The Lost Codex

38

“Anything?” Vail asked in a low voice.

Uzi clacked away at the keys, stopped, waited, and then started typing again. “No. I’ll get it, I think. Question is when. You find anything?”

“Place is pretty clean for a bunch of bachelors.”

Uzi glanced up. “Find anything that resembles ancient scriptures? Like the missing Aleppo Codex pages or the Jesus Scroll?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. No, the place is kind of barren, actually. A few Korans, prayer rugs. Some porn magazines.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Anything good?”

Vail gave him a look.

“Right.” Uzi turned his attention back to the screen. “I saw you emailing someone. Nothing personal, right?”

“Actually, I was sexting Robby. What do you think I am, a black ops rookie?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“I was posting to Facebook. A photo I took of Hector on the C-17.” She winked at Uzi. “Yes, I’m kidding. But Hector’s very smart, you know that?”

“I’ve worked with him a really long time, on and off for a dozen years or so. Of course I know. You’re suddenly realizing that?”

“I’m not ‘suddenly realizing it.’ But I did just realize why he bought makeup for me and stuck it in my duffel.”

Uzi went back to the keyboard. “Because he wants you to look hot on our op.”

She play slapped him in the back of the head. “You’re saying I need makeup to look hot?”

“Don’t repeat that to Robby,” he said with a chuckle. “The powder and brush are for lifting latent prints.”

She stood up straight. “Yeah. I thought that was good, resourceful thinking on the fly.”

“You don’t think it was a bit sexist? That he put the makeup in your duffel?” A grin broke his face, but he kept focused on the monitor.

“Not at all. If we were stopped and searched, it made perfect sense. Last I checked you guys are as straight as it gets and wouldn’t be caught dead wearing makeup.”

“If we were stopped and searched, makeup in a man’s luggage would be the least of our problems. We’d be in the shit because of the Glocks. We’re in England, remember?”

How could I forget?

“He also bought me clear packaging tape, which I used to lift a bunch of prints. I dusted and photographed them, then emailed them to Tim Meadows. That’s why I was on the phone. And yes, I deleted the email and the photos afterward with that ShredderApp.”

“You’re learning, very good.” Uzi hit a key, waited, then pumped a fist. “Got it. I’m in.”

The shots echoed on the flat waters of the Thames.

But more importantly, despite the dim light, they were on target and must have struck the inflatable portion of the Zodiac. It veered right toward the shoreline and DeSantos took off in a sprint around the timber and glass buildings on the promenade that fronted the pier and the foot path that paralleled the Thames.

He came upon a complex of large, regal, limestone-columned buildings — the Trinity Laban Conservatoire and the Old Royal Naval College.

Passing the line of trees, he glanced at the river to his left. In the cloud-obscured moonlight, he saw the RIB, its outboard engine still running, heading toward the shore.

He hopped over the wrought iron fence and crossed the strip of grass and slipped between the benches that were normally populated with people watching the maritime traffic on the Thames.

DeSantos climbed another railing and landed in the coarse sand of the river’s edge. As he drew his Glock, he realized that the Zodiac had caught on something because it was stuck about a dozen feet away, its engine still running. More disturbingly, he did not see anyone in it.

How can that be? He saw them get in and pull away from the dock.

DeSantos looked around: no one was in the vicinity. He removed his cell phone and set it down beside the pistol on the beach. He patted down his pants to make sure he did not have anything else that would be damaged by the water, then drew his Boker Recurve knife and waded into the cold Thames.

After his last experience in the river, he had learned that the temperature was around sixty-five — not dangerous but certainly uncomfortable in the winter. Of greater concern was the water quality — severe bacterial infections like leptospirosis were common, and dangerous. He was taking a significant risk by wading in, but as he so often had told himself over the years when he found himself in do-or-die situations, he had done worse things in his career.

As he waded toward the Zodiac, he realized it was not a RIB but an IBS, also known as “inflatable boat — small,” which sported a rigid rollup deck. Both were military grade vessels used by Special Forces operators, not undertrained terrorist suicide bombers. They were dealing with a different breed here: dangerous, well funded mercenaries who had a sense of what they were doing.

By the time he reached the Zodiac, he was hip deep in the filthy water.

He carefully peered inside — and saw a single body laid out in the floor of the boat. The man was not moving and he had no weapon in his hands. DeSantos flipped the knife closed and clipped it to his shirt, then pulled himself into the inflatable. He cut the engine, which he noticed was a 55-horsepower outboard, and glanced around: no sign of where the others might have gone. They had not left anything of use behind.

But he had to deal with the body — fast, before law enforcement responded. The Metropolitan Police had a marine division with stations strategically located along the Thames. Where the closest one was, he had no idea.

Was it better that they found the dead tango? Would Buck then take Knox’s warning more seriously? Or was it worse because DeSantos’s forensics were all over the crime scene, thus telling Buck he’s in London and severely handicapping their ability to carry out their mission?

As he parsed the scenarios of what would happen if they found the corpse, he became aware of the ticking clock in his head.

They were on UK soil to take care of business — and at this point, involvement from Scotland Yard or MI5 could hamper their ability to do their job. No, this body had to be disposed of … or at least the discovery delayed as long as possible.

There was no pulse but there was a rather gruesome head wound. He patted down the man, removed his billfold and a mobile, then shoved the former into his own pocket and used the camera to take photos of the tango’s face. One thing was certain: he was not Yaseen or Aziz.

After wiping off the phone’s screen, he pressed the deceased’s fingers against the glass. He was not sure they could lift a clear latent off it, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He huffed on the surface and was able to see a print. Whether it was good enough to run through a database for comparison remained to be seen.

He looked around at the swiftly moving but smooth Thames water, wondering what happened to the other men that had to have been in the Zodiac.

Did they bail when he had started shooting? They had to be in the water. Dead? Or did they escape to the shore on the other side of the river?

Given all the gunshots, he was running low on time and high on risk. DeSantos put the mobile in his shirt pocket, then lowered himself back into the cold water. He felt around the boat’s exterior and found the source of entanglement. He removed the Boker and sliced away the fibrous mesh that had snagged the bow, freeing the Zodiac. He used the discarded strips of netting to secure the man’s wrists and ankles to the aluminum deck’s tie down hooks.

DeSantos had used these IBSs on a number of missions, so he was intimately familiar with what kept them afloat — and what made them sink. Using short, quick strokes he stabbed the inflatable’s neoprene fabric in multiple places, making sure to hit each of the air chambers. Combined with the weight of the motor, it would put the boat, and the corpse, below the surface.

That done, he started up the outboard. The strong smell of diesel irritated his nose and he brought his forearm up to fight back a sneeze.

The roar of the engine in the quiet morning hours was like a jackhammer on a country road: people tended to take notice. He set the throttle at a low speed and watched the damaged Zodiac head back down the Thames. If he was lucky, it would sail a decent distance before it went under — and go deep enough not to be discovered when river traffic started in two or three hours.

The four of them should be gone from the area by then, and if they were successful in avoiding the surveillance cameras it would take time to sort out who was involved in this morning’s activities.

DeSantos waded back toward the shore. His body shivering from the cold, his legs feeling like they weighed twenty pounds apiece, he headed toward the place where he had left his phone and Glock.

But before he reached them, he saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. He felt a sharp pain in his head as something fast and hard struck him broadside.

39

Uzi studied the screen. “Do you see a thumb drive anywhere? Or an external hard drive?”

Vail searched the bedroom, where the offenders had set up a makeshift office. “I’ve got my COFFE device, but that’s only got like a gig of space on it.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Vail pulled out the drive and handed it over. “You should run the program too.”

“Roger that.”

The COFFE was a program developed by Microsoft to aid law enforcement cyber units in the capture of temporary, cached files that disappear when a computer is powered off. The captured data often yield traces that a criminal does not realize get left behind when they open documents, visit websites, and transact business.

She pulled out her phone and tried calling DeSantos, but it went to voicemail. Fahad was next — but he did not pick up, either.

“They’re not answering,” Vail said.

“Just busy chasing bad guys,” Uzi said as he copied files onto the USB drive. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

DeSantos went down hard and tasted the sandy silt at the river’s edge. A blow to his ribs hurt like hell and he recoiled instinctively — but knew he needed to get up — now, while he still could.

He rolled away from the attacker, his intercostal muscles in spasm and dammit, he probably had a fractured rib.

For now, his sole concern was disabling the assailant who meant to kill him.

Despite the darkness — he could only make out the vague form of a large man in dark clothes in front of him — he was able to hear just fine.

And the sound of a round being chambered got DeSantos’s attention.

But that gave DeSantos one bit of vital information about his adversary: he was not a professional — and he was not law enforcement or military, either. Any of those would not have to prepare their weapon. It would be ready to fire. Just like his was.

He rolled two more times and got to his feet — but not before scooping up his Glock. The problem of not being able to see was a two-way street — and it gave DeSantos an extra second to level his handgun and fire.

The shot was exceedingly loud, echoing off the berm to his right and reverberating off the open waters of the Thames to his left. DeSantos dropped to a knee and fired again, and the hulking silhouette of the man crumpled to a ball on the sand.

DeSantos approached slowly, circling his prey, ensuring that the man was truly incapacitated and not merely luring him closer to get a high percentage shot.

But his aggressor was still, and blood was seeping into the porous surface of the beach.

He approached, stepped on the man’s wrist, and pulled away his weapon. DeSantos shoved it into his waistband and put his knee atop the man’s chest. He was still breathing.

“Who are you?”

The perp spit at him.

DeSantos wiped his cheek with a sleeve. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

“Fine. Have it your way.” DeSantos put the barrel of his Glock to the right eye socket of the man’s forehead. “Last chance. You have five seconds. Four … three … two … one.” The man tried to spit again — so DeSantos pulled the trigger.

He rocked backward off the assailant’s body and patted him down, finding nothing other than a cell phone. He turned it on and took a photo of the man’s face. It was a good likeness, other than the blown-out orbit.

He wiped off the screen and went through the same procedure of pressing the man’s fingers against the glass. He tried to catch the stray moonlight to see if it had worked, but it was too dark.

DeSantos gently placed the handset in his pocket and blew air out of his mouth. His head ached from getting clocked and his ribs were sore from getting kicked. He had a problem — what to do with the body so that it would not be discovered for a while.

The best answer was to weight it down with rocks and set it in the Thames. Like the disabled boat, it would hopefully find the bottom of the river.

He gathered up as many stones as he could find and shoved them into the perp’s pockets. He wiped off the handgun and slid it inside the man’s jeans. It probably was not enough to overcome the buoyancy.

He gathered up his phone and dusted off the sand, then called Fahad. There was no answer so he tried Vail. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey, I need you to pick me up about, I don’t know, maybe a hundred yards, maybe two hundred yards from the pier. Due east, along the shoreline. And bring something heavy.”

“Something heavy?”

“Yeah. Like some bricks. I need to weigh down a body so it sinks.”

“Jesus. I don’t want to know, do I?”

“You do. But not now. Hurry. And bring me a bath towel from the flat and a change of dry clothes from my duffel.”

“Be there ASAP.”

“Faster than ASAP. I may have fired my weapon once or twice. Or five times. Someone might’ve heard.”

“Terrific.”

“And tell Uzi to be careful. One tango might’ve gotten away.”

Vail arrived four minutes later. She drove the car as close as she could to DeSantos’s approximate twenty, but there were no roads that went to the waterline. She headed down Eastney Street, parked at the dead end, and ran the last hundred yards or so. The duffel across her shoulder flapped against her back as her feet struck the pavement.

When she got to an area that she felt might be near DeSantos, she called him on his cell and he directed her to his location. She saw the body lying on the sand and cursed under her breath.

“What’d you bring?”

“Found some bricks in the back, by the dumpster. I brought as many as I could fit in the bag. Hope it’s enough. I’ve never done this before.”

“I have.”

Vail shook her head. “Life with you is never boring, Hector.”

They prepared the body and then DeSantos handed over the phones and Glock to Vail. He dragged the body out into the Thames as far as he could reach — a bit farther than he had gone when he retrieved the Zodiac — and let go. At first the corpse remained on the surface, but with his help it took on water and eventually settled below the waterline.

When he got back he was shivering. Vail helped him undress and towel off, then slip on the fresh clothing she had brought.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said.

“What?” he asked as he dried his feet. “That you saw me naked?” He turned to her and gestured with his right hand. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

“For what?”

“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours. Then we’ll be sworn to secrecy.”

“Yeah. Not happening.” But I did enjoy the show.

“Seriously. You think getting undressed in front of you bothers me?” He balled up the towel and shoved it into the duffel with the other wet clothes. “I’ve got a lot more to worry about. We’ve got a lot more to worry about. I gave up modesty a long time ago. C’mon, let’s get back to the car.”

When they arrived at the flat they hoped — and expected — to find Fahad waiting for them. But he was not there. DeSantos tried his phone — and though he still did not answer, he texted back:

DeSantos related that to Uzi and Vail. He felt gross and thought he smelled like river water. He desperately wanted to shower but did not want to leave trace DNA behind in the flat.

“At some point one or both of those bodies are going to surface and they’ll find this apartment,” DeSantos said. “We need to make sure there’s nothing that points to us.”

Another text:

He showed the display to Vail and she made her way to the door. They heard a light shuffle of footsteps in the hall, followed by the gentle rapping Fahad had mentioned.

Vail pulled open the door and he stepped in, looking slightly disheveled, but no worse for the pursuit of his man, certainly compared to what DeSantos had endured.

“Where’s your guy?” Uzi asked, still at the desk, working the keyboard.

“Got away.”

DeSantos advanced on him. “You’re shitting me. I chased one of the assholes into the goddamn Thames. You were on foot. How the hell does a guy like that get away from you? You’re a highly trained operative.”

Vail looked like she was going to jump to Fahad’s defense — but stopped. DeSantos figured she wanted to see how he handled the questioning. More importantly, she probably wanted to know if he was worthy of her support.

“It happens,” Fahad said. “I had him for a good three hundred yards, but it was dark and he went into a blind, and I lost him among the trees.”

“That was, what? An hour and a half ago? Where the hell were you all this time?”

Fahad squinted. “What’s your problem?”

“Just trying to account for your time.”

“Santa,” Uzi said, still focused on his work. “Calm down. And lower your voice.”

DeSantos glanced at his watch and turned away, waving a hand in the process. “We’ll deal with this later. The one that got away may circle back. And if he does, and we’re still here, he’ll know we’ve got their stuff—”

“And their plans,” Uzi said, studying the screen.

“You should’ve called Karen and Uzi, warned them. As soon as you lost the guy. What if he came back here and they had no idea he was on the way?”

“If it was me,” Fahad said with a shrug, “no way would I come back. You gotta consider the flat compromised.”

“Depends,” DeSantos said, “on what he left behind and how important it is. Remember, risk is not an issue for them. A lot of these guys are suicide bombers.”

Fahad’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need reminding, Hector.”

“I think you do. Because we can’t afford fuckups. And so far I’m not too impressed with your performance. If we’re going to trust our lives to—”

“Another time,” Vail said. “We need to get our shit together and get out.”

DeSantos shook his head in disgust. The sun was beginning its rise, the sky brightening — which meant they did not have much time.

“You two go take positions outside, one out front, one out back. You see the asshole come back, let us know.” DeSantos gave Fahad a hard look. “Think you can do that?”

Fahad stared back but did not answer.

“Karen, anything that doesn’t look kosher, ring us.”

“Right.” They left as Uzi continued clacking away at the keys. “Quick and dirty sit-rep?”

“Two got away, two dead. Did the best to dispose of the bodies but like I said, they’re going to be found. Matter of time.” He pulled out the phones. “But I got photos and prints. You?”

“Hacked the PC. Close to decrypting some of their documents. I have a feeling we’ll get some good intel.”

DeSantos went about printing the latents on the phone screens, then sent the data to Meadows along with the images of the two deceased men. He had no idea if they would get a hit, but he asked Meadows to check with Interpol as well. He hoped they were in the system somewhere, for something illegal. When dealing with foreign countries, the results were less certain. In some places, bribes were paid; in others, police work was inconsistent.

DeSantos packed his duffel and went through the flat, removing signs of their presence. “How much longer?”

“Got one decrypted. Reading it now—” Uzi leaned in close to the screen and cursed. “They’re planning something all right. On MI5, with osmium tetroxide.”

“What?” DeSantos came up beside him. “Osmium tetroxide isn’t stable. MI5 got wind of an attack several years ago. It never got off the ground because the stuff was very expensive and they couldn’t find a way of stabilizing the chemical.”

“Looks like they solved that problem. And unless we do something about it—” Uzi checked his watch—“they’re going to launch an assault on MI5 HQ in fifty-nine minutes — just after everyone’s arrived for work.”

“Can you decrypt the rest on the fly?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Pack up whatever shit you need. We’re outta here in two minutes, no more.”

DeSantos pulled his phone and texted Vail and Fahad, told them to meet at their cars in three minutes, and he’d brief them en route to their destination.

“Destination?” Vail messaged back.

DeSantos ignored it as he gathered up his duffel, gave a final wipe-down to Uzi’s keyboard, and shut the lights. They walked out the door ten seconds later.

40

“We’ve got fifty-five minutes,” Vail said as she fastened her seatbelt. “But do we have a plan?”

Uzi tapped away at his laptop keyboard. “The plan is to prevent the attack on MI5.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Haven’t gotten that far.”

A moment later, DeSantos pulled up alongside their car. “Follow me.”

“And do what?”

“We’ll figure it out on the way.” He rolled up his window and headed off down the road.

Vail followed a safe distance behind. “I think we should call Buck.”

Uzi leaned closer to the screen. “Can’t. You heard what Knox said.”

She ruminated on that a bit. Buck was not a likely ally, but faced with intel of an imminent attack on the security service’s headquarters, he would have to take action, right? Maybe not. He had not listened when Knox told him he had credible information that Qadir Yaseen and Tahir Aziz were on UK soil. Or had he? Perhaps he did check it out and could not verify Knox’s claims. What would Knox have done if the situation were reversed?

“I think we should tell him.”

Uzi shrugged a shoulder, still pecking away at his laptop. “Call Santa, make your case.”

Vail dialed DeSantos, no longer concerned about driving while holding her phone. She got through her first sentence before he cut her off.

“Too risky. If our intel is bad, we’re really in the shit. Do I have to remind you what happened last time we were here? We may not get out of the UK again without serious prison time — not to mention their new terrorism laws. Can’t take the chance.”

“There are a shitload of people working in those buildings. If it’s a legitimate threat, we can’t just let the attack go down without doing something.”

“We will do something. I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“What about Reid and Carter?” She was referring to two MI5 agents, Clive Reid and Ethan Carter, who partnered with Vail and DeSantos when they were on an island, literally and figuratively, on the run from law enforcement.

There was silence. She figured DeSantos was working it through, weighing the potential problems — she could think of a few herself — against other options, which, likely, included doing nothing.

“Obviously, since you’re suggesting it,” he said, “you feel pretty confident they won’t try to screw us over. I mean, I got to know them, but you knew them a lot better.”

“I know Reid and yeah, I think he’s a standup guy. He knows what we were up against, that we were trying to do the right thing.”

Uzi looked up from his keyboard. “No one can guarantee the actions of another. You sure about this?”

Am I sure? If I tell them no — which would be the truth — they’ll back off. But I can’t sit by and not do something. She glanced at the clock: forty-three minutes left.

“Yes.”

“Fine,” DeSantos said. “You still have Reid’s number?”

“I can get it.” She hung up and turned to Uzi. Can you get me a phone number?” She told him which Metropolitan Police station she needed to call — the one that Vail temporarily worked out of when she first met Reid. A moment later, he was reading her the string of digits.

She rang through and got a duty clerk who sounded as bored as he probably was. Doing her best to speak in a regional British accent — but saying as little as possible because she knew the more words she spoke the greater the risk her faux dialect would be laid bare. “I need to reach Inspector Reid. Problem with his nephew Brant. He’s in a spot of trouble. I’m the headmistress here and he said I should call his uncle, a copper by the name of Reid.” She chuckled. “He said he’s a detective chief inspector. As if I believe that.”

The clerk cleared his throat. “Well, right that, he is. Can you wait while I put the ring up on hold?”

Uh, I have no idea what you said. “Of course.”

“He’s in the building, I think. Just started his shift.”

“That I can.”

Uzi gave her a look. Clearly, he was not as impressed with Vail’s efforts as she was.

A moment later, the muffling of a phone receiver, a muted, “What? I don’t—” He stopped, then into the handset, said: “This is DCI Reid. Who’s this?”

“Reid, it’s your old buddy, the one you can never seem to face straight on. You always see me in profile. Know what I mean?” She didn’t want to say any more over an open line.

“What are you — hang on a second, let me get some privacy,” he said, pronouncing it with a short “i.” After the sound of a door opening and closing, he continued. “Where are you? I thought — well, I thought I’d never hear from you again.”

“That makes two of us. But let’s just say it was necessary. And I’ve got something you should know about. Do you trust me?”

“Well that’s as stupid a question as I’ve been asked since — well, since you were here last time.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Listen, we’ve come across some intel—”

“We? You’re not alone?”

“We’ve come across some intel in a …” She did not want to use the term “terrorist” in case the Brits’ GCHQ, or government communications headquarters, was monitoring calls and sifting for key words. “A tango’s flat. Believe me when I tell you this is credible information. My friend hacked the subject’s computer. There’s an attack planned on MI5 headquarters in—”

“What kind of attack?”

“We’re still decrypting files we found on the hard drive—” She turned to Uzi—“You find anything else?”

“Blueprints for the building, but I’m having to decrypt each document separately. Key thing you’ve got to know is that they’re planning to use osmium tetroxide.”

Vail put the phone on speaker. “What’s osmium — osmium hydroxide?”

“Osmium tetroxide,” Uzi said. “An extremely poisonous chemical. Even small concentrations gets into the airways, it’ll destroy the lungs. It’s got a chlorine-like odor, but you wouldn’t think it’s deadly and wouldn’t even know you’ve been infected until hours later when you suddenly can’t breathe and start coughing up blood. And die. The stuff is so caustic it has to be stored in glass because it eats through plastic.”

“They were going to use it against us ten years ago in the tube,” Reid said. “We had a snitch, found their stash before it went anywhere. Some of our chemical weapons blokes didn’t think it would’ve worked because it’s unstable and because the blast would’ve dispersed the toxin before it could be inhaled.”

“Even if true,” Vail said, “ten years is a long time. They may’ve found a better way to deliver it. Are you willing to take the chance it won’t work?”

Reid groaned. “No.”

“Here’s the bad news.” Vail found the dashboard clock and hoped it was accurate. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s going down in thirty-five minutes.”

“Shite.”

“My thoughts exactly. We’re on our way — but honestly, we have no plan for when we get there. What about CO19?”

“If this were a preplanned infiltration, a specialist firearms officer unit would go in. But yeh, I can get CO19 there and the hazardous materials division. Maybe an SAS antiterrorist team too, but that’ll take longer because they go through COBRA, the crisis management command center. There just isn’t time.”

They heard Reid giving orders to what sounded like a nearby colleague.

“Hang on a sec,” Uzi said. “Reid — it’s not MI5, it’s Two Marsham Street. That’s the Home Office, isn’t it?”

“Home Office, yes. But there’s also a block of residential flats, shops, and restaurants there.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the target.” Uzi struck several keys and then turned to Vail. “The government, that’s what they’re after. There’s an analysis of the building, how and why the release of osmium tetroxide gas was the best method to use for the most casualties — without anyone suspecting a thing.”

Vail looked at the screen. “It’s in Arabic.”

“No shit. I can see that.”

“I mean, how good are your language skills? Are you sure of what you’re reading?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

Vail looked at him.

“Very sure. Look, I’m telling you. That’s what it says here.”

“Did you hear that?” Vail asked Reid.

“Got it.”

“This is obviously written by a chemist. I don’t understand most of it — I mean, I get some of it, but … they’re talking about using osmate salts and osmium trichloride hydrate to oxidize it to osmium, and tertiary amines to cause a ligand acceleration—”

“You made your point,” Vail said. “About your Arabic skills.”

