The Lost Codex (38 page)

They walked into the shop, which was large and filled with backlit display cases of antique oil lamps, coins, jars—dozens of shelves around the entire room, including a central showcase that was, likewise, full of ancient items, all bearing a written explanation of what they were, when they were found and where, and their purported age.

“I know this place,” Uzi said as he and Vail followed Zemro to the rear of the store. “Been here once.”

Zemro knocked three times on a door and a tall man answered it. He stepped aside to let Zemro pass, but froze when he saw Vail and Uzi.

“Friends,” Zemro said.

The bodyguard hesitated, gave them a once over, then waved them all in.

The room was large and packed with books, papers, and items similar to the ones on display but still in the process of being categorized. Behind a large metal desk was a heavyset man of about fifty, a rank-smelling Turkish cigarette burning in an ashtray and a cup of dark coffee steaming by his left elbow.

“Mr. Zemro, my friend. What brings you here? And so early in the day.” He turned to Vail, his gaze traveling the curves of her body as if negotiating a slalom course.

She let him look.
If it helps us get the information we need, I’ll open the top three buttons of my blouse. And lean over your desk.

“Friends of mine,” Zemro said with a jerk of his head in their direction. He did not bother to provide any more details as he took the lone empty chair. Aside from the bodyguard who had answered the door, two other men were in the room. “Khaleel. I need some information.”

“I did not think you were here for a drink. But you are certainly welcome to have one.”

“I never pass up a Turkish coffee.”

Khaleel gestured to one of the men. “Cup for Zemro.” His assistant walked to the side of the room, where the brewer sat on a cabinet. He busied himself and returned a moment later with a small mug of what looked like thick black liquid.

Vail thought of asking for some—she was curious and it smelled good—but since Khaleel had thus far ignored them, other than undressing her with his eyes, she and Uzi were obviously unwelcome guests.

“You sell antiquities,” Vail said.

Khaleel jumped backward as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket. He recovered quickly and forced a smile. “Is it that obvious?” He coughed a raspy laugh then reached for his cigarette and took a long drag.

“I’m known for my ability to point out the obvious. And for being blunt.” She set her hands on the back of Zemro’s chair. “What do you know about the Aleppo Codex?”

Khaleel locked gazes with Zemro. “Who is she?”

“She is
me
,” Vail said. “My name’s not important. But I’m curious if you’ve heard anything about where the codex is being kept.”

Khaleel tore his eyes away and looked at Vail’s face for the first time. “No one knows where it is. Half of it is missing.”

“Yeah, the ‘important’ half. But a man like you, doing what you do, you know where it is.”

Khaleel lifted his cigarette from the metal tray and took another drag. He blew the air toward the ceiling and leaned back in his chair. “And if I do?”

“Tell us.”

Khaleel gestured to the two assistants, a quick flick of his fingers and wrist to send them on their way.

“I’d prefer if they stayed,” Uzi said.

Khaleel seemed to suddenly become aware of Uzi’s presence. He looked at him with disdain as he tipped his coffee back and drained the mug. “More,” he said and held the cup out to one of his men.

Vail figured Uzi wanted to prevent them from making a call to someone who would follow her and Uzi when they left the store. When dealing with the grime of terrorism you could not be too careful. It was easy to disappear in the busy backstreets of the souk, only to emerge a year later on a desolate strip of desert in an orange jumpsuit with a machete at your throat.

It was a fine balance, she was sure, as Khaleel might be less inclined to talk with witnesses present. It depended on how much he trusted his men.

Khaleel considered Uzi’s request, then nodded.

That settled, Uzi shoved his hands into his front pockets. “The codex,” he reminded Khaleel.

Khaleel snorted and turned to Zemro.

Zemro reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bills—shekels. He peeled off a few and placed them on the desk.

Khaleel looked at them. Without lifting his eyes, he said, “It’s in Gaza. A man by the name of Kadir Abu Sahmoud has—”

“We know who Sahmoud is,” Vail said. “And we already knew he has it.”

Another drag. “Then you know it’s not there yet.” Exhale, smoke directed toward the ceiling. “But it will be soon.”

“When?”

“This I do not know. I only know what I hear.”

“Where does Sahmoud live?” Uzi asked.

Khaleel laughed. “That I do not know either. But I have some photos if you want to try to figure it out.”

“How’d you get pictures?” Zemro asked.

