The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3)

by Alan Jacobson

“I know what that is,” DeSantos said. “You kept it.”

  “You told me to put it on my bookshelf.”

  DeSantos winked. “That I did.”

  “I don’t know what it is.” Vail looked from DeSantos to Uzi.

  “The Tanto I used to kill the piece of shit who murdered Dena and Maya.” He handed it to Vail, who hesitated. “Go ahead. I had Tim Meadows get the blood off for me. He used some kind of industrial crime scene cleaner.”

  “That’s okay. I’m good just looking at it.”

  “Take it,” he said, holding it closer in front of her. “It’s yours.”

  “Mine?” Vail reached out and wrapped her fingers around the handle. She had to admit, it was beautifully balanced. It felt powerful.

  Uzi took the leather case and slipped it over her head.

  “Boychick. You can’t give Karen a knife like that without teaching her how to use it.”

  “Way ahead of you. After London, Cooper and I gave her some private lessons.”

  “Cooper’s the best,” DeSantos said. “Do you remember what they taught you?”

  Vail turned the knife, examining its edge, the walnut handle and inlaid chrome design. “More or less. I sparred a few times with an instructor at the academy.”

  DeSantos snorted. “Yeah, well, it’s like training drills in the shooting house. You need to become so comfortable with the knife it’s like an extension of your arm.”

  “Very Zen of you, Hector. Who would’ve thought.”

  “I’m not joking. Knife fighting is close quarters combat. There’s very little room for error. One cut and you’re dead. But forget the knife. If you’re in close quarters combat, unless you know who you’re up against, you don’t know his skill level. And the really skilled fighters are so good, they’re so lethal, don’t even need a knife. Their hands are their weapons.”

  “Most important thing?” Uzi asked, playing the role of teacher.

  “Not getting killed?” Vail said.

  DeSantos reached over and took the Tanto from her. “I don’t think you should give this to her, Uzi.”

  “Hey.” Vail slapped DeSantos’s forearm with the back of her hand. “Don’t get all bent out of shape. I know the most important thing: not having it taken from you.”

  DeSantos bowed his head. “Yes, just like your Glock. Same principle.”

  Uzi took the Tanto from DeSantos and placed it back in Vail’s hand.

  Robby is not going to like this. She slipped it into the leather sheath—but because of her anatomy it did not fit as well as it did on Uzi. She would have to wear it elsewhere.

  The door opened and a tan-suited Marshall Shepard stepped in. He paused in the entry, eyed Vail, Uzi—and then DeSantos. His gaze lingered on DeSantos.

  “Shep. You remember Karen Vail of the BAU and Hector DeSan—”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember Mr. DeSantos.” His expression twisted into a frown as the two made eye contact. But when his gaze settled on the Tanto around Vail’s neck, he tilted his head and said, “Mind explaining what’s going on here?”

  Vail gestured to the bookshelf. “Uzi was showing us his collection of—”

  “Tchotchkes,” DeSantos said. He glanced at Uzi and lifted his brow.

  Shepard stood there working it through, then folded both arms across his chest. “You people take me for a fool? Uzi, I expected more of you.”

  DeSantos’s phone rumbled again.

  “Shep, please. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Let’s step back for a second. There’s an explosion downtown that no one at DC Metro seems to know anything about. And District Gas has no reports of a gas main explosion. That doesn’t add up. You don’t seem to be particularly concerned—and we both know with your background, you should be all over this like peanut butter on bread. But you’re pretty laid back about it. That doesn’t add up, either.”

  “I can see why you’re—”

  “Shut up. I’m not done.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry to be boring you, Mr. DeSantos. Put the phone away while I’m talking.”

  DeSantos squinted as he slipped the handset back in his pocket.