Uzi looked up. “Sounds like they know what they’re doing. This attack is a legit threat.”

“So the Home Office is the target?” Reid asked.

“Best I can tell, yeah. There are several more docs here that I have to crack. But from what I’ve read, they begged off Thames House in favor of the Home Office.”

Vail followed DeSantos’s car as it turned left onto a wide road. “Remind me what’s in the Home Office?”

“Lots of people,” Reid said, huffing a bit. He was no doubt on the move while they were talking. “Immigration, passport office, DNA database, surveillance office, police national database, lots of research labs for biometrics, chemical profiling of illicit drugs, counterterrorism—”

“I get it,” Vail said. “It’s an important government law enforcement building and it’ll be a huge blow if they kill a lot of people in those departments.”

“I’m begging off,” Reid said. “I need my phone to make some calls. And then I’ve gotta figure out how I know about this. Because they’re going to ask.”

Vail shrugged. “Anonymous tip. It’s true, right? We never gave you our names.”

Reid chuckled. “I’ve missed you guys. Life’s been rather mundane.”

“Not anymore.”

“Right. Wish me luck. We’re gonna need a bushel of it.”

Vail disconnected the call. “Okay, so if you were doing this, how and where?”

Uzi sat back in his seat and thought a moment. “There are a number of options. It could be something low-tech or fairly sophisticated. If they’ve got inside help, it’d be more toward the sophisticated end of the spectrum, like releasing it in the ventilation system. If not, maybe a truck bomb that can be driven through a wall and then detonated. We know they’re not afraid to die. Given their MO, that scenario is more likely than not. But there could be a dozen other approaches, just as effective if not more so.”

“But one of the docs said something about the chemical being the best to use because no one would suspect a thing.”

“Right. So you’re saying no bomb.” He stopped working the keyboard and thought a moment. “An insidious release. Ventilation ducts.”

Vail handed her phone to Uzi. “Text that to Reid. Tell him what we think and why.”

But just as he began typing, Vail’s phone rang.

“It’s Reid,” Uzi said as he pressed a button.

“Put him on speaker.”

Uzi hunted for the right key and then pressed it. “Reid? Just about to send you a text.”

“Hold that. We just got an order to evacuate Thames House.”

“I know what I read,” Uzi said. “That plan was changed. It’s the Home Office.”

“You said you hadn’t finished opening all the documents. Maybe it was changed back. Or someone senior superseded the change.”

“We can sit here and guess,” Vail said, “but that’s not going to get us anywhere.”

“Who gave the order to evacuate? Based on what?”

“Anonymous tip came in to the service.”

Uzi returned to attacking the keys, but stopped abruptly and looked up. “No. That anonymous call is a ruse. Don’t evacuate. There’s a sniper, he’s gonna pick people off as soon as they leave the building.”

“A sniper? Are you sure about this?” Reid asked.

“No, I’m not sure. I’m — I’m just trying to take what we know and put it together, try to think like them. In New York, they drew us to a crime scene where they’d stabbed a woman in the middle of Times Square. As soon as we got there, we were right in the middle of the plaza when a sniper opened fire on us.”

“But who’s the target?” Vail asked. “Anyone and everyone who works for the security service?”

“Could be Buck,” Reid said. “The director general pushed hard for the new counterterrorism legislation. He said some bloody inflammatory things during his testimony before Parliament, not exactly challenging the terrorists, but fairly close. The PM was miffed, almost cost Buck his job. But it could’ve made the bloke a target. For that matter, same goes for the Home Office. They were closely involved in that legislation.”

“Secure both buildings,” Vail said. “They could be going after one or both. We think they’re rigging the Home Office’s ventilation system.”

“And from what I can see online,” Uzi said, viewing what looked like commercial property listings, “there’s about 500,000 square feet in that building. It’s huge. That’s a lot of dead people in a very short time.”

Reid sighed audibly. “You sure about this?”

“Stop asking that,” Uzi said. “We’re sure of very little of this. You’re getting our best guess.”

“If I had time, I’d run it up the ladder, cover my arse.”

Vail slapped the steering wheel. “The Clive Reid I know does what he thinks is right and doesn’t worry about the consequences.”

“So what you’re saying is that yeh want me to stake my career on a guess. And yeh want me to take it to my guvnor and my guvnor’s guvnor and yeh want me to dae all this — and safely evacuate two massive buildings in twenty-five minutes.”

“That sums it up pretty well,” Uzi said.

“You know your accent gets more pronounced when you’re stressed?”

“Shite.”

Vail genuinely felt sorry for him. And she hoped to god they were right. “Good luck, Mr. Phelps.”

41

By the time Vail and Uzi arrived at the Home Office, the clouds had broken enough to allow the sun to stream through. That would make surveillance easier in some respects, more difficult in others.

DeSantos switched places with Uzi, who continued on with Fahad to Thames House. The buildings were close — blocks from one another — but this was MI5’s ballgame. Their role as covert operatives, DeSantos explained, was to observe from a distance for any unusual activity — and capture Yaseen or Aziz, or both.

Defined more specifically, “unusual activity” consisted of a terrorist with a sniper rifle or several glass bottles of osmium tetroxide.

“You’re not serious.”

“Stranger things have happened,” DeSantos said. “But no, these guys are smart — and skilled. I don’t think they’re as dumb as the idiot serial killers you chase, the ones who get pulled over for a busted taillight with a body in the trunk.”

“If you think my job’s so easy, why don’t you try doing it for a month?”

“I’d be too bored.”

“Another time, I’d take that personally.” She turned right and glanced around the street. “I don’t think we should even be here. We’ve done our duty. All we needed to do was the right thing — and that was to notify the British authorities. The Security Service is now doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

“So you want to leave.”

“I think that’s what I just said.” Vail found a spot to park the car and pulled to the curb. “We’re not welcome in this country. No, that’s not true. It’s worse than that. We’re considered enemies of the country. If we’re caught, we’re in deep trouble. This area, with a ton of government buildings around, blocks from MI5 headquarters no less, is filled with surveillance cameras. Police cameras. Not private cameras that the Met has to jump through hoops to access.”

DeSantos nodded slowly, as if seriously considering Vail’s comments.

She kept her gaze on his face but his eyes were scanning the streetscape. “So why aren’t we leaving if you agree?”

“Because I don’t agree. We’re after Qadir Yaseen and Tahir Aziz. We know from visiting their flat and hacking their computer files that they’re hitting one or both of these buildings. If our mission is to secure these two bastards — and the documents their organization’s holding — why would we leave?”

Dammit. I can’t argue with that.

Her lack of an answer apparently gave DeSantos all he needed because he nodded and said, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“What are the probabilities that senior guys like Yaseen and Aziz are going to be executing this attack? Wouldn’t they have underlings doing it?”

DeSantos shrugged. “Don’t know enough to say. This isn’t a serial killer case where if you guess wrong, another two or three or five people die. If we guess wrong, thousands will die. In some cases, hundreds of thousands.”

“That’s the second time you dissed my unit.”

“Not disrespect. Simple mathematics. The scale is just different.”

She stepped onto the curb. “Where we headed?”

“There’s a Caffè Nero around the block, right opposite the building. One of us can hang out there and keep an eye on that entry point. The other can go around the other side and try to look inconspicuous.”

“I’ll take the coffee shop.”

“Figured you would.”

“You realize this is a needle in a haystack thing.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” he said as they headed toward the café. “That means fewer important people will be inside pulling the strings, releasing the toxin. You’re the leader of the op, wouldn’t you be nearby to make sure all goes according to plan?”

“Too risky.”

“You’re thinking like a cop chasing a killer who doesn’t want to die. These guys don’t care. Success is what matters. I think they’re going to be nearby quarterbacking the op.”

Vail parsed that as they walked. “Maybe you’re right.”

“We may get nothing. Or we may get our men.”

Vail spent longer than she wanted inside the café ordering. In reality it was only about twenty seconds, but she felt intense pressure to get back out, to get eyes on the target. She loosened her navy muffler, the warmth inside the store causing her to perspire.

She checked her watch: nine minutes.

Her flat white was ready and she carried the “takeaway” cup outside to the small patio out front. There was one vacant table and she sat down in a chrome and wicker seat. Two blue Caffè Nero banner signs stretched between metal stanchions, separating the sidewalk from the small inlaid glass-block piazza.

The Home Office building across the narrow street in front of her was divided into two distinct sections. On the left was a near-all glass modern structure, architecturally pleasing with a large curving corner. The right portion, connected to its adjacent cousin by a multistory glass bridge, was its design opposite: flat, rectangular, and fronted by metal framework that in itself was ugly but when taken in its totality gave off an artsy sensibility. It was topped along its roof by large rainbow colored glass panels: blue, white, and orange hues were dominant. The edifice was best considered an attractive sum of disparate parts.

Her eyes roamed the exterior as people moved about, many dressed well and moving purposefully toward the building’s entrance, about to start their workday. Time check: six minutes. Assuming the terrorists were punctual. Assuming Uzi’s Arabic was not flawed. Assuming they had the target right.

Reid had to have contacted his superiors by now. How long does it take to issue an emergency evacuation order?

Vail realized that the Met or MI5 needed to verify both anonymous tips — their legitimate evacuation warning to escape osmium tetroxide inhalation and thus save lives; and the ruse, designed to lure the workers to their deaths.

Vail became aware of a man seated two tables to her right. He had a newspaper open and he was holding it up, but he was not reading it — a ploy for staring straight ahead.

At the building.

He could have been admiring the architecture, just as Vail had done a moment ago, but his body language looked different. She glanced in his direction, noticing that he had looked at his watch repeatedly in the space of a minute.

Just then an intermittent buzzer emanated from inside the building. And then Vail’s cell vibrated. She looked over at the man. His neck stiffened and he sat forward, his eyes darting left and right, taking in the situation as he pulled out his phone.

Vail lifted her Samsung and read:

She tapped back to Uzi:

DeSantos:

It was clear the tangos’s anonymous call did not have its desired effect — a forced evacuation of MI5’s Thames House — so Yaseen, Aziz, and company switched to a contingency plan to get the people out in the open.

Someone setting off the fire alarm meant an insider. At MI5’s headquarters? Shit, if they’ve got a mole in the British Security Service, why can’t we have one in the FBI? Or the CIA?

As that thought caused a cramp in her stomach, sirens in the distance pulled Vail’s focus back to the Home Office. People were starting to file out of the building, some running. But this buzzer was not a fire alarm. Maybe it signaled the workforce to evacuate quickly due to an imminent and dangerous incident as part of a crisis management plan. Many large buildings, corporations, and government agencies drew up such procedures in the wake of 9/11.

She texted Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad and described the suspect — a man in his forties of possible Middle Eastern descent. Hard to tell, since she did not want to let her gaze linger too long.

Seconds later, the man rose from his seat, folded the newspaper, and left it on the table alongside the coffee he barely tasted. Either he’s MI5—one of Reid’s colleagues who was alerted to the threat and doing what she was doing — or he was a threat, an accomplice to what was going down.

Stay or follow?

Vail waited a moment, occasionally glancing to her right to keep tabs on him. She rose and went over to his table and rifled through the newspaper: nothing written on it, no coded messages on a note buried within. A Caffè Nero receipt. Paid cash. His coffee cup had the name “Ryan” on the side.

So, Ryan, what are you up to?

She started down the street. He had a thirty yard lead on her, a safe distance that protected her from being spotted.

He turned right almost immediately, into what looked like an alley. Vail passed the Romney House apartment building and hesitated, concerned about pursuing him down a narrow lane where there would likely be only the two of them. But she did not know what lay beyond. He could disappear into a building and that would be that.

No choice. Follow him.

Vail hung a right onto what was at best a pedestrian way, with entrances to the apartment buildings that lined both sides. A street sign indicated it was Bennett’s Yard. She didn’t know who Bennett was and she was not sure about calling it a yard, but it was modern, the brick new and the mortar perfectly pointed.

Ryan was making his way down the path at a good clip, but it kicked left a bit and he disappeared from view for a second. Vail texted the group:

She thought of pulling her Glock — or her Tanto — but remembered she was an illegal alien in England and did not want to get flagged on a surveillance camera with a weapon. It was the fastest way to get surrounded by CO19, the Met’s “gun squad,” a scaled-down version of SWAT that circulated the city looking for trouble. She also hoped to avoid the tactical Trojan trucks that deployed a team of armed officers as well as the three-person police units that patrolled in speedy BMW sedans, always at the ready and never far away from trouble.

Ryan passed the building’s parking garage on the left and emerged on Tufton, another residential road with apartments on both sides. He hung a right and then a quick left onto Dean Trench Street.

He suddenly glanced over his shoulder and saw Vail, made eye contact, and then took off on a run.

Shit, shit, shit.

Vail followed, no longer concerned about preserving her cover.

Fortunately, she was a little faster than Ryan because she was closing the gap.

They emerged on a circular street — ironically called Smith’s Square — featuring a large majestic building directly ahead, which looked like a church with a columned bell tower.

Text from Fahad:

Followed immediately by another message, from DeSantos:

She glanced down and read the display, but couldn’t reply. A fleeting thought flashed through her mind: had they evacuated the building in time? If it was a gas released into the ventilation system, with a delayed onset of symptoms, it would be impossible to gauge the fallout until later. The employees would be walking dead — without knowing it.

Ryan, or whatever his name was, was onsite to monitor the osmium tetroxide’s release. Instead, what he witnessed was the building’s evacuation — which might have meant the attack was ineffective … or perhaps he knew it came too late.

I should’ve taken him when I had the chance, when he was just sitting there. What’s done is done. Focus on the here and now.

But focusing was not something that would have helped her. Because as she emerged on Smith’s Square, a pipe swung out toward her face from behind the edge of the building.

42

Vail ducked at the last second and avoided the blow.

She followed with a backhanded chop to Ryan’s throat. He stumbled sideways toward a pay bicycle rack and fell, both hands gripping the front of his neck. It would do no good, of course, but it was a reflex.

Vail pulled a flexcuff from her pocket and strapped it around Ryan’s wrists. She pulled them tight, then yanked him onto his back to face her. Her jacket got stuck on the handle of the Glock, and she quickly freed the coat, pulling it around and zipping it, covering the weapon.

“So, Ryan, you and I are gonna have a little chat. I’m Xena the Warrior Princess. Who are you?”

He shook his head, trying to regain his voice. “None of your business,” he said, clearly finding it.

“It is my business. Because I think you and your buddies just released osmium tetroxide gas inside the Home Office.”

His eyes narrowed: a look of genuine surprise. And he clearly knew what the toxin was. “Who are you?”

“I told you. But the question was, ‘Who are you?’”

He did not respond.

“Is Ryan your real name?”

He snorted. “About as real as Xena.”

“Didn’t think so. What is it?”

“If you know it’s not my real name, you know I’m not gonna tell you shit. To use an American idiom.”

His speech was clear, his English neutral: not multicultural London English. In fact, not a British accent at all. Not practiced. Natural.

A siren groaned in the near distance: it was only a couple of blocks away. Crap. Please don’t come near here.

Two bobbies appeared ahead, along the traffic circle, wearing their traditional navy top hats with the prominent silver badge. The scene must have looked odd, with a woman hassling a handcuffed man — and Vail not looking the part of a British police officer.

“What’s the problem here?” one of the cops asked.

Normally she would laugh and tell them to go away, since the bobbies famously were not armed. What could they do, yell at her? Scold her? Ask her nicely to stand down?

“She’s yampy,” Ryan yelled — with a perfect British accent. “And she’s got a gun!”

The bobbies pulled side arms — which looked like X-26 Tasers.

Oh, shit. When did they start carrying those?

As if that was not a bad enough development, a white BMW sedan with orange and blue striping screeched around the corner to her right, a block away.

CO19, the armed response vehicle that Reid called in. Lovely. That plan certainly backfired.

Ryan seemed to grasp its significance. But Vail was at a loss of what to do. If the unit stopped, she would not be going up against a Taser. They’d be locked and loaded. With lead projectiles.

And then the worst case scenario presented itself: the BMW pulled to a stop and three men jumped out.

Vail pulled Ryan upright and stood slightly behind him. “Stop right there!”

The CO19 officers did as instructed. But they also had Glock17 pistols pointed at her.

“Help me,” Ryan said again. “She tied me up, she’s demanding money. I’m just a software developer for the Home Office, border division.”

Fuck. What do I do? I can’t tell them my name or why I’m here or why I have this guy in cuffs. Or that it was actually my idea to call in CO19.

Or why I’m carrying a gun and a lethal knife. Shit, shit, shit.

“Back away from your hostage,” one of the Kevlar-vested CO19 officers said, his weapon trained squarely on Vail, a black tactical helmet obscuring part of his face.

How the hell did this happen? “I’m the good guy,” she wanted to shout.

That was only partially true. She was on foreign soil on an unsanctioned mission, with a rap sheet in the UK that included the murder of a government official. If they figured that part out, her finch was cooked.

Hector … Uzi … where are you when I need you?

The cops were still a half block away, a long line of blue bike rentals between her and Ryan and the officers.

“Uh, this man is a terrorist,” she stammered. “He just launched an attack on the Home Office. Osmium tetroxide. Check it out, you’ll see I’m telling you the truth.”

“And how would you know that?” one of the officers asked.

If I told you that, buddy, I’d have to kill you. Crap, I’m starting to think like Hector. “Check with MI5,” she said. “Agent Clive Reid.”

One of the bobbies cocked his head, then looked at his partner.

Oh, shit. I just blew Reid’s cover. My god, can this get any worse?

Reid was an MI5 agent embedded with Scotland Yard — that is, until now.

Vail started sweating. Her face was slick, her underarms hemorrhaging perspiration.

“I’m Officer Manning,” the lead CO19 man said. “What’s your name?”

Xena the Warrior Princess. “You can call me Al.”

“Al,” Manning repeated.

Thank god he didn’t get the Paul Simon reference.

“Are you armed, Al?”

Only with wit and wisdom. But, apparently, sometimes not both.

“Answer me, Al. Weapons? And I’m not talking about diamonds on the bottoms of your shoes.”

Ooops, guess he did get it.

“One more time. Are you armed?”

Well, there’s my Glock. And my Tanto. “You’re focusing on the wrong problem. This man here’s a liar and a terrorist.” Will diversion work?

“We’ll sort it out, no worries, Al.” Manning took a step toward her.

“That’s far enough.”

She immediately realized that was a stupid statement. She had no weapon trained on them — or her “hostage.” Why shouldn’t they advance on her?

Vail could not continue holding them off. Stalling was not going to work with these highly trained officers. And they were clearly more concerned with her than with Ryan. She would be asked to provide identification any moment now, and then they would approach and pat her down, and, well, that would not be a good thing.

“This man is a terrorist with al Humat. He’s responsible for the attacks in the US and just now on the Home Office and Thames House.”

“And how do yeh know that?” Manning asked, his tone firmer, angrier. “Who are yeh?”

This is the point where I turn and run. What happens to Ryan, or whatever the hell his name is, is no longer my main concern. She would do no one any good by getting arrested in the UK. Now associated in some capacity with terrorism, she would be handled differently and interrogated more vigorously. They would eventually discover her true identity, despite the covert nature of the op.

So Vail did the only thing she could. She spun and took off, back the way she had come, pulling out her Samsung as she went.

Behind her: Yelling. Running footsteps. Cursing.

She pushed the countermeasure glasses up on her sweaty nose and waited for the call to connect. C’mon, Hector, answer the damn—

“Being pursued by CO19, get the car, meet me in front of Caffè Ne—”

“But you’ve got the keys.”

Are you kidding me? “Hotwire the car, call Uzi. Do something. If they catch me—” She realized DeSantos had clicked off.

Vail ran back into Bennett’s Yard and saw the parking garage she had passed earlier. She unwound her muffler as she approached and tossed it to her right, just past the entrance. If they followed her into the alley, they’d see her article of clothing and — hopefully — think she had turned in.

Because the alley was hooked, they would not get a clear view of her, so at least one or more of them would have to pursue the scarf lead in case she had a vehicle inside and was attempting to escape by car.

Vail ran through the curved lane, emerging on Marsham. Metropolitan Police cars lined the curb space in front of the Home Office and bobbies were milling about the entrances. Fire trucks and ambulances were onsite as well, blocking portions of the narrow road.

The commotion would only help her. Regardless, she did not have much time before the officers who continued pursuit down Bennett would be upon her.

She turned and headed back toward Caffè Nero, looking for a recessed doorway — or some other crevice where she could hide.

As she approached the coffee shop, Uzi came speeding up to the curb ahead of her, at the far corner — Romney Street — going against the one-way traffic.

Vail sprinted toward the vehicle and he popped open the door as she heard, “Stop!” along with several footsteps behind her. She jumped into the passenger seat, slamming the top of her head against the window frame. She grabbed the armrest as Uzi hung a hard left and burned rubber, leaving the pursuing officers behind.

He made another quick turn onto Horseferry and then again onto Regency, where he pulled abruptly to the side of the road. He wiped down the wheel, gearshift, and door with a handkerchief, then handed it to Vail, who did the same. Just as she finished, DeSantos and Fahad drove up.

Vail and Uzi swung their duffels out of the trunk and then got into DeSantos’s car. He drove away and put as much distance as he could between them and the crime scenes in the shortest amount of time without running traffic lights or drawing undue attention.

“Keep your head down,” Fahad said to Vail.

She leaned forward and dropped her face between her knees and wondered how long it would take before she could feel confident that they were in the clear.

Vail dug out her phone and, keeping low, dialed Reid. He did not answer on the first attempt, but he picked up on the second.

“Things are a little busy, can I ring yeh back?”

“Would love to stick around but — well, you know how it goes. Before we leave, there are things you should know.”

“Get on with it then.”

“First — what happened? Did we call it right?”

“Give yourselves a pat on the rump. At Thames there was a sniper but he never got the chance to take a shot. One of our own had him in his sights and almost took him down.”

“Who was it?”

“Don’t rightly know. He got away.”

Are you serious?

“Yeah, go ahead and say it: it was an arse fucking screw-up on our part.”

“Surveillance video?”

“Being reviewed from multiple cameras. Don’t have anything on the roof but they’re checking to see if we got a few frames of him on his way up or on the street on the way to the job. If he’s a professional, we won’t be so lucky.”

“And the Home Office?”

“Not looking as good. Took longer to convince them osmium tetroxide was a viable threat. I got it done but not everyone got out in time. Not sure yet how many were infected. But I got preliminary confirmation from our onsite hazardous materials people. You were right.”

“A case where I wish we were wrong.”

There was shouting in the background, then Reid’s voice, muffled slightly by a finger over the microphone: “Deploy the robot and check it out. I’ll be right there.” To Vail, he said, “You said there are things I need to know?”

“You may have an infiltrator at MI5.” When she explained her reasoning, there was silence. “Reid, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. We’ll look into it. Take a while to do it right, but I’ll let you know if we find anything. What else?”

Vail closed her eyes. She did not want to have to tell him this, but she had no choice. “I, uh, I may’ve blown your cover.”

“I’m up to my arse in a major investigation. No offense, but this is not the time for a joke.”

I wish I were joking.

“You are joking, right?”

“I’m really, really sorry. I–I can’t go into it on the phone but just know that if I could take it back I would.”

“Are yeh sure? I need to know the specifics.”

She explained it as best she could without implicating herself as being the woman at Smith’s Square who had escaped from CO19.

“I’ll see what I can find out. Damage control.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What’s the saying? Shite happens?”

“It’s an American thing. And it’s just plain old shit. Shit happens.”

“You Americans want to take credit for everything, eh?”

“Take care of yourself, Reid. And give Carter my regards.”

Minutes after Vail hung up with Reid, when they had gotten outside the city limits and entered the motorway, she sat up and stretched out the kinks in her neck.

“Where are we headed?”

DeSantos, who was driving, looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Right now, back to RAF Mildenhall. Then we’ll reassess, connect with Knox, and figure out a plan of action.”