Khaleel took the refilled mug from his assistant. “Everything is for sale, is it not?” He took a sip then set it down and faced his laptop. He banged away at the keyboard, struck a final key with a flourish, and then appraised the photo he had called up. “I can get places the Mossad and Shabak cannot,” he said, using the acronym for the Shin Bet. “I take pictures, I get money. Sometimes I buy pictures, sell for
more
money. I’m a businessman.”

A businessman who may not live long enough to enjoy his riches.

Uzi swung the laptop toward him and Zemro. “What do you think?”

Zemro squinted at the screen, then zoomed in on the picture. “Hard to say.” He stared at it a long moment then moved the image around, taking in the buildings in the vicinity. “I think I might know where it is. You sure this is Sahmoud’s house?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

As Zemro scrolled left, Uzi pointed at the monitor. “Hold it. Zoom out a little.”

Zemro did as asked. Uzi placed his fingers on the touchscreen and moved the photo to the right.

“That’s Sahmoud, right?”

“Yeah,” Zemro said.

“That guy,” Uzi said, poking at a grainy image beside Sahmoud. “I recognize him.”

“From where?” Vail asked.

“I don’t know. It was—it wasn’t that long ago.”

“New York? London? Paris?”

“Not sure.” He turned to Khaleel, then angled the laptop toward him. “Who is this?”

Khaleel tilted his head. “I’ve seen him but I don’t have a name. He’s important. He’s in a lot of my Sahmoud photos.” He paged through the others, but all were shot with a telephoto lens in suboptimal light.

Uzi found the best image and took a picture of the screen with his phone. Vail watched as he sent it off to Richard Prati and Hoshi and asked them to scour their servers, including the DEA narcoterrorism database, for an identity and background sheet.

“What about the Jesus Scroll?” Vail asked. “Where is that?”

“If I knew, I would not tell you.” He laughed, exposing nicotine tarred teeth. “More coffee!” He pulled out a marijuana joint and ignited the tip with a lighter from his drawer. After taking a long toke, he leaned back in his chair. His large belly stretched his nylon shirt. “I do not know where the scroll is. I have asked, sent out feelers. But there are a lot of dealers, wealthier than me, willing to bid just about anything for that. And the codex pages.”

“Do you know Doka Michel?” Uzi asked.

Khaleel took another puff. “I know him because of his father. I have heard rumors that he has the scroll. But he is someone I cannot get near.” He squinted at Uzi then leaned forward in his chair. “You need something. A coin from the Maccabean times? Excavated by your Western Wall. A necklace.” He grinned. “Bring you luck.”

Uzi frowned but humored the man. He reached down his shirt and pulled up a gold chain, the bottom of which contained a small coin. It was worn beyond recognition. “Already got one. Bought it here, in fact.” He winked.

That seemed to make Khaleel uncomfortable as the smile disappeared from his face. Uzi peeled off some shekels and set them in the top of an oil lamp that sat on the man’s desk. “Thanks for your information. You hear anything, let Raph know.”

As they left the store, Uzi and Zemro scanned the area to make sure they were not being surveilled—or targeted. They melted into the souk when Uzi suddenly stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Vail asked.

“That guy in the photo. Trying to figure out where I know him from.” Uzi glanced up, left, right … and then snapped his fingers. “It’s the guy—” He physically shivered. “It’s the guy Fahad met with in New York. His CI.”

“You sure?”

Uzi pulled up the photo and studied the screen. “No doubt whatsoever. Unless he’s got a twin.”

“Your friend’s CI is a terrorist?” Zemro asked.

“He certainly seems to be associating with one. One who happens to have a huge bull’s-eye on his forehead at the moment.” Uzi tapped out an email and then started dialing the satphone.

“Who are you calling?” Vail asked.

“Richard Prati.” A moment later, Prati answered. “Richard, listen. Can you look into something for me? … No, it can’t wait. You’re gonna be late to your meeting. I need you to look into a guy named Amer Madari. He was in Manhattan several days ago. I was told he’s a CI. He supposedly doesn’t have a criminal history, but we need to rethink that. Run the photo I just emailed you through the facial recognition database, see if you get a hit for a terrorist with any of the known organizations. Start with al Humat, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Muslim Brotherhood.”

“And the narcoterrorism database,” Vail said.

“And the narco—right.” Uzi listened a second, then said, “Yeah. I think this could be a bad dude. A real bad dude.”

