The Lost Codex (5 page)

5

L
ucas Dempsey sat in the back of the black town car, its gray leather soft and pliant against his hand. The thick soundproof glass separating the rear and front seats had a slight green tint, but was otherwise unobtrusive. He glanced down and checked his watch and awaited the arrival of Frederic Prideux.

Like Dempsey, the name Prideux was chosen at random off an online directory of a company’s board of directors. It was a nice irony, but in truth he selected Dempsey because it gave the impression of a fighter. And he liked to think of himself in that light.

While his contact knew his true identity, it was safer to use aliases in conversation so the prying ears of the NSA or FBI could not make an easy identification.

But if they were smart, and careful, they would not arouse suspicion.

Prideux approached the vehicle—and was frisked a dozen feet away by Dempsey’s personnel before being cleared to approach.

The back door opened and Prideux sat down heavily.

Dempsey, staring straight ahead, said, “What the hell are you people doing?”

Prideux, a slight man whose English was well practiced and near-flawless, tilted his head. “We’re doing what’s necessary.”

“You’re working against me. That’s not the arrangement. And it’s counterproductive, to say the least.”

“You move too slowly. And you’re restricted in what you can do and when you can do it.”

Dempsey laughed—not out of humor but because of his “partner’s” audacity.

“Did you or did you not tell me there are limits to what you can do?”

“At times, yes. But we have a plan and we’re executing according to that plan. Setting up sleeper cells in DC? Are you out of your mind?”

Prideux snorted. “We’re quite sane, I assure you. There is a method to what you perceive as madness.”

“Perceive?
Perceive
? Federal agents raided your cell, found bomb-making components and goddamn it, your man blew himself up in the middle of the city!”

“Yes, well, that was unfortunate. But …” He shrugged. “So what? We have others that will gladly take his place.”

“I’m not worried about losing a man. Or two, or three. I’m worried about the FBI getting close. If they figure out—”

“No, no, no,” Prideux said slowly, shaking his head. Calm, cool. “There is no risk here. Remember, we have a man on the inside.” He smiled broadly. “Don’t we, now?”

Dempsey turned away. He did not feel like the fighter he pretended to be. He felt controlled—when the opposite should have been the case.

“You’re moving too slowly,” Prideux said. “It’s been two years.”

“I’m laying the groundwork. It takes time. We discussed this. There are a lot of considerations.” He faced Prideux. “You just have to trust me.”

“Trust is not the issue. We do trust you. But we want results.”

“And I said I’d deliver. I didn’t say when because I couldn’t. Things are fluid.”

“Yes, things are fluid. And that’s why we decided to take a more active role.”

“A lot of good that did. Your bomb-making factory and safe house are gone.”

Prideux turned his entire torso and leaned against the door, facing Dempsey. “Lucas, my friend, do you really think we would go into a war with only one weapon?” He smiled—deviously.

Dempsey was certain the man was studying him, reading his expression. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re well prepared. I mean we know what we’re doing. I mean that you should not worry about us, about our end of things. We have it all under control. Let the FBI think they’ve scored a major victory.”

“You’re just making it more difficult. Give me time to sort this out. Let things settle down. Let the media find something else to cover.”

Prideux frowned and turned to look out the rear window.

“I thought you people take the long view, the long war. Decades, centuries.”

“I don’t subscribe to that model. I’m an impatient man. I’m selfish. I want to see this to fruition. I want to taste the olives of my labor.”

“You will. But don’t fight me.”

Prideux laughed. “And why not? We fight everyone else. And we win too. Look at Europe, Lucas. Look at what we’re doing. We are taking over. Some may think it’s a slow process, but it’s happening very quickly. In twenty-five, thirty years Belgium will be ours. Brussels, the headquarters of the European Union and NATO, will be under Sharia law.

“Allah will be the judge and jury of what’s permitted and what isn’t. There and in the major European cities—Antwerp, Amsterdam, Rotterdam. And my home country, France. It’s all going to be under Sharia law very soon.”