Uzi was seated to her left in the backseat, working his laptop keyboard, for the most part silent, clearly intent on decrypting the remaining documents. “Uh — holy shit.”

DeSantos glanced in the rearview mirror. “That’s a bit vague, Boychick. Can you be more specific? Find something?”

Uzi continued to stare at the screen. “Get Knox on the phone.”

Vail pulled out her cell and started dialing. A moment later, she had the director on the line. “On speaker, Uzi.”

“Sir, I’ve found something you need to act on immediately. I’ve got a captured document that outlines a small-scale repeat of the 9/11 attacks. A single jet.”

Vail watched as his eyes moved across, and down, the screen. It was in Arabic, so all she could do was wait.

“Go on,” Knox said.

“I’m translating the Arabic,” Uzi said. “Looks like it’s going down today — tonight — wait, New York is how many hours behind us? Five? Shit, it’s going down—” Uzi’s head whipped up. “Now.”

“Details,” Knox said, urgency in his voice. “Give me something. A jet? That’s all you’ve got?”

“Freedom Tower, commercial airliner,” Uzi said, skimming the document. “Refers to someone by name of Haydar. That’s it. If we’ve lost contact with any flight, or if anything out of the ordinary is—”

“You’re sure of this intel?” Knox asked, the rapid clacking sound of a keyboard apparent over the phone’s speaker.

“We’re not on a secure line, sir.”

“No time. Give me what you’ve got.”

“I’m reading encrypted documents we stole from a PC in the Greenwich cell’s flat. Yes, I believe it’s reliable intel.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Knox clicked off and the four of them glanced at one another. Uzi turned back to his laptop and continued working.

Vail sat there, staring ahead, numb. Images of the planes hitting the Twin Towers played in her mind. She had seen it firsthand. Now, thousands of miles away, she had only her imagination as she pictured what was going down. She shut her eyes tight. Not again. How could it be happening again?

“The dirty bomb wasn’t enough?” DeSantos said.

Vail shook the memories from her thoughts. “Maybe this World Trade Center thing is a contingency plan, in case the dirty bomb attack failed — which it did. The tower’s a prime target, for obvious reasons.”

A minute later, Uzi broke the silence. “Paris.”

“What about Paris?” Fahad said.

“That’s where these assholes are going. Which means that’s where we’re going.”

“What’d you find?” DeSantos asked.

“Instructions issued by someone in command. They’re not named, but they directed all fighters to report to a specific address in Paris after the London operation. I think it’s safe to assume that the two incidents we just witnessed were the London op.”

“Unless we hear otherwise,” DeSantos said, slowing slightly on the motorway to keep his speed at the limit.

“Do you think they’re gonna be able to stop that plane?” Vail asked.

DeSantos glanced at her in the mirror but returned his gaze to the road without answering.

“Got something,” Uzi said, his fingers suddenly stilled. “A reference to two manuscripts, one of which was transferred to the Louvre for safekeeping while awaiting transport.”

“What manuscripts?” Fahad asked.

He gave the document another read before answering. “Doesn’t say. And it doesn’t say where it’s going after it leaves the Louvre.”

“When are they scheduled to leave?” Vail asked.

“That’s not in here, either. I’ve got a couple more files to work on, so maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Vail said.

“You may not believe in it, but you’d better hope we have some. The good kind.”

The videoconferencing room at Mildenhall turned out to be a small office in an older hangar. They filed in, shut the door and locked it, then got ready to call Knox on an encrypted video line.

“How secure is this?” Uzi asked.

“Military grade,” said the major who ushered them inside. “We installed our own SIP proxy, and with a VPN and a variety of SIP clients, we made our own platform.”

Uzi nodded. “Firewall? Is auto answer OFF?”

“Of course. No one’s gonna tap in.”

“You use AES 256 or AES 512 crypto?”

“Five twelve,” the major said. “And yeah, we’ve got the high speed hardware to handle it.”

Uzi shrugged. “Cool. Let’s do this.”

“You really understood that?” DeSantos asked.

“Didn’t you?” Uzi asked, knowing that DeSantos had no clue what the man had said.

“All I care is that it works. Get Knox on the screen.”

“Thanks, Major,” Uzi said, then waited for him to leave. He clicked “Start secure communication” and moments later Douglas Knox’s face appeared on the large LED flat panel mounted on the wall.

“We found the jet. They’re using some kind of spoof on their transponder but satellites located it. A red-eye out of LAX. Since you were the ones to key us in on this, I’m patching you in.” He gestured to Rodman, who was seated to his right. A wide-angle view filled the screen.

“What are we seeing?” Uzi asked.

“We scrambled F-22s,” Rodman said. “This is the pilot’s forward camera.”

On the left, the nose of a jumbo jet was barely visible. In the distance, the brilliant white lights and red spire of One World Trade Center was outlined against a dark but brightening sky.

Vail’s stomach churned. Her heartrate increased. And she struggled to get air into her lungs.

“We’re attempting to establish contact, but the two men flying the plane are not the pilots.”

The F-22 pulled back and the full fuselage was visible.

“How many aboard?” Uzi asked.

“It’s a 757,” Rodman said, “with 199 passengers and crew.”

So 199 versus — how many are in the building this time of morning? Restaurant workers, maintenance and security personnel, tenants burning the midnight oil to meet deadlines. Five hundred? A thousand?

“Has the president given the order to shoot it down?” DeSantos asked.

“If necessary, yes. The military’s taken over the operation.”

“It’s not about the number of lives,” Vail said. “It’s symbolic. Demoralizing to destroy what we fought so long and hard to rebuild.”

“They’re not gonna destroy anything,” DeSantos said, his right hand fisted.

Uzi leaned forward. “Plane’s over the Hudson River. If they’re going to do it, now’s the—”

Before he could finish, the bright flare of a missile launch filled the screen. A second later, the projectile struck the jet’s body. It erupted in flames, small shrapnel flying toward the camera. The 757 veered left, then right, then the nose pointed toward the sky and the burning fuselage plunged toward the water.

The camera showed a black and deep blue sky, the F-22 continuing on its straight-ahead path, zooming past the World Trade Center to the west.

Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, and Fahad continued to stare at the screen.

Vail felt intense relief — but had to fight back tears. “What did we just do? I mean, there was no choice, but — I mean, two hundred innocent people …”

The screen flickered and Knox was visible once again, a somber expression on his face. “I’ll keep you updated. It’ll probably be several days before we know how they pulled it off. I doubt it’ll be anything extravagant. We all know security on air travel is an illusion.”

None of them spoke.

The normally unflappable FBI director turned away from the webcam, took a deep breath, and composed himself. “Right before you called me about the plane, we got reports of an incident in Westminster. You know anything about that?”

“We were there,” DeSantos said, “warned MI5 of the intel we pulled from a laptop we found in a flat in Greenwich. But there wasn’t enough ti—”

“What do you mean you warned MI5? Not Buck—”

“We utilized Karen’s contact, Clive Reid. We helped minimize the impact of the attack.”

Knox frowned: he still was not pleased but he could not complain. “Some sort of chemical weapon. Sounds like they’re going to be looking at hundreds of casualties. Won’t know for a few hours, but it’s not going to be a good report.”

“They used osmium tetroxide,” Uzi said.

“Osmium tetroxide?” Knox’s jaw dropped as he processed that. “We’d discussed that a number of times over the years but our chemists told us it was not feasible.”

Time to hire new chemists.

“They aerosolized it in the ventilation system,” Uzi said. “That’s why they won’t have an accurate casualty count for a few hours. There’s a latency period.”

Knox clenched his jaw. “Status on your two targets, Yaseen and Aziz?”

“We believe they were living in that flat,” DeSantos said, “but we’ve got a forensic guy looking over latents we lifted. We engaged three tangos as they left the building. Two were killed, two escaped.”

“Are the two dead bodies going to cause a problem?”

Vail turned to DeSantos, who answered. “Just a matter of time. I don’t think it’ll be traced back to me — or us — but it’s impossible to say.”

“I’ll monitor it on my end. What about Yaseen and Aziz?”

DeSantos glanced at Uzi, then said, “Paris.”

“Paris,” Knox repeated. “Something I should know?”

“Another one of the encrypted documents I got off that laptop,” Uzi said. “It directed all their fighters to an address in Paris after the London operation.”

Knox sat back in his chair. “Mr. Fahad, you haven’t said a word. Anything to add?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No sir.”

Vail’s phone vibrated. She rooted it out of her jacket pocket and read the message. Bingo.

“Something you’d like to share, Agent Vail?”

“Text from Clive Reid. There was a sniper on the roof of a building near MI5’s headquarters. We warned them about that, so they were prepared. The shooter escaped but the Met captured the guy’s face on a camera before the attack — including an accomplice. Man carrying the rifle case is—” she consulted the Samsung—“Samir Mohammed al Razi. Other one is Rahmatullah Nasrullah.”

Knox leaned closer to the camera. “Say again?”

Vail checked her device and repeated the names.

Knox’s right eye narrowed. He swiveled a few degrees in his chair and started working the computer to the left of his desk. He looked up, exposing the deep furrows in his face. “As you all know, President Nunn has made closing Guantanamo Bay a major goal of his administration. Today he’s going to announce a plan to transfer all remaining detainees to the US by overriding a congressional ban that specifically prohibits doing just that.”

“How many are left?” Vail asked.

“Two years ago we released six hundred, leaving 149. Seventy-nine have been approved for transfer but nothing’s happened because there were problems repatriating them. Thirty-seven are going to remain in detention without trial.”

“Too dangerous to release but not enough evidence to try them,” Uzi said.

“Correct.” Knox reached to his right and glanced at a document. “As of right now, twenty-three are going to be prosecuted by a military commission. Five of them orchestrated the September 11 attack. But the big fight is over closing the place down. Of the men already released, seventy-four have gone back to battle as enemy combatants against us.”

“I thought it was sixty-one,” Uzi said.

DeSantos shook his head. “Classified Pentagon report prepared by the Defense Intelligence Agency. OPSIG was briefed on it two or three years ago. It was never released publicly. Seventy-four.”

“Let me guess,” Vail said. “Samir Mohammed al Razi and Rahmatullah Nasrullah are two of the men we released.”

Knox’s lips tightened. “Nasrullah escaped during transfer to the US. The first and only transfer attempted.”

“And now the president wants to try moving dozens,” DeSantos said.

“What about al Razi?” Vail asked.

“He was among the first wave we set free.”

“There’s government efficiency for you. Capturing them once wasn’t good enough. We have to bring them in twice.”

“No,” Knox said, his face stern. “This is not an arrest situation. This is a capture and/or kill scenario. Emphasis on the latter. I’m sending you photos of both men. As far as I’m concerned, we gave the assholes a chance at a new life by releasing them. They chose to take up the fight again and blow innocent people up. They give you any kind of violent resistance, they get the death penalty.”

And since these guys have no problem dying for the cause, they’re not likely to put their hands over their heads and get down on their knees.

“What do we know about al Razi and Nasrullah?” Vail asked.

“Nasrullah was a fighter who was rounded up in an operation that netted us two al Qaeda leaders. He wasn’t directly implicated so they didn’t have enough to hold him and when they were looking for the least risky to release, he was added to the list. Al Razi’s a different story. He’s a US-trained sniper we used to fight the mujahideen in Afghanistan twenty years ago.”

“That explains why he was the one to take out the MI5 agents as they evacuated the building,” Uzi said.

DeSantos chuckled. “He could be the one who took the shots at you outside the municipal building in New York.”

Uzi tipped his chin back. “Then I need to return the favor.”

Knox faced the camera straight on. “Well, Agent Uziel, I suggest you and your team put yourselves in a position to get that chance. I want these sons of bitches. All of them.”

43

Two hours later, they boarded the C-17. Uzi, Fahad, and DeSantos had used the time to plan, check facts, review maps, and connect with colleagues in the States to confirm intel.

Vail touched base with Robby. He was asleep but she decided to wake him since she did not know when she would have access to a secure connection. Their conversation was a bit one-sided, since there was not much she was permitted to tell him.

“We’re making progress. That’s all I can say.”

“After all that’s happened — not to mention what you asked me to look into — I’ve got a sense of what you’re working on. And I just want you to know that I’m proud of you.” He stared at the screen a moment. “I love you. Be careful, okay?”

Vail blew him a kiss. “Always.”

They boarded the Globemaster via the ramp, along with the crew chief — but this time the tank and other cargo that had been secured to the middle of the fuselage was gone. The interior looked a good deal larger — though much darker, since all the lights were off except for a few strategically placed green fluorescents.

The engines roared loudly as the plane began moving down the runway. Fahad was busy with a piece of equipment on the far side across from them.

“Same deal?” Vail yelled above the din as she flipped the seat down, sank into the canvas, and sorted out her restraint.

“Same deal,” DeSantos said as he sat to her left. “Except we’re going to do things a bit differently.”

“How so?” She found the clasp, but in the dim illumination she had difficulty locating the female junction to snap it home. “Can we turn some lights on?”

“White lights are a no-no at night.”

“To prevent us from being seen?”

“To preserve our night vision,” Uzi said as he tossed a duffle in her lap. “Refresh my memory. Have you ever jumped out of a plane?”

“I went skydiving once. Before—” Vail stopped herself and studied the thick roll straddling her thighs. “I went once.”

“Good,” Uzi said. “Then this will be second nature to you.”

She squinted, not quite hearing him clearly. “What will be second nature?” she shouted.

“What we’re about to do.”

Uh, no. Not me. “It was a long time ago. I was scared out of my mind.”

DeSantos adjusted his belt as the plane continued down the runway. “Did you do it tandem? Attached to someone?”

“It wasn’t solo, I can tell you that much.” She moved her knees to flatten her feet on the floor and shifted the weight of the duffle kit bag on her lap. “This wouldn’t happen to be what I think it is, is it?”

“If you’re thinking parachute, then yes.”

“You guys,” she said with a grin.

Uzi cocked his head at an angle. “We’re not joking.”

She studied DeSantos’s face, then Uzi’s, and realized they were serious. Keep calm. Don’t let them see you lose your bladder.

“You rappelled out of a helicopter,” DeSantos said. “Back in Vegas. You were awesome. If you did that, you can do this.”

“Do you remember anything about the time you jumped?” Uzi asked.

“I was a teenager. I went with a friend and her father for her birthday.”

“I mean about the jump.”

I couldn’t stop shaking. I almost peed in my pants. There’s that.

“We’re not looking to scare you. There’s just no other viable way out of England.”

“I’m not scared.” I’m going to scream. “So how will this work?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice steady, using the need to talk loudly as a means to force the words from her throat.

“You sure?” DeSantos said. “You look a bit, well, clammy.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s simple,” Uzi said as the plane lifted off the runway. “The C-17 will drop us at relatively high altitude near the French border. We’ll land in an area far enough away from a population center. We’ve got someone there who’ll pick us up in his car and dispose of the parachutes.”

“Simple,” Vail said.

Uzi pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah. Simple.”

“Are you out of your minds? I jumped out of a plane once, twenty-five years ago. I haven’t strapped a parachute on my back since then. And you want me to jump out of the back of this beast and land in another country — illegally, I might add — without getting caught?”

“It sounds a lot worse when you say it.” Uzi raised a hand, silencing her before she could object. “But here’s the thing: you’ll be attached to one of us the whole time. We’ll deploy the ripcord.”

“That’s putting my life in your hands.”

Uzi nodded slowly. “Pretty much. So all those bad things you said about me over the years? Now would be a good time to apolog—”

“How fast will we be falling?”

Uzi waved a hand. “Not very fast.”

“About 120 miles per hour,” DeSantos said.

Vail gave Uzi a look. “Yeah, not very fast at all.”

He shrugged. “It’ll only be a couple of minutes. Once the wind starts whipping past your face, blowing back your hair, you’re really gonna enjoy it. It’s a huge rush. It won’t really feel like you’re falling. More like someone turned on a big fan and stuck it in front of your face.”

“Looking down at the landscape at night,” DeSantos said, “it’s pretty cool. We won’t see a city, but the night lights are something you’ll always remember.”

Something tells me that’s not the only thing I’ll always remember.

“Can’t we just drive across the border?”

“Karen,” DeSantos said. “Be real.” He must have seen her angry look because he said, “Okay, fine. It’s a reasonable question. Answer is no, we can’t. We’re illegal, and even though we have fake passports we’re taking a risk the authorities have been alerted to three men and a woman matching our descriptions who were seen near a terrorist attack in the heart of London that killed hundreds of people.”

Uzi shifted his torso to face Vail. “The US doesn’t have an airbase in France. Can’t drive across. Can’t take Eurail because there’s a major passport check. Can’t take a commercial flight because we’re sure to be flagged.”

“We can fly into Germany,” DeSantos said. “The Stuttgart Army Airfield in Filderstadt. Then we try to cross over into France. But even with the Schengen agreement, if we use our forged EU passports, there’s a border check. It’s usually pretty quick, depending on how busy the border is at the moment. But it’s a risk.”

Uzi checked his watch. “One of us gets snagged, we’re all toast.”

“So,” DeSantos said, “we fly over the top and drop in unnoticed.”

“Hopefully drop in unnoticed,” Fahad added from across the plane.

DeSantos gave Fahad a disapproving look. “This’ll be a routine, overt flight over France like the Air Force does several times a month, following the flight plan they’ve filed. They won’t suspect anything. The plane will be on radar — no problem with that — and once we jump, radar won’t pick us up. Visually, no one’s gonna see us till we’re a hundred feet, or less, off the ground.” He turned to Vail. “I’ve worked lots of drop zones when guys are coming in at night. I knew they’re in the air and under canopy, but I couldn’t see them until they were close to touching down. We’ve got a high moon so we won’t silhouette ourselves to anyone who may be looking our way.”

Vail shook her head. “What other things do I need to know about a mission like this? Now would be a good time to tell me.”

“You’re right,” Uzi said. “It would. But missions like this, we’ve got no idea what the terrorists are up to or when they’re going to strike — or how. So we’ve gotta be flexible and be ready for anything, improvise on the fly. Think outside the box.”

Vail smiled wanly. “Boxes can be claustrophobic. I avoid them at all costs.”

At the appointed time, Fahad signaled Uzi and DeSantos that it was time to prepare for the jump. They rose from their seats and donned their parachutes.

“We’re going to make this easy on you,” Uzi said, motioning Vail up. “We’re flying low enough that we won’t need oxygen. It’ll be a tandem freefall jump from a little under 13,000 feet. You’ll be rigged up to Hector. You just hook up to him and fall with us. He’ll do all the work and deploy the chute.” He examined her face and said, “Are you with me?”

Vail shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Everything up until you said, ‘free fall’ and ‘13,000 feet.’”

Uzi studied her eyes, no doubt trying to determine if she was attempting to be funny or if she was genuinely scared. He must have settled on the former because he did not repeat it.

DeSantos clipped a cleat to her harness, then helped her strap it securely around her thighs and torso. “I remember this contraption. Didn’t like it then.” DeSantos tightened the straps around her upper thighs. “And I don’t like it now. That’s a little snug, Hector.”

“Sorry.” He gave her leg a squeeze. “Good muscle tone. You been working out?”

“Kick boxing.” She winked. “Remember that. Next time you try to cop a feel.”

“Noted.” He tugged on the thick ballistic nylon to test it, then nodded approval. “Ready?”

The crew chief walked over to a panel on the side of the plane, pressed a button and pulled a switch. As the ramp began to lower, a rush of freezing cold air slapped Vail in the face.

Fahad came up alongside them and twisted his wrist to get a look at his watch. “We’ll be over the DZ in thirty seconds.”

“Roger that.” DeSantos turned his attention to a device attached to his chest.

“What’s that?” Vail asked.

“GPS. I’m punching in the landing zone grid. Once we’re out under the chute this baby’ll fly us there, making course corrections as needed — left turn, right turn, and so on. At this altitude, it’s all about the GPS.”

“There we go,” Fahad shouted and gestured out the opening.

Vail watched as the landscape below came into view.

“That’s the English Channel down there.” He was pointing at the body of water that fed into the Atlantic Ocean.

I’d like to channel something else … Superman, maybe?

DeSantos checked their attachment. “You and I are going to dive off the ramp. Once we’re in free fall, hold your arms out at your sides to help us fly and keep stable, okay?”

“Can you stop saying, ‘free fall’?”

“That’s what it’s called. We could’ve done a static line jump, where the parachute’s static line is attached to the anchor line cable that’s hooked up inside the C-17. As you fall out, the parachute deploys automatically. Problem is a static line typically has to be low altitude, hundreds of feet. Much bigger chance of us being seen.” He examined her face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just remind me to stop getting into airplanes with you guys. It always ends up with me doing stupid shit like this.” She looked out at the lights below and felt her heart rate increase, her breathing get shallow. Stop it, Karen. You can do this. Nothing to it — Hector’s gonna do all the work.

He tapped her arm and they moved to the now-gaping opening in the plane’s rear, stepping close to the edge. The movement of the plane against the darkening landscape and dense cloud cover was disorienting, and Vail stuck her hand out to steady herself.

DeSantos leaned over, studying the landscape. He motioned to Uzi, holding his index finger and thumb close together. Uzi responded with a thumbs-up.

A green light appeared above them and DeSantos looked at it, then clasped Vail’s fingers in his hand.

He waited a beat then nodded to her and they dove forward, into the icy darkness of French airspace.

44

The sensation matched what DeSantos and Uzi had described: like she was dropped into a wind tunnel. They kept moving through the chilled air at a good clip, flat and stable with the drogue chute deployed until DeSantos pulled the rip cord and opened their main chute. They slowed and glided toward the ground.

Vail looked down and saw a blinking red light from somewhere below. It appeared as if DeSantos or the GPS was steering them right for it, and she surmised the beacon was emanating from the person who would be collecting them and driving them to their destination.

A moment later they did a standup landing and touched down onto firm, low cut, perfectly manicured turf. It was a comfortable landing, followed seconds later by Uzi and then Fahad.

Piece of cake.

They quickly gathered up the chute and stuffed it into the backpack, then unhooked the harnesses and balled them up. If someone crossed their path they would look like lost hikers.

“Golf course?” Vail asked, swiveling her head in all directions as they walked due east.

“Golf de Dieppe Pourville in Seine-Maritime,” Fahad said. “Upper Normandy. France.”

“You speak French?”

“I was stationed here for a couple of years. I had to learn French as part of my assignment.”

“That might come in handy,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

DeSantos checked his GPS and corrected their direction to a northwest bearing. “Back at the base, while you were talking dirty with your fiancé, Uzi and I were plotting things out. We’ve got two mission objectives in France: first is the flat they mentioned in that document we found on the computer in London. We need to locate it, infiltrate it, and hopefully engage one or more of our most wanted men.”

“Second?”

“Find the document in the Louvre and see if it’s what we’ve been ordered to recover.”

“If it is in the Louvre, what then?”

“Then we ask to see it and verify it’s the one we’re looking for.”

“And how do we verify it?”

“We’ve been given some parameters. Basically, if we have reasonable suspicion, we’ll make a request of the museum archivist or curator for evaluation.”

“I’ve also got a backup option for verification,” Uzi said, “just in case we need it.”

“The CIA has set up a cover for you,” Fahad said.

“For me? When were you going to tell me about this?”

“Now.”

Smartass.

“You have a background in art history.”

“Not the same as rare manuscripts.”

“Close enough,” Fahad said. “You’ll be the person sent to the Louvre to examine the document based on a prior conversation you had with someone here who happens to be on holiday now. They won’t know what you’re talking about, of course, because this is all bullshit.”

No kidding.

“If he’s above board,” Fahad said, “it won’t be an issue. He can check out your credentials, which the Agency has constructed during the past few hours. You’re a pretty impressive executive with the Museum of Middle Eastern Affairs in Washington.”

DeSantos pulled out a night vision monocle and peered into the darkness. “If he’s colluding with al Humat, or a front group, he’ll hedge and deny.”

“And then what?”

“I see him.” DeSantos stuck the GPS device in his jacket pocket and gestured ahead.

“Hector, then what?”

“Then, we think outside that box you’re so fond of avoiding.”

