The Lost Codex (35 page)

They grabbed Yaseen and Aziz and shoved them up the steps. When they reached the top, Uzi shined his light on the door. It had warning stickers and other decals that had been painted over and rusted through in spots. Fahad pushed his Glock against Yaseen’s temple as Uzi grasped the handle and pulled it open. He peered out and indicated that they were good to go.

Fahad closed the door behind him and helped usher the two men down the dark side street. Behind them, swirling lights painted the buildings.

“I’ll get the car,” Fahad said. “Meet you right here.”

Thirty seconds later they were loading their hostages into the backseat, Uzi wedged up against them. In the small vehicle, the pressure against Yaseen’s arm made him whimper. He started rocking back and forth, trying to head-butt Uzi, so Uzi elbowed him in the stomach, hard enough to send a message.

Aziz was comparatively docile, perhaps content to let Yaseen bear the brunt of their anger.

“Where we going?” Uzi asked.

Fahad looked up, his eyes gazing at Uzi in the rearview mirror. “Someplace quiet. We’re gonna have a little chat with our guests.”

58

V
ail glanced over her shoulder at the person who had called after them. It was a man, standing alongside Dominique.

“We’re arranging refunds and transportation,” he said.

“No worries,” Vail said, forcing a smile. “We already have alternate plans.” She lifted her Samsung. “A friend phoned us, asked if we wanted to meet them for drinks.”

And then the device vibrated. She looked down and saw DeSantos reach for his.

Vail turned back toward the cruise staff. “Thanks for your help. It was a lovely dinner while it lasted.”

“Would you like a credit for a future—”

“We’re flying out tomorrow. Thanks anyway.”

“Honey,” DeSantos said. “It’s the Joneses. They have a question and I don’t know what to tell them.” He craned his neck around Vail and waved at Dominique. “Thanks again.” He took Vail’s hand and gave it a tug and they headed down into the Métro.

“The Joneses?”

“There
are
people named Jones, you know.”

Vail stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “We can’t take the train.” If they were under suspicion, their last known location would be reported as this particular Métro line, she explained. “That’d narrow down their search.”

“That cop mentality is handy to have around, you know?”

“Don’t get too used to it.”

He led the way to the nearest exit and they ascended to street level.

Vail wanted to read the message that had come through but it was more important to remain attentive to their surroundings in case something was amiss. Four eyes were better than two. “Did you happen to see who the text was from?”

“Uzi. He and Fahad have Yaseen and Aziz. He wants us to meet them at a building to be determined.”

“How can we meet them at a place when we don’t know where it is?”

“Because we’re going to find it and tell them where to go.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“I’m calling our CIA buddy.”

“Creepy Claude?”

“He’s a spook, Karen. Most of the ones I’ve known over the years are a bit off. If you think about it, there has to be something wrong with them to do the work they do. You know?”

“I could say the same about you.”

“And I wouldn’t deny it.” DeSantos pressed the phone to his ear and waited for it to connect. They emerged near the Eiffel Tower and started walking along Quai Branly, where every ten yards men were thrusting miniature blinking light mockups of the monument at them as they passed.

“No,” DeSantos said, pushing the hucksters back as he waited for Claude to answer. He rotated the handset toward his lips. “Yeah, it’s me. I need a place where we can do some Q&A with a couple of guys … exactly.” DeSantos listened a second then said, “Perfect. Text it to all of us.” He lowered the phone and checked the street sign, then brought it back up and gave Claude their twenty.

Vail’s cell vibrated seconds later. She consulted the screen and realized they now had a location. She pulled it up on her GPS and made a quick assessment. “Only about three miles from here.”

“Tell Uzi and Mo we’re on our way.”

“And how are we getting there? You want to risk a cab?”

“No need. Creepy Claude is sending someone to pick us up.”

59

U
zi pushed open the rusted door and entered the pitch-black building. According to Claude, a fire had gutted it two months ago and it was tagged to be demolished. It still had the mildewed, carbon stench of burned timbers, fried electrical circuits, and fire brigade water.

Uzi pulled Yaseen, who was doing his best to resist, inside and yanked the door closed behind him. Aziz struggled as well, but it was not a serious effort and Fahad had no difficulty controlling him.