“Twenty-five years is not soon. Things can happen that derail your plans.” Dempsey knew it was a weak shot, a punch without any muscle behind it. Because he knew Prideux was right.

“This is different. We control the process so I can wait. Twenty-five years? Just a matter of time now. Nothing anyone can do to stop it.” Prideux chuckled. “Unless non-Muslims start having six kids per couple—which is not going to happen. We will out-reproduce them. We will outnumber them. We will then out-vote them—and vote them out.”

“And what is that going to get you?”

“It’ll get us Europe. And then we’ll move on from there. North America? South America? Maybe both at the same time? Eventually it’ll be everything. That is our goal, Lucas. Not just an Islamic state. An Islamic
world
.”

Dempsey wondered what he had gotten himself into. Then again, was there really a choice?

“It’s all so very simple, Lucas, but they are fools. They don’t see what’s going on right in front of them, all around them. We even
tell
them what we’re going to do. It’s not a secret. And still they don’t see it! We say it on TV, in interviews, in our mosques, they debate it in their government offices. Their own Members of Parliament warn of it. And still they let it happen. Religious tolerance, the political correctness of this generation only makes it easier, faster.” His left eye narrowed. “They have let it happen. Willingly. None of those countries deserve to survive as a nation, as a culture. And they won’t.”

Dempsey cleared his throat. He felt a sense of anxiety, as if he were Dr. Frankenstein … and the monster had just awoken and was about to leave the nest.

Prideux clapped a bony hand on Dempsey’s thigh. “Thank you for your time, Lucas. We’ll be in touch.” He winked, then popped open the door and got out.

6

U
zi set his leather satchel on his desk at the FBI’s Washington field office, then headed over to check in with a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, Special Agent Hoshi Koh.

Hoshi’s desk was a hodge-podge of files, notes, and a variety of tech gadgets: her smartphone, a tablet, a Bluetooth headset, and an external battery pack.

“I’m impressed,” Uzi said, taking inventory of the devices.

Hoshi tilted her head and examined his face. “You look tired.”

“Late night.”

“Another hot date?”

“Not exactly.” He stifled a yawn. “Who says hot date anymore?”

“Obviously I do.”

“Hey, where do we stand with that wild and crazy theory of Hezbollah collaborating with the Cortez cartel?”

“Soon as I got your email this morning I checked in with DEA. They’re running a new informant in San Diego that’s shown promise.”

“When are we expecting to hear?”

“They’re going to get back to us. Any day.” Hoshi slipped her glasses on. “Oh—Shepard wants to see you.”

Uzi walked into his ASAC’s office a minute later. Marshall Shepard leaned his large frame backward in his chair, making the springs creak loudly. “’Bout time you brought your ugly ass into my office. Left that message with Koh an hour ago.” He yanked off his glasses. “Take a seat, man. You look tired.”

“Jeez, between you and Hoshi, a guy can’t have a bad night.”

“You hear about that explosion on Irving Street, near 14th? They’re calling it a gas main, but I’m not buying it. I called Metro and they said they had no complaint on file. I ran it up the line and the brass wouldn’t even take my call, like they were dodging me. You know what I’m sayin’?”

Uzi tried to maintain a neutral expression. “Yeah.”

“I want you to look into it. Quietly.”

“Quietly, Shep?”

“Yeah, just you and—well, maybe Koh. That’s it. Let’s find out if there’s something fishy going on. I don’t know, maybe I’ve seen too much. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I see the CIA’s hands in this.”

“Really.” Uzi grabbed a toothpick from the cup on the desk. “Can’t it just be a gas main explosion? They do happen.”

Shepard scrunched his dark skin into an animated frown. “I am talking with Aaron Uziel, right? After all that shit that went down with the Armed Revolution Militia, you really think some suspicious shit can’t be going down that they’re keeping from us?”

