The Lost Codex (39 page)

“Judea and Samaria?” Vail asked.

“The part of Israel now called the West Bank,” Uzi said. “It was known as Judea and Samaria for thousands of years. Jordan coined the phrase ‘West Bank’ sixty-five years ago.”

Aksel buttoned his coat. “Remember this, Mr. DeSantos, Agent Vail. This conflict is not about giving the Palestinians land for their own country. They want
all
the land, all of Israel. This two-state solution is a political invention, an attempt to compromise, to appease the Palestinians. Because that’s what politicians and negotiators and mediators do. But the Palestinians can’t be appeased. Even if they’re given the West Bank, they will not stop until they have it all. Make no mistake. This is about Israel’s survival.” He pointed at Uzi. “You know I’m right. And that’s why any negotiations—however they’re resolved—have to be done without a gun to our head. We
are
going to find those documents.”

There was a knock on the door to the sanctuary.

“Coming!” Aksel said, then turned to leave. “I will let you know if I find anything about Amer Madari. In the meantime, please don’t cause any trouble in my country. Better yet, go home and get out of our way. Catch the next flight out. I believe that’s this evening at 6:00
PM
.”

63

U
zi waited until the door clicked shut before pulling out his satphone and moving closer to the window. “You don’t mind if I disregard Gideon’s recommended travel arrangements, do you?”

“Who are you calling?” DeSantos asked.

“An old friend who owes me. Big. Tell Raph—no one comes in.”

As DeSantos walked off, Uzi brought the handset to his face. “Reuben, it’s Uzi. I need an address.” He listened a few seconds, then said, “Aksel can’t know. … I’m serious … Yes, I’m on a satphone. It’s fairly secure. … Kadir Abu Sahmoud.” Uzi held the phone away from his ear, waited a second for Reuben to stop yelling, then said, “I need this. And now you know why Aksel can’t know. … Make it look like it wasn’t you, like it came from the outside … Fine, leave an identifier pointing back to me. I’ll take the heat … Yeah. It’s that important.”

Uzi hung up, then faced Vail and DeSantos, who had returned. “Reuben was knifed by an al Humat operative in the West Bank. His phone had been destroyed but I figured out a way of tracking him through his vehicle. Everyone else had given up but I found him, dumped in a field, left for dead.” Uzi took a deep breath. “Like I said, he owes me. He’s going to give us Sahmoud’s address. But they’ve got an ongoing op and he doesn’t want to ruin it. Same thing Gideon told me.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that you’re going to do just that?”

“I work for the United States government and Sahmoud is the architect of the terror attacks in DC and New York. Our job is to get those ancient documents and bring Sahmoud in—dead or alive.”

Vail shook her head. “This is not going to end well. You heard what the director general just told you about tensions between the two countries. You may even be persona non grata in Israel.”

Uzi tightened his jaw and turned toward the window. “Can’t think about that. We have our orders. That’s all that matters right now.”

“Orders that were sent to us in code?”

DeSantos rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with that, Karen. I know what Knox was saying. This is what we’re supposed to do. Let’s go do it.”

64

T
hey had gotten back to Zemro’s car outside the Old City when Uzi’s phone rang. It was Richard Prati. Zemro went to the rear hatch of the SUV while the rest of them climbed into the vehicle.

Uzi took the front passenger seat and answered the call as his buttocks hit the fabric. “Talk to me, Richard.”

“It was coming up zeroes until your colleague, Agent Rodman, broadened the algorithm and included Interpol. Then we got a hit—a big one. This Amer Madari joker is Nazir al Dosari.”

It took a second for Uzi to find his voice. “What?”

“Nazir al Dosari. He’s rumored to be a rising star in al Humat, but everything we’ve got on him is several years old—”

“Are you sure? I mean, really sure?”

Vail and DeSantos leaned forward in their seats.

