The Lost Codex (44 page)

76

D
eSantos was huddled in an alley behind two cars and a dumpster. He pulled out his cell and called a friend of his who lived in Sderot, a town bordering Gaza that had borne the brunt of Hamas rocket fire—until those rockets became more powerful and were able to reach deep into major Israeli cities dozens of miles away.

The psychological trauma of living in a constant state of readiness, of having mere seconds to flee to a bomb shelter, of having your young children grow up playing in indoor schoolyards and “parks” because it was unsafe for them to be outside, was far-reaching and had damaged an entire generation.

DeSantos met Inbar Ramon during an op in Moscow in the 1990s. She had been working for Mossad as a
swallow
, a female sexpionage operative whose mission was to seduce a finance official to get a line on corruption payments that they surmised were finding their way to an Iranian proxy in Lebanon. Both Israel and the US Department of Defense had an interest in stopping the flow of money.

After the mission, Inbar and DeSantos had a brief romance that ended when he left Russia and she went back to Sderot. Two months later he met his wife Maggie. A year later Inbar got married.

After quickly dispensing with small talk, DeSantos explained that he was in Gaza and needed to get through the security barrier.

“You’re not serious.”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“Hector, what you ask … as you can probably guess, the border is very tightly monitored, for obvious reasons. Where are you?”

“I saw a sign for Sheikh Za’id. Know where that is?”

“Let me see what I can do. I know someone at the Erez border crossing. You’re a few miles away. I’ll text you directions. What name are you using?”

“DeSantos. Mossad knows I’m here, no point in trying to use a cover.”

“While waiting to hear from me, make your way over to the border. Call you back in ten.”

UZI HAD HITCHHIKED to within two miles of the Erez crossing. The youth who had given him the ride—for twenty shekels—made small talk with his passenger when the young man touched on the news that Kadir Abu Sahmoud had been found murdered.

Uzi had figured they would drive through the checkpoint after their operation. But news of Sahmoud’s demise traveled faster than he had anticipated and touched off what he expected to be a severely escalated alert level among both Palestinian and Israeli forces. He imagined that Israel was denying a role in the murder—or at the very least was refusing to comment, as Israelis often did, regardless of whether or not they were involved.

At times like these, with the border locked down tighter than usual, each individual was highly scrutinized. But he did not see an option.

He was a quarter of a mile away when five masked men approached, armed with submachine guns. “What are you doing here?” one yelled at him in Arabic.

“Headed to the crossing. I have to visit my father in Nablus. He’s ill.”

“Past curfew. They won’t let you through.”

“I know,” Uzi said, “I need to try.”

“What’s in there?” the taller militant asked, nodding at the tube.

“Some blueprints of a house I designed for my boss. I wanted to show my dad. He’s a retired architect.”

“Bullshit,” the man in front said. “Get down on the ground.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Because Kadir Abu Sahmoud was killed. Because there’s a curfew. Because you look suspicious walking around out here in the rain. And we’re searching everyone.”

As a general rule it was smart to submit to law enforcement when you were told to do so. But these men were not law enforcement—and Uzi was not in an area where the rule of law was respected.

“Okay,” he said.

They were not well trained, as they had approached him casually, overly confident, cocky, and ill prepared to take action. Their weapons were not in a position of readiness and they did not have good spacing. Two were stacked behind their colleagues.

They stood only about fifteen feet away, but with the poor illumination and their ski masks on it was impossible to tell how old they were.

“Get down now!”

Even with a balky knee, Uzi was still plenty fast. Could he outrun them before they got their submachine guns into firing position?

Uzi slowly crouched down while shielding his right hand from the men. He pulled his Glock and started firing. He hit two—but because of the way they were closely aligned, his shots were more efficient, and three of the militants hit the pavement.

He turned and ran, the roll tucked under his left arm as he put the trunks of nearby palm trees between him and the pursuing tangos. He had gotten about thirty yards when he felt the burn of a gunshot wound sting his arm. He recoiled and dropped the tube. Rounds struck the pavement at his feet and a metal pole near his head, so he ducked and spun around and began running a zigzag route, his Timberlands slapping puddles and mud as he passed the Erez Industrial Park ruins.

