So where was this meet occurring? He checked his watch: they were a few minutes late, but he was certain any discussion these men were supposedly having would last more than 180 seconds. Unless it was a simple handoff. Uzi cursed under his breath. Had they really missed them by two or three minutes?
As Uzi swung his head left to glance over his shoulder he was slammed in the back by two men who grabbed him by his arms and launched him off the ground and up against the spikes. The force knocked the air from his lungs.
Uzi fought to get hold of something to keep his body from being thrown over the edge—but the metal was smooth and slick. And wet.
He kicked backward, landed a couple of good blows.
But his attackers did not yield.
He wedged his knee between the rods and reached back with his left hand and grabbed a fistful of hair. The man twisted and pulled, trying to free himself, but there was no way Uzi was going to let go.
If only he could gain some space and pull his Glock or his knife.
That was not going to happen. He continued gyrating and kicking, then realized he did not have to pull his handgun.
He squirmed and got his right hand free, wedged it between his belt and abdomen, and grasped the hand of the pistol. It was a crazy move but he had no other choice—and nothing to lose.
His 5.11 tactical pants had some elasticity and they yielded as he pushed the Glock down into his groin, angled the barrel between his legs and pulled the trigger twice.
The recoil slammed into his groin and the pain was instant—but either he hit one of his targets or the gunshots got their attention and they loosened their grasp—long enough for Uzi to swing a vicious right elbow backward into the perp’s head. The stunned man jerked back and dropped his hold on Uzi.
Uzi fell off to that side and took the other man down with him, his left fist still grasping clumps of hair. From his back he swung his right foot into the side of the tango’s head, then drew his knee back and smashed the perp squarely in the nose with a Timberland boot. The man fell to the pavement.
Uzi struggled to his feet, trying to shake off the pain. He turned slowly to get a look at the other attacker. But he was nowhere in sight. A blood trail, however, indicated that he had been struck by at least one of the rounds and had staggered off, by the looks of the jagged red-tinged droplets.
Uzi knelt on the chest of the unconscious man and reached a hand down his tactical pants to move the Glock back up to his waist.
Fahad appeared on the far side and ran toward him.
“What happened?”
“Another guy—go see if you can catch up to him—follow the blood.” He gestured over his left shoulder.
“That one dead?”
“Unconscious.”
“Kill him.”
“Mo, just go!”
“Do it,” he said, and took off.
Quick glance up—the couple that had been near the other end of the railing was now gone—no surprise there. The area was otherwise empty. No surprise there, either.
Off in the near distance, below him somewhere, came the scream of sirens. And he knew the cops he saw down below would be on their way up. He had maybe sixty seconds to get the hell away or face certain detention and questioning—which he had to avoid at all costs.
He reseated the Glock and debated wiping it down and ditching it here but because he had it so close against his body he did not know if any of his DNA was in the slide. It would not take much: a sliver of skin from his leg during the recoil, a drop of blood.
He did an efficient pat down of the unconscious man and found nothing. He rooted out his phone and took a photo of the face—and that’s when he realized it was one of the snipers from London: Samir Mohammed al Razi. That meant the one that escaped might be Rahmatullah Nasrullah.
The urgent sirens grew louder.
Fahad’s voice echoed in his head: “Kill him.” He was right; al Razi was a terrorist and his flat would eventually be discovered. In an effort to win his freedom he would describe Uzi to the authorities. How much did al Razi know about him? About all of them?
Uzi now knew the so-called meet was an ambush—which meant the tangos had known he and Fahad were in that flat. But how? What else did they know?
He could not take a chance. And he was out of time.
He pulled the Glock from his waistband and took aim.
50
Who are you?” Lufti Raboud asked.
DeSantos smirked. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
“This,” Vail said, “is the director of ancient documents. Lufti Raboud.”
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again, Miss Vega,” Raboud said disdainfully. “Let alone with an armed thug.”
DeSantos tilted his head. “Thug?”
Vail’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the display: Tim Meadows. She reluctantly pulled the cell from her belt and answered the call. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Well excuse me for interrupting, Karen, but I thought you’d like an answer on some of those prints and photos you people have been bombarding me with.”
“What about the last one I sent? Anything?”
“Yeah. And as a matter of fact, it wasn’t easy because makeup powder is not an ideal medium—”
“Sorry, I didn’t have access to proper equipment. I improvised.”
“Go to a drugstore and get a plastic cup, a pipe cleaner, and superglue. Poke a hole in the cup, put the pipe cleaner through the hole, put superglue on the pipe cleaner and set the cup over the latent. The superglue reacts with the pipe cleaner, which heats up and creates fumes. The fumes adhere to—”
“Tim—Tim. When I said ‘now’s not a good time,’ I really meant it. Do you have an ID?”
“You are impatient. And ungrateful.” He paused a second. “Is that an alarm going off?”
“Which is why I don’t have a lot of time.”
“The man’s Borz Ramazanov, a Chechen national wanted for—wait for it—terrorism, identity theft, and forgery.”