Claude was already there and locked the door behind them. He led them to the far end of the room with a powerful lantern. He stopped opposite two folding chairs.

The interior was high ceilinged and vast—at least seventy-five yards in length and width. Uzi turned on his phone’s flashlight and craned his neck up and around, checking out the charred rafters to make sure nothing was going to come crashing down on them. Satisfied that it was safe enough, he joined Claude, Fahad, and the two terrorists along the wall, which was made of brick and concrete.

There was also a medium-size gray metal toolbox on the ground that did not belong.

Uzi knew what it was. He hoped their guests would cooperate, tell them what they needed to know, then stand trial for mass murder under various terrorism statutes. Uzi figured there was little likelihood of that happening.

When Fahad pushed Aziz into one of the chairs—or threw him into it—the handcuffed terrorist fell backward and tipped it over. They watched him struggle to right himself, but he ultimately did and found the seat.

Uzi brought Yaseen over and stood by his side while the man sat down. Fahad pulled a couple of flexcuffs from his pocket and fastened Yaseen’s ankles to the chair legs. He ratcheted them tight, forcing Yaseen to lean forward. He then did the same with Aziz.

“So now what?” Yaseen said.

Uzi stepped in front of him. “You know what. We’re going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. It can be very simple if you let it be. Or it can be painfully difficult if you make it that way.”

“How’s your arm doing?” Fahad asked. He walked over and squeezed it, feigning concern. Yaseen let out a loud growl. “You’re going to need to get that looked at pretty soon. Or they might have to cut it off at the shoulder.” He shrugged. “Sooner we get this over with, sooner we’ll get you over to a hospital.”

“Who’s that back there?” Aziz asked, gesturing with his chin.

“Oh, him?” Uzi said. “That’s just Claude. He’s here to observe. He’s an expert on …” He turned to Claude. “What is it that you call it?”

“Enhanced interrogation,” Claude said.

“Right,” Uzi said.

“How many young men and women did you strap bombs to?” Fahad asked. “How many did you incite to violence?”

Yaseen smiled. “That’s important to you, I can tell.”

“Answer the question.”

“Who keeps track of such things?”

With a broad stance and arms folded across his chest, Uzi said, “You do. It’s not about innocent children, it’s not about what you think an intifada, or a jihad movement, will do for the Palestinians. It’s what it will do for
you
. You’re a killer.”

Fahad drew back a boot and kicked Yaseen in the knee, sending the chair backward against the cement.

“How many of our people did you kill?” Fahad yelled.

Yaseen groaned as Claude and Uzi pulled him upright.

“Mo, I really think we should—”

“Answer me,” Fahad said.

Yaseen narrowed his eyes and locked gazes with Fahad. “Seventy-nine.”

“Seventy-nine. Dead because you brainwashed them into being an army designed to kill others under the guise of religious jihad. My nephew, Akil El-Fahad, was one of them.”

“Akil.” Yaseen laughed. “I remember him. So innocent, so committed to the cause. He knew you were working for the Israelis, informing on Hamas. That’s why he sought me out. Why he wanted to become a jihadist. He thought what you were doing was wrong, betraying your people.”

“You’re lying. You didn’t know my nephew.”

“Tall for his age. A limp he got chasing a ball into the street in front of a car.”

Fahad stared at Yaseen.

“Oh, I knew him all right. I took him under my wing, personally tutored him in jihad techniques. He was my star pupil.”

Fahad ground his molars so hard Uzi heard it. He put a hand on Fahad’s shoulder. “Ignore him, Mo. There’s nothing to be gained by listening to this bullshit. He’s a killer, that’s it.”

“I’m the one who built the vest he used,” Yaseen said. “I’m the one who strapped it to his body.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m the one who chose him for that mission. I gave him the courage to do it. And I’m the one who detonated the bomb.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Mo,” Uzi said, stepping in front of his colleague. “Walk away.”

Fahad pushed Uzi aside. “Walk away? Is that what you did when you came face-to-face with Batula Hakim?”

Uzi felt the bile rise in his throat, his blood pressure rising. “I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands, to feel the life drain from her body.”

“You see,” Yaseen said, “we are not all that different. Jew, Muslim—we all enjoy killing.”

