“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.