45

They met up with their contact, a CIA operative by the name of Claude, who dumped their stuff into the trunk of his Peugeot. He chauffeured them with an occasional comment in French to Fahad, who was seated in the front. Vail was sandwiched between the large bodies of Uzi and DeSantos for the two-hour drive.

Heeding their own rule of getting sleep when possible, they curled up against one another and grabbed some fitful shuteye.

They were jolted awake by a traffic light somewhere in downtown Paris. Claude pulled to the curb and met a man who emptied the trunk, then filled it with four bulging dark-colored rucksacks.

“What’s going on?” Vail asked as she rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the dried goop from the corners.

Uzi swiveled his torso as best he could in the tight quarters. “Claude is exchanging cargo with another operative who’s going to dispose of our American-issue parachutes. And he brought us backpacks filled with a couple changes of clothes and a Dopp Kit.”

“And how do you know this?”

Uzi turned back to face Vail. Instead, he met DeSantos’s gaze. “She continues to question us.”

“When do you think she’ll finally get the fact that we’re just really good?”

Claude returned and pulled the shift into drive. As they reentered the avenue, Fahad again started conversing in French. Five minutes later, Claude turned onto Rue du Champ de Mars and parked.

“These are your accommodations,” Claude said in French-accented English. He gestured to the hotel a few doors down and across the street.

It was a well maintained six-story building with a small but welcoming entrance, which featured a frosted glass sign that read, Relais Bosquet. A black wrought iron canopy and slate tile sidewalk gave it a classy look.

“That black Smart car and brown Citroën in front of it are yours,” Claude said as he handed over two sets of keys. “You need anything else?”

“We’re good,” DeSantos said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I did the easy part.”

Yeah, tell me about it.

“Beware,” Claude said. He turned to Vail, his penetrating gaze locked on her eyes, and said, “The police and soldiers are everywhere.”

Shouldn’t we be more worried about the assholes who are trying to blow us up? Vail looked at Uzi, then back at Claude. “Right. Thanks for the tip.”

DeSantos pulled himself forward in the seat. “We’ll go in pairs. Karen and I will hang out here for a bit.”

Uzi and Fahad got out and retrieved their backpacks from the trunk, then headed across the street.

“So I noticed you arranged for us to sleep together again.”

DeSantos consulted his watch and kept his gaze there as he answered. “Yes, I did, my dear. You got a problem with that?”

“I don’t.” She paused, then said, “But Robby might.”

A few moments later, after another check of his watch, DeSantos popped open his door. “Our turn.”

They got their gear from the back and started across the street.

“Claude’s a bit creepy,” Vail said.

“Is that any way to talk about a man who risked his life to help you out of a jam?”

“His eyes are strange. Not like a serial killer’s, but kind of … empty.” Vail took in the hotel’s entrance as she stepped onto the curb. “Nice place.”

“What we need it for, it’s more than adequate.”

They walked into the lobby, which had a warm, cozy feel. The registration desk was painted ivory like the rest of the earth-toned lounge, which opened into a sitting area with upholstered couches and easy chairs. Large windows looked out onto the Rue du Champ de Mars.

They were attended to by a thin Frenchman who spoke intelligible English. He checked them in, gave them a password for wireless internet access, and told them that breakfast would be served in the adjacent dining room.

They headed down the glass-walled hallway to the narrow staircase and proceeded up to the third floor. Vail used her key card and opened their door to yellow comforters, yellow walls, and red, green, and yellow floral curtains, with a matching headboard.

“I see the prevailing color theme here.” Vail tossed her backpack onto the closest mattress. “How best to describe this room? Small? Cozy? Tiny?”

“Efficient use of space,” DeSantos said absentmindedly as he examined the lamps, sconces, drawers, and LCD television looking for, presumably, covert cameras and listening devices. He turned and leaned his buttocks against the bureau. “Two beds.”

“Other than stating the obvious, you sound disappointed.”

“I enjoyed sleeping with you in London. Even if you did threaten me with that imaginary line in the sand bullshit.”

“Same goes here. If you value your manhood, you’ll stay on your bed. Remember, Uzi gave me that Tanto. Although I did read somewhere they can now grow penises in the lab. I guess that’s something.”

DeSantos scrunched his face. “Sensitive subject. Don’t joke about things like that.” He checked his watch then parted the curtains and looked out the window. “We’ll grab dinner then walk through the mission again.”

DeSantos unzipped his backpack and rummaged through the contents, then hung up the shirts. Vail followed suit, and a moment later they left for the Café Central a block or so from the Relais Bosquet on Rue du Champ de Mars. It was a charming eatery with white tile and red brick walls, and unfinished wood plank floors. Cigarette smoke wafting in from the covered outside patio bothered DeSantos, but the dessert pastries more than made up for it.

Uzi and Fahad ate at a nearby table but did not converse with them or otherwise make eye contact. They exchanged a few texts as to their plans for the morning and agreed to be on the road by 9:00 AM.

Vail and DeSantos would go to the Louvre while Uzi and Fahad would track down the location of the flat mentioned in the encrypted documents.

Back in their room, Vail washed up and got her kit ready for the morning.

“My bed,” she said, pointing to the one closest to the window. “And that’s yours. Just so we’re clear.”

“If I forget when I get up to pee during the night and accidently find myself snuggled up to you, wake me before reaching for the knife, okay?”

She looked at him.

“Just sayin’. It could happen.”

Vail fluffed her pillow then pulled back the sheets. “If you value your package — and future relations with your wife — you will not make that mistake.”

46

The Smart cars may be economical, but they’re tiny as hell. And claustrophobic.”

“If we’d thought of it before,” DeSantos said, “we could’ve taken the Citroën.”

“This thing looks like it got stuck in a vise and accidentally compressed.”

“Welcome to Europe. Narrow streets, tight spaces, small cars.”

He navigated the roads like a native, taking Avenue Bosquet to Rue Saint-Dominique. Vail watched the French storefront shops, restaurants, and cafés pass by. A guide led about two dozen tourists on Segways across the street in front of them while they sat at a red light.

“Looks like fun.”

“Great way to see a city. Better than bikes. And you can cover a lot more ground.”

As they crossed the Seine River via the Pont de la Concorde bridge, Vail realized she needed to focus on her assignment, get into the mind-set. For a short time, she was essentially going undercover.

“We’ll be there in five minutes. You ready, Katherine Vega?”

“That’s Miss Vega to you. And yeah, I’m ready.”

They parked the car blocks away and hiked toward the Louvre. The sky had turned threatening, the clouds getting darker, the air cooler. It was starting to drizzle.

They walked through Jardin des Tuilieries, a sprawling 450-year-old public park and gardens that abutted the Louvre with statues, decomposed granite paths, mature trees, acres of deep green grass, and a large central fountain.

As they passed under Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, a six-story triumphal arch commemorating Napoleon’s military victories, they saw hundreds of people massed in the Cour Napoleon, the Courtyard of Napoleon. In the center of the square stood the iconic seventy-foot glass Pyramide du Louvre that served as the main entrance to the museum complex. Tourists were snapping photos, a few climbing atop a short stone light post and taking forced-perspective pictures where they pretended to be holding the pyramid by its apex. The modern structure sat in stark contrast to the classical baroque design of the surrounding buildings.

DeSantos gestured at the long line waiting to enter the base of the glass structure. “There’s an alternate way in that won’t be nearly as crowded.”

They descended into the Carrousel du Louvre mall, which featured cafés and gift shops, including a Starbucks and an Apple Store. They passed through the narrow high-ceilinged limestone-walled corridor that was lined with vendors on both sides, as they headed toward the expansive Hall Napoleon, a cavernous atrium that featured an inverted glass pyramid, a mirror image of the one above, pointing down into the gallery.

DeSantos led her past two curving staircases that led to and from street level — the pyramid base where the tourists had been waiting to enter.

As they made their way toward the museum, Vail locked on six police officers congregated in the center of the large lobby. She nudged DeSantos.

“It’s the largest museum in the world. What did you expect?”

“A walk in the park?”

“We did that on the way over here.” She adjusted her faux glasses and ascended the escalator to the “Control des tickets” booth at the Sully entrance. They paid with the euros Claude and his team had supplied and were handed two large vouchers that read “Musee,” along with the date and time of arrival.

Vail took a moment to glance at a foldout map that clearly delineated how massive the Louvre was—652,000 square feet containing 380,000 objects.

They split up, DeSantos hanging back and pretending to view the nearby exhibit while Vail proceeded to the office of the curator in charge of Middle Eastern antiquities, a thin, suited man who seemed surprised to be called to the front desk.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Katherine Vega.”

He squinted lack of understanding, but politely replied, “I’m Pierre DuPont.”

“I know. Thanks for agreeing to help us.”

He tilted his head. “Help?” He said it as if he had just tasted bitter lemon. “I’m sorry, Miss—”

“Vega. I was told you’d be expecting me.”

“Well, I assure you I was not. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I came all the way from the United States — Washington, DC–I’m the Middle Eastern artifacts curator with the Smithsonian International Gallery.” She dug into her pocket and found the packet of business cards that had been placed in her backpack by the order of the CIA station chief, along with her clothing and identification documents.

DuPont took the card, frowning as he examined it. Without looking at her he said, “And what is it that you’re here for?”

“As my office told your office when we called two weeks ago, we’re looking for a rare Middle Eastern artifact from the tenth century. A man of your stature surely knows of it.” She waited for him to meet her gaze. “It’s a Hebrew text that runs about two hundred pages.”

DuPont blinked then lifted his brow and shook his head. He handed Vail back her business card — which she did not mind taking — and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t have anything like that.”

She laughed. “Surely you must’ve just forgotten. It’s known as the Aleppo Codex, or the Crown of Aleppo, or just the Crown. It arrived about three months ago.” She was extrapolating based on information Uzi had told her he had retrieved from the laptop. “My assistant discussed this with your staff.”

“And who’d she speak with?”

“It’s he. And I don’t remember who Jason spoke with. I didn’t think it was important. I never expected the Louvre, of all the institutions in the world, to give us a problem.”

“I can’t show you what we don’t have, Miss Vega.”

“That’s a shame, because one of our major benefactors was considering a sizable donation to your efforts to purchase the Teschen Table.” According to the backgrounder the Agency had prepared for her, it was one of the world’s most unique pieces of furniture, an eighteenth-century masterpiece. “I’m told you came up short earlier this year to raise a million euros.”

“Yes, well, that effort is ongoing—”

“And the donor I’m talking about is prepared to make a €150,000 contribution.”

DuPont tugged at the knot of his tie, looked up at the ceiling, and then said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Vega, but the document you are looking for is not here.”

“But one matching its description is. I want to examine it. The Smithsonian sent me quite a distance based on representations your staff made—”

“Unfortunately, that document is being restored in our lab and unavailable for viewing at the moment. I don’t believe it’s the codex you’re looking for. But the one in our lab is in good hands, I assure you.”

She snorted. “With all due respect, Mr. DuPont, given your recent history of art restoration, you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust your assurances.”

DuPont’s face shaded red.

“It’s no secret that da Vinci’s Virgin and Child with Saint Anne restoration went horribly wrong—”

“That is patently not true!”

“Mr. DuPont,” Vail said, keeping her voice calm and even, “I’m not going to debate that with you. I haven’t seen it, so I’m merely going by what I read in the news. But I am intimately familiar with the restoration process. I’m not looking to photograph or even handle the manuscript without following proper protocols. In fact, a conservator can handle it. No harm would come to it. I just wish to examine and authenticate it.”

That last part is actually true. Now, what happens after that …

DuPont’s face returned to normal flesh tones. He took a breath and thinned his lips. “The restorers are doing just that. And despite your assertions to the contrary, our staff is among the finest in the world. So—”

“I have my instructions. I can’t leave without seeing that document. And I give you my word that I’ll make a strong recommendation to Mr. Buffett that he make that donation for the Teschen Table.”

“Warren Buffet?”

“I did not say that.” Vail maintained a poker face. “In fact, I’ve already said more than I should.”

DuPont pressed his lips together, a look of frustration. “My instructions are that no one is to examine that document. I’m not even supposed to acknowledge that we have it on premises.”

“Whose decision was that?”

“The director of ancient documents, Lutfi Raboud.”

Sounds like a Muslim name. Stop it, Karen. Not all Muslims are extremists. This is France, with a large Muslim population. It’s very possible he’s a perfectly legit museum officer.

“It’s out of my hands,” DuPont said. “When a painting or antiquity is brought to the basement laboratory for examination, conservation or restoration, it’s administratively transferred to another department. The Center for Document Restoration. I get regular updates on its progress but I’m not involved in the process unless there’s a question or my input is otherwise required. It is indeed unfortunate that you had to travel all this way for nothing. And I apologize if my assistants were uninformed or in any way misled you. Believe me, the Louvre would like to cooperate in any way possible. But there’s nothing I can do.”

“Can I speak with Mr. Raboud?”

DuPont audibly sighed. He was getting tired of dealing with Vail and — she hoped — was willing to pawn her off to the person she needed to meet … and evaluate behaviorally.

“Come with me.”

He led the way out of his office and down the hall to a service elevator. He pressed B1 and the car descended. Seconds later they emerged in a tiled corridor leading to glass doors that opened into a modern, state-of-the-art restoration facility.

DuPont pressed four numerals into a keypad and an electronic lock clicked. Vail memorized the sequence.

“We have a number of restoration workshops in the Louvre, depending on the medium being cleaned and repaired. Our statuary restorations are done in a very large room. It’s low-tech, naturally lit with a skylight in the ceiling. The technicians work on wood surfaces that sit atop sawhorses — very different from what you see here.”

For a second Vail lost herself, marveling at the tools and instruments she wished she could have spent hours playing with. When she was in college studying art history, never in her dreams did she see herself in the bowels of the Louvre, staring at priceless antiquities.

She reminded herself why she was here and glanced around to get an idea of what type of security measures they had in place.

Vail was sure they were stringent — but, then again, it was best not to assume. One would have thought the White House had surveillance cameras installed all along its periphery — but that did not happen until recently when a gunman took a rifle and buried several rounds into a window where the First Lady was napping. The bulletproof glass prevented injury — but the Secret Service was unaware of the attack and had no “eyes” on the periphery, allowing the sniper to escape. It was but one example of a facility that should have been one of the most secure in the world, yet was woefully under protected.

She saw cameras in the hallway but nothing — as yet — inside the lab.

“Please wait here,” DuPont said. “I’ll go retrieve Mr. Raboud.”

“While you’re doing that, I need to use the restroom. Can you point me in the direction?”

“I will escort you. I can’t allow you to wander around here unattended. I’m sure you understand.”

“Absolutely.”

He led her past a number of men and women who were bent over workstations lit indirectly with full-spectrum bulbs, some of whom were peering through high-powered microscopes or jeweler’s loupes strapped to their foreheads.

DuPont stopped opposite two doors in a corner of the facility and gestured at the one on the left. Vail proceeded in and made a quick assessment: it was a fairly basic facility with a single sink, two stalls, and a ventilation duct about six feet off the ground. She stood on her toes and tried to get a look inside but was a couple of inches short.

She waited a few seconds, then flushed the toilet and washed her hands.

DuPont was waiting outside with another man.

“This is Lufti Raboud, the Louvre’s director of ancient documents.” He was a bald, thick man of about forty with a clean-shaven, pock-marked face from childhood chicken pox, by Vail’s guess. He wore a black suit and white tie, looking formal and official.

“A pleasure,” Vail said. “I’ve come all the way from Washington to examine the Aleppo Codex. But apparently there’s been a bit of a snafu and I need your authorization to see it.”

Raboud’s face was as expressionless as that of a stone statue. “We are not in possession of that document. I’m sorry you’ve come so far. This was, indeed, a miscommunication. Was it our fau—”

“I know you have it here,” Vail said. “Mr. DuPont and I have already been through the charade.”

DuPont lifted an index finger. “That’s not exactly what I—”

“So let’s save us both a little time. Just let me do my job. I only need ten minutes, at most, with the codex. Whatever safeguards you insist upon will be fine with me.”

“I cannot let you see that which we do not have. I apologize if Mr. DuPont led you to believe otherwise.” He forced a smile. “Now, mademoiselle, I have a meeting I’m late for.” He nodded at DuPont — a stiff, unpleasant gesture — and turned to leave.

“You’re a skilled liar, Mr. Raboud. Does it come naturally or did you have to learn it?”

Raboud spun and faced her. His face now showed some character: it flushed in anger.

“Whatever your reason for denying that you have the codex doesn’t concern me. Those are administrative matters. I’m solely interested in verifying the art and establishing the document’s place in history.”

Raboud chewed on that a moment, tapping his right oxford dress shoe. Then he took a step forward and bit his lower lip, apparently still deciding how to respond. “We had a document that some thought was the codex. Because of its controversial nature, we did not want it known that it was in our possession. It would’ve created difficulties with the Israelis, the Americans, even the Vatican. I was relieved, to say the least, when it turned out not to be the codex. Either way, it’s no longer here. We did some minor cleaning and sent it on its way.”

Vail studied his face. “Sent it where?”

“That, Miss Vega, was not my concern. And, I might venture to state, neither is it yours.”

“Do you have a business card? In case I have any other questions? I appreciate your honesty and apologize for my rudeness.”

Raboud ran a tongue across his lips, clearly considering the request. Then he reached into his suit coat and pulled out a sterling silver case. He handed her the card with a bow of his head. “Again, it’s a shame you wasted your time.”

Vail broke a smile. “I’m in France, in the world’s greatest museum. It’s not all bad.”

Raboud shared the grin — though Vail could tell it was not genuine. “Indeed. Stay the day, enjoy yourself. If any of my staff can be of service, please let Mr. DuPont know.” He nodded again at DuPont — a dutiful gesture — and then walked out.

47

Uzi and Fahad sat in the Citroën watching the entrance to a building that one of Fahad’s contacts had directed him to. The woman was friends with a seamstress who stitched together material, elastic loops, pockets, and Velcro enclosures for “utility vests” that bore a curious resemblance to those that suicide bombers used to strap explosives to their body.

Although the woman had suspicions, she claimed not to know their true use. Regardless, her brother delivered the finished products in boxes to a particular address in the south — where Uzi and Fahad were now parked. It was in the general area of Paris that was alluded to in the encrypted documents, so Uzi felt there was a decent chance the intel was solid.

They were in the Montmartre district, known for its history as an artist colony where the likes of Claude Monet, Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso, and Vincent van Gogh had studios. Blocks away, up on the summit of a steep hill, was the domed Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, a landmark visible from many parts of the city.

The cobblestone roadway inclined fairly aggressively ahead of them, with a few businesses and bars on both sides of the Rue Muller and apartment buildings above. The area was fairly well maintained, though it was clear the neighborhood had seen its share of crime. First-floor windows were barred and occasional graffiti adorned the buildings.

Their car was parked at the curb, among many that lined the street.

“So your nephew was a suicide bomber,” Uzi said. “That must’ve been tough.”

Fahad pulled his gaze off the building for a moment. His eyes scanned Uzi’s face. “Harder than you can know.” He turned back to their target. “I didn’t agree with his methods, even though I understood what he was feeling. He got taken in by the rhetoric and became frustrated, wanted to do something about it. But the people he fell in with, they were using him. They knew it. I knew it. But Akil was young and naive. He didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I’m sorry he took his own life. I’m sorry he killed innocent children. I wish there was a way to work all this out. But there aren’t any easy solutions. This business with the Aleppo Codex and the Jesus Scroll only makes matters worse. As if it needed anything to make it worse.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“Where do you stand on all this?”

“You mean the peace talks? The two-state solution? Jerusalem? Refugee status? Or whether or not a Palestinian state should be allowed to have an airport and military capabilities?”

Uzi laughed. “I just mean … well, where do you stand on the land issue? Are you in the camp that believes Jews never lived in Israel, that the Palestinians should have all the land and kick the Jews out?”

Fahad shook his head. “Look, I’m a reasonable guy. I know the Jews have lived in Israel for what, four thousand years? I’m not an idiot. I don’t believe that by repeatedly denying something it’ll eventually become the truth. There are ancient Islamic texts that talk about the Jews living in Jerusalem. I’ve seen them, so I’d be a fool to make believe those documents don’t exist.”

“There’s a but.”

“There is a ‘but.’ Arabs did live in Palestine. We had homes there that we abandoned during the war. That’s why the UN declared two separate states back in 1947, one for the Jews and one for the Arabs. We have legitimate claims to the land.”

“All the land?”

He thought a moment. “Compromise and conciliation don’t go over well there.”

“I don’t think those words are even in their dictionaries.”

They laughed, but Fahad’s tone faded to one of introspection. “We should’ve accepted partition. No negotiation, no compromise needed. We would’ve had our state and you would’ve had yours. And a lot of young men would never have died in suicide bombings. A lot of death and destruction would’ve been avoided. But we’ve been our own worst enemy. We had a leadership vacuum, got some bad advice.”

“You talking about Arafat?”

“He tops my list but he’s not the only one.” Fahad shook his head. “Things could’ve been so different with better leaders, smarter leaders, people with a vision. I’m very frustrated for my people.” He went silent, staring ahead at the building they were surveilling. “We call the armistice agreement that divided the land al Naqba, the catastrophe. Difference is, I think of it as a catastrophe because of what we could have had. Instead of accepting the agreement, the Arab nations declared war. We lost and got decades of problems. We have to take some responsibility.”

“One could say your leaders are still at war to have it all.”

Fahad nodded absently. “I wish I could disagree with you.”

“Some of my people are wrapped up in that same fight.” They sat there a moment in thought. “It’s a shame more Palestinians don’t recognize Israel for all the good it’s done. Forget the technology and medical advancements it’s brought the world. Forget that it’s the first to send help when an earthquake or tsunami or some other catastrophe hits somewhere. No other Middle Eastern country goes to the lengths that Israel does to protect human rights or practice social justice. No Middle Eastern country offers women equal rights — except Israel, where women have the same rights as men.”

“Muslim countries in the Middle East aren't concerned with equality between men and women the way the West is.”

“No, I guess not. But isn’t it ironic that the Arabs living in Israel are treated better than Arabs anywhere else in the region? Israel’s the only country in the Middle East where you’re free to practice your religion, worship your God. And despite all the crap that’s gone on with Gaza, Israel still donates tens of millions of dollars in humanitarian aid to Palestinians — and opens its hospitals to any Palestinian in need. Even terrorists, as bizarre as that sounds.” He looked at Fahad. “Doesn’t any of that count?”

Fahad shrugged. “For my people, to the men in charge, the land is the only thing that counts. None of the other things you mentioned matters to them.”

“It should. It’s important.”

Fahad chuckled disdainfully. “They are blinded by their single-minded fixation. Their resistance.”

“You really think things would’ve been different? Wouldn’t the extremists have followed the same plan of action?”

Fahad stared out the window, considering the question. Finally he said, “Would we be in the same place we are now? I honestly don’t know. But yeah, it’s possible.”

“Let’s hope that one day the Hamases, al Humats, al Qaedas, and Islamic States of the world will go away, that the extremes on both sides will find common ground and see the benefit of working together. Of living together in peace where each side recognizes the legitimacy of the other.”

“I share that hope. But after all you’ve seen? You really believe that can happen?”

Uzi considered the question. “A friend of mine, a peace negotiator during the Oslo talks, a vocal supporter of Palestinians having their own country, used to say, ‘You never know. Anything can happen.’”

“Used to say?”

“He was killed in a suicide bombing.”

Fahad looked at him.

“No, I’m not kidding.” Uzi took one last glance around the street. “It’s quiet. I think we’re safe to take a poke around. If everything looks good, we can break into the flat and go hunting.”

Fahad checked his Glock, then pulled his jacket around to cover the handle. “Let’s do it.”

Uzi grabbed Fahad’s arm. “I’m sorry. For how I acted after we met, not trusting you with Amer Madari.”

“Hey, I’m not only your sworn enemy but I’m CIA — no one trusts us.” He winked. “Apology accepted.”

Uzi entered the building first, followed two minutes later by Fahad. They proceeded separately up to the flat, Uzi by stairs and Fahad by elevator. They both wore their eyeglasses and baseball hats in case there were cameras.