Ahead was the caged screening corridor, a three hundred yard cement-walled passageway featuring a blue and white sign that read, “Welcome to Erez Crossing” written in Hebrew, English, and Arabic, along with the following warning—in Arabic only:
Continuing with violence results in the withholding of ease of access and luxury for the people.

The border control pavilion was a secure facility that consisted of passageways, gates, turnstiles, doors, high-tech body scanners, and identity checks. The army and Israel police monitored each phase remotely behind blast proof concrete-and-glass enclosures.

Uzi knew that for security reasons, there were no direct human contacts with Israeli personnel until the very end. And there were delays at each phase of the crossing. As a result, if his pursuers followed him into the complex, he would be leaving it in a pine box.

He ran into the corridor made of tall concrete blast walls. Behind him he heard the footfalls of at least two men. Then, shouting in Arabic for him to stop. Were they serious?

About a hundred yards ahead he saw the remote-controlled turnstile bounded by a tall chain-link fence. He started flapping his uninjured arm, gesticulating, turning and pointing behind him as he continued toward the gate. He knew the police were watching through surveillance cameras. The only question was, were they paying attention? And if so, would they get there in time?

If he drew his Glock, there was no way the police would approach him. He hoped they also saw the al Humat men pursuing him and understood that he was the good guy in this scenario.

The area was brightly illuminated, though another thirty yards later a spotlight hit him in the face and a blaring klaxon sounded. Several police officers in blue uniforms came through a thick metal door, clad in tactical vests and helmets.

“Stop! Get down,” they yelled in Arabic.

Uzi stumbled to a jog, then pulled up and dropped to his knees. “I’m American,” he said as they surrounded him. “Being pursued by two or three armed al Humat—”

“Check it,” the lead officer said. Four of the men headed down the corridor the way Uzi had come. The cop then pulled his two-way and barked orders in Hebrew. He lowered his radio and knelt in front of Uzi. “What are you doing in Gaza?”

“I have an appointment with Director General Aksel.”

The man shared a glance with one of his underlings as if to say, “Did I just hear right?”

“We need to search you,” one of the others said. “Don’t move.”

Uzi glanced up and saw the three-bar insignia on the senior officer’s shoulder: a sergeant major. Peretz, by his nametag.

“You’ll find a Glock and a Tanto,” Uzi said, “and a satphone and a Lumia.”

“Call it in,” Peretz said to one of his men. “And get a medic over here.”

The cops emptied the pockets of his 5.11s and backed away from their detainee, showing Peretz the cache—which was exactly as Uzi had described—except his satphone’s screen was shattered and his Lumia was missing.

“Get up,” Peretz said. “Name?”

Uzi got to his feet. “Aaron Uziel.”

Peretz pulled an Israeli bandage from the backpack of one of his men and began applying the compression dressing to Uzi’s arm. “Mind telling us what you were doing in Gaza? And why you have an appointment with the director general of Mossad? You’re no ordinary American.”

Uzi chuckled. “Trust me, Sergeant Major. You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

Peretz frowned. “Actually, if your friend is Hector DeSantos, I might, in fact, believe you.”

VAIL ARRIVED AT THE LOCATION of the tunnel entrance. But the sky was now completely black save for a sliver of moonlight that was fighting to be seen through the otherwise dense cloud cover.

There was barely enough illumination to keep her from stepping in a hole as she navigated the hard, rocky soil.

With the satphone in her left hand and the Glock in her right, she stumbled her way to the coordinates. She hoped no one engaged her, because staring at the backlit screen destroyed her night vision. If someone approached she would not be able to see him.

After five minutes of searching—and the phone losing its satellite signal, then regaining it—she stopped at a rock outcropping, where the tunnel’s mouth was supposedly located.
You’ve gotta be kidding. It better be here.

She turned on her Samsung’s flashlight and found the entrance behind a large boulder. Then it hit her: she was headed underground into a tunnel. How long it was, how tight it would be, she had no idea.

Claustrophobia or not, she had no choice but to push forward. Safety resided on the other side of the border.

She wrapped her left arm around the tube and looked into the abyss: there was a metal ladder bolted to the wall that led straight down, perhaps thirty feet.
Holy shit.

Vail took a deep breath and started descending, one rung at a time. As she neared the bottom, her right foot slipped on the next to last step and she hit the ground hard. A jolt of pain shot through both ankles.

Shake it off. Keep going.