  “Koh looks like she’s on pins and needles,” Shepard said, “and when I ask her to check on something for me, she says she’s in the middle of something for you, Uzi, and she’ll get to it ASAP. Excuse me? I say. You’re talking to your ASAC. She apologizes, then says to give her a few minutes. So I do that—and when I come back, she says she can’t talk about it, that I need to talk to you. Then I walk in here and I see Hector DeSantos, a man who works God knows where, whose cover with the Department of Defense is as shady as a Mulberry tree in the middle of the White House lawn. Oh—and let’s not forget the call from the director’s office.”

  “That call,” DeSantos said, “should be enough for you to back off.”

  Shepard took a couple of steps toward DeSantos. “You will address me appropriately, Mr. DeSantos, or you can get the hell out of my building.”

  DeSantos’s right eye twitched.

  Defuse this, Karen. Now. Even if playing mediator is not your strength.

  “Look,” Vail said, raising both hands. “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We all have jobs to do and we’re just trying to do them.”

  “Really?” Shepard said, stepping closer to the circle. “Uzi has a job—working for me. You have a job too—but I bet if I call your ASAC, Agent Gifford will tell me you’re not working for him right now, that the director told him you were on special assignment.”

  Uzi’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and said, “Shep, I need to take this.” Without waiting for permission, he answered the call. “Yes. Yes sir, Mr. Director.” He held out the Lumia toward Shepard, who hesitated, then snatched it up.

  “Marshall Shepard.” His large lips thinned, his face tightening in anger. “Yes. I understand. I’ll be here.” He hung up and handed the cell back to Uzi. “He’s on his way up to meet with us.”

  They stood there staring at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, their fingers … no one speaking—until the door opened and Douglas Knox entered.

  11

  Knox stood in the modest-size office, the lines in his face deeper, his complexion grayer than last they saw him.

  “Agent Shepard and I will talk privately in a moment,” he said, his dark tone mirroring the long look he gave Shepard. “But we need to address the current situation. Brief me on the conversation with Kadir Abu Sahmoud.”

  I know better than to ask how Knox knew about a conversation that just happened.

  Uzi summarized the exchange as Knox began to pace. He absorbed the information in stride, his face expressionless.

  “I’d like to recommend we go public with this before they do,” Vail said. “We should control the message.”

  Knox did not reply, but he nodded at DeSantos.

  “We bought some time to get a handle on things,” DeSantos said, “which I assume was the idea behind being black. We now know what, and who, we’re dealing with. Now when we release a statement, we’ll sound like we know what’s going on. Less chance of a panic.”

  Knox stopped, considered his comments, and said, “Agent Uziel?”

  “Raise the threat level and mobilize the task force. I can have them up to speed in thirty minutes. There was no evidence of nuclear material in the safe house or the bomb-making factory we raided. But given their work in Gaza building tunnels, and Hamas being a proxy for Iran, and Iran having nuclear material, and al Humat residing in the same neighborhood as Hamas … I think we should pay close attention to our radiation sensors deployed in major cities. And maybe even get some more of the mobile units on the streets of DC, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles.”

  Knox resumed pacing. “A lot of connect-the-dots there, Agent Uziel. But I agree. I’ll make the
case to the president.” He stopped, turned, and faced them, then set his gaze on Uzi. “Are we overlooking al Qaeda?”

  Uzi thought a moment. “I don’t see their fingerprints on this, sir. A few years ago AQ was funding a number of al Humat’s activities, but I think they’ve outgrown that dependence. No, I think for once AQ doesn’t have its hands dirty here.”

  “I agree. But if your assessment changes, I want to know ASAP.” He turned to Shepard. “Anything to add?”

  Shepard looked like he had plenty to say but kept his mouth shut. “No sir.”

  Knox rocked back on his heels. “Sounds like we have a plan of action. I’m having a dossier assembled on Sahmoud. You’ll have it in half an hour. Assuming the president agrees, you can disseminate it to your task force.”

  “Anything on the three who escaped when we raided the safe house?” Uzi asked.

