The Lost Codex (8 page)

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

“Not getting killed?” Vail said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DeSantos’s phone rumbled again.

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

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

“I can see why you’re—”

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

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

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

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

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

DeSantos’s right eye twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

11

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

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

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

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

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

Knox did not reply, but he nodded at DeSantos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Casualties?” Vail asked.

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

Uzi, Vail, and DeSantos started for the door.

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

12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was not Ghazal.

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

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

Not so fast, asshole
.

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

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

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

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

But is he wired with explosives?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text from Robby.

bombing at metro center


She wrote back:

i know i am there


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

so is jonathan


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

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

She typed back:

where is he


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

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


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

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

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

Jonathan.

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

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

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

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

VAIL EMERGED FROM THE METRO where she, Uzi, and DeSantos had entered before they split up. She saw Uzi standing near his Tahoe, phone pressed against his ear.

She brought her prisoner to him and said, “Ghazal. Hang onto him. I gotta go look into something. Give me a few minutes.”

Uzi’s brow rose and he shifted his phone to take custody of the handcuffed man. “Hoshi, we’ve got Ghazal. Call you back.”

Vail headed for the police barrier Jonathan had mentioned—and then saw him beside a Metro officer, chatting him up. To his credit, the cop was doing his best to maintain crowd control while keeping Jonathan engaged.

“Sweetie,” she said as she hugged him. “When I got Robby’s text …” She pushed away and held him at arm’s length. “I was so worried.”

“We were just coming into the station when I felt the car shake. It was like an earthquake or something. It kind of jumped off the tracks but we weren’t going very fast. They finally got the doors open and we evacuated.”

She hugged him again.

“What happened? What caused the explosion?”

“Can’t say. But since
I’m
here with Uzi and Hector DeSantos …” She winked. “Figure it out.”

His jaw went slack. Before he could ask any more questions, she said, “You going back to class?”

“I—I guess so. Unless they cancel it.”
Which they’d definitely do once they figure out what’s going on
.

An ambulance screamed down F Street and stopped a few feet ahead of a fire engine.

Jonathan turned to her. “Is there—is there anything I should do? Anywhere I should go? Anywhere I should avoid?”

She wished she had something to tell him. But that was the point with these types of terror attacks: there were no safe places. All she could come up with was, “Avoid crowded, popular areas.”

He scrunched his face. “You serious? In DC? How am I supp—”

“I don’t know. I—I’m working on it.”

Vail gave him a peck on the cheek, then headed back toward Uzi while jotting off a quick text to Robby letting him know she saw Jonathan and that he was safe. As safe as one can be with suicide bombers setting off explosives around town.

“Nice work,” Uzi said as she got into the SUV. Ghazal was in the backseat, flexcuffs securing his ankles together and his wrists to the door.

“Where we going?”

Uzi turned over the engine. “To get some answers.”

THEY PULLED INTO THE UNDISCLOSED LOCATION that, according to Uzi, was known only to a handful of operatives—and until sixty minutes ago, that exclusive list did not even include himself.

They had injected Ghazal with a mild sedative supplied by Rodman on the side of the road, just outside the district. They blindfolded their prisoner, then with Rodman seated beside him, they drove an hour into a sparsely populated area of Spotsylvania County. During the ride, Vail had an opportunity to read through a dossier Knox and Tasset had assembled on Ghazal and Aziz. It was incomplete, but she hoped it would be helpful.

From the exterior, the building was a nondescript, cheaply constructed tilt-up warehouse with a loading dock in the rear and a faded black-and-white aluminum sign that read, Newman Industries. Uzi pulled the SUV into the parking lot, which was well shielded by hedges, shrubs, and trees.

Inside, however, after passing through a solid steel door, the structure was a highly secured lockdown facility.

Uzi, Vail, and Rodman led their prisoner along a cinderblock lined corridor. DeSantos was waiting at the end, arms folded across his chest.

“I don’t like the road we’re headed down,” Vail said. “Been there. Done that. Didn’t enjoy it.”

They handed off Ghazal to two stocky men in jeans and sweatshirts, who took him inside an adjacent room.

“What happened in London was extraordinary because of the circumstances,” DeSantos said. “We’re on US soil here. This is going to be an interrogation, but it’s going to be clean.”

Vail knew that “clean” was a relative term; she took it to mean that they would only use standard interrogation methods, nothing that would cross the line. That said, with the known threat of imminent attacks hanging over the country, just how aggressive they got depended on how close DeSantos felt they were to the information—and if he felt Ghazal was holding back. She and Uzi were bound by procedure and law. DeSantos was not.

Vail and Uzi walked into the room, where DeSantos had already gotten started. Rodman remained outside to observe.

Their prisoner was seated at a stainless steel table that was bolted to the cement floor, Ghazal’s wrists secured to a thick ring in the center of the sparse, metal surface. Two rather conspicuous cameras were mounted on the walls.

“There’s no point in denying involvement here,” DeSantos was saying as they entered. “We saw you at the safe house. We’ve got your fingerprints there.”

“You know nothing,” he said in heavily accented English.

DeSantos laughed. “That’s why we’re sitting here in this room. Because there are things we don’t know. Things we want to know.”

“There’s also a lot we
do
know,” Vail said. “We know about Sahmoud. We’ve talked to him.”

Ghazal’s eyes narrowed. That was apparently news to him. Good; keep him guessing. Throwing him off balance increased his unease, made him less sure of himself.

Uzi stepped in front of the table. “Look, asshole. We’re not interested in wasting time. Tell us where and when the next attack is gonna be.”

Ghazal seemed to consider that for a moment. “I don’t know. That’s the truth. Sahmoud and—we’re given orders two hours in advance. We do what we’re told.”

“We know you’re one of the planners,” DeSantos said. “So cut the bullshit of being out of the loop.”

“I plan, yes. But they decide when it’s gonna be. I always plan for a lot of targets but
they
choose which ones.”

“Who else is working with Sahmoud?” Uzi asked.

“No one.”

“Bullshit. Who is it?”

“If Sahmoud wants you to know, you’ll know. You’re not going to get that from me. I don’t care what you do to me; this is not something I will tell.”