When Uzi and Fahad met down the hall from the apartment, Fahad said that he had not seen any surveillance devices.

“I didn’t either. What about the dark blue minivan down the block?”

“Couldn’t get a read on who was inside. Looked like two men but there was too much reflection off the glass.”

“That’s about what I got too. Could be trouble. But we’re here, let’s go as far as we can. You’re up. Go knock.”

Fahad would be the “face” of this phase of the operation because he was of the same nationality and could more easily pass for a nonthreatening presence.

He balled his fist and rapped on the wood door. After waiting a long minute, he tried again — but got the same response.

“Hey, it’s me, open up,” he said in Arabic. A moment later he signaled Uzi down the hall.

Uzi removed a small toolkit from his pocket and proceeded to jimmy the lock. A few seconds later, they were inside. They split up and began searching the flat, which looked like the one in Greenwich: sparse furnishings, a computer, and the detritus of bachelors living in close quarters: the acrid smell of Turkish cigarettes lingered in the air and dirty clothing littered the bedrooms, where bare mattresses sat on worn wood plank floors.

They reconvened in the den five minutes later.

“I’ve got a desktop,” Uzi said, “which means if we want to pull anything off it I have to do it here.”

“Can you copy the data and take it with us?”

“I can try.” He sat down on a folding chair at the makeshift desk, a coffee table with a couple of thick phone books piled on top of one another to bring the monitor up to eye level. A webcam was attached to a nineteen-inch widescreen LCD.

Fahad checked the time. “I’m gonna stand watch in the hall. I see or hear something, I’ll knock twice. It’s a small building so I probably won’t be able to give you more than a few seconds’ notice.”

“Understood,” Uzi said as he tapped away at the keyboard.

“Think you can you be done in five minutes?”

“If it’s a simple drag and drop, yeah. If they’ve got things encrypted, no way.” Uzi looked up. “You’re worried about that minivan.”

“I’m naturally paranoid.”

“If there’s one thing I learned a long time ago, Mo, it’s that a little paranoia can be an operative’s best friend.” Uzi glanced at the clock in the computer’s system tray. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll grab what I can, then we’ll get out of here.”

Uzi had been at it for seven minutes, keeping one eye on the time as he worked to decrypt the data. It was as he had feared: if the cell in Greenwich secured their documents it was likely al Humat’s standard operating procedure. It made sense: they were a sophisticated organization, disciplined, intelligent, well organized.

He was perspiring profusely, decrypting on the fly and loading the data onto his flash drive as he went, when something caught his eye. He pulled his phone and dialed Richard Prati.

“I don’t have a lot of time so just shut up and listen.”

“I’m listening,” Prati said.

“They’re bringing nuclear material in, but they’re not using a tunnel. They’re coming across the Atlantic, then going down the St. Lawrence River between Canada and the US. About 125 miles southwest of Montreal — near Hill Island — they’ll be offloading it onto a truck and crossing into the US on Interstate 81 which runs south through upstate New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. They could be taking it into Jersey or Philly but I’m betting they’re gonna take another shot at Manhattan.”

“I’ll run with this,” Prati said. “You know when it’s going down?”

“No. If I find anything else I’ll let you know.”

Uzi hung up and flicked his eyes to the system tray’s clock. He had less than a minute before he had to leave. As he dragged several more documents onto his drive, an email hit the inbox. It was in Arabic, so he did a quick translation.

It was not signed, and the email address was merely a string of numbers at Gmail. KAS. Uzi searched his memory — who the hell was KAS?

And then it hit him: Kadir Abu Sahmoud.

Uzi looked again at the time: noon was twenty-one minutes from now. What to do? He had promised he would be out of there in ten minutes — which was smart regardless of whether or not he had made a commitment to leave.

The decision was clear: take what he had, shut down, and get over to the Arc de Triomphe.

He and Fahad could return and finish going through the files later, assuming it was safe. But the ability to intercept a message from Sahmoud — and potentially capture one of his lieutenants — was now the priority.

He pulled out his USB flash drive and powered off the PC. Seconds later he stepped out into the hallway.

Fahad was not there.

48

Vail joined DeSantos in the Denon wing on the first floor — Room 6, known simply as “the Mona Lisa Room.”

Vail had texted him when she left the document restoration laboratory and he suggested this location as an innocuous place to rendezvous: it was crowded and one of the busiest exhibits in the museum, not to mention the most famous.

Vail entered the large, high-ceilinged space. There was an echo of hushed voices off the tall, flat, patterned gold walls. Aside from two rows of framed Renaissance paintings hanging by chains from channels in the walls, the room felt bare.

A crowd of a couple hundred people was concentrated in front of one modestly sized work, however, that hung alone — the Mona Lisa.

Arms extended up from the masses, digicams and cell phones aimed at the painting, almost as if she were conducting a press conference and the cameras were microphones recording every word. Off to the right and left were large red and black signs warning people that pickpockets operated in this room: while you studied the famed portrait, criminal elements emptied your person and pockets of euros, watches, jewelry — anything of value. They did not discriminate.

“They had to close the place down yesterday,” DeSantos said. “Because of the pickpockets. The workers went on a one-day strike to protest. They were being threatened. Apparently the gypsies operate in gangs now and they’ve gotten violent, even threatening the security guards. Leave them alone or they know where you live and they’ll go after your family.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. While I was waiting, a young couple told me they’d planned to come yesterday, got here, and were turned away. They had to rearrange their trip to come back today.” He nodded toward the left portion of the crowd. “The guy in black, the woman in gray. Watch him get the wallet out of that tourist’s pocket.”

Vail saw their methodology: they worked in a group, an attractive female pushing up against the mark while the male crowded him from behind. She engaged the victim, apologizing or making some comment about how packed it was — while her accomplice removed the booty with practiced skill.

Vail set a hand on her concealed Glock and took a step forward — but DeSantos grabbed her arm.

“You’re not a cop here, Katherine Vega. Let it go.”

Vail growled, then stepped back — but did not take her eyes off the perpetrator.

“Find anything out?”

DeSantos’s question refocused her. “Yeah. The curator was under ‘orders’ to deny that they had it.”

“He just told you that?”

“Kind of. I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

DeSantos lifted his brow. “Go on.”

“I ended up speaking with the director of ancient documents, Lufti Raboud. Seems as if the order to deny their possession of the codex came from him. I sent his prints to Tim Meadows.”

“How’d you do that?”

“I got his business card. I went into the ladies’ room, dusted it, and emailed it to Tim. Because of the time difference it may be a while before we get something.”

“Nicely done.”

“I could tell Raboud was lying and I called him on it. He came clean and said they did have a document they thought was the codex but it turned out not to be the case.”

“Shit.”

“Not exactly. I’m pretty sure that was a load of crap too. He said that when they determined it wasn’t the codex, he was relieved because of the controversy surrounding it.”

“Okay.”

“No, not okay. The Louvre’s director of ancient documents relieved he didn’t have the ability to examine, to touch, one of the most important manuscripts of all time? I’m not buying it.”

DeSantos bobbed his head. “Good point.”

“He’s either an imposter, a sleeper operative, or he’s on al Humat’s payroll.”

“Our focus is the codex.”

“He said the document that they did have was cleaned and sent away.”

DeSantos nodded slowly, then said, “You don’t believe him.”

“Assuming it’s real, and assuming it did need some restoration, which is certainly reasonable, I may know where it is.”

“And where’s that?”

“In the restoration workshop. Pretty cool lab in the basement.”

“Then we should have a look around,” DeSantos said as he scanned the large room. “They’re open late, till 9:00 or 10:00. We can’t just sit here and wait for it to close.”

“You’re right. Why pass the time actually enjoying one of the finest collections of art in the world?”

“Given your background in art history, I can see why that’s appealing to you. Ain’t happenin’.”

“Knew you were going to say that.”

“Coming back later in the same day would look suspicious if anyone happens to notice.” He turned his body to face both Vail and the Mona Lisa. “So we have to make something happen.”

“Knew you were going to say that too.” A few seconds later, she said, “We could set off the fire alarm.”

DeSantos scanned the room. “Don’t see any. Not sure how that works in a museum anyway. Can’t be hooked up to sprinklers. The art would be damaged or destroyed. Must be heat sensors and smoke detectors. We don’t smoke, so unless you can spontaneously generate intense heat, we have to find another way.”

“You always tell me I’m hot.”

“Hot enough to trigger my sensors. But not hot enough to trigger the heat sensors. I’ve got another option. The gypsies.”

“I think they prefer the term Roma.”

“Fine. The Roma.”

“You want to pay them to break in and steal it for us?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Problem is we’d never get it back from them. No, we use them as a diversion.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m thinking.”

Five minutes later, he had the seed of a plan: they would observe the behavior of the Roma pickpockets and then select one to approach with an offer: they would pay him €500 to cause a distraction significant enough to draw security to the area. It was likely they had compatriots in other areas of the museum, so if they coordinated the disturbance, security — and those monitoring whatever surveillance cameras the Louvre had — would be drawn to respond. When they were done, assuming they performed as agreed, DeSantos would meet his contact outside and give him another €500.

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“I’m not crazy about it either. But it’s the best I can come up with that won’t put our asses on the line or our faces on camera. The Roma are used to brushes with the guards — and because of what happened yesterday, I’m sure the guards are on edge about it. The response should be bigger than usual.”

Vail hesitated.

“You got a better idea?”

“No.”

“How sure are you that Raboud was lying?”

How sure am I? Good question. She took a moment to replay the conversation, reconsider his body language. “Sixty-forty. Maybe seventy-thirty.”

DeSantos considered that. “We’re here. The codex may or may not be here. I say we go for it.”

Of course you would.

“You have doubts?”

She leaned close to him. “We’re in a foreign country on forged passports, about to break into the Louvre’s document restoration lab and steal an invaluable ancient artifact that may or not be there. With no valid exit strategy. And we’re relying on a criminal enterprise to help us.” She shrugged. “What’s there to doubt? Sounds like a flawless plan.”

“Good, then we’re in agreement.”

She gave DeSantos a look but it did not deter him.

“Let’s take some time to pick the right guy to go after.”

“And how do you know who’s Roma and who’s a tourist?”

“The tourists come and go. They look, they gawk, they shoot photos, and then move on. The thieves move in, do their thing, and then shuffle over to another area.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’ve been watching. Very little gets by me, Katherine.”

“I could provide plenty of examples, but what would be the point?”

“You realize you just said that out loud.”

“No I didn’t.”

DeSantos shook his head in disappointment. “Are you with me or not?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

“I was being courteous. Now go take a position on the far side and observe. Be discreet.”

“Thanks for the advice. I was going to make it really obvious.”

They wandered off and watched the area for ten minutes before DeSantos rejoined her. “I’ve got our candidate. Give me €500.” He held out his right hand and she peeled off the bills. “Hang back here.”

He walked over to a male who appeared to be in his early twenties and whispered in his ear. He listened a moment then nodded. DeSantos shook hands with the man — the handoff of the money — and walked back to Vail.

“We’re good. He’s spreading the word to his brother, who’ll go set it up with his cousins in three other rooms. That should be enough.”

“How can we be sure?”

“Because he’s sure. And he makes his living here. He’s been working here for nine years.”

“Did you say ‘working’ here?”

“Figure of speech.”

“Nine years? He’s what, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

“They start young. Children can get away with a lot more because we automatically assume they’re innocent. They’re very effective tools.”

“Children are tools. Another figure of speech?”

“Shut up. We need to go get ready. When he signals us, we have to be in position.”

As they made their way toward the elevator, Vail said, “What’s the signal?”

“A smiley face texted to my throwaway. That and we’ll hear the fire alarm.”

“Fire alarm? That was my idea.”

“And it was a good one, so I used it. They know how to set it off. That way we’ll clear the lab.”

“Maybe the entire museum.”

“Works for me.” DeSantos led the way into the empty car. “Now where are the cameras? We still need to avoid them because if they get a sense it was intentional, we don’t want our faces on a recording going into a restricted area.”

“The only ones I saw were in the corridor outside the lab.”

“Nothing inside?”

“Unless they were well concealed, no.”

As they exited the elevator on level B1, DeSantos pulled out his phone. “That’s it. Got the text.”

Before Vail could acknowledge, the fire alarm started blaring. It was shrill and high-pitched.

“Standard fire evacuation protocol for a building is using the stairs,” DeSantos said over the din. “Know where they are?”

“End of the hall on the right.”

“Let’s give it a minute, then we’ll make sure the hallway’s clear.”

A moment later, they moved up the corridor, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras as best they could.

“We can’t be sure everyone’s evacuated.”

“It’s a fire alarm,” DeSantos said. “Most people are gonna get out. And if there’s one or two who don’t, we’ll deal with it.”

I was afraid you were going to say that.

They approached the door and Vail entered the four digit code as DeSantos discretely wrapped his fingers around the grip of his handgun.

The lock clicked and she pushed on the metal handle. As it swung open she saw a red ceiling light blinking in the corner of the room.

They gave a quick look around, then signaled each other: all clear.

Except that it wasn’t.

49

Uzi rubbernecked his head. Fahad was nowhere in sight. First objective was to get out of the building safely and the second was to get to the Arc de Triomphe. Third was to find Fahad.

Bypassing the elevator, he saved time by running toward the stairwell. He pushed through — and saw Fahad standing over the bodies of two unconscious men.

“What the hell happened?”

“French counterterrorism officers. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”

They fled down the steps and hit the ground floor in seconds. After making sure there were no other cops in the immediate vicinity, they walked out, headed back to their car in a falling rain.

“Anything?”

“I think we’re good.” He handed Fahad the keys. “You drive. We’re headed to the Arc de Triomphe.”

As they navigated the streets en route to the monument, Uzi told Fahad of the email that had come through.

“Not sure we’re gonna make it. Gonna be very close.”

“Police,” Uzi said.

Fahad hung a left and sped up to the next intersection and turned right on Rue de Londres.

Uzi lowered his chin. “Another two cops. And a soldier with a rifle.”

He turned again and accelerated. “These detours are slowing us down.”

“And if we get pulled over, our entire mission could be blown.”

Fahad swung right onto Rue Le Champs Elysées, the equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue: a wide, upscale shopping and residential district lined with patisseries, designer chocolatiers, and specialty stores such as a Bang & Olufsen audio showroom.

“How close?”

“Up ahead. Half a mile, give or take.”

“Counterterrorism officers,” Uzi said. “Either they were watching us or they were watching the same guys we were watching. That van we saw parked at the curb.”

“Yeah, they were probably doing surveillance, waiting for the assholes to come home. Instead, it was us.”

“We were pretty careful. You think they had bugs inside the flat?”

“That’s what the Agency would’ve done. I think it’s likely.”

They had not used each other’s names, so all the French authorities had on them were voiceprints.

Their tires made a sizzling sound against the rain-soaked asphalt as they swerved in and out of the slower-moving traffic.

Uzi consulted his watch. “Four minutes.”

Ahead of them, in the center of a busy traffic circle, was their destination. Built in the same design as its smaller cousin, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, which stood just outside the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile was almost three times its height at nearly seventeen stories and proffered an unimpeded 360 degree view of downtown Paris.

“Ever been here?” Fahad asked.

“To the arch? No.”

“Carved marble’s beautiful. And the thing’s so big someone once flew a biplane through the center.”

“I’ll enjoy it some other time.”

As they approached, Uzi was on the lookout for a place they could leave their vehicle where it would not get towed — or attract the attention of law enforcement. Problem was, as in any metropolitan area, parking was scarce.

They passed a building that featured a massive outcropping of large glass panes mounted on a metal skeleton that protruded at odd angles and directions, as if the facing had been twisted by an earthquake.

“We’re gonna have to leave the car at the nearest curb space and hope it’s here when we get out.”

“It’s got a clean title,” Fahad said. “The Agency made sure it won’t be traced back to them. If we have to abandon it, if it’s towed, so be it.”

He pulled to the right side of the street and they got out, walking briskly, and separately, toward the entrance.

Uzi cursed under his breath as they approached four police officers wearing dark jackets and large black-on-white POLICE placards on their backs with white, red, and blue patches on their arms.

“They have no idea what’s about to go down right under their noses,” Uzi said as they descended the marble steps to a long tunnel that ran beneath the street and up into the massive monument. A curved ceiling with up-lighting from the sides gave the passageway a contemporary feel.

“We have to buy tickets,” Fahad said, pointing to a booth up a few marble steps off to the left.

“You’re shitting me. We don’t have time.”

“Path of least resistance. We don’t want those cops to come running when we force our way through security.”

“Fine.” As Uzi paid, he glanced at his watch. The meet was starting in one minute, assuming they were punctual.

“Shit,” Fahad said, gesturing at the posted sign. “Elevator’s out.”

They began running up the cement stairs, its metal facing worn-through to its substructure — evidence of the number of tourists who had visited the monument during the past 190 years.

They ran up the tightly winding stairwell, using the iron railing as leverage after they passed the first two hundred steps. They wove past the occasional person walking down and finally stopped for a breath around number 250. Chests heaving, they glanced down at the spiral they had just ascended, then continued upward.

They hit the roof — or terrace, according to the sign — and exited through a glass-enclosed covering.

The view was spectacular despite the low-hanging charcoal clouds and constant drizzle. Off in the near distance stood the Eiffel Tower, unimpeded by the low buildings of downtown Paris.

Uzi scanned the area, which featured an elaborate smooth marble floor that stepped up in multiple tiered levels amid a network of metal drain grates. A continuous row of five foot tall steel rods ringed the perimeter to prevent people from falling, or jumping, off the edge to the street below.

The center of the roof was consumed by a raised section that divided the top into a narrow passageway along the length of the monument and a wider area on the short dimension, where the exit/entrance staircase was located. A glass-enclosed security booth sat empty.

They split up, Uzi going left and Fahad right. They were looking for anyone fitting the description of an Islamic extremist — which meant the pool was too great to accurately characterize. It could be a Frenchman, an Englishman, an American — along with a host of other nationalities including Chechen, Syrian, African, Moroccan. Because of the universal nature of the threat, it was difficult to put a physical face on the enemy.

There were only a handful of people on the terrace. A few were milling about, taking in the view of the Parisian streets and buildings, others walking along the slick marble toward another vantage point.

Uzi turned the corner of the short end and headed down the narrower pathway. A young couple was standing about thirty yards away, leaning against the railing, kissing.

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 DeSantos’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.”

Vail did as instructed and headed out, through the museum exhibits, the Levant and Antique Iran, down the halls and past white and gray-toned, intricately carved marble statues as she made her way toward the exit.

“Approaching the Sully. No one’s here.”

“Keep going.”

“Shit.” Off in the distance, coming through the reception area and heading her way, were a dozen or more men dressed in silver helmets, dark bulky jackets, and yellow striped pants. She ducked behind a column and brought the handset to her ear. “Fire brigade’s headed my way. Along with a bunch of cops. Get out of there now.”

“Copy that. Already on my way.”

“Hé! Que faites-vous là?”

Vail swung around and saw two security guards running toward her, yelling, pointing.

Oh, shit. If they search me, if they think I stole something during the commotion— She glanced around. No good place to ditch the Glock and Tanto. No time to wipe them down.

Vail turned toward the police and firefighters, then back to the guards. She needed to defuse the situation before the approaching first responders got within earshot. She figured she had about ten to fifteen seconds.

Thirty or so feet behind the guards, DeSantos was approaching on the run.

Vail headed toward the men, then threw her hands up to her ears. “How do I get out? The alarm’s so loud, I can’t stand it anymore! Help me get out of here, please.”

“Down,” one of them said, obviously unimpressed with her acting abilities. “Get down on the ground now!”

51

Uzi descended the stairs and realized that, with the elevator broken, this was the only way in and out. That meant any second now he could come face-to-face with the Paris police. And unlike their brethren in England, these guys were armed.

After forty or fifty steps he turned into a dimly lit room that looked like a small museum: there was a sizable scaled mockup of the arch, a vending machine that dispensed Medaille Souvenir from Monnaie de Paris — collector’s coins stamped with the arch’s image — and sculptures that appeared to commemorate French military victories.

Had Fahad found the other tango? Was the guy lying in wait? Or bleeding out somewhere?

Uzi pushed those thoughts aside. He had to concentrate on evasion and escape. There was no place to hide — at least, not effectively. But he had to figure something out because he heard the boots of men rapidly ascending the stairs.

He swiveled, saw a restroom, and knew it was his only option. He ducked inside and pulled the Glock from his waist band. He looked at it a long moment and again debated what he should do. Even if he hid the weapon in here, it would be discovered sooner rather than later. If he kept it with him at least he had a chance that it would not be found.

Uzi shoved the pistol back in his pants, then set his ear against the door, listening for when it might be safe to emerge.

A moment later, the voices and boot steps subsided. If they thought their suspect had fled, one or more officers might be standing on the other side of the door, checking the museum — and that meant clearing the restroom.

But he heard nothing. No bustle of equipment belts, no footfalls, no communication between two partners or the chirp of a radio.

Uzi drew in a breath and pulled open the door. He peered out — the area looked clear. He moved across the room, walking on his toes to prevent the click of heels against the floor.

He got to the steps and knew he had about two hundred to descend. And he had no idea who, or what, awaited him below.

He made his way down the spiral staircase, moving at a fairly rapid clip, getting into a rhythm as his feet clomped down the stone slabs.

When he hit the landing, three police officers were standing in a triangle, handguns drawn. Uzi immediately raised his hands and said, “I was in the museum and people came running down the stairs saying they heard gunshots. I thought it was a car backfiring, but the police came running up and told me to go down, not to go to the terrace. But I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow morning and I won’t have another chance to see—”

“Move along,” the cop said with a heavy French accent. “Outside. If everything okay, you go back up. Keep your ticket.”

“Any idea how long it might be?”

The cop’s brow hardened. “Long time if you keep talking. Go wait outside.”

“Right,” Uzi said, backing away. “Sorry.”

He walked through the tunnel and up the stairs, past another two cops at the entrance. Uzi nodded at them — a quick dip of his chin in acknowledgment — and started walking at a normal pace, wanting to run but exercising restraint.

The arch was at the center of a twelve-spoked wheel; a dozen streets radiated out in a 360 degree arc. He could not spend much time here — he would either see Fahad right away or he would move on.

He thought of grabbing a cab, but those in the vicinity had passengers and he did not want to stand around in sight of the police. Ahead was a Métro station, which would give him a decent chance of getting away from the vicinity and putting distance between himself and the victim.

He walked up Avenue de Friedland to get the train at the Charles de Gaulle de Etoile station when an ivory-colored Citroën pulled up in front of him.

“Get in,” Fahad said through the passenger window.

Uzi pulled open the door and hit the seat the same second Fahad accelerated.

“So what was that?” Fahad asked. “Where the hell was the meet?”

“There was no meet,” Uzi said as he buckled his belt.

“But you said—”

“It was an ambush, a setup.”

“That’s impossible. How could they know we were headed there? Unless—”

“They sent us there.”

“You think those counterterrorism officers were invol—”

“No. The tangos probably had some kind of incursion detection system. Either when we entered the flat or when I turned on the computer monitor, it started transmitting our conversation or—” he slapped his right thigh. “The webcam. When I started the PC it must’ve notified them and activated the camera. They saw what I was doing on the computer and they sent me a bogus email about a meet. They knew we’d take the bait. It’s like dangling a flourless tort in front of a chocoholic. He has to take a bite. That’s exactly what I did. And that’s why they only gave us just enough time to get there. They knew how long it’d take to drive there, and they had people in the area ready to execute us. Or me. Maybe they didn’t know about you.”

Fahad turned left on Rue de Longchamp.

“Where we going?”

“How about back toward their flat. To get even.”

Uzi bit down on his molars. He did not know if he should feel incensed or pleased that he and Fahad had beaten back their plans to kill him. In truth, he felt both.

Uzi pushed his buttocks back into the seat and sat up straight. “Let’s go find the bastards.”