62

T
his was the day Mo went AWOL?” Vail asked.

Uzi leaned his buttocks against a wall. “Yeah.” He brought the handset back to his mouth. “I need this info ASAP, Richard. I saw him meeting with my partner. We may have a real problem. Call me as soon as you’ve got something.” He dropped the phone from his face and craned his head up to the sky.

Zemro scratched the back of his head. “So you talked with this Madari when Fahad met with him?”

“No.” Uzi licked his lips—but his face displayed a pained expression, wrinkles, and jowls. Tension. “Fahad went off the grid for the better part of a day and didn’t have a real good explanation for what he was doing. I had some surveillance done—I didn’t know him back then and, well, being Palestinian, after what happened with Dena and Maya, I—I didn’t trust him. He met with the man we just saw in the photo back at Khaleel’s. I had my people run the image and I got a name—Madari—but he was clean.”

Vail stepped closer, the three of them forming a tight huddle against the side of the building. “And now, we see this Madari hanging around with Kadir Abu Sahmoud, the number three most wanted terrorist in the world.”

Zemro seemed to be thinking it through. “No good explanation for this, Uzi. He wasn’t delivering pizza.”

“No.”

Vail’s satphone rang. It was DeSantos’s number. “Do we tell Hector?”

“He’s had it out for Mo since London. I—maybe we should get confirmation, if that’s possible, before we say anything.”

“You’re afraid he’ll overreact.”

Uzi looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe Santa’s been right all along. But back in Paris—” Uzi lowered his voice, which was soft to begin with—“what Mo did to Yaseen. That wasn’t an act, was it? I mean, was his nephew really killed?”

“You should tell your partner,” Zemro said. “He needs to know.”

Vail answered the call.

“You still in your meeting?”

“No, we’re done. Come find us.”

Zemro suggested a location to meet—in the Jewish Quarter, at the Western Wall.

Ten minutes later, they descended a series of steps that led to Kotel Square, a plaza dominated by the ancient but well preserved ruins of the fortification wall where the Jewish Second Temple once stood.

The gold topped Dome of the Rock rose from above the top of the five-story Western Wall, an area also known as the Temple Mount—where the First and Second Temples once stood, Uzi explained. “The Kotel—which is another name for the Western Wall—is two thousand years old and extends another ten stories underground. It’s pretty cool. They give tours but you’d never be able to go down there.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” She took in the length of the wall. “Much bigger than what I imagined from the pictures I’ve seen.”

“I think it’s three football fields long.”

“This is the holiest place on earth to Jews,” Zemro said. “People from all over the world come here to pray, just like they came thousands of years ago to make pilgrimages to the Temple and sacrifices to God.”

As they approached, Vail could see different strata to the masonry—large blocks at the bottom and middle, with smaller bricks toward the top. “What are those plants growing out from between the rocks?”

“There are different kinds,” Zemro said. “Most common is Shikaron. It’s poisonous, some kind of hallucinogenic. The ancient Jews used it as an anesthetic. The Egyptians and Greeks used it for pain relief. The Germans used it in the Middle Ages to make beer. It’s still used nowadays in some medications.”

They stopped at a low wall that stood a few dozen feet in front of the Kotel. A man standing by a tall bin on a ramp that led down to the Kotel handed Uzi and Zemro a couple of white beanies.

“Kippot,” Zemro said to Vail. “Yarmulkas. We wear them on our heads as a sign of respect for God, to remind us that He’s always above us.”

Vail looked out at the Kotel, which dwarfed a number of men in black coats and hats standing with prayer books inches from its surface.

“We can talk here,” Zemro said, moving a few feet to his right, in front of a three-foot wall.

“Hey.” They turned and saw DeSantos approaching. The man at the Kippot bin handed him a yarmulke, and he placed it atop his head. “When in Rome, right?”

Uzi squinted. “Bad analogy.”

“Good point. So was the CI helpful?”

“In more ways than one,” Vail said.

DeSantos tilted his head as he studied Uzi’s face. “Something’s fucked up, isn’t it? I can tell.”

Vail told him about the Amer Madari discovery.

“I knew it!” DeSantos balled a fist and started pacing. “Goddamn it.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Uzi said. “Something’s not adding up. We’ve got some gaps. Mo was meeting with a guy who was seen with Sahmoud. I mean, yeah, it doesn’t look good. But we need to know more.”