Shepard was referring to a case a couple of years ago involving domestic terror attacks aimed at bringing down the US government.

Shepard’s desk phone rang. He listened a moment, then said, “Yeah, put him through.” He glanced at Uzi and said, “I need to take this, can you—” Before he could finish, the line connected. “Yes sir. This is Shepard.”

Uzi rose from his chair to give his ASAC some privacy. But Shepard suddenly rapped his knuckles on the wood desk. Uzi stopped and turned.

“Can you give me details on—” Shepard sat up in his chair. “No, no, of course. I’ll make him available. Whatever you need.” He hung up the phone and glowered at Uzi.

“What?” Uzi asked. “Who was that?”

“You know damn well who that was. I thought you were my friend.”

Uzi took his seat again. “I am, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

Shepard grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “You’re going to be working a project for the director. And you didn’t see fit to inform me?”

“Oh, that.” Uzi unwrapped the toothpick and placed it in his mouth. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It puts me in an awkward position, given our relationship.”

“Which relationship are you referring to?” Shepard asked, his eyebrows raised. “That I’m your boss or that I’m your friend?”

“Both.” Uzi started rolling the cellophane wrapper between his fingers. “C’mon, Shep, we’ve been through this before.”

Shepard shook his head. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be working on?”

“Can’t.”

Shepard leaned forward, his gaze boring into Uzi’s. “This have anything to do with that explosion last night?”

Uzi did not reply—but he did not need to. Shepard was a sharp guy and he knew Uzi very well. A slight twitch in his eye, a dilated pupil—it didn’t take much—and Shepard would know the answer.

Shepard slapped the table with a large, thick hand. His brass FBI paperweight jumped. “Knew it.”

“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself. I have a feeling you’re going to be brought into this sooner rather than later. I tried to convince—actually, I’d better shut my mouth.”

Shepard twisted his full lips, then nodded slowly. “Fine. Go play spy. Or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Keep me posted.”

“I can’t—”

“Yeah,” Shepard said with a dismissive wave of his right hand. “Whatever. Get your ass outta here.”

7

Operations Support Intelligence Group

The Pentagon

Arlington, Virginia

V
ail was led through the Pentagon’s river entrance and down a nondescript corridor to a single elevator door. She was instructed to place her hand over a glass plate and a yellow light ran beneath it. The car arrived seconds later. Her escort dipped his security card, pressed the B button, and said, “Someone will meet you downstairs. You can take it from here.”

Gee, you think?
“Thanks.”

The elevator doors slid apart and revealed a uniformed officer who was tall and broad, with calloused hands and a wind-weathered face. “This way.”

He brought her down a tiled corridor to a room at the end of the hall. She saw another panel beside the door and did not need to be told what to do. She placed her palm on it and waited for the sensor to scan her print. The electronic lock buzzed and the man turned and left her, headed back the way they had come.

Inside, she felt like she had walked into a gamer’s paradise: wall to wall flat screens, all displaying satellite or real time surveillance images from around the world. A constant flow of cool air swirled around her ankles, keeping the tech equipment well ventilated.

People milled about the large, high-ceilinged room, which was dimly lit and had personnel seated at workstations along the periphery, headsets on and monitors perched at eye level on articulating metal arms.

Uzi and DeSantos were across the way, in a separate glass-walled room that featured an oval conference table. When she walked in, they were talking with Troy Rodman, who was larger than the guy who had led her down the corridor and a shade darker than the rosewood surface peeking through the sheaf of papers scattered across it.

“Agent Rodman,” Vail said. “Good to see you again.” The last time their paths crossed they were in the back of a van in the outskirts of London, in deep trouble with the British authorities.

“Troy. Or Hot Rod. We’re a team. Takes too damn long to communicate when we’re on a mission if we’re saying Agent this, Agent that.”

“Got it.” She gestured to the papers. “What are you working on?”

“Compiled a list,” Uzi said, “of most likely groups to have the will, wherewithal, and balls to put together an operation like this.”