52

DeSantos came up behind the two guards and rendered one unconscious with a vicious blow to the back of his cranium with the handle of his Glock. As the other turned, DeSantos struck him with an equally violent backhand. He went down but was still moving, moaning and writhing. DeSantos stuck his knee in the man’s mid back then slammed him again in the head.

He would have a hell of a headache, a couple of nasty welts, a concussion, and some memory loss, but he would recover. And he would be alive. He would never know how lucky he and his partner were.

DeSantos grabbed the arms of the first man and started pulling him along the slick floor. Vail did likewise with the second guard, but struggled to move his mass, even though he was fairly slight. They got both bodies against one of the display cabinets, out of the direct view of the approaching officers.

“Cops must’ve gone in one of the other entrances,” Vail said, peering out into the near distance at the sortie of the Sully access.

“There’s a Denon access,” DeSantos said. “I saw it on the map when we first came in. I think that’s one of the places where the Roma were going to set off the alarm.”

“So you want to just walk right out?”

“Something like that.”

Vail gave him a dubious look.

“Best I’ve got. If we can get outside, we’ve got a shot.”

“You want to split up?”

“Normally I’d say yes. But I think we’d look less suspicious if we were a husband and wife who got lost during the commotion of an emergency evacuation.”

They walked straight out and then took the escalator down. Ahead was the mall — and several police officers and military personnel deployed at strategic points, no doubt there to prevent looting of the abandoned shops.

“What do you want to do?” she asked as they approached the cops.

“You’ll think of something.”

“Stop right there,” yelled one of the officers, his right hand held up in front of him. “What are you two doing in here?”

“My husband was in the bathroom, he’s got a bad case of the runs and he was stuck on the toilet when the alarm—”

“Honey!” DeSantos feigned surprise. “Really? That’s too much information. Embarrassing.”

Vail shrugged and turned back to the cop. “I couldn’t leave him alone. I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“Oh.” DeSantos bent over. “There it is again.”

“You need a bathroom?” she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“No, just — just some fresh air.”

“Go on,” the man said. “Up the stairs. Through the pyramid.” He grabbed his radio and spoke rapid-fire French into it, hopefully telling the cops at the top that they were cool to let through. Either that or he was saying, “Arrest these jokers and throw them in the slammer. They tried to pull the old ‘stuck on the shitter’ ruse on me.”

They emerged on the plaza, where hundreds of people were gathered, impatiently awaiting readmittance into the museum. DeSantos pulled his phone, read the display, then looked up. “C’mon. We’ve got a debt to pay.”

“Now?”

“Got a rep to protect.”

He led Vail ahead, toward the Tuileries Gardens and Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. He made eye contact with a Roma Vail remembered seeing in the Mona Lisa Room then reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He shook the man’s hand, deposited the euros in his palm, and kept walking down the path.

“You think we got out of there without getting captured on video?” Vail asked as they walked briskly, but normally, along the finely graveled, damp path. A drizzle had apparently been falling for some time as small puddles had formed on the walkway’s decomposed granite.

“Not a chance,” DeSantos said, head moving from side to side, surveilling the park. “But the only thing they’ll have on us — if there were cameras there — is me attacking two security guards. Simple assault.”

“You hit them with your Glock.”

“Yeah, there’s that. Guess it’s not so ‘simple.’”

After passing the Grand Bassin Rond — a large fountain and surrounding pond — sirens started up again and police cars whizzed by.

“Bad sign?” Vail asked.

“Definitely. I guess they found the guards — or the video of me doing my ‘Glock karate chop.’ Just keep walking. No panic, no undue attention.”

They passed a couple of outdoor cafés featuring tables with red umbrellas poking up below intricately pruned medium-size trees. One eatery displayed a chalkboard wood-framed sign offering vin chaud a la cannelle—for the English tourists, “hot red wine with cinnamon”—that made Vail’s mouth water.

They walked on and she glanced to her right, in the vicinity of a Métro station. But police were milling about, making that route of exit unappealing if not downright dangerous.

DeSantos took Vail’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I don’t want you to be alarmed, but there are several French policemen behind us and two approaching from the south. Keep walking straight.”

“You did say, ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ right?”

“We can’t outrun them because there are too many. And more in cars along the periphery.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty much.”

“You’re not joking, are you?”

“Not now, no. Not this time.”

Jesus.

“You think they ID’d us?”

“Let’s not stick around to find out. Have you ever ridden a Segway?”

“Those things we saw the tourists riding this morning? The two-wheeled things with the pole you put between your legs?”

“Another time, I’d have some sexual comeback. But yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. There are a bunch of ’em ahead of us. Tour group standing by the Luxor Obelisk.”

Vail peered into the misty rain. “I see them.”

“They’re taking a break. The Segways are about twenty yards behind them. We’re gonna borrow two.”

“You want to try to outrun the police?”

DeSantos snorted. “They only go about thirteen miles per hour, Karen. We might be able to outrun most of the cops who are in boots and weighed down with utility belts. And they’ll take us farther than someone on foot. But that’s not the point. They give us mobility — we’d be able to go places cars can’t. We need angles and distance.”

They approached a dozen Segways parked in a line at a curb. A couple of the tourists were late leaving their vehicles, but the others were still at the obelisk, snapping photos.

“We just gonna walk up to them and steal them?”

“Pretty much.”

“What about keys?”

“No keys. They’ve got controllers that have chips inside that keep track of that Segway’s vital stats. There are security settings to prevent you from doing what we’re about to do, but most tour companies don’t bother with them unless the vehicles are going to be out of sight.”

“So we’re hoping to get far enough away that we’ll be out of the controller’s range before they realize two are missing.”

“Put your helmet on and move it away from the curb. And be careful of how you lean because it responds to your body movements.”

“How I lean?

“It uses gyroscopes to sense your body weight. Lean forward, it goes forward. Lean backward, it goes backward. Steer with the handlebars. Move them to the right side, you turn right. It takes some getting used to, but once you get the hang of it, it’s very natural.”

“Do I have time to practice?”

DeSantos glanced at her as they neared the vehicles.

“Just saying. This might not be pretty.”

“It won’t be. But I have confidence in you.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now.”

They walked the line of Segways, going for the two farthest from the tour group.

“And what if they see us and yell?”

“We’ll worry about that if and when it happens. Once we get the helmets on, hopefully we’ll look like two people from their group. These tours are put together on a first-come first-served basis, so other than your companion or friend, you don’t know any of the other people. It’s a group of strangers.”

As they approached, Vail saw the black hard shell helmets hanging from the handles. She took one and quickly seated it on her head. It was a too big, but she knew that would be the least of her problems.

She climbed aboard and placed a foot on either side of the raised center panel, on the ridged rubber pads. On the outside of each of her ankles was a large air-inflated tire, partially covered by a mud guard.

Vail watched as DeSantos guided the vehicle with the movement of his body. Vail did the same — but overcorrected and nearly fell when she straightened her knees and the Segway jerked backward. She recovered and leaned forward, moving alongside DeSantos, listening for yelling — expecting someone to notice that they were stealing two very expensive vehicles.

She wasn’t disappointed, because they had gotten a half block when she heard a female voice call out, “Hé, arrêter!” Vail interpreted it as, “Hey, stop!”

“Keep going, “DeSantos said over his shoulder, looking back at Vail, who was moving in a herky-jerky, start-stop fashion, generally forward — but too slowly. “Just lean toward the handlebars. She won’t be able to catch us.”

And hopefully she won’t turn the damn things off with the remote.

Vail canted forward and her speed increased: a smooth acceleration. The rain beat against her face and prickled her eyes, but — she had to admit — the ride was exhilarating, much like she felt when she drove a car for the first time.

She wanted to sneak a look behind her, to make sure they were not being followed, but she did not dare shift her weight.

They moved down the asphalt street, which was worn to the original cobblestone, making for a bumpy ride. She came up alongside DeSantos, who had slowed to let her catch up. “We have to call the police, tell them about Raboud, that he’s really Ramazanov. And where to find him.”

“We’re not gonna do that.”

“What are you talking about? Why the hell not?”

“I left a pair of scissors on the desk next to him so he could cut the cuffs. I assume he’d be smart enough to look for a way out as soon as we left. It’ll take him a while with scissors, but—”

“Why’d you do that?”

“He’s worth more to us as a free man than one put through the French legal system.”

She turned to him, her face hot against the wet, cold rain — and nearly lost her balance. “Hector, you’re not making any sense.”

“I rigged his cell phone.”

“Rigged, how?”

“Something Uzi taught me. He called it a cross between Bluebugging and some other techno-hack stuff I didn’t understand. He built some kind of app that looks to exploit weaknesses in Bluetooth and cellular signal technology. I took care of it while you were looking over that ancient manuscript. Bottom line is that if what I did worked, we’ll be able to read the data on Ramazanov’s phone — and eavesdrop on his calls. Supposedly we can even send texts from his phone to people in his contact list.”

“Without him knowing?”

“Uzi’s the one to ask, but I think so. He made it as dumb-shit proof as possible because when it comes to tech, I’m—”

“A dumb-shit?”

“Challenged.” DeSantos looked around and appeared indecisive as he led her down the Rue Le Champs Elysées, past a large government-looking building, the tire tread channeling away the rain water that had settled on the pavement and making a swishing sound as the vehicle moved along the roadway. A white and charcoal chiaroscuro choked the expansive sky before them. A hazy misty pall hung over the city and partially obscured the Eiffel Tower, which rose above all buildings in the vicinity.

“Where to?”

“Good question,” DeSantos said. “I screwed up.”

“What?”

“Too open here. I’d wanted to get us into an area with alleys and narrow streets. That’s our main advantage on these things.”

“So far so good. No one’s chasing us. No cops, no sirens.”

As soon as she said that, a police car appeared, a blue striped white Citroën Jumper minivan that bore a red crest labeled “Police Nationale.” Its two blue lights were swirling as the vehicle slowed half a block away.

“So much for ‘no one’s chasing us.’”

“They’re turning right. Keep going, don’t panic. We’re just tourists taking a glide on a Segway.”

On cue, another cruiser’s siren wound up and the vehicle started moving in their direction.

“We need to get off these things.”

“Not yet.”

“No,” Vail said, “Now. Someone probably put out a stolen vehicle code, and the police put it together with what they’ve now realized was a ruse at the Louvre. Not hard to add it up to a man and a woman on a couple of stolen Segways.”

“Fine. There’s a Métro station up ahead.” He slowed and nodded at a red sign mounted on an antique light post. “Oh, shit. Métro Champs Elysées Clemenceau.”

“Why’s that bad?”

DeSantos glanced around. “Because on your left is the Grand Palais. And down that street to your right is the Élysée Palace, where the president of France lives.”

“Nice work, Hector.” White police cars were stationed up and down the streets in all directions. “It’s like we rode right into a hornet’s nest.”

“Let’s not get stung. We’re already on the cameras. Let’s ditch these and split up, head into the station and catch the next train. Wherever it goes doesn’t matter. As long as it’s away from here.”

Vail leaned back to slow the vehicle and brought it to a stop in front of a parked car, partially hidden from view of many of the police vehicles and about thirty feet from the Métro entrance. She yanked off the helmet and set it on the Segway’s foot pads and crossed the street. Keeping her head down, she approached the station and descended the steps. As if she had any doubt where she was, the word METRO was literally set in stone, carved into the decorative concrete bannister that faced commuters as they headed down toward the subterranean platform.

She purchased a ticket, trying to appear calm and casual in case she was under surveillance, keeping her chin down as much as possible while she waited for the train to arrive.

Where’s Hector?

There were two dozen or so people in the area chattering with one another or reading iPads. A few sat on white chairs that were shaped like shallow ice cream cones.

As the seconds ticked by, she grew concerned. Had the police arrested him before he had a chance to get down into the station?

She heard a whistle, which sounded like a bird call. She glanced left and saw DeSantos standing about thirty or forty feet away, pretending to type on his smartphone.

The train pulled in and stopped and they got into different cars. As Vail took a seat, two men walked on carrying an accordion and a portable speaker. The taller one began playing an upbeat French tune while the younger musician shifted the amplifier to his left hand, pulled off his hat, and held it out for commuters to toss in euros. Several obliged.

DeSantos worked his way toward her, walking through the long train that lacked doors between cars but instead had rubberized connectors that bent, contracting and expanding when the Métro negotiated curves in the track. He came up beside her, facing the opposite direction. He said, gazing forward, “Our eavesdropping plan just paid off. The guy made a call.”

“To who?”

“Arabic. Don’t know. Well, I know a little but not enough to stake lives on it. But Uzi built the app so it records all tapped calls. I emailed the audio file to him.”

“Hopefully it’s a lead.” After a moment, she realized DeSantos was distracted by something. “What’s up?”

He tilted his head slightly to the right.

Far down, approximately two car lengths away, were three police-types dressed in SWAT-style riot gear with articulated shoulder pads extending down to their elbows. Their dark-colored, rain-slick jackets bore large white alphanumerical designations: 1A, 4C, 2B.

“Apparently there are several teams out looking for us,” DeSantos said.

Several teams with submachine guns slung across their bulletproof vests. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but this is not good.”

DeSantos turned back toward the window ahead of her. “As our friend Clive Reid is fond of saying, shite.”

53

Uzi was tapping his foot as Fahad drove toward the terrorists’ flat. He did not know what to expect — if there would be Paris counterterrorism officers combing the building and neighborhood — or if the tangos had booby-trapped the apartment, fully expecting the two of them to return to exact revenge or to finish what they had started when the bogus email came through.

As he pondered those questions, his Lumia vibrated. He read DeSantos’s email and then put the handset on speaker. “Listen to this. Hacked call from a forger, a known associate of al Humat. Santa tapped his smartphone.”

The recording started — a conversation in Arabic between a man DeSantos identified as Borz Ramadazov and an unknown accomplice:

Uzi disconnected the call and shared a look with Fahad, who pulled the car over to the nearest available parking spot.

“So forget about Rue Muller. How the hell are we gonna find a flat somewhere in Montparnasse?”

“How far is that from here?”

“Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Depends on lights, traffic.”

The rain picked up and began pelting the windshield in a rhythmic patter.

“Let’s head over there. I can get us a location. I built the app so that it coordinates with the phone’s GPS. If the wireless was off on the target phone, it turns it on. It picks up Wi-Fi signals along the way — a café, a company, a business, a residence — and the GPS puts the phone on a map. I’ll get the location from Santa.”

“That's a nice little app you designed.”

“Santa, call me. I need GPS info on that phone.” Uzi hung up and leaned back in his seat. “We’ve got plenty of time to get the address and get over there, scope the place out. See who comes and goes.” He started dialing again.

“Who you calling?”

“Tim Meadows. He’s gotta have an ID on some of those prints from London by now. Assuming the lifts were good enough. Makeup powder is far from ideal.” He listened a second then let out a sigh. “Hey Tim. Uzi. Call me as soon as you get anything on those prints we emailed.”

He hung up and put his phone away. “You think we’re close?”

Fahad looked out at the dreary Parisian rain storm, the dark sky, and the angry clouds. “Just when I think we catch a break and cut off a tentacle, new ones appear. It’s like a sea monster.”

“The Loch Ness. We catch glimpses, and sometimes we even feel like we’ve seen it.”

“But catching it proves elusive.”

“Yeah.” Uzi balled his fist. “A monster, all right. One we’re going to slay.”

54

Vail exited the RER station, followed a minute later by DeSantos. The RER, or Réseau Express Régional, was a modern underground rail that supplemented the century-old Métro subway. It featured fewer stops and faster arrival times — which served Vail and DeSantos well.

After seeing the officers who were on the first train, they switched lines to the RER and then quickly emerged from the subterranean system, hoping they had kept their faces off whatever security cameras the Paris police had access to.

They stood outside the Saint Michel Notre Dame station, a light rain falling steadily. As large tour buses passed, their wheels whooshed along the wet pavement, making a sound like steaks being grilled over a high flame.

Vail squinted against the precipitation and ventured forward along the sidewalk, using the canopy of mature trees to give her some cover. Being barren this time of year, they were of minimal benefit.

They bought a couple of nondescript tourist baseball hats lettered with “Paris” on the front. They considered buying umbrellas to shield them further, but the wind would almost certainly pull them inside out.

A block later they came upon a brasserie that had an outdoor take away stand for boissons, sandwiches, and crepes. “Think we’ve got time to eat? I’m starving.”

DeSantos glanced around. “Now is as good a time as any. Go ahead.”

Vail told the Frenchman behind the permanent stainless steel stand what they wanted while DeSantos kept watch. The cook spread the crepe batter on the griddle, pulled the top down and then brought it up and spooned on some butter. The wind whipped up and blew in their direction, ruffling the overhanging red canvas canopies.

As the griddle sizzled, loud bells began to ring. DeSantos came up beside her, facing away, keeping an eye on the landscape for trouble. “Notre Dame Cathedral. In case you’re interested.”

Vail turned and saw the imposing Gothic structure directly across the small side street from them. She craned her neck to the top, at the spires and gargoyles and chimeras and columns that stretched toward the sky.

There was a modest line of people along the side of the building preparing for a tour of the tower, according to the sign.

As she turned to check on the food, she saw three police cars converge on the plaza. But before she could say anything, DeSantos grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

Her stomach contracted in disappointment as they abandoned the crepes and crossed the street toward the church.

“They may not be here looking for us,” she said.

“No, but they probably have our description. And once they see us, we’re in the shit.”

He pulled her toward the entrance of the cathedral. They got in line, but DeSantos pushed his way closer to the entrance, saying something about their lost child inside and they had to find him. No one objected.

“Keep your hat on and don’t look up. I’m sure there are cameras in here.”

Seconds later they entered the cathedral and followed the flow of people as they shuffled into the dark church.

Whoa. Vail craned her neck up and around, taking in the enormity of the space — and the intricacy of the sculptured stonework.

“What happened to keep your head down?”

“Sorry.” She pulled her gaze lower as they moved deeper into the nave before turning left toward the exit. A low murmur filled the vast chamber. “I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice. The scale is hard to appreciate.”

DeSantos took her hand and picked his way past the slow-moving tourists. “Between this and the Louvre, you’re having your arts and culture fill for the year. All in one day.”

“What are we doing in here?”

“The police were outside, so we’re inside. Soon as it’s clear we can leave.”

“Kind of like taking sanctuary in a church.”

“Kind of not.”

“You don’t think they’ll check in here?”

“We’d have to be fools to come in here. No way to maneuver, few places to hide, and no easy, quick exit.”

Vail looked at him. “So what does that make us?”

“Very smart.”

“You feeling okay? Because you seem to be confused.”

“We’d be so stupid to come in here that they won’t bother checking. Reverse psychology.”

“That’s not reverse psychology. But I’ll accept your point — only because we’re not being swarmed by teams of gun-toting, pissed off cops.”

DeSantos stationed himself by the large doors that led to the plaza out front.

After five minutes of people pushing past them and leaving the cathedral, Vail tugged on his arm.

“How we doing?”

“Not sure. Getting dark, harder to see. We’re gonna have to chance it.”

“This is a stupid problem to have,” she said. “We’re the good guys and we’re here to catch the bad guys.”

Another tourist pushed by and went out the door. DeSantos shifted left and right to get a look. “I’ll go first, scout things out. Count to thirty then follow. Stay within view of each other, walk deliberate but don’t look rushed. We’ll grab a cab or take the Métro — whichever’s closest.”

DeSantos walked straight ahead into the plaza while Vail hung back and did as instructed, passing the seconds as she looked into the busy square. She did not see any police vehicles parked along the curb. Because they were white, spotting them was easier than the officers’ dark uniforms.

Although they had been inside no more than ten minutes, the dense cloud cover and bad weather had conspired to bring nightfall a bit earlier than usual — which Vail considered a benefit. If it was harder for them to see law enforcement, it would be more difficult for law enforcement to see them.

The rain was still falling steadily but had slowed to a drizzle. She ventured out into the plaza and turned right, toward the tree-covered sidewalk of Rue du Cloître, not far from where they had attempted to purchase crepes.

Before she could step off the curb, however, a man grabbed her forearm firmly and said, “Se il vous plaît venez avec moi. Je me pose des questions pour vous.”

Vail turned and saw the navy windbreaker of a Paris police officer, his matching baseball hat sporting large white lettering that read, POLICE.

“I–I don’t speak French. In English?” But she had a pretty good idea of what he wanted.

“We have some questions for you.”

“About what? I’m here on vacation, I didn’t do anything wrong. Well, I crossed the street outside the crosswalk, but a lot of people were. It wasn’t just me. I didn’t know. Is there a fine in France for jaywalking?”

Come on, Hector. Where the hell are you?

The man — who looked to be in his twenties — loosened his grip and squinted. “Just come with me,” he said in heavily accented English. “I’ll explain.”

“But I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend for dinner. She’s gonna wor—”

“You can call her from the police station.” He tugged again, pulling her toward the curb — where, dammit, now she saw it. A white police cruiser.

The cop’s hands were large and they had a good grip around her forearm.

“Police station? Whoa, wait a minute. What’d I do? In America, you have to tell someone why you’re arresting them.”

“We are not in America, no?”

Smartass.

“But—”

“Also, mademoiselle, you are not under arrest. Yet.”

Vail used her body weight to stop their forward progress. “If I’m not under arrest, I’m not going anywhere except to that restaurant to meet my girlfriend.”

“I do not think you understand.”

“No,” DeSantos said, behind the officer and pressing something into the back of the man. “You don’t understand. The lady said she doesn’t want to go with you. Take your hands off her.” He gestured at Vail — a look that told her to take the handgun from the cop’s holster.

Vail did so surreptitiously and placed it in her jacket pocket.

“Now, DeSantos said, “back up slowly. No fast moves.”

He guided the officer a few feet toward his compact Peugeot sedan and opened the back door. “Get in.”

Vail looked around, hoping the cop’s partner was not in the vicinity — if he had a partner — and saw a commotion half a block away, in the plaza, near a trash bin. People were drawing close to it, trying to see what the fuss was about.

“Don’t worry about it,” DeSantos said, clearly noticing Vail’s concern.

He was right — and she refocused her attention on the officer, who was now in the sedan. She knew the Paris police had budgetary issues, so perhaps patrols were done solo. I sure hope that’s the case here.

“Hey,” DeSantos said, taking care not to use her name. “Cuff him.”

She pulled a flexcuff from her pocket and strapped his wrists together. Another one secured him to the headrest of the front seat, which would prevent him from moving or leaving the car.

DeSantos slammed the door and turned to survey the street.

“You started the fire?”

“A diversion. I needed to get as many eyes off you as possible. Let’s get out of here.”

They moved quickly down the block, outside the grouping of locals and tourists, who were watching the flames lick higher and wider in the plaza. The fire brigade’s sirens were approaching in the distance.

“There’s an RER station,” Vail said, indicating directly ahead.

DeSantos suddenly diverted left. “Negative. LE approaching, near the entrance,” he said, using the abbreviation for law enforcement.

They walked against traffic on the sidewalk, along a concrete retaining wall.

And that’s when things got dicey.

55

Uzi’s phone vibrated — and jolted him and Fahad to attention. He dug it out and answered Tim Meadows’s call.

“The first set of prints Mr. DeSantos sent me, which looked like they were pulled off the screen of a cell phone, belong to Amin Qamari, a Moroccan assassin who’s wanted for several murders in Amsterdam.”

“We’ll have to tell our Dutch friends at the General Intelligence and Security Service Mr. Qamari can be removed from their most wanted list. He’s dead.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame.”

“Notify Director Knox,” Uzi said. “He’ll take care of the notification when the time is right. What else you got?”

“One of the other prints matches Doka Michel, the leader of the French Islamic movement, Sharia Law for France Now. Its goal — as the group’s name implies — is to oversee the transition from traditional French government to traditional Islamic Sharia law using rapid population expansion and voter mobilization to transform the country.”

“Sounds so innocuous and official. Like the mission of a real diplomatic envoy.”

“He’s also suspected in planning several terrorist attacks, including the one on the Lyon police station last year that killed nine officers. According to what I was able to dig up, with Hoshi Koh’s assistance — and by the way, she’s a wasted talent in your office, Uzi. You really—”

“Tim, back on track. What’d you dig up?”