“Bullshit. Give me one good explanation.”

“I don’t have one. I just think, for now we … monitor it. And watch our backs.”

“We still have our mission,” Vail said.

“And we might have a mole on our team,” DeSantos said, “working against us. Until I know what the hell’s going on I won’t be trusting him with anything even remotely significant.”

“I asked Hoshi to look into Madari. And Richard Prati at DEA in case they’ve got something on him in the narcoterrorism database.” He leaned on the railing that faced the Kotel. “Raph?”

“Until you hear otherwise, you have to treat him as a hostile. You know the saying. Better safe than sorry. Or my interpretation: better alive than dead.”

Uzi pulled out his satphone and started dialing.

“Who are you calling?” Vail asked.

“Gideon.” He pressed SEND. “Raph, call Shin Bet. Talk to someone there you trust. See if they’ve got anything on Madari. I already sent you the photo.” As Zemro walked off, Uzi waited for his call to connect. When Aksel answered, he glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot, then put it on speaker. “Gideon, it’s Uzi. I need whatever you’ve got on Amer Madari.”

“Am I supposed to know who Amer Madari is?”

“Short answer is yes. I’ll send you a photo. We have him talking with Kadir Abu Sahmoud. And I have Mahmoud El-Fahad meeting with Amer Madari in New York City last week.”

“Hmm.” Aksel was quiet a moment. “Let me talk with some people. Is this a good number for you?”

“I’m actually in Jerusalem.”

There was silence. Then: “Are you doing something I need to know about?”

Uzi’s eyes flicked over to DeSantos, who shook his head no.

“I think it’s best if I don’t answer that.”

“That in and of itself is an answer. Is your colleague Hector DeSantos with you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all I need to know. And I have to tell you that I’m not happy that—”

“Gideon, if you were anyone else, this conversation would never be happening. I will give you what I have. We’re on the same side here.”

“Are we?”

Vail nudged Uzi’s elbow. She whispered in his ear, “Your father.”

“I guess it’s my turn to ask you: is there something I need to know?”

“This is a game I do not want to play with you,” Aksel said.

“Fine. I know you’ve been looking for the missing codex pages. And the Jesus Scroll.”

There was silence before Aksel spoke. “Unfortunately, they’ve become chess pieces in a very dangerous game. And your government is on the wrong end of this one.”

“How so?”

“A conversation for another time. One that can only happen in person.”

“Fine. I’ll accept that. But I need an address for Kadir Abu Sahmoud.”

Aksel laughed.

Uzi pictured his firm but ample belly shuttering. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Do you have a location?”

“Take me off speaker.” Uzi did, then listened intently for a moment. “Yeah, I got it … No, I’m not happy. We intend to apprehend or kill him … No, I get it … Be right there.” He hung up, then huddled with DeSantos and Vail. “He said they’re monitoring Sahmoud, tracking his movements. Watching to see who he’s meeting with. He feels this is more valuable at the moment. And he’s worried that if we were to kill him it’d only aggravate an already shitty situation. Everyone will think Israel was behind it and there’d be no way for him to prove otherwise. Unless we take credit, which is possible but not likely because officially this mission was scrubbed. President Nunn will state he hasn’t sanctioned any such operation and deny the United States had anything to do with it. And he’d be telling the truth.”

Zemro joined their cabal. “Aksel tell you anything?”

“Just that he couldn’t tell me anything. You?”

“I’ve got a couple friends looking into it. They knew of Madari but don’t have a file on him. I asked them to look into Fahad too. Just in case.”

“They’ll have stuff.” He told Zemro what Aksel had related to him back when Fahad was added to their OPSIG team.

“Maybe it’s like an iceberg. We see the tip but there’s more beneath the surface.”

“No doubt.” Uzi rubbed his face with a hand. “Aksel’s on his way over from the Antiquities Authority. We’re meeting him at the Ramban Synagogue. A few minutes away, back the way we came.”

“A synagogue?”

“It’s safe. We can talk freely.”

Uzi led the way, telling Vail and DeSantos that the congregation was founded in the 1200s after Jerusalem was destroyed by the Crusades. “It’s now one of the oldest active synagogues in the Old City.”

They arrived on Ha-Yehudim Street in the Jewish Quarter, a pedestrian square paved with cobblestones and planted with mature shade trees. The stone building they were looking for had a central dome and a plaque on the wall describing its history.

