might be safe to emerge.

A moment later, the voices and boot steps subsided. If they thought their suspect had fled, one or more officers might be standing on the other side of the door, checking the museum—and that meant clearing the restroom.

But he heard nothing. No bustle of equipment belts, no footfalls, no communication between two partners or the chirp of a radio.

Uzi drew in a breath and pulled open the door. He peered out—the area looked clear. He moved across the room, walking on his toes to prevent the click of heels against the floor.

He got to the steps and knew he had about two hundred to descend. And he had no idea who, or what, awaited him below.

He made his way down the spiral staircase, moving at a fairly rapid clip, getting into a rhythm as his feet clomped down the stone slabs.

When he hit the landing, three police officers were standing in a triangle, handguns drawn. Uzi immediately raised his hands and said, “I was in the museum and people came running down the stairs saying they heard gunshots. I thought it was a car backfiring, but the police came running up and told me to go down, not to go to the terrace. But I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow morning and I won’t have another chance to see—”

“Move along,” the cop said with a heavy French accent. “Outside. If everything okay, you go back up. Keep your ticket.”

“Any idea how long it might be?”

The cop’s brow hardened. “Long time if you keep talking. Go wait outside.”

“Right,” Uzi said, backing away. “Sorry.”

He walked through the tunnel and up the stairs, past another two cops at the entrance. Uzi nodded at them—a quick dip of his chin in acknowledgment—and started walking at a normal pace, wanting to run but exercising restraint.

The arch was at the center of a twelve-spoked wheel; a dozen streets radiated out in a 360 degree arc. He could not spend much time here—he would either see Fahad right away or he would move on.

He thought of grabbing a cab, but those in the vicinity had passengers and he did not want to stand around in sight of the police. Ahead was a Métro station, which would give him a decent chance of getting away from the vicinity and putting distance between himself and the victim.

He walked up Avenue de Friedland to get the train at the Charles de Gaulle de Etoile station when an ivory-colored Citroën pulled up in front of him.

“Get in,” Fahad said through the passenger window.

Uzi pulled open the door and hit the seat the same second Fahad accelerated.

“So what was that?” Fahad asked. “Where the hell was the meet?”

“There was no meet,” Uzi said as he buckled his belt.

“But you said—”

“It was an ambush, a setup.”

“That’s impossible. How could they know we were headed there? Unless—”

“They sent us there.”

“You think those counterterrorism officers were invol—”

“No. The tangos probably had some kind of incursion detection system. Either when we entered the flat or when I turned on the computer monitor, it started transmitting our conversation or—” he slapped his right thigh. “The webcam. When I started the PC it must’ve notified them and activated the camera. They saw what I was doing on the computer and they sent me a bogus email about a meet. They knew we’d take the bait. It’s like dangling a flourless tort in front of a chocoholic. He has to take a bite. That’s exactly what I did. And that’s why they only gave us just enough time to get there. They knew how long it’d take to drive there, and they had people in the area ready to execute us. Or me. Maybe they didn’t know about you.”

Fahad turned left on Rue de Longchamp.

“Where we going?”

“How about back toward their flat. To get even.”

Uzi bit down on his molars. He did not know if he should feel incensed or pleased that he and Fahad had beaten back their plans to kill him. In truth, he felt both.

Uzi pushed his buttocks back into the seat and sat up straight. “Let’s go find the bastards.”

52

D
eSantos came up behind the two guards and rendered one unconscious with a vicious blow to the back of his cranium with the handle of his Glock. As the other turned, DeSantos struck him with an equally violent backhand. He went down but was still moving, moaning and writhing. DeSantos stuck his knee in the man’s mid back then slammed him again in the head.

He would have a hell of a headache, a couple of nasty welts, a concussion, and some memory loss, but he would recover. And he would be alive. He would never know how lucky he and his partner were.

DeSantos grabbed the arms of the first man and started pulling him along the slick floor. Vail did likewise with the second guard, but struggled to move his mass, even though he was fairly slight. They got both bodies against one of the display cabinets, out of the direct view of the approaching officers.

“Cops must’ve gone in one of the other entrances,” Vail said, peering out into the near distance at the sortie of the Sully access.

“There’s a Denon access,” DeSantos said. “I saw it on the map when we first came in. I think that’s one of the places where the Roma were going to set off the alarm.”

“So you want to just walk right out?”

“Something like that.”

Vail gave him a dubious look.

“Best I’ve got. If we can get outside, we’ve got a shot.”

“You want to split up?”

“Normally I’d say yes. But I think we’d look less suspicious if we were a husband and wife who got lost during the commotion of an emergency evacuation.”

They walked straight out and then took the escalator down. Ahead was the mall—and several police officers and military personnel deployed at strategic points, no doubt there to prevent looting of the abandoned shops.

“What do you want to do?” she asked as they approached the cops.

“You’ll think of something.”

“Stop right there,” yelled one of the officers, his right hand held up in front of him. “What are you two doing in here?”

“My husband was in the bathroom, he’s got a bad case of the runs and he was stuck on the toilet when the alarm—”

“Honey!” DeSantos feigned surprise. “Really? That’s too much information. Embarrassing.”

