Zemro reached into his jacket and pulled out a roll of bills — shekels. He peeled off a few and placed them on the desk.
Khaleel looked at them. Without lifting his eyes, he said, “It’s in Gaza. A man by the name of Kadir Abu Sahmoud has—”
“We know who Sahmoud is,” Vail said. “And we already knew he has it.”
Another drag. “Then you know it’s not there yet.” Exhale, smoke directed toward the ceiling. “But it will be soon.”
“When?”
“This I do not know. I only know what I hear.”
“Where does Sahmoud live?” Uzi asked.
Khaleel laughed. “That I do not know either. But I have some photos if you want to try to figure it out.”
“How’d you get pictures?” Zemro asked.
Khaleel took the refilled mug from his assistant. “Everything is for sale, is it not?” He took a sip then set it down and faced his laptop. He banged away at the keyboard, struck a final key with a flourish, and then appraised the photo he had called up. “I can get places the Mossad and Shabak cannot,” he said, using the acronym for the Shin Bet. “I take pictures, I get money. Sometimes I buy pictures, sell for more money. I’m a businessman.”
A businessman who may not live long enough to enjoy his riches.
Uzi swung the laptop toward him and Zemro. “What do you think?”
Zemro squinted at the screen, then zoomed in on the picture. “Hard to say.” He stared at it a long moment then moved the image around, taking in the buildings in the vicinity. “I think I might know where it is. You sure this is Sahmoud’s house?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
As Zemro scrolled left, Uzi pointed at the monitor. “Hold it. Zoom out a little.”
Zemro did as asked. Uzi placed his fingers on the touchscreen and moved the photo to the right.
“That’s Sahmoud, right?”
“Yeah,” Zemro said.
“That guy,” Uzi said, poking at a grainy image beside Sahmoud. “I recognize him.”
“From where?” Vail asked.
“I don’t know. It was — it wasn’t that long ago.”
“New York? London? Paris?”
“Not sure.” He turned to Khaleel, then angled the laptop toward him. “Who is this?”
Khaleel tilted his head. “I’ve seen him but I don’t have a name. He’s important. He’s in a lot of my Sahmoud photos.” He paged through the others, but all were shot with a telephoto lens in suboptimal light.
Uzi found the best image and took a picture of the screen with his phone. Vail watched as he sent it off to Richard Prati and Hoshi and asked them to scour their servers, including the DEA narcoterrorism database, for an identity and background sheet.
“What about the Jesus Scroll?” Vail asked. “Where is that?”
“If I knew, I would not tell you.” He laughed, exposing nicotine tarred teeth. “More coffee!” He pulled out a marijuana joint and ignited the tip with a lighter from his drawer. After taking a long toke, he leaned back in his chair. His large belly stretched his nylon shirt. “I do not know where the scroll is. I have asked, sent out feelers. But there are a lot of dealers, wealthier than me, willing to bid just about anything for that. And the codex pages.”
“Do you know Doka Michel?” Uzi asked.
Khaleel took another puff. “I know him because of his father. I have heard rumors that he has the scroll. But he is someone I cannot get near.” He squinted at Uzi then leaned forward in his chair. “You need something. A coin from the Maccabean times? Excavated by your Western Wall. A necklace.” He grinned. “Bring you luck.”
Uzi frowned but humored the man. He reached down his shirt and pulled up a gold chain, the bottom of which contained a small coin. It was worn beyond recognition. “Already got one. Bought it here, in fact.” He winked.
That seemed to make Khaleel uncomfortable as the smile disappeared from his face. Uzi peeled off some shekels and set them in the top of an oil lamp that sat on the man’s desk. “Thanks for your information. You hear anything, let Raph know.”
As they left the store, Uzi and Zemro scanned the area to make sure they were not being surveilled — or targeted. They melted into the souk when Uzi suddenly stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Vail asked.
“That guy in the photo. Trying to figure out where I know him from.” Uzi glanced up, left, right … and then snapped his fingers. “It’s the guy—” He physically shivered. “It’s the guy Fahad met with in New York. His CI.”
“You sure?”
Uzi pulled up the photo and studied the screen. “No doubt whatsoever. Unless he’s got a twin.”
“Your friend’s CI is a terrorist?” Zemro asked.
“He certainly seems to be associating with one. One who happens to have a huge bull’s-eye on his forehead at the moment.” Uzi tapped out an email and then started dialing the satphone.
“Who are you calling?” Vail asked.
“Richard Prati.” A moment later, Prati answered. “Richard, listen. Can you look into something for me? … No, it can’t wait. You’re gonna be late to your meeting. I need you to look into a guy named Amer Madari. He was in Manhattan several days ago. I was told he’s a CI. He supposedly doesn’t have a criminal history, but we need to rethink that. Run the photo I just emailed you through the facial recognition database, see if you get a hit for a terrorist with any of the known organizations. Start with al Humat, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, Muslim Brotherhood.”
“And the narcoterrorism database,” Vail said.
“And the narco — right.” Uzi listened a second, then said, “Yeah. I think this could be a bad dude. A real bad dude.”
62
This was the day Mo went AWOL?” Vail asked.
Uzi leaned his buttocks against a wall. “Yeah.” He brought the handset back to his mouth. “I need this info ASAP, Richard. I saw him meeting with my partner. We may have a real problem. Call me as soon as you’ve got something.” He dropped the phone from his face and craned his head up to the sky.
Zemro scratched the back of his head. “So you talked with this Madari when Fahad met with him?”
“No.” Uzi licked his lips — but his face displayed a pained expression, wrinkles, and jowls. Tension. “Fahad went off the grid for the better part of a day and didn’t have a real good explanation for what he was doing. I had some surveillance done — I didn’t know him back then and, well, being Palestinian, after what happened with Dena and Maya, I–I didn’t trust him. He met with the man we just saw in the photo back at Khaleel’s. I had my people run the image and I got a name — Madari — but he was clean.”
Vail stepped closer, the three of them forming a tight huddle against the side of the building. “And now, we see this Madari hanging around with Kadir Abu Sahmoud, the number three most wanted terrorist in the world.”
Zemro seemed to be thinking it through. “No good explanation for this, Uzi. He wasn’t delivering pizza.”
“No.”
Vail’s satphone rang. It was DeSantos’s number. “Do we tell Hector?”
“He’s had it out for Mo since London. I — maybe we should get confirmation, if that’s possible, before we say anything.”
“You’re afraid he’ll overreact.”
Uzi looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe Santa’s been right all along. But back in Paris—” Uzi lowered his voice, which was soft to begin with—“what Mo did to Yaseen. That wasn’t an act, was it? I mean, was his nephew really killed?”
“You should tell your partner,” Zemro said. “He needs to know.”
Vail answered the call.
“You still in your meeting?”