“Really.”
“No, I called you in France to bullshit you, just to yank your chain.”
“That was rhetorical.”
“Of course it was. Sorry.”
Vail glanced at DeSantos, who was not so patiently waiting for her to finish the call.
“You want the other IDs? Yes or no?”
“Call you back.” She clicked off and came up alongside DeSantos and faced Raboud. “So, Borz, you’ve got something we want and we’ve got something you want.”
His eyes flickered at the mention of his real name. “And what do I want? Your gun, perhaps?”
“Your freedom. All we’re interested in is the codex. Give it to us and you’re free to go.”
His eyes flicked between them.
C’mon, dipshit. We’re running out of time.
“Now,” DeSantos said, “or the deal’s off. You’ve got five seconds.”
Ramazanov firmed his lips in anger, then stepped over to a large, floor-to-ceiling wall safe and twirled the tumbler. Several turns and reverse rotations later, following a yank on the chrome handle and a loud metallic clunk, he pulled open the thick steel door.
Vail peered inside and held Ramazanov at gunpoint as he reached in and set aside a number of items before extracting a worn brown leather portfolio approximately three by four feet. He stepped back and handed it to Vail, who took it in one hand and grabbed his wrist with the other, then twisted it and pushed him into a desk. He yielded from the pain and bent over at the waist, his face pressed against the worktop.
“What are you doing?” he groaned.
Vail took a flexcuff from DeSantos and secured Ramazanov’s wrists to the nearest immovable object.
“He looks uncomfortable,” DeSantos said as he did a pat down of the man’s
body. He pulled a smartphone from Ramazanov’s suit pocket and began thumbing through it.
“Let me go!”
Vail placed the portfolio atop a worktable and removed a couple of gloves from a dispenser to her far right. “As soon as we verify the document.” She pulled it from the leather case and carefully set the sheaf of large papers on the flat surface.
“Who do you work for?” DeSantos asked.
“The Musée du Louvre. Not to state the obvious.”
“How about the truth?” DeSantos said. “We know who you are. Who are you giving the codex to?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“See, the funny thing is, I don’t believe you. And trust me on this—you don’t want to piss me off. Last guy who did that—well, let’s just say no one’s heard from him since.”
Ramazanov considered this, then said, “I don’t know the guy’s name. He paid me to authenticate the codex and then create a forgery. I didn’t have time to do it because he suddenly called and said he needed the original immediately.”
“When was this?”
“This morning.”
“Why did he need it right away?”
Ramazanov tugged on the flexcuffs, which prevented him from standing erect. “Didn’t say. And I didn’t care. All that mattered is that I wasn’t getting paid. No forgery, no payment. I told him these things take a lot of time.”
DeSantos frowned, clearly dissatisfied with Ramazanov’s answers, and moved to Vail’s side, keeping an angle on their prisoner. He looked at the yellowed parchment, which contained Hebrew lettering. Some areas were faded while others were still dark and distinct.
“What do you think?” Vail asked.
“It’s the codex,” Ramazanov said.
Vail snorted. “A little while ago you insisted you didn’t have it. Were you lying then or are you lying now?”
DeSantos pulled out his phone, made a call, and waited. He disconnected it a moment later. “Our friend’s not answering,” he said, referring to Uzi. “Must be busy. But we need that contact.”
“He already gave it to me,” Vail said of Uzi’s acquaintance who used to work at the Israel Antiquities Authority—the contingency plan Uzi had arranged to determine if the item they recovered—if they recovered something—was in fact the codex.
Vail pulled out her Samsung to take photos. She made sure the halogen desk lamp was angled toward the ceiling, then turned it on. Next she disabled the phone’s flash, but left the camera’s infrared focus assist beam on, since she had been told it would not damage the fragile parchment and ancient ink.
She snapped some pictures of the flesh side of the parchment and then, handling it carefully, turned it over and shot some of the hairy side, where the ink was darker and in better condition.
She emailed the images to Uzi’s friend and followed with a text message asking him to look them over ASAP.
“When do you think we’ll hear?”
DeSantos shrugged. “I don’t know how he’s authenticating it. If he’s even near his phone or PC.”
“We’ve gotta get out of here. How long before they review the security tape and realize the alarm was bogus?”
DeSantos shifted his jaw. “Wish I had answers. But every second we stay here we’re increasing our risk.”
“Who do you work for?” Ramazanov asked.
Vail turned to him. “I told you. The Museum of Middle Eastern Affairs.”
“Something tells me a document expert for the Museum of Middle Eastern Affairs doesn’t break into the Louvre with a thug—” he shot a glance at DeSantos—“and steal rare manuscripts.”
“And a terrorist and forger shouldn’t be working as the director of ancient documents at an esteemed world-class institution,” DeSantos said. “Obviously, the Louvre doesn’t know who you really are. Not sure how you got through their security check. They’re very thorough.”
“Nice setup, though,” Vail said. “A lot of valuable lesser known antiquities come through here. You siphon off a few—after you’ve created an expert forgery that you authenticate yourself and leave in the museum—then sell the real one on the black market.”