“We value life,” Uzi said. “That’s the biggest difference. Nothing is more sacred. To you, and those like you, a boy is just a tool for fighting your cause, a means to an end. An object that can be bought. Like when you pay a family for their son’s death after he blows himself up and kills innocent civilians. You’re a cancer, Yaseen.”

“And now you’re going to get some justice,” Fahad said. He nodded at Claude, who opened the toolbox. Knives, pliers, hammers, ice picks, and other assorted gadgets were visible.

Uzi leaned forward, both hands on his knees, making direct eye contact with Yaseen. “We can avoid all that unpleasant stuff. It’s up to you. We’ll start with some simple questions. All you have to do is answer them truthfully. Like, what attacks do you have planned for the United States?”

“I’m not involved in the planning,” Yaseen said. “I just build the bombs and help recruit the soldiers.”

“The soldiers,” Fahad said. “Like my nephew.”

“Yes,” Yaseen said matter-of-factly, without much emotion. “Like Akil. Allahu Akbar.”

Fahad stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of Yaseen’s hair. “Bastard. Don’t use Allah’s name in conjunction with murder. That’s not what Allah is about. It’s not what Islam is about.”

“Isn’t it? Strike down all infidels! Nonbelievers must be killed. What am I missing?”

“I’m not convinced you’re just a bomb maker, an engineer, and a recruiter,” Uzi said. “But I’ll let you slide on that. For the moment. If you’re not the guy planning the attacks, who is?”

Yaseen turned away.

Uzi stood up. “Look, asshole. We know how this is going to go, right? I’m going to ask you a question, you’re going to refuse to answer, we’ll spar a bit, and then Claude here will go to work.” He walked over, closed the toolbox, and set it down at Yaseen’s feet. It was heavy and the metal instruments shifted inside, rattling loudly. “I think we can both agree that you don’t want to see Claude open it again. Because if he does …” Uzi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll cut off a finger. Or two. Or an entire hand.”

“Or I’ll gouge out an eye. Or two.” This from Claude, who seemed to say it with satisfaction. Uzi thought it was a bit disturbing. The way he saw it, torture of any sort was best avoided. At the very least, the more severe forms of enhanced interrogation, whether waterboarding, permanent physical harm, or overt pain, were a last resort, when lives were on the line. And even at that, it was a means to an end. Not a source of enjoyment.

His cell buzzed. He checked the display and read the text from Vail: she and DeSantos were en route. Uzi rested both hands on his hips. “I don’t like you, Yaseen. And yet I’m willing to spare you pain and suffering. By the looks of things, I’m the only one here interested in treating you like a human being. The others are like sharks in a pool of water. And you’re the chum. They can’t wait for me to turn you over to them.”

“Bad cop/good cop, is that it?”

Uzi blew air through his lips. “I don’t think you get it, asshole. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Problem is, I’m more concerned for your well-being than you are. Tell us what we want to know.”

Yaseen looked away again.

“I don’t think he believes you,” Fahad said.

Uzi turned to Aziz. His face was moist with perspiration despite the fact that the temperature was no more than fifty. “Your turn. Who’s the one calling the shots for al Humat?”

“Kadir Abu Sahmoud. And Nazir al Dosari.”

Uzi drew his chin back. “Who’s Dosari?”

“Sahmoud’s—”

“Shut your mouth!” Yaseen said.

Fahad pulled his Glock and shoved it between Yaseen’s lips and into his mouth—taking a few teeth with it. The man’s eyes widened—either from the loss of his pearly whites or because a powerful handgun was now a trigger squeeze away from ending his life. Hard to say.

Uzi took a deep breath. He had crossed the line as far as Bureau procedure went: if he was witness or party to any type of interrogation tactics that involved torture, he had to report it. But he was not here as an FBI agent; quite the opposite. “You were about to tell me who Dosari is.”

“Sahmoud’s protégé,” Aziz said. “Anything happens to Sahmoud, Dosari takes over al Humat.”

“Second in command,” Uzi said with a nod. “Very good, Tahir.” He walked over to Aziz and gave him full attention. “So tell me what
your
role is in the organization.”

“I’m a member of the cabinet, the council of elders.”

“But you were involved in the Madrid bombing. Were you the engineer?”

“That mission was mine. I planned it, executed it. And I was rewarded for it.”

