Free The Lost Codex by Alan Jacobson Page A

under constant surveillance by the Secret Service and Metropolitan police. In fact, two white, blue, and red cruisers were parked in the middle of the roadway at forty-five degree angles to each other, a hundred yards ahead, opposite the White House lawn.
    As Uzi approached, the four agents in the foreign dignitary Secret Service detail perked up. He held up his FBI creds and they relaxed—slightly.
    “Gideon.”
    Aksel tilted his head back and peered at Uzi through his glasses. But he did not return the greeting.
    “Wearing glasses now, Gideon?”
    “I’m getting old. Shit happens.”
    A grin broke Uzi’s face. He surprised himself. Because of all the previous bad blood that existed between these two men, he had been dreading this meet. But it seemed to have gotten off to a nonthreatening start. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Uzi had saved Aksel’s life a couple of years ago.
    “How’s your hip?”
    Aksel was a stocky man, about five foot eight, but exuded the body type and constitution of a tank—a battle hardened outer shell and something of a mystery inside.
    “Just a flesh wound. I was fine.”
    Uzi didn’t know if Aksel was playing off the famed Monty Python line—when the Black Knight had both arms chopped off and claimed it was “just a flesh wound”—or if he merely meant to play down the severity of the injury. Knowing Aksel’s toughness and pigheaded steadfastness, Uzi surmised it was likely the latter. At the same time, he knew the injury—a bullet wound to the hip—required surgery and substantial rehabilitation. But the Mossad chief was walking along the White House wrought iron fence and showing no signs of a limp.
    “You said you need a favor.”
    Uzi squinted. “I said I needed some help on a case.”
    “Same thing.”
    Uzi did not agree, but he did not want to get into another argument with Aksel. He stopped and faced the man. Behind them stood the front entrance to the White House, the small flower-rimmed fountain in the center of the expansive tree-dotted lawn.
    “We captured a recording of two individuals, one here in DC and one in Gaza.”
    “And you’re trying to ID the Gaza caller. You need a voiceprint match.”
    “Actually, I need a biometric automatic voice analysis. And acoustic and phonetic analyses while you’re at it. I have to be sure about this.” Uzi handed Aksel a USB thumb drive. “If you know who the other voice is, the DC suspect, that’d be helpful too.”
    “You could’ve handled this through the normal CIA-Mossad channels.”
    “This is very important, Gideon. I didn’t want to trust it to lower-level analysts.”
    Aksel studied Uzi’s face a moment, focusing on his eyes. “The explosion near 14th Street. That’s what this is about.”
    Uzi’s face sagged—and he immediately realized he had already answered Aksel’s question. Then again, he didn’t know why he was surprised. Aksel had an uncanny ability to know things very few others knew, to put unrelated events together and to find significant commonalities that led to key intel—or an arrest. Uzi shifted the leather jacket on his shoulders. “I didn’t say that.”
    “Oh, but you did, Uzi. You’ve always had that weakness.”
    “Don’t start with me, Gideon.” He clenched his jaw, let the anger subside, and refocused. “Will you help us ID the voice?”
    “Of course.”
    Uzi glanced at the four men standing nearby. “Can you guys give us a little more space?”
    They all seemed to glance at Aksel, who nodded. They backed up a few steps but maintained their formation.
    “Have you heard any chatter about a collaboration between Hezbollah and the Mexican drug cartels?”
    Aksel’s eyes narrowed. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m here in Washington. One of our men inside Hezbollah warned us a month ago that he heard a major cartel was making large sum payments into Hezbollah accounts. We’ve been trying to verify it.”
    “All that money. In exchange for