“You have an understanding of the rare manuscript market.”
“Unfortunately,” Vail said. “How much is the codex worth?”
“Some would say it’s priceless. But if you were to try to put a price on it, millions. Tens of millions. Maybe more.”
“Even on the black market?”
“It’s not unusual for Hebrew manuscripts to be sold covertly among dealers and collectors who are not above board. Even a stolen antiquity, which can’t be sold on a legitimate market, the price can get quite high. A manuscript as old as this almost never changes hands. But the codex is unique. And with something that’s one of a kind, the price sets itself.
“You only need one person who wants it bad enough, someone with the wherewithal to afford it. If you know about rare manuscripts, you know this is true.” Ramazanov bent over, then flexed his knees, trying to find a comfortable position. “And here you are, trying to take it away from me. I’m obviously not the only thief here.”
“Actually, you are,” Vail said. “We’re French intelligence.”
“And we’re running out of time,” DeSantos said.
Ramazanov laughed. “French intelligence with American accents?”
“We’re normally stationed overseas,” Vail said dismissively. “So I get the forgery. Simple motive there—money. But how’d you get hooked up with terrorists? Did they offer you—”
“Katherine,” DeSantos said firmly. “This isn’t important.”
“I need to underst—” Her phone vibrated. “Yeah.”
“You sent me photos,” the Israeli-accented voice said.
“I did. Can you verify?”
“There are three columns of Hebrew writing, and the words don’t end in a straight line along the right margin—in other words, in today’s terminology, it’s not justified text. The line ends wherever the last word ends. That was the style of the codex scribe, Ben Buya. But it’s not the codex. The writing is too irregular, with size variations of some of the letters. Ben Buya’s penmanship was perfect. This is not even close.”
“Are you sure?”
“Were you not listening to what I just said? Did our friend tell you who I am?”
“I don’t have a lot of time. Straight answers, please.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then what am I looking at here?”
“There are a lot of ancient Hebrew manuscripts. Assuming it’s not a forgery, you’ve got one there. They’re all unique in their own ways with historic and archaeological significance. If I had it here I could probably tell you which it was. But there’s only one codex. Because of what it is, when, how, and why it was created, and who wrote it, it’s in a league all by itself.”
“Appreciate it. We’ll be in touch.”
“Not it,” DeSantos said.
“Nope.”
“You’re wrong,” Ramazanov said. “That is the Aleppo Codex!”
“Was he sure?” DeSantos asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What do we do with him?”
“We’ll call, leave an anonymous tip with Paris police, give them his real identity.”
“Bastards,” Ramazanov said. “Why are you doing this to me? I can get you money. Lots—”
“Save it, asshole,” DeSantos said as he shoved the Glock in his waistband. “Be thankful we’re letting you live.”
Vail was sure Ramazanov was confused as to who they were—they were clearly not law enforcement, but they weren’t thieves either. And if she were him, she would not believe the French intelligence subterfuge.
Vail came up close to D
eSantos’s ear. “There’s a bathroom in here with ventilation ducts.”
“Where do they lead?”
“No idea.”
“Too risky. We’re better off trying to get out of here through an evacuated museum without getting seen. If we hit a dead end in the duct work and they reopen the place, there’ll be hundreds of people who’ll see us climbing out of a duct. And then we’ll definitely get caught.”
Hey, no argument from me. I was not looking forward to living through another claustrophobic’s nightmare.
They checked the corridor, then walked out and headed up the staircase. The alarm was louder in the hallway, the high-pitched piercing whine stinging her ears.
“You sure that’s the right move?” Vail asked. “Letting him live.”
DeSantos glanced over his left shoulder at Vail. “I only kill when it’s necessary—if it endangers our mission or my ability to operate now or in the future.”
“What if he IDs us?”
“I didn’t think you’d be in favor of killing someone in cold blood. You’re surprising me. Or is this Katherine Vega talking?”
“I’m just trying to make sense of what we’re doing—and how we’re supposed to do it.”
They were nearing the door to the public area of the Louvre. DeSantos put his fingers on the handle. “Look, he’s not a guy with a lot of integrity. What’s he got to sell? The identity of two people who did not steal anything, did not break any laws, and turned a known fugitive and terrorist into the authorities? And even if he’s got something to sell and bargain with, what’s he got—a physical description and no clear video images? I’m not saying there’s no risk, but we should be fine.”
“Okay.”
“There’s more, but I’ll explain later. We’ve gotta get out of the museum. You go first, make sure it’s clear. If you come across security or staff, act hysterical, like you got lost and couldn’t find your way out and you were scared because the alarm was going off and you have anxiety—”
“Claustrophobia.”
“Don’t remind me.” He cracked the door and peaked outside. “Looks good. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He pulled out his phone and started dialing. “Answer this call and leave the line open. When you get a couple hundred yards, let me know and I’ll leave. In case there are cameras we won’t be seen together. Keep your chin down.”
The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3) Page 32
