Tahir Aziz on the left. Other had to be Michel.
Kitchen clear, bathroom door open. Empty.
Aziz reached for his handgun sitting beside the PC on the coffee table.
“Don’t move,” Uzi barked in Arabic, anger permeating his voice—a “fuck you” attitude in his demeanor, his gun in line with his eyes, aimed at Aziz and clearly ready to fire. “Don’t make me splatter your goddamn guts all over the flat. Landlord would be really pissed.”
Fahad moved behind Uzi, headed for the bedroom to clear it. Since one man was missing—assuming they were given accurate information—the likelihood of Yaseen being in there was high.
Uzi stepped forward, angling away from the bedroom in case he needed to pivot and fire in that direction. “Get down on the floor, now!”
He approached carefully and stuck his boot into the back of the man he thought was Michel and ratcheted a flexcuff around his wrists. Another went around the man’s ankles. Next he secured Aziz, pat them both down, and pocketed their handguns—.22 Berettas. Easy and quiet to fire. Good for silent kills.
Uzi looked up at the bedroom. He had not heard anything and Fahad had been in there too long. “Mo! What’s going on?”
No response.
Uzi cursed under his breath.
“Come out, Yaseen.” He said this in English because he knew the man had no difficulties with the language. “You have till three. One. Two.”
“I’m not coming out. But you can come in or I will kill your friend. So now it is my turn to count. One.”
“I’m coming.”
But Uzi knew that if he approached the doorway, Yaseen would open fire. Game over. Uzi was not wearing a vest.
He also did not have any flash bangs or concussion grenades. No strobing lights to disorient him or other high-tech means to disable the tango without putting himself or Fahad in danger.
But he did have a low-tech method. Would it work?
“Two,” Yaseen yelled.
He ejected the magazine from one of the Berettas and with it in his left hand, approached the door in a crouch.
In one motion, he yelled, “Mo, get down!” and threw the loaded magazine into the room, backhanded, as hard as he could. He swung left, into the open doorway, his Glock in ready-to-fire position.
Yaseen was focused on an area a few feet away where the magazine had struck. Uzi squeezed off a round and struck the tango in the right shoulder. He jerked back and sprayed the far wall wildly with automatic rounds.
Uzi fired again, taking care to avoid striking vital organs. This time Yaseen dropped his weapon, an MP7 submachine gun.
Uzi stepped into the modest sized bedroom, which featured a folded futon bed and a dresser. Boxes were stacked along one of the walls.
Fahad was picking himself—and the MP7—up from the floor.
Uzi noted three missing fingers on Yaseen’s left hand. If there was any doubt as to the man’s profession, that helped confirm it.
“You okay?”
Fahad hit Yaseen with a right cross and sent the man backward into the corner.
“Now I’m okay.”
“What the hell happened?”
“He got the drop on me when I walked in. My fault.”
Fahad pulled out a flexcuff and yanked his prisoner’s arms back to fasten the restraint.
“Ahh! Son of a bitch. You did that on purpose.”
“He’s losing blood,” Uzi said. Using his knife, he sliced off a long strip from the bed sheet. With Yaseen’s arm abducted, Uzi saw that the wounds were not in the shoulder but were lodged a few inches above the elbow. He tied the tourniquet around the upper limb to stem the potential arterial bleeding. “Check on our friends, see if they’re in any mood to talk.”
“I’ll make sure they are.”
“This means nothing,” Yaseen said. “You think that by capturing us you’ve won?”
“It’s a start. But I’m not so naive to think that one victory will win the war.”
“The war’s over,” he said disdainfully, resting his head against the wall. “You people just don’t know it.”
Uzi had a hard time arguing with that—but he had an equally difficult time accepting it. He was not waving the white flag and he didn’t know any of his colleagues who were, either.
“You’re Uziel,” Yaseen said. “The Jew FBI agent.”
“In the flesh.”
“Kadir Abu Sahmoud has an order out to kill you.”
“Yeah, how’s that working out for him?” Uzi stood up and walked around the futon to the wall of corrugated boxes. He stabbed at one with his Puma and ripped open the front panel of the cardboard.
He moved to the next one, and then the next, tearing them open with angry vigor. They all contained the same item: suicide bomber vests.
Fahad walked in and surveyed the contraband. “Gotta be dozens.”
Yaseen grinned. “We’ve got a whole army waiting to die for Allah.”
“You fucking brainwash people,” Fahad said. “I should shoot you right here, put you out of our misery.”
“I believe your Constitution would prevent that. Of all our weapons, that one is maybe our most potent.”
Fahad glanced at Uzi. That comment was truer than either of them wanted to admit.
“What about those jokers out there?”
“Aziz is not talking. The other one—”
“Michel?”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. It’s not Michel. Claims his name is Noori. I sent Richard Prati and Tim Meadows his photo to see if they could run him through the database, get an ID.”
“So where’s Doka Michel?”
Yaseen’s lips broadened. “You missed him. He left twenty minutes before you got here.”
“With the Jesus Scroll?”
Yaseen laughed.
Uzi ground his jaw. “Believe him?”
Fahad shrugged. “Let’s tear the place apart. It’s small, a few minutes should do it.”
“Police are gonna be on the way. With all that gunfire—”
“You’re not going to find anything,” Yaseen said.
They ignored him and went about looking under, on top of, in the middle of, and behind everything in the flat. Other than the suicide vests, it was clean, just as Yaseen had claimed. Uzi figured the place was a secondary safe house used to store bombs, not for operational planning. When the Rue Muller location was compromised, they came here.
Understanding did not lessen the disappointment. But it was short-lived because sirens blared in the distance. Uzi ran to the window and listened. “We’ve gotta get out of here.”
Fahad reached over to one of the open boxes and pulled out a vest. He unfolded it and found it fully equipped with explosives. He did a quick check, seemed satisfied, and rolled it back up. He pulled a second one from the carton and placed it with the first.
Uzi started to back out of the room. “I’ll get Abdul and Hijaz and leave them with Noori. Get Yaseen ready. We’ll take him and Aziz with us.”
They stuffed socks into the mouths of their two hostages and tied a long strip of material around their heads, keeping the gags in place. They dragged the still-unconscious bodies of Abdul and Hijaz into the living room beside Noori and headed down the stairs.
Two minutes later, with the sirens getting louder, Uzi found an unmarked, rusted fire door at the end of the hall. He pulled it open and they stepped inside, keeping the two men in front of them. Uzi turned on his phone’s flashlight to scout out the interior: a set of stairs led down to what looked like a basement, perhaps with a boiler or furnace. The building was several decades old and the room had a strong musty smell. Whatever this place was, it was likely only frequented by maintenance staff.
After descending the steps, they saw, through street-level half windows above their heads, the swi
rling lights of police cars. From the looks of the constellation of colors flickering off windows in the surrounding buildings, there were several of them.
“I’ll go take a look,” Fahad said.
Uzi moved the men into a corner against the far wall and explored the remainder of the room. He found another set of stairs that led to a different metal door.
When Fahad returned, Uzi showed him the exit he had discovered.
“They’re deploying tac teams. Any minute now, they’ll start infiltrating the building and setting up a perimeter.”
“My bet is your door leads up to the street,” Fahad said. “If I’m right about where it’ll let us out, we may be able to get down the block without being seen.”
“I’m sure the tac team hasn’t had time to review the building’s blueprints. They probably don’t know about this exit.”
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
Vail 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
Uzi 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 obse
rve. 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.”
The Lost Codex (OPSIG Team Black Series Book 3) Page 37