Inside, its columns and vaulted ceilings reminded Vail of the larger barrel rooms that she had seen in the Napa Valley—specifically the one in the castle winery where Vail had pursued the Crush Killer.

Worn wood pews filled the small sanctuary. Tablets with Hebrew writing sat at the front, above one of the columns. To Vail it looked like a representation of the Ten Commandments.

The door swung open and Gideon Aksel entered. Vail had never met the man, but Uzi’s reaction gave away his identity. They exchanged nods—no hand shaking and no small talk. It was clear that Zemro and Aksel knew each other.

“Raph,” Uzi said, “would you watch the front door, make sure no one approaches who shouldn’t?”

Zemro nodded, then walked off.

Aksel unbuttoned his suit coat. “You sure you want to talk with … your friends here? I’m not sure this is a conversation for other ears.”

“I trust them all with my life.”

Aksel pursed his lips and gave a tight nod. “As it should be.”

“What did you want to tell me?”

Aksel sighed. “We have conflicting missions, Uzi. This is a problem.”

Uzi folded his arms across his chest. “We already discussed Sahmoud and—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. The security services are working to secure the codex pages and the scroll to prevent them from being used against us.”

“Against—what are you talking about?”

“I suspect you already know the documents are in the hands of al Humat. Or its agents.”

Uzi nodded.

“If you are successful in retrieving them, it’ll be no different from the terrorists having them.”

Uzi dropped his hands to his sides. “How can you say that?”

“It’s no secret President Nunn and the prime minister don’t like each other. There’s been tension since Nunn was elected. He’s made his feelings very clear.”

“Not true,” DeSantos said. “The two of them may not like each other, but the administration has done things behind the scenes that’ve supported Israel’s interests. Like helping to fund the last stages of Iron Dome’s development.”

The left corner of Aksel’s mouth lifted. “And you think that was for our benefit? Come on, Mr. DeSantos. You’re a smart guy. Why do you think the US loaned Israel the last two hundred million dollars to finish development?”

DeSantos thought a second then titled his chin back. “Because we get to share the technology.”

“Remember your Star Wars missile defense system? It never worked as promised. The Patriot system? Marginal at best. But the technology behind Iron Dome showed promise even in its earlier, flawed developmental state. It’s a smart system that tracks a missile’s trajectory and determines if it’s worth shooting down—and then calculates the exact spot in its trajectory it should intercept it so the missile doesn’t go down in a populated area. And it does it all in the blink of an eye. After Iron Dome proved its worth by shooting down over a thousand rockets Hamas shot at us from Gaza, the US had a potent antimissile system as a defensive measure—and deterrent—to thug countries like Russia and North Korea.”

“So what does this have to do with the documents?” Vail asked.

“We’ve heard that there are factions in your government working to secure them so they can be used as leverage in negotiations. Your president wants a peace deal. He wants to do what no other US president has been able to do: broker a comprehensive, final two-state solution.”

Uzi shook his head. “I don’t know, Gideon.”

“Indeed, my friend. There are a
lot
of things you don’t know. Your secretary of state has worked against us in several key negotiating sessions the past few weeks. This is not how an ally behaves. But it is the way you leverage an enemy to do things they don’t want to do. You twist their arm using whatever means you have at your disposal, no matter what the fallout.”

DeSantos squinted. “Do you really believe your government would agree to impossible concessions just to secure the Aleppo Codex and Jesus Scroll?”

Aksel looked away. “This is not a cold calculus, Mr. DeSantos. It’s not A plus B equals C. This is an emotional question, a religious issue, one that involves faith. And truths. The reality is that the government is a coalition of diverse agendas, needs, constituents. Add religion to the mix and it’s an unwieldy group.”

“And a significant part of that group,” Uzi said, “is ultra-Orthodox.”

“Meaning what?” Vail asked. “I don’t know a thing about Israeli politics.”

“It’s a democracy, you know that much. But instead of two parties, we have thirty-eight, thirteen who currently hold seats in the coalition. You know how hard it is to get Democrats and Republicans to work together? Try adding eleven more. Point is, the ultra-Orthodox are an important voting bloc for the prime minister. Without them his government crumbles. And the ultra-Orthodox desperately want those ancient documents—especially the codex. In fact, these documents may be the
only
thing that could make them give up their claims to Judea and Samaria. Don’t underestimate their importance.”