“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.”