She held up the flashlight. Ahead of her the tunnel stretched as far as she could see, with a bend near the end.
Was
it the end, or merely a turn?

Standing there and debating it was fruitless. Vail turned off the satphone to conserve the battery—there was no reception down here—and trudged forward, keeping the light in front of her. There was electrical conduit mounted along the left wall and bare bulbs every thirty feet or so. But she did not see a switch.

The spherical tunnel was constructed of formed concrete bunker-style sections and stood about six feet across at its widest point and about six feet tall at its apex. At five foot seven, as long as Vail remained in the center, she would be able to stand straight.

Another hundred yards—and she heard a noise. She stopped, painted the area with her flashlight. Nothing.

She reached for her Glock—but it was gone.
Shit
.
Shit!

Vail spun around and peered into the darkness behind her.
Might’ve fallen when I fell off the ladder. Go back? No. Could’ve also dropped it up top. I may never find it. It’d totally suck if I got captured looking for my gun.

As it was, she did not expect to find anyone else down here. And once she reached the end, she would no longer need it.

Vail rested her palm on the handle of her Tanto and continued forward. She kicked something made of glass and it bounced repeatedly ahead of her, ultimately striking the concrete wall.

Her heart, already beating hard, felt like it skipped a beat. Perspiration blanketed her body and she felt clammy. Between the anxiety of claustrophobia and the stress of not knowing what lie ahead in the darkness, she would not be surprised if she had a coronary.

Stop it, Karen. Nothing’s lurking in the darkness and you’re not gonna have a heart attack.

Vail reached the bend but was dismayed to see that it continued on. That, however, was not the problem. The road forked—and the two options led in opposite directions.

She stood there trying to reason it through based on which direction she was headed on the surface and where the satphone image had indicated Israel was located. It was a nearly impossible equation because she did not know which direction she had been walking when she entered the tunnel.

Vail turned left to see if there was any indication as to which way she needed to go. But as she took a step forward someone grabbed her from behind.

77

T
he man’s forearm was locked across her neck, cutting off the blood flow to her brain. She would lose consciousness in a matter of seconds.

His other arm was around her torso, pinning her limbs to her body. Vail dropped her phone and the tube and tried to raise her arms up—but she could not pry them loose.

As he dragged her backward she dug her heels into the dirt, hoping to throw him off balance. But he maintained his center of gravity.

The darkness was disorienting, the only light coming from her cell lying somewhere on the ground. And even that was fading as he squeezed harder and she started to lose consciousness.

Using her legs, she pushed herself side to side—and drove them both into the concrete wall. His grip loosened, enough for her to get some oxygen, enough to free a hand.

She reached back to grab him—and felt cold metal.
A gun!
She got her fingers on it and pulled, but he jerked her back and it went flying somewhere into the darkness.

Fuck
. She swung her left foot out, hoping to kick the weapon away to prevent him from getting to it. She hit it once but could not tell if it traveled any distance.

He jerked her hard to the right—and she was able to reach down low enough to touch the handle of her Tanto.

But he rocked her back the other way and then yanked her toward him, arching her spine and regaining control over her free hand.

Her head struck the ceiling of the tunnel and her fingers slipped off the knife’s grip.

He shouted something in Arabic and she screamed something in English.

She began rocking on the balls of her feet, bucking left and right—and again his grip weakened enough for her to pull a hand from his grasp. She grabbed the Tanto and jerked it from its sheath, then fought to draw her forearm forward.

He pulled. She pushed.

She yelled long and loud to summon her strength—and then slammed her heel onto the top of his foot.

He recoiled and she drew the blade back hard, toward his body. And stabbed him in the thigh.

He screamed.

Now there’s a language I understand
—

She jabbed at his body again and again, blindly using him as a pin cushion. But none of the thrusts were deep enough to do life-threatening damage.

He tugged back on her neck, compressing her larynx, but she kept stabbing, hoping the pain would eventually force him to try to get the knife away from her—which meant he would have to loosen his grip on her throat. And once he did that he would no longer have control.

A few seconds, that’s all she needed.

She continued thrusting and he continued yelping—until Vail got the window she was waiting for. He reached for her arm and grabbed her wrist, but she had already transferred the knife to her other hand.

Vail twisted out of his grip, spun, and started slashing, left, right, left, as if the Tanto were a sword and she were a swashbuckler. She struck something soft, but in the darkness it was hard to know if she did any damage.