“The balls?”

“Not many have the guts to attack the United States—because we
are
gonna find out who did the deed, sooner or later. And then they’re gonna pay for it. A select few are willing to take it on the chin in exchange for the points they score in the initial strikes. It buys them a higher profile, makes recruitment easier.”

“It also requires patience,” DeSantos added, “and coordination—to gather and purchase the materials, bring in the people with the skill set to build these explosives. Not all of them have the resources and network to make this happen.”

“What about Ekrem’s intel?” Vail asked.

Uzi grabbed a handful of almonds from a bowl to his right and popped one in his mouth. “We didn’t want to get myopic by focusing on what he gave us—especially because we’ve got no idea if all, or some, or none of his info’s legit.”

DeSantos pulled a sheet from among the papers containing a scribble of handwritten names and handed it to Vail. She read: al Humat, al Shabaab, al Qaeda, al Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, East Turkestan Islamic Movement, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, ISIL/Islamic State, Islamic Jihad of Yemen— “Lists like this are okay, but we can make ourselves nuts looking at every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”

DeSantos snorted. “More like Abdul, Mohammed, and Akbar.”

Vail gave him a look that said, “I’m not in the mood.” “Point is, we have to focus on the most likely groups.”

“Like I said, that
is
the list of most likely groups.”

Oh. Lovely.
“Look, I know you have doubts about this Ekrem guy, but maybe it makes sense to start there and see if we can eliminate Hamas and al Humat. Then we can move on to the rest on this list.”

Uzi nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

A trim and curvy woman in khakis with long brunette hair approached with a Bluetooth headset protruding from her ear. “Hector, I’ve got something you should hear.”

DeSantos introduced her as Alexandra “Alex” Rusakov. “On this case?”

“Yeah, NSA sent it over, priority one. They normally don’t get to intercepted communications this fast, but because of the potential for impending attacks it was elevated and they—”

“Audio or video?” Uzi asked.

“Audio,” Rusakov said.

Vail set down the list. “Let’s hear it.”

“It’s in Arabic. But I’ve got a translation.” She handed over a printed page.

“I’d like to hear the original recording,” Uzi said.

“Channel five,” Rusakov said as she reached over to the nearest panel and pressed a few keys.

Uzi slipped on a set of headphones and listened as the others consulted the translation.

“What are we reading here?” Vail asked.

“NSA intercepted a cell call from an area in southwest DC to Gaza. They couldn’t triangulate because it didn’t last long enough. The rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

DC UNSUB: Can’t reach four of our men. Don’t know what’s going on. Someone posted something on Facebook about an explosion on Irving Street. That was where Habib was working. Couldn’t reach him so I called Wahi. He didn’t know anything about it so he called Habib and he answered. Habib said the explosion was close but he was fine. Wahi told him to come to the safe house, but he never made it and I haven’t been able to reach him. I haven’t heard from Osman or Tahir either, so I don’t know what’s up with them.

Gaza UNSUB: We’ll look into it. If there was a problem, they’ll go off the grid, keep quiet until they think it’s safe to contact us. Everything may be okay, but stay indoors until I contact you. Allahu Akbar.

DC UNSUB: Allahu Akbar.

Vail set the paper on the conference table. “No question the guy in DC is one of our offenders.” She turned toward Rusakov, two workstations to her left, and said, “Can the NSA give us anything else?”

“They’re doubling back to see if they’ve got other captured conversations that haven’t been transcribed yet. There’s a backlog of Arabic language recordings.”

Vail noticed Uzi was still huddled over the desk, concentrating. She tapped him on a shoulder and he pushed up the headphones. “You’re spending an awfully long time listening to a short conversation. Something’s bothering you.”

He sat down heavily.

“What is it, Boychick?” DeSantos asked.

He ran his tongue from left to right over his bottom lip. “The guy on the phone in Gaza. I think I know that voice.”