  “On my way over here I was given the names of two men identified by Interpol based on fingerprints lifted from the townhouse: forty-three-year-old Tahir Aziz, co-conspirator in the Madrid bombing who’s been active in recruiting Dutch youths for the war in Syria, and thirty-nine-year-old Esmail Ghazal, who helped plan the Paris Métro bombings in ’95.”

  “So these are seriously bad dudes,” DeSantos said. “And we had them.”

  “I emailed each of you photos Interpol had on file.”

  They reached for their phones simultaneously. Vail pulled up the pictures and committed them to memory. “Surveillance photos? From when?”

  “Ghazal from two years ago and Aziz from six years ago,” Knox said. “An important question for DHS to answer is how they got into the US without setting off alarms. Director Bolten is handling that. And I—”

  The door swung open and Hoshi stuck her head in. “Sir—sirs, there’s been an explosion at Metro Center.”

  “Casualties?” Vail asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Comms are down, not all the cameras are operating. Metro PD and first responders are en route and I just dispatched a team.”

  Uzi, Vail, and DeSantos started for the door.

  “Have a car ready for us downstairs,” Uzi said. “We’re on our way.”

  12

  Vail jumped from Uzi’s Tahoe SUV, which he parked on F Street near 12th Street NW. The three of them ran across the wide avenue toward the vertical brown landmark Metro Center Station sign and underneath the open skeletal structure of the office building that rose above the district’s second busiest subway station.

  People were streaming out, running up the stairs and escalators, fighting amongst one another, pushing forward and climbing over others who had fallen in the surge to evacuate.

  Jesus, they’re freaking out. Just like Sahmoud said. Just like I said … people afraid of when—and where—the next explosion would come. He’ll be looking for news reports and uploaded smartphone videos on YouTube and Facebook.

  “He’s probably got one or more guys onsite,” Vail said, “filming, gauging our response. You see anyone who’s too calm or seems more interested in watching or recording it than getting their butts out of danger, check ’em out.”

  They struggled to move against the tide, trying to get down into the belly of the station.

  It did not take long for them to see the devastation. The previously majestic arching eggshell colored ceilings were charred black. Emergency lights were on but were glary and too few in number. Plenty of them had been damaged and were out of commission.

  Large chunks of the brick concourse were lifted up, carved away by the force of the impact. Most tellingly, five cars were derailed, forming a jagged line one in front of another. Dozens of metal ball bearings lay scattered about the wreckage.

  A smoky pall hovered in the air above the damaged trains. First responders were setting up Jaws of Life to pry open twisted doors, taking axes to the windows, and helping passengers to safety. The flow of people toward the exits was constant, bottlenecks occurring at the lower platform areas where the masses funneled into the narrow escalators.

  Vail stopped along the elevated bridge between tracks and looked out among the commuters, tourists, businesspeople, children … searching for the two middle-aged men featured in the photos they had been given.

  Wait—is that Ghazal? She leaned forward, saw what appeared to be one of her suspects, and headed toward his location.

  She pushed her way down the escalator until she hit the platform. But all she saw was the back of his head, bobbing up and down as he went.

  Is that the same guy? Black jacket, dark hair, about five foot ten.

  Vail wished she had a radio to alert Uzi and DeSantos—because as she moved in the man’s direction, he was headed away from her. And given that he was not near one of the exits, there were fewer people there, allowing him to move faster without running.

  Vail fought forward, reached a clearing, and sprinted around broken chunks of concrete, metal, glass, and brick. She lost sight of him for a second—stopped, glanced left, then right—and found him. She tackled him from behind and took him down hard. His shoulder slammed into a canted section of cement and she landed atop him.

  But it was not Ghazal.

  “What’s wrong with you,” the man said, pushing at her face with his free hand. “Get the hell off me!”

  Vail gathered herself and stood up, glanced around—and saw Ghazal, looking back at her, apparently thinking he had given her the slip.

  Not so fast, asshole.