Vail shrugged and turned back to the cop. “I couldn’t leave him alone. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Oh.” DeSantos bent over. “There it is again.”

“You need a bathroom?” she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“No, just—just some fresh air.”

“Go on,” the man said. “Up the stairs. Through the pyramid.” He grabbed his radio and spoke rapid-fire French into it, hopefully telling the cops at the top that they were cool to let through. Either that or he was saying, “Arrest these jokers and throw them in the slammer. They tried to pull the old ‘stuck on the shitter’ ruse on me.”

They emerged on the plaza, where hundreds of people were gathered, impatiently awaiting readmittance into the museum. DeSantos pulled his phone, read the display, then looked up. “C’mon. We’ve got a debt to pay.”

“Now?”

“Got a rep to protect.”

He led Vail ahead, toward the Tuileries Gardens and Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. He made eye contact with a Roma Vail remembered seeing in the Mona Lisa Room then reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He shook the man’s hand, deposited the euros in his palm, and kept walking down the path.

“You think we got out of there without getting captured on video?” Vail asked as they walked briskly, but normally, along the finely graveled, damp path. A drizzle had apparently been falling for some time as small puddles had formed on the walkway’s decomposed granite.

“Not a chance,” DeSantos said, head moving from side to side, surveilling the park. “But the only thing they’ll have on us—if there were cameras there—is me attacking two security guards. Simple assault.”

“You hit them with your
Glock
.”

“Yeah, there’s that. Guess it’s not so ‘simple.’”

After passing the Grand Bassin Rond—a large fountain and surrounding pond—sirens started up again and police cars whizzed by.

“Bad sign?” Vail asked.

“Definitely. I guess they found the guards—or the video of me doing my ‘Glock karate chop.’ Just keep walking. No panic, no undue attention.”

They passed a couple of outdoor cafés featuring tables with red umbrellas poking up below intricately pruned medium-size trees. One eatery displayed a chalkboard wood-framed sign offering
vin chaud a la cannelle
—for the English tourists, “hot red wine with cinnamon”—that made Vail’s mouth water.

They walked on and she glanced to her right, in the vicinity of a Métro station. But police were milling about, making that route of exit unappealing if not downright dangerous.

DeSantos took Vail’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t want you to be alarmed, but there are several French policemen behind us and two approaching from the south. Keep walking straight.”

“You did say, ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ right?”

“We can’t outrun them because there are too many. And more in cars along the periphery.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Not now, no. Not this time.”

Jesus.

“You think they ID’d us?”

“Let’s not stick around to find out. Have you ever ridden a Segway?”

“Those things we saw the tourists riding this morning? The two-wheeled things with the pole you put between your legs?”

“Another time, I’d have some sexual comeback. But yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. There are a bunch of ’em ahead of us. Tour group standing by the Luxor Obelisk.”

Vail peered into the misty rain. “I see them.”

“They’re taking a break. The Segways are about twenty yards behind them. We’re gonna borrow two.”

“You want to try to outrun the police?”

DeSantos snorted. “They only go about thirteen miles per hour, Karen. We might be able to outrun most of the cops who are in boots and weighed down with utility belts. And they’ll take us farther than someone on foot. But that’s not the point. They give us mobility—we’d be able to go places cars can’t. We need angles and distance.”

They approached a dozen Segways parked in a line at a curb. A couple of the tourists were late leaving their vehicles, but the others were still at the obelisk, snapping photos.

“We just gonna walk up to them and steal them?”

“Pretty much.”

“What about keys?”

“No keys. They’ve got controllers that have chips inside that keep track of that Segway’s vital stats. There are security settings to prevent you from doing what we’re about to do, but most tour companies don’t bother with them unless the vehicles are going to be out of sight.”

“So we’re hoping to get far enough away that we’ll be out of the controller’s range before they realize two are missing.”

“Put your helmet on and move it away from the curb. And be careful of how you lean because it responds to your body movements.”

“How I lean?

“It uses gyroscopes to sense your body weight. Lean forward, it goes forward. Lean backward, it goes backward. Steer with the handlebars. Move them to the right side, you turn right. It takes some getting used to, but once you get the hang of it, it’s very natural.”

“Do I have time to practice?”

DeSantos glanced at her as they neared the vehicles.

“Just saying. This might not be pretty.”

“It won’t be. But I have confidence in you.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now.”

They walked the line of Segways, going for the two farthest from the tour group.

“And what if they see us and yell?”

“We’ll worry about that if and when it happens. Once we get the helmets on, hopefully we’ll look like two people from their group. These tours are put together on a first-come first-served basis, so other than your companion or friend, you don’t know any of the other people. It’s a group of strangers.”

As they approached, Vail saw the black hard shell helmets hanging from the handles. She took one and quickly seated it on her head. It was a too big, but she knew that would be the least of her problems.

She climbed aboard and placed a foot on either side of the raised center panel, on the ridged rubber pads. On the outside of each of her ankles was a large air-inflated tire, partially covered by a mud guard.