“Hundred percent, Uzi. He had facial reconstruction in Germany, at that ex-Stasi facial surgery clinic. We didn’t know what he looked like but one of my guys got hold of a photo from a file the CIA bought three weeks ago. There was a meeting between Carlos Cortez and Dosari in Beirut. Money and weapons exchanged hands. The Agency had someone with a long lens snapping photos. I’ll send you what we’ve got. There’s something in the file that’s classified and encrypted, but I’ll give you what I have and let you run with it.”

“Copy Hoshi Koh in my office. And thanks for digging into this, Richard. Sorry you missed your meeting.”

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not. Talk soon.”

He hung up as Zemro got into the SUV, his arms filled with tactical vests. “I have a feeling we’re going to be needing these.” He handed two back to Vail and DeSantos and the other to Uzi.

Uzi dialed Hoshi and secured the Kevlar with the Velcro straps while the call connected.

“Uzi. Where the heck have you been? Shepard’s been on my c—”

“Listen to me—Richard Prati at DEA is sending you a file. The person of interest has a classified file at Interpol. I need to know what’s in it.”

“Well how am I—you want me to hack Interpol?”

“Now that you mention it, yeah. Good idea. Call me on my satphone. I’ll text you the number.”

“You have a satphone? Where are you?”

“I need this info ASAP, Hoshi.” He clicked off and let his head rest against the side window.

DeSantos leaned back in his seat and waited for Uzi to explain. Finally he said, “So this is not getting any better, is it?”

Uzi sighed. “Nope. The guy Mo met with in New York is the number two in command at al Humat. Nazir al Dosari.”

“We need to find Fahad,” DeSantos said. “And bash his head in.”

“No,” Uzi said. “There’s an encrypted file. I want to know what’s in it before we jump to conclusions.”

“Jump to conclusions?” DeSantos looked at Vail, his brow raised. “Boychick, I know you don’t want to hear this, but read the writing on the goddam wall.”

“I’m reading between the lines.” Uzi’s phone rang. It was Fahad. He held up his phone for Vail and DeSantos to see the Caller ID.

“Answer it,” DeSantos said. “Tell him to meet us. We’ll bag him as soon as he shows his face.”

The phone buzzed. Uzi hesitated, then finally brought it to his face. “Mo. What’s up?”

“You done meeting with Raph’s CI?”

“Yeah, we’re good with that.”

“Was he helpful?”

“Was he helpful … not sure. We’ll probably find out very soon.” He ground his jaw. That was true in more ways than one. “Where are you?”

“Muslim Quarter. You?”

“Meet us where we parked. We just got back to the car.”

“Be right there.”

Uzi dropped the phone into his lap. “Now what?”

DeSantos snorted. “Now? We get him in here and—”

“Karen,” Uzi said firmly. “What do you suggest?”

They all faced Vail.

She thought a moment, then said, “This is a tough one. If we accept the info and background we’ve been given on Mo as accurate and complete, I’d say this doesn’t add up. He’s got legitimate motivation to do what he did to Yaseen. I’m not condoning it, but it’s understandable. I’d want to do the same thing. And if that’s the case, there’s no way he’s working with al Humat. But if there’s more to his story that we don’t know, it’s impossible for us to know what’s really going on.”

“And that’s why we need to cuff him and take him somewhere,” DeSantos said.

“Wrong,” Vail said.

“Wrong?”

“Wrong. Despite their differences, Uzi has built a rapport with Mo.” She turned to Uzi, who was still leaning against the window, staring straight ahead. “Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“That kind of rapport takes us weeks to achieve with a prisoner, with any hostile, suspect, or known killer. And Uzi’s got it. He needs to use it, leverage it. In fact, the only person who Mo has a problem with is you, Hector. So you’re the last person who should be interrogating him. He’ll shut down. You won’t get anything.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“Yes. He’s CIA. He’s trained in the stuff you’d be doing to him—psychological or physical—he knows what’d be coming and how to resist it.”

“I’ll get more with a carrot than a stick,” Uzi said, turning around.

“Exactly. When the time’s right you need to confront him with these allegations. But gently, as if you’re just chatting and it’s no big deal. Do it at a time and a place where you can observe his facial tics and body language. It might be subtle, but you’ll know if he’s being straight with you. You with me?”