“Michel has colleagues in Belgium and the Netherlands, all focused on that one goal: taking over their respective countries by instituting Sharia law.”

“Michel … why do I know that name?”

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to clue in on that. He’s the son of Alberi Michel—”

“The man who stole the Jesus Scroll from the Qumran caves in the late 1950s.”

“Give that man a gold star. Well, let’s make it a silver because you took—”

“Anything else?”

“Still working on the others.”

“Thanks, Tim. Let me know when you’ve got something.” He disconnected the call and sat there, wondering what it meant. He related Meadows’s findings to Fahad, who nodded.

“The Agency has been monitoring these Sharia movements for a while.”

“So what will Parisians do in twenty years when the Muslim majority votes in Sharia law?”

Fahad thought a long moment and said, “A lot can happen in twenty years.”

“So you don’t think it’ll come to pass.”

“Our Agency analysts don’t see anything that’ll stop it. The French culture will disappear. There’ll be some radical shifts pretty much immediately. As you’d expect. There’ll be a purge of nonbelievers. A civil struggle, riots, maybe a civil war.” He chuckled. “The Agency will probably get involved, agitate some of it themselves. We’re good at that. But the bottom line is that the popular majority will be Muslim. This is the extremists’ plan, we know this. They’ve told us for years now that this is a war that they’re waging with population overbreeding. They’re outbreeding the native Parisians six to one? Something like that. And their plan is to do this throughout Europe.”

“Seems like an incredibly effective strategy,” Uzi said.

Fahad nodded. “I have nothing against Islam. I’m a Muslim myself. But the system of governing is archaic. It’ll set women’s rights back centuries. It’ll set everything back. Not just here. Lots of cities in Europe will lose their culture. You saw what happened in Iraq with Islamic State. Wherever they could they obliterated entire civilizations, cultures that were different from theirs. They were ‘infidels’ who did not believe. According to a literal interpretation of the Koran, which is what the extremists follow, if you don’t believe, you’re supposed to be killed.”

“I guess it’s a part of the natural course of political evolution. Every culture, every civilization falls eventually. That’s been one of history’s lessons. Everything eventually comes to an end.”

“That’s kind of dark.”

Uzi bit his lip. “As much as I don’t want to admit it, it’s just the way it is. Futurists have been predicting the end of American society for years. Let’s hope their future is not ours.”

Uzi dialed DeSantos again, and again it went to voicemail. “C’mon, Santa …”

His phone vibrated almost immediately: a text from Hoshi Koh.

“DeSantos?” Fahad asked.

“My colleague. She got an address for Doka Michel.”

“How the hell did she get that?”

Uzi smiled. “She’s been paying attention to my hacking lessons. And she’s really, really good.”

“Hacking lessons?”

“Start the car. Until or unless we get something better from Santa, this is our priority.”

56

The voice came from behind them: the unmistakable bark of a law enforcement officer ordering them to stop.

And like most criminals who did not want to be caught, Vail and DeSantos did like all the perps they despised: they ran.

“Split up,” DeSantos said, pushing her away from him. “I’ll call you,” he yelled, holding his hand up to his ear, mimicking a phone call, as he headed away from her.

Vail ran left and DeSantos right. She did not know how many cops were behind her, but she was not going to look. She needed to escape — without landing a bullet between the shoulder blades.

The drizzle had stopped, but she took extra care not to take a header on the slick pavement. She slowed to a brisk walk, ducking in between cars that were stopped in traffic and around tourists and locals who were out for an early dinner.

She thought of the foot pursuits she had engaged in during her career. In each case it became a race in which she or her partner outflanked the perp. She was in unknown territory now, where the next turn she took could mean coming face-to-face with armed officers.

Vail crossed the street and headed back toward the cathedral, into a lush greenbelt with small trees, tall hedges, and dense shrubbery. It would give her some cover where she could change direction outside the view of the police.

Except that when she reached the bushes she nearly ran into the retaining wall — beyond which lay the Seine, the five-hundred-mile river that coursed through the heart of Paris.

Vail flashed on her escapades with London’s River Thames. I don’t have good luck with these.

Still, she was out of options — and, apparently, out of room. She turned right and ran along the Premenade Maurice Carême, which paralleled the Seine, using the wall of greenery as cover. She shed her jacket and pulled it inside out as she ran. The charcoal gray coat became azure. She pulled off her hat and glasses and fluffed her red mane as she emerged from the promenade.

Up ahead was a narrow span that crossed the Seine, the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger, or “Cardinal Lustiger’s small bridge.” Several people were seated on a stone wall along the adjacent roadway, a few chatting, some reading, one on her phone.

Vail hopped on top, pulled out a Métro map from her 5.11 cargo pocket and quickly unfolded it. She dropped her chin and pretended to study it.

“Avez-vous besoin d’aide?”

Vail reluctantly turned to the man beside her. He was in his thirties, square jaw, pleasing Parisian face. She laughed, disarming and warm. Playful even. Robby flashed through her thoughts and she felt dirty. “English?”

“I do,” he said, displaying a broad white smile. “Do you need help?”

Another time, another place. Five years ago would’ve worked. Stop it, Karen. Focus.

“I’m trying to get to the Eiffel Tower,” she said, picking the first thing that came to her mind. Can I sound more inept?

“I’m Jean-Claude. Where are you from?”

“I’m … Roxxann,” she said, shaking his hand, holding it a second longer than normal. “From Canada.”

“And you don’t speak French?” He put his index and thumb together. “Not even a little?” He squinted, friendly disbelief.

“I live on the west coast.”

She was suddenly aware of the police officers no more than fifteen feet away — she saw their boots and navy pants. But she did not dare look their way. Her goal was to hide in plain sight. And it didn’t get much plainer than fifteen feet away.

She lifted the Métro map. “Which line do I get on?” she said, flirting a bit with her eyes. “It’s all so confusing.”

“Here, let me show you.” He leaned in closer, no doubt noticing that she did not have a ring on her finger. “Are you in Paris alone?”

“I’m here with a friend. But we went our own way today. And it’s been a challenge getting around. I had no idea. I didn’t know big cities could be so confusing.”

“Well. Here we are,” Jean-Claude said, pushing slightly into her left shoulder. “And this is Tour Eiffel. You want to take this line, right here, the—”

“You know, Jean-Claude, would you mind walking me to the right station?”

He sat up straight — as if this conversation might lead to something more than just a chance encounter on a bridge by the Seine.

“Of course. I could take you to the tower, if you would like.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s a little after six. Have you eaten dinner?”

Vail lifted her brow — as if the thought had not occurred to her. Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “I haven’t. Do you know a good restaurant?”

“I know many.” He slid off the retaining wall and held out a bent elbow, helping her off. They turned right, and Jean-Claude, who was a good six foot two, gave her some cover as he led her in the direction of the Métro.

They had just crossed the street when her phone rang. It was DeSantos. “Excuse me, Jean-Claude. My friend.” She put the handset to her face. “Maggie, hi.”

DeSantos hesitated. “You in trouble?”

“I should be able to manage. Where are you?”

“On the edge of the Seine, the Quai du Marché Neuf, right below the Pont Saint-Michel, alongside a dinner boat. Cross street Boulevard du Palais. Meet me there now. Boat’s leaving in five minutes and we need to be on it.”

“A dinner—” She stopped herself, realizing Jean-Claude was listening. “Okay, no, I understand. I’ll be right there.” She looked up — and realized she did not know which way to go.

“So sorry, Jean-Claude. My friend — she’s, she’s booked us a place for dinner and it’s our last night, I didn’t want to say no. Can you point me to the Pont Saint-Michel? That’s a bridge, right?”

Jean-Claude smiled — disappointment evident on his face, but ever the gentleman, he was going to help her. “You’re very close, five minutes at most.”

Five minutes? How can I run without running?

He pointed her in the right direction and she gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Again, I’m sorry. I was looking forward to dinner.”

He handed her his card. “Call me next time you’re in town.”

She smiled. “I will.” Over his shoulder, she saw a cop — so she turned abruptly, headed toward DeSantos.

Vail walked briskly, trying to appear casual while attempting to figure out how she was going to get there before the boat sailed. A dinner boat? What’s he thinking?

She passed the line of cars that were parked at the curb, staying as close to the vehicles as possible. After a cluster of motorcycles she came upon a shop called Souvenir’s Factory; if she had more time she would’ve bought a cheap Parisian pullover sweatshirt and a different hat. But she could now see the bridge up ahead on her left, which she was certain was Pont Saint-Michel.

As she approached, she saw two officers — and whipped her head to the side, trying not to make eye contact as she crossed the street and approached the sign that displayed both English and French:

An arrow pointed down toward the river.

She saw one of the officers looking directly at her as a large two-car articulated bus crossed in front of her, forming a screen. She used the cover to run toward the stone staircase, then descended the steps to the water’s edge, where a long glass-ceilinged blue and white boat was docked. DeSantos was standing on the ramp talking with a uniformed man who looked the part of a ship’s captain.

“I’m here,” Vail said as she approached the vessel. She wanted to glance up, to see if the officers had realized where she had gone once the bus had cleared their line of sight, but DeSantos had her hand and was literally pulling her aboard — and into the cabin.

“When I said five minutes, I wasn’t kidding. I had to give the captain some dinero to wait.”

“We’re in France and you’re speaking Spanish?”

“Money’s the universal language, no matter what you call it.”

They walked into the dining room, glass comprising a majority of the ceiling and walls, with a wood floor down the center and red carpeting along the periphery. Sunken tables and built-in chairs ran in two rows along the sides of the boat. Passengers were busy snapping photos of one another.

Up above, on street level, Vail saw the two police officers standing on the Quai du Marché Neuf with their backs against the retaining wall, rotating their heads left and right, looking as if they were wondering where she had gone. One was chattering on his radio.

DeSantos, clearly clued in to her concern, said, “Idea is for people to see out, not for people to see in.”

“Not sure I’m willing to stake my life on that.”

As soon as she said that, another cop ran over to the officers. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Vail rubbed her forehead with a hand. “When the hell are we gonna start moving?”

“Shhh,” DeSantos said. “Relax. You look like you’re under extreme duress. People are going to wonder what the hell’s the matter with you.”

“I’m a New Yorker. I’m a stressed out aggressive bitch.”

DeSantos looked at her.

She cracked a broad smile. “That better?”

He squinted and said, hesitantly, “I think so.”

The boat started moving, slowly, the landscape above them sliding by.

“Thank god.” She looked up at the cops and watched them recede into the distance, her shoulders dropping in relief — only to see a dozen others standing on the Petit Pont-Cardinal Lustiger as they neared the cathedral. “Poor Jean-Claude.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She sighed deeply as they glided under the bridge, putting distance between them and the police. “Now what?”

“‘Now what?’ Karen, I thought you were resourceful. We haven’t eaten. This is a dinner cruise. We’ll chow down, have a glass of wine, clear our heads and think.”

Vail looked at him in disbelief. “You’re amazing.”

“I know. And thanks.”

“I didn’t mean that in a nice way.”

“Then choose your adjectives better.”

“How about infuriating? Or ridicul—”

“Welcome aboard, I’m Dominique,” said a young hostess dressed in a black formfitting tux. “Would you like to take your seats?”

“We would,” DeSantos said. “Can you wrap them to go?”

Dominique giggled. “I’m sorry, Monsieur, you are funny.”

“That’s what my wife says.” He smiled at Vail. “All kidding aside, Dominique, how about a window seat?”

The woman giggled again. “But Monsieur, they’re all window seats.”

DeSantos made a point of looking around. “Indeed, you’re right, my dear. Window seat it is.” He turned to Vail and offered his bent elbow. “Honey?”

Are you kidding me? He’s flirting? Vail rolled her eyes. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Unbelievable. Insufferable. And damn good at what he does.

The waitress brought two glasses and a bottle of Coeur de Méditerranée merlot and set it down in front of them. She pulled out a corkscrew, opened the wine, and poured it.

Vail was focused on the passing landscape above. When the waitress left, she turned to DeSantos, who was shoulder to shoulder with her in the romantic booth. “Seriously, Hector. How smart do you think this … dinner cruise is?”

“It was my idea, so naturally I think it was very smart.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

In a low voice, she said, “We’re being pursued by the police and we’re sitting in a boat made of windows riding through the heart of Paris. With no way to get off.”

“Like I started to explain before, it’s a sightseeing boat. The idea is that the tourists — that’d be us — get to see the city. That’s why it’s so dark in here. We can see out, but it’s tough to see in. And we’re moving at a pretty good pace. We’ll be fine.”

“Does this boat stop anywhere?”

“Only when it returns to port. It’ll hit the end, then they hang a U-turn and head back.”

She thought about that a moment. “If I’m Paris PD, I’d be looking at all avenues of escape in the vicinity we were last seen. And that includes this boat. They could be radioing the captain right now to prepare for our capture when we get back. Or he could be arranging for the boat to do an emergency docking at a low risk place where they’ve moved a tac team into position.”

“Must you always think like a cop?” DeSantos asked as he poured the wine.

“Can’t help myself. It’s in my DNA.”

He lifted his glass and handed the other one to Vail. “It’s why we keep you around, my dear.”

“‘My dear.’ Is that a new saying for you?”

“I’m growing kind of fond of it.”

DeSantos clinked his glass against Vail’s, then took a sip. He leaned back in his seat, staring out at the passing vista of older buildings. “How likely do you think it is that the cops are onto us?”

So he is taking me seriously. Vail examined her merlot. “The Paris police are generally pretty efficient. The chances are too high for us to risk it.”

DeSantos chewed on that. “So they’ve got a couple of hours to figure it out and get their counterterrorism police in position to take us in. Unless they decide to force us to stop somewhere along the way.”

The waitress stepped in front of them and set down plates of sear-roasted wild salmon with leek and artichoke ragù, according to the menu card on the table. An assistant followed with pear-shaped rolls and two cans of Coke.

They waited till the serving staff walked off before Vail leaned in close. “But if there’s a fire in the kitchen, they have to dock immediately, right?”

DeSantos tilted his head back and eyed her. “Again with fire? Are you some closet pyromaniac or something?”

Vail looked at him. “I seem to recall a certain bonfire-type diversion outside the cathedral that was your doing.”

“It did the trick, didn’t it?” DeSantos dug into the salmon, turning serious. “I don’t know what the ship’s protocols are for an emergency docking. Gotta be something they can’t put out with fire extinguishers.”

She watched him chew and stab another bite. “How can you just eat?”

“Spec Ops 101. You eat when you have the chance to eat, you shit when you have a chance to shit. Besides, it’s really good. You should try it.”

Vail was starving so she lifted a big bite of the fish to her mouth. It did taste good — but she couldn’t enjoy it. “Unless you have a better plan, the kitchen fire’s our best shot. It’ll create a commotion, and if they don’t start heading toward the nearest port, we can jump and swim.”

DeSantos scooped up another bit of salmon and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “I could call the police and tell them I planted a bomb in the Musée d’Orsay. After what’s happened in DC, New York, and London, they’ll overreact and divert everything they’ve got to the museum.”

Vail looked at him a long moment. “You’re right. Not about this, about what you said before about why you have me on the team.”

“They wouldn’t overreact and divert everything they’ve got?”

“No. Because of what’s happened, they’ve got more police on the streets. They’d mobilize their bomb squad and a counterterrorism unit to handle the threat. Won’t do us any good.”

DeSantos absorbed that a moment. “Fine. But there’s a problem with your plan. A ship’s galley only has electric cooking equipment, for obvious safety reasons.”

So obvious I didn’t think of it. “So what the hell are we gonna do?”

“I didn’t say they never use open flames. They use a torch to caramelize sugar, make crème brûlée, or a flambé dish like crêpe suzette or cherries jubilee.”

“Crêpe suzette is on the menu.”

DeSantos grinned. “Yes it is, my dear.”

“Stop saying that.”

“My guess is they’re going to do it in the living room for the spectacle — it’s very dramatic in a dimly lit interior. So once the flame crests, I’ll tip the cooking pan over. The liquid will burn anything it touches.”

“I’m worried about collateral damage.”

“I’ll set it off in a way that will minimize injury, okay?”

Vail studied his face in the candlelight. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Of course.”

Asshole. Vail’s gaze roamed the interior. Despite all the predicaments she had found herself in since her unwanted affiliation with OPSIG, she never thought she would be resorting to arson to accomplish a mission. She hated to have to do this, but she could not think of another way out.

Sometimes the greater picture had to be considered, DeSantos told her. “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“Is that some sort of OPSIG mantra?”

“Nope. Star Trek.”

Vail shook her head. “I would’ve felt better if it was some moral principle the black ops world had developed in situations like this.”

She had already taken an inventory of the interior and determined that there were no security cameras on board. DeSantos paid with cash so there was no traceable means back to them other than public identification. And most people were focused on the windows and the sights of downtown Paris, their meals and wine — certainly not their fellow passengers.

“Let me ask you again,” he said. “Given your intimate knowledge of police procedure, how certain are you that Paris PD will be searching this boat when we get back to port?”

“Count on it. They’d have to be pretty incompetent to miss that detail. Someone’s going to think of it. This is Detective 101 stuff.”

He checked his watch then motioned to her plate. “Then I suggest you finish up. Because the crêpe suzette is next — and that means we’re going to be evacuating this boat in the next few minutes.” He pulled out his phone and consulted Google Maps, then looked out the window. “Pont de l’Alma is coming up. Now would be a good time.” He rose from the chair and looked toward the setup in the middle of the dining room where the staff was prepping the dessert. “Food was delicious,” he said, tossing his napkin aside. I think I’ll go give my compliments to the chef. She’s very hot, you know. Or — she will be in a couple of minutes.”

“Be careful.”

DeSantos winked at her. “Thanks for the concern. But I’ll be fine.”

“I was talking about the others in the dining room. No collateral damage, remember?”

After DeSantos rose from his seat, Vail pulled out her cell and saw that she had missed Uzi’s text message. She turned toward DeSantos, who had disappeared somewhere into the dimly lit interior.

She texted Uzi back, apologizing for the late response and letting him know they had to “manage a situation with LE” and that her unnamed partner would be back in a few minutes. He replied a moment later.

The Eiffel Tower swung into view and all heads turned in unison, a number of people pointing at the iconic structure, brilliant amber-gold lighting enhancing its profile against the dark nightscape.

There was a loud clang as something hit the wood floor, followed by a whoosh and a draft of warm air. An alarm began ringing. The serving staff froze for a second, then rushed inward from wherever they were stationed — and seconds later Vail saw DeSantos, making his way along the periphery toward their table. When he arrived, he said, “Now we see what their emergency protocol is.”

Vail screamed, then yelled, “Fire!” DeSantos did the same, followed by a couple off to their right. People scattered away from the flames, regardless of their proximity.

An announcement blared over the ship wide intercom — first in French, then in English:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. Please move toward the stern, the back of the boat, where you boarded. We have a minor fire in the dining room and we’re working to put it out as quickly as possible. I will keep you posted.”

“Minor?” Vail asked.

“Sounds better than, ‘We’re fucked. But don’t jump overboard just yet,’ doesn’t it?”

DeSantos and Vail joined the crowd, which was moving steadily but haphazardly toward the exit — many pushing, screams and gasps coming from a variety of distraught people.

DeSantos glanced back, concern evident on his face, assessing how efficient the staff’s firefighting methods were. “In five seconds we better start moving toward Port de Suffren. It should be right there, ahead on the left.”

Vail looked, but it was hard to see because the bright light from the building fire had illuminated the interior and reversed the effect of the windows: it was now easier to see in than see out.

Add in the heat and thickening smoke and everyone was pushing toward the exit, attempting to get outside into the fresh air.

As she turned back toward the exit, the boat shifted direction.

“Mesdames et Messieurs … Ladies and Gentlemen …”

“Here we go,” DeSantos said in her left ear. “Soon as we get off, we need to put as much distance between us and the group as fast as possible. Without making it obvious.”

The staff helped corral everyone in an orderly fashion toward the exit. They continued to work the fire with extinguishers, and the ceiling sprinklers clicked on and began dispensing water, dousing the passengers — which made them push forward faster toward the stern.

As they debarked, Vail glanced over her shoulder and saw thick smoke billowing from the boat’s upper cabin into the dark gray sky. “Jesus, Hector …”

“More smoke, less fire. Looks worse than it is. And no major casualties. Thought you’d be happy.”

“I am. And since we’re off the ship and not in handcuffs, I’d say you did well. By the way, did you see Uzi’s text, about the location he needs?”

“I gave him what I had. Safe house is the same place as the address Hoshi found for Doka Michel.”

They stopped on the quay and looked in all directions, casually searching for a police presence. Seeing nothing in the immediate vicinity, they shuffled with the group toward the sidewalk, just outside an RER station. Off to their left and a hundred yards or so away, the Eiffel Tower rose into the sky.

“Everyone, please stay together,” Dominique shouted. “We’ll arrange for refunds and transportation …”

But what interested Vail more were the sirens blaring in the distance. “I think this is where we make our exit. Into the RER?”

DeSantos glanced around then said, “Yeah. Now.”

They started down the stairs when they heard a voice from behind: “You two. Just a minute!”

57

Uzi and Fahad pulled up to the apartment building in Montparnasse in the heart of Paris’s Left Bank, once the haunt of artists, writers, philosophers, and counterculture intellectuals such as Chagall, Picasso, Degas, Hemingway, James Joyce, and Ezra Pound.

After a postwar decline, the area had taken on a cosmopolitan character but had lost its avant-garde spark.

And now it harbored a safe house for some of the most virulent and scheming terrorists outside the Middle East.

Uzi and Fahad sat in their car on Boulevard de Vaugirard, across the street on the other side of a traffic median, the mature, though barren trees offering a modest canopy of cover from the apartment where their targets were supposedly gathering.

“Just us,” Fahad said. “Frontal assault?”

“Only if we want to get our asses handed to us. We know what Aziz and Yaseen look like but we’ve got no idea how many men they have or what kind of weapons or booby traps they’ve got. We need a covert approach.”

“Makes sense,” Fahad said with a quick nod.

“What do a group of guys want, whether they’re Islamic terrorists or bachelors getting together for poker?”

“Pizza?”

“Exactly. I’m sure they’re getting hungry plotting murder and mayhem.”

“So let me get this straight: you want to buy these assholes — who’ve killed countless numbers of people — dinner? How about some fine Bordeaux while we’re at it?”

“A bit over the top.” Uzi pulled out his phone, did a search, and found Pizza Pino a few blocks away. He ordered a large margherita pizza, then started the car. “I’ll pick it up and you’ll deliver it.”

Nineteen minutes later, they were entering the building, the aroma of mozzarella cheese, basil, and tomato sauce wafting behind them.

“Wish we had the time and equipment to do this right,” Uzi said. “A full-on SWAT team with MP5s, snaking optical cameras, flash bangs—”

“And stun grenades.” Fahad shook his head. “Instead, we’ve got a dozen slices of pizza.”

“Remember, we want these guys alive. We shoot to wound, not kill.”

Fahad balanced the box on his left outstretched hand and used his right to check the Glock, which was perched in the small of his back with a round chambered. “Ready.”

They walked up the two flights and down the corridor, then Uzi flattened himself against the wall, out of the sightline of the door. Fahad knocked, then waited. A moment later, he rapped again.

“What?” came a terse voice from inside.

“Delivery from Pizza Pino,” Fahad said in French. “Large margherita pizza, extra cheese.”

“Not ours,” the man said.

“Yeah, yeah. Some guy called it in and told me to deliver it at 7:00. I’m fifteen minutes late so the pizza’s free, along with our apologies.”

The door swung open and the man said, “Give it to me.”

Fahad moved his right hand beneath the box and took a half step forward while extending the pizza. As soon as he took it, Fahad grabbed his wrist and gave him a quick hard yank into the hallway. Uzi swung around and jammed his Glock against the perp’s head while Fahad clamped a palm over his mouth.

“Name?” Uzi asked in Arabic into his ear.

“Abdul.”

“How many others in there?”

“Four.”