She couldn’t blindly thrust because if he got hold of her arm, he could take the knife from her. And then he would surely make her pay for treating him like a cooked Thanksgiving turkey.

Get away from him!

Vail backed down the tunnel, running the palm of her left hand along the wall to give her some bearing.

She stopped suddenly and listened, doing her best to slow her respiration, to keep noise at a minimum. She could no longer see the light from her phone but she could hear the tango breathing loudly.

Let him come for you.

Vail stood there, back flat against the cement. One minute. Two.

She slowly reached into her pocket and rooted out her spare magazine. She tossed it away, about ten feet to her right, hoping to hit the wall. It did—and seconds later he advanced.

Vail waited a beat, then stuck out her leg and he ran right into it, then struck the ground with a thud. She pounced on his back and jabbed the Tanto into his neck, then grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. A final slice across the front of his throat and all movement stopped.

She slid off his body and fell onto her side, her heart thudding, her hands shaking. Hyperventilating.

VAIL PUSHED HERSELF UP and stumbled away, slamming her back into the wall and her head into the curved ceiling.

Focus, Karen. Calm down.

She took some deep breaths, slowed her pulse, then licked her lips and pushed forward, back the way she had come, hoping to find the pistol she had dislodged—and the tube Uzi had given her. A couple of minutes later she had both in hand.

She chambered a round and sheathed the Tanto.

Continuing a few paces farther, she came upon the fork in the tunnel—which she recognized only because of the slight breeze she felt coming from the other shaft she had taken from the surface. She felt around—hoping to find something that the tango had—a drawing, a diagram of some sort—that could show her the way out of here, one that would take her into Israel.

Wait, the booklet I found at Sahmoud’s.

She reached back—and it was still there, wedged into her waistband.

If only I could see it.

Then she remembered the satphone. Its screen should throw off enough of a glow to read the map.

She powered it up and held it over the page, traced her tunnel with a finger and determined she needed to take the path where the dead militant lay. She moved forward and found her Samsung and reactivated the flashlight.

As she gave a final sweep of the area, she saw what appeared to be a cot against the wall along the other corridor. She jogged over and took a quick look: the tango had been sleeping down here. Why? To guard what? She moved a bit farther in and saw wood crates stacked along the wall with Arabic writing on them. She pulled one down and used her Tanto to pry off the top. Grenades, assault and sniper rifles were nestled among Styrofoam popcorn bits. She thought of taking one of the rifles with her, but the ammo must have been in a different box.

She headed down the tunnel, stepped past the bloody al Humat militant, and continued on. If the map was to scale, she had another ten minutes of brisk walking to reach the exit.

When she climbed the ladder to the surface, she found a metal covering and a fair amount of brush obscuring its opening. Upon emerging, she dropped to her knees and breathed in the fresh, damp air. While crouched there, at the edge of what looked like farmland, a light drizzle prickled her cheeks.

Seconds later two headlights struck her face. She shielded her eyes and got to her feet. The driver pulled up alongside her and rolled down the window.

“I need some help. Do you speak English?”

“Of course I speak English.” He squinted, leaned closer and said, “You’re bleeding!” He got out of the car and came around to walk her over to the passenger seat.

“I’m fine, it’s not my blood. I got into a fight with an al Humat soldier.”

“Al Humat? Where?”

“In a tunnel. There’s an opening a few feet from where you found me. They’ve got a cache of weapons down there.”

The man pulled out his phone, made a call and jabbered Hebrew at someone on the other end. He hung up, then thanked her for the information.

“During the war, they came out of the tunnels, attacked the kibbutzim—our communities—then disappeared back inside.”

“I heard.”

“I have to ask. What were you doing down there?”

“You don’t have to ask and you don’t really want to know.”

He looked her over, his eyes resting on her blood-soaked shirt. “What can I do for you? To repay the favor.”

“I need a ride to the Israel Museum.”

His brow rose. “In Jerusalem?”

Vail tilted her head.

“Okay, okay. It’ll take us a bit. You need something to eat? Drink?”

“No time. Just get me there as soon as possible.”

He laughed. “You know how Israelis drive?”

“Not a clue.”

“Crazy. Fast. Hang on.” He accelerated hard and Vail was slammed back into the seat.