Uzi nodded.

“Eat the friggin’ carrots,” DeSantos said, turning away. “Give me a nice thick stick.”

“Not this time, Hector.”

Zemro, who had been observing the interplay, appraised Vail. “You want a job? Shin Bet, Mossad, they both use behavioral analysts.”

Vail managed a smile. “Without me, these two goons would be in serious trouble.”

Zemro laughed. “I agree.”

Uzi’s satphone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and blew some air through his lips. “Reuben came through. He’s sending us Sahmoud’s address.”

“Because of all the terror attacks,” Zemro said, “the checkpoints are active. My plates will get us in. Just let me do the talking.”

A knock on the window made them all flinch. It was Fahad. Uzi unlocked the doors and he got in next to DeSantos, who shifted to the middle seat.

Fahad chuckled. “Man, you guys are on edge.”

“Being around terrorists gets the adrenaline flowing,” DeSantos said, his gaze out the front windshield remaining steady.

Fahad squinted and glanced at Uzi.

He held up his phone. “Just got Sahmoud’s address.”

DeSantos moved the phone to face him. “Those are GPS coordinates.”

“A lot of the Arab neighborhoods in the West Bank don’t have street names, so no addresses,” Zemro said.

“Do you know where this place is?”

“From GPS coordinates?” Zemro laughed as he pulled away from the curb. “I’ll have a better idea when we get close.”

“So we don’t really know what we’re getting ourselves into,” Vail said.

“Wrong.” Uzi pulled out his Glock and checked the chamber. “We know exactly what we’re getting ourselves into.”

65

T
hey followed the GPS, navigating the streets of downtown Nablus, driving through the town center and past electronics stores and groceries. Open-air bazaars with rainbow colored umbrellas shielded the markets’ vendors against the sun—or today, against the threat of rain.

Zemro craned his neck to get a view of the area. “Looks like we’re pretty close.”

“I know some people here,” Fahad said.

Uzi kept his gaze ahead on the metropolitan landscape. “Maybe we should let you off, see what you can learn.”

“I think we should all stick together,” DeSantos said.

He wants to keep his eye on him, make sure he doesn’t blow our op.

“That woman we just passed,” Fahad said, twisting his torso and watching out the rear windows. “I went to school with her. She’s a real pain in the ass. Knows everyone’s business.”

“Pull over,” Uzi said.

Zemro brought the car to a stop at a break in the car-lined curb.

“I think this is a bad idea,” DeSantos said.

Uzi swung around to face Fahad. “Keep in touch. Don’t go off the grid. We may need you once we scout out Sahmoud’s office.”

“Right.” Fahad swung the door open and got out.

DeSantos studied Uzi’s face. “I know you don’t want to believe he’s part of the problem. But it’s not worth the risk. You’re overcompensating for all the pent-up anger you’ve had toward Palestinians for murdering your family. But your
emotional need
to like the guy could get us all killed.”

“You think that’s what’s going on here?”

“I do.”

“Drive,” Uzi said, gesturing to Zemro, who nodded and then pulled out into the traffic.

Hector may not be too far off in his assessment.

The streets were packed with yellow cabs bearing green and white license plates—a key designator for vehicles that entered Israel. The soldiers guarding the checkpoints knew to be extra careful when examining these cars and trucks, scanning the under chassis with long-poled mirrors and, during times of inflamed violence, bomb-sniffing dogs.

Vail wiped her sweaty palms on the thighs of her 5.11s. She checked her Glock and then the Tanto to make sure both were in place. She had not had to draw either one in a while, but she had a feeling that was going to change very shortly. Her heart was racing, beating against her chest wall as the tenths of a mile ticked off the odometer.

Zemro made several turns into secondary areas of the city, past apartment buildings and a number of hollow facades, structures that had been destroyed—either by bombs that went off while they were being constructed or by Israeli bulldozers in retaliation for a terror attack in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv.

The secondary roads were potholed and the houses were a mix of well maintained homes and rundown hovels.