Uzi sucked on his upper lip. “You worked your way up. Congratulations on the promotion. Obviously in the minds of the council, you earned it. So being someone so high up in the organization, you know what targets are going to be hit. Tell me.”

Aziz’s eyes swung right, toward Yaseen. The Glock was still in his mouth. Fahad looked angry, just about daring either of them to refuse to answer.

“Tahir,” Uzi said evenly, “I’m running out of patience. I’m going to give you one more chance. What targets have you selected?”

Aziz licked his lips. His entire body was now drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest. “If I—if I tell you, I’d be throwing away years of planning. Dishonoring many who died.” He shook his head. “No. I will take the knowledge to the grave with me. To heaven, as a martyr in the holy jihad.”

Uzi’s shoulders slumped; he could not hide his disappointment. He did not question Aziz’s resolve. Religious zealots put their beliefs ahead of their personal well-being. He had gotten all he was going to get for that line of questioning. “Then tell me something that won’t betray your faith. Where are the Aleppo Codex and Jesus Scroll?”

Yaseen whined and shook his head as best he could with the Glock in his mouth. Fahad grabbed his hair and steadied him, yanked back, and shoved the gun barrel in farther. Yaseen started to gag.

“Tell me!” Uzi said as his phone buzzed. He straightened up, glanced at the display, and gestured to Claude to get the door. Vail and DeSantos had arrived. While Claude’s shoes slapped against the dirt-strewn cement floor, Uzi faced Aziz. “Where are they? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“The codex is on its way to the West Bank, Sahmoud’s office. Or it will be.” He turned away. “Doka Michel’s the only one who knows the address.”

“And the scroll?”

“I don’t know.”

“Best guess.”

Aziz’s eyes moved up, left, and right as he pondered the question. “Knowing Sahmoud, he’d keep it somewhere close.”

Uzi nodded at Fahad, who extracted the Glock from Yaseen’s mouth.

“You idiot,” Yaseen shouted. He spit out broken pieces of tooth material. “You’ve betrayed all you are.”

“Who cares about some old book and parchment?” Aziz asked. “It has no meaning to us. It’s just a tool, a leverage point.”

The door opened and closed and Uzi’s head snapped up. Vail and DeSantos were headed toward him.

THE MILDEW IRRITATED VAIL’S NOSE. The building’s interior was dark except for a high-lumen lantern resting on the ground, pointed toward the ceiling. Uzi, Fahad, and Claude stood in front of two chairs. And in those chairs—

“Give me a few minutes,” Claude said. “I’ll get the information.”

Vail sensed that something was not right with Claude the night they met him. She hadn’t expended much energy thinking about it, but now she knew. He was a psychopath, possibly an assassin who used his need-driven behavior to “legally” kill—and get paid doing it.

Uzi hesitated.

“Trust me,” Claude said. “I’ll get the info we need.”

“No.” Fahad walked over to the nearby wall and picked up what looked like two tactical vests. “We’ll do it my way.” He handed one to Claude and carried the other to Yaseen.

“What are you doing?” Yaseen asked.

Fahad made a show of admiring the workmanship. “Nicely made. I see the pride you put into each one.” He held it up. “This is what you strapped to my nephew’s body? His
fifteen-year-old
body?”

Uh, not tactical vests.
Suicide
vests.

Yaseen did not respond.

Fahad unfurled the garment, slipped it behind Yaseen, and turned to DeSantos. “Cut his hands loose.”

DeSantos looked at Uzi—and Uzi nodded agreement. DeSantos sliced the flexcuffs, moved Yaseen’s hands through the vest’s cutaway shoulders, and re-secured his wrists. Yaseen winced away the pain of having his arm twisted.

They followed the same procedure for Aziz, but Fahad and DeSantos moved him to the opposite end of the cavernous room and set him down.

Vail hurried to Uzi’s side and whispered in his ear. “What the hell are they doing?”

“Fahad’s nephew, the suicide bomber? Qadir Yaseen recruited him, turned him into a jihadi. Yaseen’s the kind of guy you chase, Karen. A psychopath, a serial offender who uses religious extremism to get his kills.”

Vail considered this a moment. “Psychopaths need the connection to the kill. Giving someone a bomb to wear is too removed for their needs. It doesn’t fulfill the hunger. It’s like eating a chocolate bar that has no taste. It’s just not enjoyable.”