  She took off in his direction, pulled her Glock—and then immediately cursed. There was no way she could use her handgun in a crowded Metro station.

  “FBI. Stop!” In that fleeting second, she realized she had been reduced to the impotence her unarmed British comrades experienced when chasing a suspect. Stop! Or I’ll yell ‘stop’ again.

  The only question she had was if Ghazal was carrying. He would not hesitate to fire a weapon in a densely populated area. That would fit well with his goal of death and destruction.

  That was a moot point because his only escape route was into the crowd of people still trying to exit the station. If he was going to turn and start shooting, he would have done it already.

  But is he wired with explosives?

  She remembered the bio Knox had given them—albeit extremely lacking in detail: Aziz and Ghazal were planners, not suicide bombers. They let the young, foolish, disenfranchised followers blow themselves up. These assholes were the “brains”; they did not want to die. They pulled the strings on the tactics, not the explosives.

  Vail closed the gap and was only about ten feet behind him. She sliced between two men in suits, nearing the end of the escalator.

  Gotta get him before he reaches to the top. If he makes it out of the station, we’ll lose him.

  As he hit the last step, Vail extended her left arm over a woman’s shoulder and grabbed Ghazal’s collar. He tried to wrestle free but it was difficult in a crowd because he was fighting the bodies all around him in addition to the one behind him, which happened to be yanking him backwards with tremendous determination.

  Vail maneuvered her Glock against Ghazal’s temple. “FBI,” she said loud enough for everyone in the area to hear. “Esmail Ghazal, you’re under arrest.”

  But like a running back in the grasp of two defenders, he kept pushing forward, twisting, squirming. “What are you gonna do? Shoot me?”

  “Give me a reason.” She dug the pistol’s barrel into his skin.

  He stopped struggling and she pulled cuffs from her belt. “Down on the ground.” Vail followed him to the floor as people streamed around them. She stuck her knee in his back and ratcheted the restraints around his wrists as her Samsung vibrated.

  She shifted her weight and, keeping pressure on Ghazal’s spine, she reached for her new Bureau-issued Samsung Galaxy. She was still getting used to the larger device and fumbled it, sending it clanking
to the floor. Great, Karen. Smash the screen on the shiny new smart phone. Good way to endear myself with my unit chief. She picked it up and was relieved to see it was still in one piece.

  Text from Robby.

  bombing at metro center

  She wrote back:

  i know i am there

  She was about to reholster the phone when Robby’s response buzzed:

  so is jonathan

  What? Vail’s chest tightened, her ribcage constricting as if a cobra was snaking around her torso.

  For a split second, her mind went blank. Then: how the hell am I gonna find him? Is he okay? He was a student at George Washington University, so naturally he traveled around DC on the Metro. It was one of the advantages of going to college in a city with an extensive mass transit system. And aside from Union Station, Metro Center was the system hub.

  She typed back:

  where is he

  While she awaited the answer—hoping Robby had the answer—she visually searched the station’s interior, trying to locate her son.

  j is ok. tried calling us but only text got thru. trying to get out of train somewhere

  She swung her gaze back over her shoulder. Was he in a derailed car or one that was on another track? Metro shut down all traffic in and out of the station as soon as they got word of the explosion, meaning all nearby trains were immobile.

  Vail stood up and pulled on Ghazal’s forearm. “C’mon, asshole, get up.”

  She held up her creds and repeatedly shouted, “FBI, out of my way!” and like Moses, parted the sea of people and made it back down to the platform. Realizing she would have to drag Ghazal through the area of devastation, she thought instead of cuffing him to a fixed metal post or railing—when her phone rang.

  Jonathan.

  “Mom, I’m okay. I tried calling you before, but the call wouldn’t go through. I sent a text—”

  “I know, Robby told me. You sure you’re okay? Where are you?”

  “I’m fine, I’m outside the police blockade they just put up. Near F and 12th.”

  “Stay right there, I’m coming out of the station.”