Uzi did not need to ask if they were armed; he knew they were. He twisted the barrel of the Glock into the loose skin of Abdul’s temple.

“How many bedrooms?”

Abdul winced and tried to pull his head away from the handgun, but he was wedged against the wall. “One.”

“Only one?”

“It’s a small flat.”

That was all he needed to know, and all he had time to ask. He reached back and cracked Abdul across the forehead with the Glock’s handle. Abdul crumpled to his knees and Uzi hit him one more time on the base of the skull to make sure he was unconscious.

Uzi pulled a flexcuff around his wrists and quickly dragged him half a dozen feet down the hall while Fahad picked the pizza box off the floor and moved it aside.

“Yo, Abdul!” A voice from the apartment, approaching. “Where are you, man? Why do I smell pizza?”

The second man stepped into the corridor and Fahad shoved the barrel of his Glock against the man’s temple while covering his mouth and pulling him backward down the hall.

Uzi went through the same routine: three men left inside; his name was Hijaz — not one of their major targets — so Fahad likewise rendered him unconscious, followed by a flexcuff around the wrists, affixed to Abdul’s restraint. Even if they regained their wits, it would be difficult for them to get to their feet and maneuver effectively.

Three left, Uzi said to Fahad using hand signals. He hoped they were named Aziz, Yaseen, and Michel. Along with two ancient, extremely important Hebrew documents.

Two against three were odds they could manage, particularly considering the added benefit of a surprise incursion.

Uzi looked into the flat: there were no lights above the narrow wood entryway that could cast shadows and alert the tangos of their approach. He stepped inside and led the way, making no effort to quiet his Timberlands. He was considerably larger than both Abdul and Hijaz, but he doubted the other men would notice the weight differential during the course of a dozen footsteps.

He made a quick assessment of the floorplan as he went: the voices of men speaking Arabic echoed in the room at the far end of the hall, which he suspected was a den — and must lead into the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen — because there were no other doors he could see.

Uzi stopped a few feet from the end of the corridor and waited for Fahad to inch up next to him. He whispered in Uzi’s ear:

“On three. One, two, three—”

They swung into the den and instantly sized up the situation: two men, sitting on a couch huddled over a laptop, arguing. Third one not visible.

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 swirling 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 observe. 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.”

“I’m the one who built the vest he used,” Yaseen said. “I’m the one who strapped it to his body.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m the one who chose him for that mission. I gave him the courage to do it. And I’m the one who detonated the bomb.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Mo,” Uzi said, stepping in front of his colleague. “Walk away.”

Fahad pushed Uzi aside. “Walk away? Is that what you did when you came face-to-face with Batula Hakim?”

Uzi felt the bile rise in his throat, his blood pressure rising. “I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands, to feel the life drain from her body.”

“You see,” Yaseen said, “we are not all that different. Jew, Muslim — we all enjoy killing.”

“We value life,” Uzi said. “That’s the biggest difference. Nothing is more sacred. To you, and those like you, a boy is just a tool for fighting your cause, a means to an end. An object that can be bought. Like when you pay a family for their son’s death after he blows himself up and kills innocent civilians. You’re a cancer, Yaseen.”

“And now you’re going to get some justice,” Fahad said. He nodded at Claude, who opened the toolbox. Knives, pliers, hammers, ice picks, and other assorted gadgets were visible.

Uzi leaned forward, both hands on his knees, making direct eye contact with Yaseen. “We can avoid all that unpleasant stuff. It’s up to you. We’ll start with some simple questions. All you have to do is answer them truthfully. Like, what attacks do you have planned for the United States?”

“I’m not involved in the planning,” Yaseen said. “I just build the bombs and help recruit the soldiers.”

“The soldiers,” Fahad said. “Like my nephew.”

“Yes,” Yaseen said matter-of-factly, without much emotion. “Like Akil. Allahu Akbar.”

Fahad stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of Yaseen’s hair. “Bastard. Don’t use Allah’s name in conjunction with murder. That’s not what Allah is about. It’s not what Islam is about.”

“Isn’t it? Strike down all infidels! Nonbelievers must be killed. What am I missing?”

“I’m not convinced you’re just a bomb maker, an engineer, and a recruiter,” Uzi said. “But I’ll let you slide on that. For the moment. If you’re not the guy planning the attacks, who is?”

Yaseen turned away.

Uzi stood up. “Look, asshole. We know how this is going to go, right? I’m going to ask you a question, you’re going to refuse to answer, we’ll spar a bit, and then Claude here will go to work.” He walked over, closed the toolbox, and set it down at Yaseen’s feet. It was heavy and the metal instruments shifted inside, rattling loudly. “I think we can both agree that you don’t want to see Claude open it again. Because if he does …” Uzi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll cut off a finger. Or two. Or an entire hand.”

“Or I’ll gouge out an eye. Or two.” This from Claude, who seemed to say it with satisfaction. Uzi thought it was a bit disturbing. The way he saw it, torture of any sort was best avoided. At the very least, the more severe forms of enhanced interrogation, whether waterboarding, permanent physical harm, or overt pain, were a last resort, when lives were on the line. And even at that, it was a means to an end. Not a source of enjoyment.

His cell buzzed. He checked the display and read the text from Vail: she and DeSantos were en route. Uzi rested both hands on his hips. “I don’t like you, Yaseen. And yet I’m willing to spare you pain and suffering. By the looks of things, I’m the only one here interested in treating you like a human being. The others are like sharks in a pool of water. And you’re the chum. They can’t wait for me to turn you over to them.”

“Bad cop/good cop, is that it?”

Uzi blew air through his lips. “I don’t think you get it, asshole. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Problem is, I’m more concerned for your well-being than you are. Tell us what we want to know.”

Yaseen looked away again.

“I don’t think he believes you,” Fahad said.

Uzi turned to Aziz. His face was moist with perspiration despite the fact that the temperature was no more than fifty. “Your turn. Who’s the one calling the shots for al Humat?”

“Kadir Abu Sahmoud. And Nazir al Dosari.”

Uzi drew his chin back. “Who’s Dosari?”

“Sahmoud’s—”

“Shut your mouth!” Yaseen said.

Fahad pulled his Glock and shoved it between Yaseen’s lips and into his mouth — taking a few teeth with it. The man’s eyes widened — either from the loss of his pearly whites or because a powerful handgun was now a trigger squeeze away from ending his life. Hard to say.

Uzi took a deep breath. He had crossed the line as far as Bureau procedure went: if he was witness or party to any type of interrogation tactics that involved torture, he had to report it. But he was not here as an FBI agent; quite the opposite. “You were about to tell me who Dosari is.”

“Sahmoud’s protégé,” Aziz said. “Anything happens to Sahmoud, Dosari takes over al Humat.”

“Second in command,” Uzi said with a nod. “Very good, Tahir.” He walked over to Aziz and gave him full attention. “So tell me what your role is in the organization.”

“I’m a member of the cabinet, the council of elders.”

“But you were involved in the Madrid bombing. Were you the engineer?”

“That mission was mine. I planned it, executed it. And I was rewarded for it.”

Uzi sucked on his upper lip. “You worked your way up. Congratulations on the promotion. Obviously in the minds of the council, you earned it. So being someone so high up in the organization, you know what targets are going to be hit. Tell me.”

Aziz’s eyes swung right, toward Yaseen. The Glock was still in his mouth. Fahad looked angry, just about daring either of them to refuse to answer.

“Tahir,” Uzi said evenly, “I’m running out of patience. I’m going to give you one more chance. What targets have you selected?”

Aziz licked his lips. His entire body was now drenched in sweat, his shirt sticking to his chest. “If I — if I tell you, I’d be throwing away years of planning. Dishonoring many who died.” He shook his head. “No. I will take the knowledge to the grave with me. To heaven, as a martyr in the holy jihad.”

Uzi’s shoulders slumped; he could not hide his disappointment. He did not question Aziz’s resolve. Religious zealots put their beliefs ahead of their personal well-being. He had gotten all he was going to get for that line of questioning. “Then tell me something that won’t betray your faith. Where are the Aleppo Codex and Jesus Scroll?”

Yaseen whined and shook his head as best he could with the Glock in his mouth. Fahad grabbed his hair and steadied him, yanked back, and shoved the gun barrel in farther. Yaseen started to gag.

“Tell me!” Uzi said as his phone buzzed. He straightened up, glanced at the display, and gestured to Claude to get the door. Vail and DeSantos had arrived. While Claude’s shoes slapped against the dirt-strewn cement floor, Uzi faced Aziz. “Where are they? And don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“The codex is on its way to the West Bank, Sahmoud’s office. Or it will be.” He turned away. “Doka Michel’s the only one who knows the address.”

“And the scroll?”

“I don’t know.”

“Best guess.”

Aziz’s eyes moved up, left, and right as he pondered the question. “Knowing Sahmoud, he’d keep it somewhere close.”

Uzi nodded at Fahad, who extracted the Glock from Yaseen’s mouth.

“You idiot,” Yaseen shouted. He spit out broken pieces of tooth material. “You’ve betrayed all you are.”

“Who cares about some old book and parchment?” Aziz asked. “It has no meaning to us. It’s just a tool, a leverage point.”

The door opened and closed and Uzi’s head snapped up. Vail and DeSantos were headed toward him.

The mildew irritated Vail’s nose. The building’s interior was dark except for a high-lumen lantern resting on the ground, pointed toward the ceiling. Uzi, Fahad, and Claude stood in front of two chairs. And in those chairs—

“Give me a few minutes,” Claude said. “I’ll get the information.”

Vail sensed that something was not right with Claude the night they met him. She hadn’t expended much energy thinking about it, but now she knew. He was a psychopath, possibly an assassin who used his need-driven behavior to “legally” kill — and get paid doing it.

Uzi hesitated.

“Trust me,” Claude said. “I’ll get the info we need.”

“No.” Fahad walked over to the nearby wall and picked up what looked like two tactical vests. “We’ll do it my way.” He handed one to Claude and carried the other to Yaseen.

“What are you doing?” Yaseen asked.

Fahad made a show of admiring the workmanship. “Nicely made. I see the pride you put into each one.” He held it up. “This is what you strapped to my nephew’s body? His fifteen-year-old body?”

Uh, not tactical vests. Suicide vests.

Yaseen did not respond.

Fahad unfurled the garment, slipped it behind Yaseen, and turned to DeSantos. “Cut his hands loose.”

DeSantos looked at Uzi — and Uzi nodded agreement. DeSantos sliced the flexcuffs, moved Yaseen’s hands through the vest’s cutaway shoulders, and re-secured his wrists. Yaseen winced away the pain of having his arm twisted.

They followed the same procedure for Aziz, but Fahad and DeSantos moved him to the opposite end of the cavernous room and set him down.

Vail hurried to Uzi’s side and whispered in his ear. “What the hell are they doing?”

“Fahad’s nephew, the suicide bomber? Qadir Yaseen recruited him, turned him into a jihadi. Yaseen’s the kind of guy you chase, Karen. A psychopath, a serial offender who uses religious extremism to get his kills.”

Vail considered this a moment. “Psychopaths need the connection to the kill. Giving someone a bomb to wear is too removed for their needs. It doesn’t fulfill the hunger. It’s like eating a chocolate bar that has no taste. It’s just not enjoyable.”

“I get that. But here’s the thing. He detonates the bombs remotely. His finger is literally on the trigger. And he watches.”

“Okay,” Vail said. “But what makes you think he’s a psychopath?”

“He’s got a vacant look in his eyes, the pupils are — I don’t know, strange. Cold, empty, pinpoints of darkness. He killed Mo’s nephew and has no remorse, no guilt. He’s dispassionate, coldhearted, has no empathy for the pain Mo feels.” He recounted the key points of their interrogation thus far.

Vail nodded. “You may be right. But there’s more to it than—”

“Does it really matter?” Claude asked.

Vail turned; she was not aware he had been listening in. In fact, we might have more than one psychopath in the room. “It could. In terms of determining the right way to question him.”

Claude looked past her shoulder at Yaseen. “He’s done talking. And so are we.”

“No we’re not.” She walked over to Yaseen and stopped a foot from his chair. “Give me some space.”

“No.” Fahad broadened his stance. “We gave him every chance to cooperate. Whatever happens now is his fault.”

Vail clenched her jaw. “Move. Aside.”

A moment passed. He finally yielded and backed away.

Vail tilted her head and observed their prisoner. He defiantly spit tooth fragments at her. She did not move. “When that bomb explodes, the ground shakes, smoke rises, body parts go flying. It’s quite an extraordinary moment for you, isn’t it?”

His right eye twitched.

“The fear, the pain on the faces of your victims. Their screams, their moans. Their shrieking when a limb is blown off. You’re aroused by it. Seeing your victims’ response to the pain you inflict … it’s exhilarating. Deeply exciting.”

Yaseen’s lips parted. She had his attention.

“When you press that button and watch your bomb explode …” She waited for that image to fill his thoughts. “When you hear the women and children wail and cry …” She leaned in close and whispered. “You’re sexually aroused. Aren’t you?”

His eyes, riveted to Vail’s, narrowed. His head tilted. “Yes.” Barely audible.

“You’re a sexual sadist, Yaseen. People are just objects to you. Things to be used, manipulated. You’ve got no emotional connection to them. Their agony, their suffering are inconsequential.”

He drew back and licked his lips.

She stood up straight. “You get off on risk taking and thrill seeking. And let’s face it. There’s no job on the planet that’s more dangerous than a bomb maker. You’ve obviously lost fingers from an explosion or two, and yet you keep on doing it. Because taking greater and greater risks excites you.”

Yaseen laughed, exposing a row of jagged front teeth. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“Karen,” Uzi said. She turned and headed back toward him, where Fahad and DeSantos were now standing with Claude.

“How does that help us?” Fahad asked.

“To determine the most effective way to question him, I had to find out if you were right. You are. And I can tell you that his psychopathy governs who he is. He’s not going to talk here, no matter what you guys do to him.”

“We’ll see about that.” Fahad stepped to his right and held up two remotes. “Do you know what these are?” He looked at Yaseen, then turned ninety degrees and showed them to Aziz. “I know you recognize them,” Fahad said to Yaseen, “since you built them.”

“So here’s how it’s going to work,” DeSantos said. “We’re gonna ask you again what we want to know. Whichever one of you gives us the answers gets to live. The other one will not.”

Vail nudged Uzi.

“Just a scare tactic,” Uzi said under his breath.

“It’s not gonna work.”

“Mo insisted on trying.”

“What targets have you selected for the US?” Fahad asked.

“Chicago,” Aziz said. “O’Hare.”

Yaseen jostled his chair, scraping it an inch along the cement. “Shut up, you idiot! They’re not going to kill us. Their Constitution prevents it. They have no proof of anything our lawyer can’t twist into a pretzel. We are in control, Tahir. Don’t let them fool you.”

“I’m going to give you one last chance, Yaseen,” Fahad said. “Tahir gave us some answers. Now it’s your turn.”

“I’ve been through worse than anything you can do to me, preparing for a day like this. I’m at peace with what must be done. I’ll be martyred. I’ll have my virgins. And my family will be well compensated.”

“Now what?” Uzi asked near DeSantos’s ear.

“Last chance,” Fahad said. He lifted the remote and turned it on, showed the red blinking light to Yaseen.

Uzi placed a hand on Vail’s shoulder. “I think Santa’s right. We should turn him over to Claude and have the Agency get him to Guantanamo to stand trial.”

Fahad began counting. “Five … four … three …”

“I’m fine with that,” Vail said. “Except how are we going to explain—”

A thundering blast blew debris into Vail, Uzi, DeSantos, Fahad, and Claude. Vail drew her Glock and swiveled on the balls of her feet, her ears ringing and her heart pounding in her head. What the hell happened?

She wasn’t sure if she said it aloud — and her hearing was so muffled that she would not have heard it if she had verbalized the thought. One thing was certain, however: the chair occupied by Yaseen was now an empty, twisted hunk of metal.

“You out of your mind?” DeSantos said. He had Fahad by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him backwards into the brick wall.

“Get the fuck off me.” He shoved DeSantos away and shrugged his coat into place. He faced Aziz, who was in shock. His mouth was agape, his eyes wide.

“Tell us what we want to know!” Fahad said. He was hyperventilating.

“Mo,” Uzi said. He waited till Fahad looked at him, then set his jaw and said slowly, “Dial it down.”

“I want answers!” He pointed at Aziz as he advanced on him. “Where are the attacks planned?”

“I told you,” Aziz said, recoiling, shrinking into himself. “Chicago.”

“Where else?”

“I–I don’t know.”

Vail wanted to intercede. But if there was a chance of getting Aziz to reveal the information, it was this very moment, when he believed that Fahad would press that button. Objecting, attempting to rein in Fahad, would undermine him, make him impotent. She only hoped he had not completely lost it. Fahad's brutal murder of Yaseen was unexpected, and yet it was not: one of the oldest motives in humanity’s long, bloody history was revenge. While their orders were to eliminate Yaseen, it was best done quietly, efficiently, without malice. And without leaving evidence behind.

Fahad stopped a safe distance from Aziz.

“Last chance. You saw what I did to Yaseen. Now it’s your turn. Five. Four—”

“Los Angeles, the defense contractors. We have someone on the inside.”

“Which one?” Vail asked. “Look at me, Tahir. Which one?”

He turned to face her. “I don’t know. One of the major ones.”

“Man? Woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about nukes?”

“We had plans. A dirty bomb. I told them no, it was crossing a line.”

“How were they going to do it? Where’d the nuclear material come from?”

“Iran, we got the material from Iran. We had two plans. We’d bring some in through South America. The drug cartel — Cortez — was going to take it from Mexico into the US, through their tunnels. The other way was through Canada. I don’t know which Sahmoud chose, or if he did both.”

“When?”

“Soon. I don’t know exactly.”

“And?” Vail asked. “You talked them out of it?”

Aziz hesitated.

“Answer her,” Fahad said firmly.

“I thought so. But Yaseen said he was told to expect the delivery. He was in charge of coordinating the movement of the material once it got into the US. Two cities were being discussed.”

“Which two?”

“Yaseen insisted on New York. Sahmoud and Dosari wanted Washington.”

Vail turned to the chair that once held Yaseen. It was now a pile of rubble, blood spatter, and, no doubt, flesh.

“We need to get out of here,” Uzi said. “The explosion. Police and fire will be here soon.”

“They won’t know where to look,” DeSantos said. “The building’s already condemned. The walls are intact. We’ve got another minute or two.” He swung toward Aziz. “Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, DC. Where else?”

“I can only tell you the places we discussed. Abu Sahmoud and Dosari, they’re the ones who make the final decision.”

“We know about New York,” Vail said. “When are the others going down?”

“Next week. That’s all I know.”

“Okay,” Uzi said, advancing on Aziz. “Claude, call your people and have them meet us somewhere to pick him up. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Then what?” Vail asked.

DeSantos and Uzi cut Aziz free of the chair. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

Vail lifted the lantern and toolbox; they had to get rid of any trace that could be tracked back to them. She noticed Fahad standing in the dark, staring ahead at the spot where Yaseen had been sitting.

“You okay?”

“I thought it would make me feel better.” He faced her. “Revenge. But you know what? It doesn’t change anything. Akil is still dead.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I know.”

60

Claude spent the entire drive on the phone, jabbering in French to several people. The first call, he explained, was to the man who had brought Vail and DeSantos to the abandoned building. They met him a mile south, passing two police cars that Vail surmised had been dispatched to the general area in response to what sounded like an explosion — even if no one could pinpoint its location.

The handoff went smoothly in the parking garage of a building that Claude identified as one that did not have security cameras. Uzi and DeSantos removed Aziz, blindfolded and bound, from the trunk and transferred him to the other vehicle and then both left the garage, thirty seconds after arrival, with no words spoken. Aziz apparently understood what was happening, as he did not resist. He was probably relieved to have survived being blown to bits and was accepting his legal fate in the hands of Americans — an infinitely better disposition than his colleague had received.

The second phone call, now that they were free of their prisoner’s ability to hear, was to a man who was to arrange safe passage out of France. After hanging up, Claude explained they would be leaving from Le Bourget Airport, about nine miles from downtown.

The plane was parked at a secluded gate and they were ushered to the tarmac in darkness. It was late and the airport was ready to close for the night, but they were able to file a flight plan and keep the control tower personnel dialed in until they went wheels up.

“Headed where?” Vail asked.

“Ben Gurion airport,” Uzi said. “You’ll like it. Very modern.”

I may like the airport. Not so sure about what will follow.

While en route, DeSantos called Knox to update him and tell him they were headed to Israel to secure the documents and apprehend Sahmoud. They talked in coded language to neutralize eavesdroppers, but DeSantos felt like he got the message through and Knox understood the major points.

Shortly after ending the call, Uzi’s phone rang. “It’s Prati.” He pushed the speaker button. “Tell me you’ve got good news, Richard.”

“You were spot on with that intel. The barge came through Canadian waters, right where you said. They offloaded onto a cabover van. We had a squad there but they couldn’t intercept because of the terrain. We’ve got surveillance teams in unmarked vehicles lined up along the interstate, passing the eye.”

Vail knew that “passing the eye” meant that a tailing law enforcement vehicle dropped off the suspect as another one, down the road, picked him up. It prevented the target from realizing he was being shadowed.

“We’ve identified a stretch of roadway,” Prati continued, “two hundred miles outside the city that’s thinly populated. It’s being evacuated right now and state troopers are getting ready to deploy a tire deflation device in front of the van.”

“What if there really is a nuclear device onboard?” DeSantos asked.

“There is,” Prati said. “We’ve got mobile sensors picking up higher than normal background radiation. Enough to raise the alarm.”

“And you still think blowing out the tires is the way to go?” Vail asked.

“Obviously there’s risk,” Prati said. “But we’ve been over it and that’s our best option.”

“We just got some other information,” Vail said, “about al Humat bringing in Iranian nuclear material through the Cortez tunnels.”

“When? Where?”

“All we know is Mexico. No idea when. Probably soon.”

“And,” DeSantos said, “they’ve apparently got an operative at a defense contractor in Los Angeles. Which one, we have no idea.”

“Does Knox or Bolten—”

“No one knows yet.”

“I’ll bring them up to speed,” Prati said. “We’ll check it all out.”

Ten minutes later they arrived at Le Bourget Airport. Claude led them to the tarmac and onto a set of self-deploying stairs that led to the hatch of the Boeing business jet.

They followed him inside — as Vail tried to keep her jaw from dropping open. It did anyway.

“A modified 737,” Claude said. “It’s got the range to take you where you need to go. Master bedroom, showers, dining area, living room.”

Four plush ivory leather seats were arranged around a polished walnut table opposite a matching couch that stretched half the length of the room.

Claude looked around, seemed satisfied, then shook DeSantos’s hand. “Bon voyage.”

They thanked him for his help and he left the cabin, heading back down the steps.

Despite her misgivings about him, Vail appreciated his dependability and assistance. Don’t ever let me find out that you’re a serial killer, Claude. Because then I’ll have to track you down and arrest you.

The captain left the cockpit and introduced himself. “I’ve filed a false flight plan that’ll use a specially outfitted transponder to make us appear to be traveling half our air speed and heading toward Germany. On the return flight I’ll pick up that flight plan and return here. No one will know where we really went.” He nodded at a satchel sitting on the table. “It’s all we could put together on short notice.”

DeSantos peered inside. Vail saw what looked like satellite phones — and money in Israeli notes — shekels.

“We’ll make do,” DeSantos said. “Thanks.”

“The phones have one special feature you should know about: RF fibers on a microchip. Pop the chip out and you’ve got a tracking device.”

“How long in the air?” Vail asked as she sat down on one of the plush leather seats.

“Five hours. There’s food, drink, beds, showers. My orders are to get you out of French airspace ASAP. We’ll be pushing back in two minutes.” He returned to the cockpit, where it looked like he was joined by a copilot — which Vail assumed was another Agency employee or contractor.

“I suggest we grab three hours of sleep,” DeSantos said, glancing at his watch. “Then we’ll meet back here for a mission briefing.”