Vail watched as DeSantos guided the vehicle with the movement of his body. Vail did the same—but overcorrected and nearly fell when she straightened her knees and the Segway jerked backward. She recovered and leaned forward, moving alongside DeSantos, listening for yelling—expecting someone to notice that they were stealing two very expensive vehicles.

She wasn’t disappointed, because they had gotten a half block when she heard a female voice call out, “Hé, arrêter!” Vail interpreted it as, “Hey, stop!”

“Keep going, “DeSantos said over his shoulder, looking back at Vail, who was moving in a herky-jerky, start-stop fashion, generally forward—but too slowly. “Just lean toward the handlebars. She won’t be able to catch us.”

And hopefully she won’t turn the damn things off with the remote.

Vail canted forward and her speed increased: a smooth acceleration. The rain beat against her face and prickled her eyes, but—she had to admit—the ride was exhilarating, much like she felt when she drove a car for the first time.

She wanted to sneak a look behind her, to make sure they were not being followed, but she did not dare shift her weight.

They moved down the asphalt street, which was worn to the original cobblestone, making for a bumpy ride. She came up alongside DeSantos, who had slowed to let her catch up. “We have to call the police, tell them about Raboud, that he’s really Ramazanov. And where to find him.”

“We’re not gonna do that.”

“What are you talking about? Why the hell not?”

“I left a pair of scissors on the desk next to him so he could cut the cuffs. I assume he’d be smart enough to look for a way out as soon as we left. It’ll take him a while with scissors, but—”

“Why’d you do that?”

“He’s worth more to us as a free man than one put through the French legal system.”

She turned to him, her face hot against the wet, cold rain—and nearly lost her balance. “Hector, you’re not making any sense.”

“I rigged his cell phone.”

“Rigged, how?”

“Something Uzi taught me. He called it a cross between Bluebugging and some other techno-hack stuff I didn’t understand. He built some kind of app that looks to exploit weaknesses in Bluetooth and cellular signal technology. I took care of it while you were looking over that ancient manuscript. Bottom line is that if what I did worked, we’ll be able to read the data on Ramazanov’s phone—and eavesdrop on his calls. Supposedly we can even send texts from his phone to people in his contact list.”

“Without him knowing?”

“Uzi’s the one to ask, but I think so. He made it as dumb-shit proof as possible because when it comes to tech, I’m—”

“A dumb-shit?”

“Challenged.” DeSantos looked around and appeared indecisive as he led her down the Rue Le Champs Elysées, past a large government-looking building, the tire tread channeling away the rain water that had settled on the pavement and making a swishing sound as the vehicle moved along the roadway. A white and charcoal chiaroscuro choked the expansive sky before them. A hazy misty pall hung over the city and partially obscured the Eiffel Tower, which rose above all buildings in the vicinity.

“Where to?”

“Good question,” DeSantos said. “I screwed up.”

“What?”

“Too open here. I’d wanted to get us into an area with alleys and narrow streets. That’s our main advantage on these things.”

“So far so good. No one’s chasing us. No cops, no sirens.”

As soon as she said that, a police car appeared, a blue striped white Citroën Jumper minivan that bore a red crest labeled “Police Nationale.” Its two blue lights were swirling as the vehicle slowed half a block away.

“So much for ‘no one’s chasing us.’”

“They’re turning right. Keep going, don’t panic. We’re just tourists taking a glide on a Segway.”

On cue, another cruiser’s siren wound up and the vehicle started moving in their direction.

“We need to get off these things.”

“Not yet.”

“No,” Vail said, “Now. Someone probably put out a stolen vehicle code, and the police put it together with what they’ve now realized was a ruse at the Louvre. Not hard to add it up to a man and a woman on a couple of stolen Segways.”

“Fine. There’s a Métro station up ahead.” He slowed and nodded at a red sign mounted on an antique light post. “Oh, shit. Métro Champs Elysées Clemenceau.”

“Why’s that bad?”

DeSantos glanced around. “Because on your left is the Grand Palais. And down that street to your right is the Élysée Palace, where the president of France lives.”

“Nice work, Hector.” White police cars were stationed up and down the streets in all directions. “It’s like we rode right into a hornet’s nest.”

“Let’s not get stung. We’re already on the cameras. Let’s ditch these and split up, head into the station and catch the next train. Wherever it goes doesn’t matter. As long as it’s away from here.”

Vail leaned back to slow the vehicle and brought it to a stop in front of a parked car, partially hidden from view of many of the police vehicles and about thirty feet from the Métro entrance. She yanked off the helmet and set it on the Segway’s foot pads and crossed the street. Keeping her head down, she approached the station and descended the steps. As if she had any doubt where she was, the word METRO was literally set in stone, carved into the decorative concrete bannister that faced commuters as they headed down toward the subterranean platform.

She purchased a ticket, trying to appear calm and casual in case she was under surveillance, keeping her chin down as much as possible while she waited for the train to arrive.

Where’s Hector?

There were two dozen or so people in the area chattering with one another or reading iPads. A few sat on white chairs that were shaped like shallow ice cream cones.