The GPS took them down a side street that fronted a series of older structures. A block later, Zemro brought the SUV to a stop against the curb.

Uzi looked out the window at the surrounding neighborhood: they were in a light industrial area with tile factories, automobile repair depots, and carpet warehouses, by the look of the signs. He gave a final glance around and checked his mirror. “We go on foot from here.”

Vail’s breathing got tight as she popped open the door and they poured out of the vehicle.

Zemro led the way down the cement path between buildings constructed of large, pale yellow block masonry, a style Vail had grown accustomed to seeing on this trip.

“Are you armed?” Uzi asked Zemro by his ear.

“Don’t worry about me, my friend. What’s the saying? This isn’t my first show?”

“Rodeo. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Good. It’s not mine, either.”

They continued through the wide alleyway, which doglegged right. Zemro slowed, glanced down at the GPS, and stopped. Vail, at his side now, was jerked back by his grip on her wrist. Before he had pulled her away, she had seen, ahead and slightly around the bend, two men standing guard on either side of a large brown metal door.

Zemro pressed his upper body against the masonry wall and reported on what he had seen. “They’re armed. Assault rifles, maybe AKs. They had the al Humat patch on their left shoulder. There’s a double metal door set back in a stone archway. The entrance to Sahmoud’s office, I’m sure of it.”

“Here’s our play,” DeSantos said. “Karen, use your charm. Walk right by them, make eye contact as you pass. Maintain their gaze and, you know, do your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Wink, smile at them seductively. Lick your lips. Something to get their blood pressure rising. But don’t oversell it.”

“And then what?”

“Then we’ll take care of the rest.”

Vail glanced at Uzi and Zemro and they both seemed to be on board with the plan. “Okay.” She removed the scarf and tousled her hair, giving it a playful and sexy look. Then she walked off, her arms swinging and her butt rocking up and down.

“I TOLD HER TO GET
their
blood pressure up,” DeSantos said, “not mine.” He took a breath and followed several steps behind her.

Vail did as instructed, slowing as she made eye contact with the two guards, showing genuine interest in their appearance, undressing them with her gaze. She looked at them over her shoulder as she passed and then swung around, walking backward and holding their attention.

DeSantos ran up on their blindside, his Boker knife drawn. He sliced viciously and quickly at the carotid of the man closest to him, then drew it forward and blocked the other guard’s attempt to raise his AK-47 and stabbed backhanded at his abdomen—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Both men dropped to the ground as if gravity had increased exponentially in a split second, arterial blood spurting out from the first guard’s neck.

Uzi and Zemro, handguns at the ready, came up behind them and moved the bodies aside. They took the AK-47s and slung them over their own shoulders as DeSantos checked the front door. It was unlocked.

He nodded to them, then turned the knob and pushed it open. It swung inward, squeaking softly.

Vail pivoted into the building. It was dark and dungeon-like, with only a few visible windows that were obscured by solid wood shutters on metal hinges. Light leaked in along their periphery.

She nodded at Uzi and Zemro, who dragged the two bloody bodies into the entryway, followed by DeSantos.

They stood there, backs against the wall, allowing their eyes to accommodate to the darkness. There were no guards there, which was a good thing—because at the moment, Vail could not see much, and she was sure her colleagues had the same problem.

Seconds later, she started to get a sense of the layout of the room: it was an old factory of some sort that had been cleared of all the machinery that had once been there. The walls were cinderblock and unfinished cement covered with spider cracks emanating in all directions. Puke green wood walls, with glazed windows, apportioned the space into separate offices.

They moved from the front of the factory to the back, clearing the rooms as they went, using hand signals to avoid giving away their presence in case someone was in the deeper reaches of the building.

Seconds later, Uzi called out. “Found something!”

They joined him at the rear of the facility. The smell was distinct and rancid. Vail brought a forearm up to her nose as she made her way over to the wall on the left, where she found a window. She pulled open the shutters, flooding the area with light. “What the hell is that?”

Seated on a chair in front of a portable table with folding metal legs was a body. A burned body.

“Not what,” DeSantos said. “
Who
.”