“I’m going ahead,” Fahad said. “Best that I’m not seen with you. I run into someone I know, or if your CI knows I’m with the Agency — or if he even associates me with law enforcement because of you guys, I’ll blow my cover.”
“Where you headed?” Uzi asked.
“I’ll see if I can find some people I know, ask around, get some intel. Let me know when you’re done with your meeting.”
The rest of them continued through the mall, but most of the stores were still dark.
“We’re early,” Zemro said as he led them to a contemporary-looking coffee shop. “The place I’m taking you to isn’t open yet. We’ll get something to eat, kill some time.”
Vail was both tired and hungry, so she welcomed the caffeine and muffin. They sat in the sleek café nursing their drinks, Vail examining the chocolate brown cup with Hebrew lettering. “What does this say?”
Uzi, who seemed preoccupied, glanced over. “Aroma. It’s a chain of cafés in Israel. Like Starbucks, much smaller scale.”
A few employees from nearby shops filtered in to get their coffee as stores across the pedestrian walkway began opening for business.
“Probably best if I wander about on my own too,” DeSantos said. “There are people in the biz I could run into. Not worth taking the chance being seen with a former Shin Bet operative. Don’t know who you can trust to keep their traps shut. Let me know how your meet goes.”
As DeSantos headed out the door, Zemro gestured at the wall clock. “We should go. It’ll take us a little while to get there.”
They walked through the Promenade and exited the mall, crossing Yafo Street. The sun had risen about ninety minutes earlier and the developing morning light cast an orange-yellow glow on the sand-colored rock of the ancient stone fortifications that bordered the Old City. Its ridged castle-like teeth along the top gave it the appearance of a garrison — which it had to become millennia ago because of invading armies that repeatedly attacked, and sacked, Jerusalem.
As they approached the Jaffa Gate, one of eight entrances to the walled-off city, Vail pointed at something in the stone facing. “Is that?” She stepped closer. “Are those bullet holes?”
“From the War of Independence,” Uzi said. “It’s always been a place under siege, even in modern times.”
They followed Zemro through the Christian Quarter, past the Church of the Holy Sepulcher — which Vail would have liked to see, regardless of the Jesus Scroll’s revelations — and into the Muslim Quarter.
They moved down the myriad streets and alleys of the Arab souk, a long, narrow flea market comprising stalls where vendors sold a variety of items from shawls, hats, trinkets, and Holy Land postcards to cured meats and costume jewelry.
Uzi stopped at one and bought Vail a black scarf, which he told her to wrap over her hair. “You’ll blend in better. It’s a good idea for where we’re going.”
They came to an area that contained traditional storefront businesses, including one that bore a large sign in both English and Arabic that read:
Khaleel’s Antiquities
Wholesale & Retail
Artifacts & Numismatics
A gray-bearded man was sitting on a chair in the front. Zemro shook hands with him — and Vail was fairly certain he had deposited a monetary note of some sort in the elder’s palm as he passed.
They walked into the shop, which was large and filled with backlit display cases of antique oil lamps, coins, jars — dozens of shelves around the entire room, including a central showcase that was, likewise, full of ancient items, all bearing a written explanation of what they were, when they were found and where, and their purported age.
“I know this place,” Uzi said as he and Vail followed Zemro to the rear of the store. “Been here once.”
Zemro knocked three times on a door and a tall man answered it. He stepped aside to let Zemro pass, but froze when he saw Vail and Uzi.
“Friends,” Zemro said.
The bodyguard hesitated, gave them a once over, then waved them all in.
The room was large and packed with books, papers, and items similar to the ones on display but still in the process of being categorized. Behind a large metal desk was a heavyset man of about fifty, a rank-smelling Turkish cigarette burning in an ashtray and a cup of dark coffee steaming by his left elbow.
“Mr. Zemro, my friend. What brings you here? And so early in the day.” He turned to Vail, his gaze traveling the curves of her body as if negotiating a slalom course.
She let him look. If it helps us get the information we need, I’ll open the top three buttons of my blouse. And lean over your desk.
“Friends of mine,” Zemro said with a jerk of his head in their direction. He did not bother to provide any more details as he took the lone empty chair. Aside from the bodyguard who had answered the door, two other men were in the room. “Khaleel. I need some information.”
“I did not think you were here for a drink. But you are certainly welcome to have one.”
“I never pass up a Turkish coffee.”
Khaleel gestured to one of the men. “Cup for Zemro.” His assistant walked to the side of the room, where the brewer sat on a cabinet. He busied himself and returned a moment later with a small mug of what looked like thick black liquid.
Vail thought of asking for some — she was curious and it smelled good — but since Khaleel had thus far ignored them, other than undressing her with his eyes, she and Uzi were obviously unwelcome guests.
“You sell antiquities,” Vail said.
Khaleel jumped backward as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket. He recovered quickly and forced a smile. “Is it that obvious?” He coughed a raspy laugh then reached for his cigarette and took a long drag.
“I’m known for my ability to point out the obvious. And for being blunt.” She set her hands on the back of Zemro’s chair. “What do you know about the Aleppo Codex?”
Khaleel locked gazes with Zemro. “Who is she?”
“She is me,” Vail said. “My name’s not important. But I’m curious if you’ve heard anything about where the codex is being kept.”
Khaleel tore his eyes away and looked at Vail’s face for the first time. “No one knows where it is. Half of it is missing.”
“Yeah, the ‘important’ half. But a man like you, doing what you do, you know where it is.”
Khaleel lifted his cigarette from the metal tray and took another drag. He blew the air toward the ceiling and leaned back in his chair. “And if I do?”
“Tell us.”
Khaleel gestured to the two assistants, a quick flick of his fingers and wrist to send them on their way.
“I’d prefer if they stayed,” Uzi said.
Khaleel seemed to suddenly become aware of Uzi’s presence. He looked at him with disdain as he tipped his coffee back and drained the mug. “More,” he said and held the cup out to one of his men.
Vail figured Uzi wanted to prevent them from making a call to someone who would follow her and Uzi when they left the store. When dealing with the grime of terrorism you could not be too careful. It was easy to disappear in the busy backstreets of the souk, only to emerge a year later on a desolate strip of desert in an orange jumpsuit with a machete at your throat.
It was a fine balance, she was sure, as Khaleel might be less inclined to talk with witnesses present. It depended on how much he trusted his men.
Khaleel considered Uzi’s request, then nodded.
That settled, Uzi shoved his hands into his front pockets. “The codex,” he reminded Khaleel.
Khaleel snorted and turned to Zemro.