Free The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) by Terry Brennan

flames, only the faces of the seven soldiers being incinerated.
    11:10 p.m., Iran Central Bank, Tehran
    They didn’t know each other. Once a month they were on the same shift. Different parts of the Central Bank of Iran complex, but the same late-night shift.
    Aheem Tavana got an email the day before from the national library. A book he reserved was available. There was no book. Tavana, a bachelor, didn’t sleep that night.
    Famid Hussein received the coded text message before he left for work that evening. Aliyia and the children were out shopping. There was no one to wish goodbye.
    Bezalel Khomeini, of the famous name, was sitting in the Chitgar Forest Park by the Kan River—one of the few places in Tehran where a person could escape some of the city’s deadly air pollution—when he was Tweeted. Six words from his fictitious uncle, Rashid. He picked up the towel upon which he rested, rolled it up under his arm, and started walking to the bus stop.
    The plan was simple, though none of them knew it. Each individual’s responsibilities were segmented, compartmentalized, and independent of the others. There were six in all—three coming in to work for the night shift; three finishing their shifts. Each of the six carried a piece of a device. Tavana, the building’s messenger, was the collector. As he made his rounds of the Central Bank—the huge, blue cube in the heart of Tehran—Tavana distributed and gathered up parcels and interoffice messages. Of all the parcels he collected that night, Tavana had four small packages tucked inside a canvas bag on a shelf under his cart. Those packages would not be offered up to the Revolutionary Guard for inspection.
    A secret member of the Green Wave party, the rabidly defiant opposition to the mullah’s iron-fisted rule of Iran, Tavana came up alongside Famid Hussein’s desk in the engraving department, ready to receive the last piece.
    Hussein held out a small, padded envelope. “For the finishing department,” he said, and turned abruptly back to his work.

    Only the most observant would notice how Hussein’s gaze locked momentarily with Tavana’s before the messenger moved on without a word of response. Marwan Alami was that kind of observer. She leaned back from her desk to watch Tavana as he made his way through the engraving department, buried deep in the underground levels of the Central Bank building. Tavana’s eyes locked with no others. She picked up her telephone while keeping both Hussein and Tavana in view. “The messenger, Tavana. And the engraver, Famid Hussein. Something is not right there. They look suspicious.”
    Alami listened for a moment. “Yes, my instincts are usually correct. Watch them.”

    Tavana sorted the messages and parcels and left them on the counter in the mailroom for their regular inspection. Nothing moved through the Central Bank building, even a piece of paper, without members of the Revolutionary Guard conducting a thorough inspection. He picked up his lunch bucket and turned to the door. The way was blocked by two members of the guard.
    “Leaving before the inspection, Tavana?” asked the captain.
    “I have medicine.” Tavana tried to remain calm. “It’s time, and I must eat food before taking the medicine. Everything is waiting for you.” Tavana turned to the side and gestured to the table.
    “Give me your bucket,” said the captain.
    Tavana forced himself to look at the captain as he handed over the round, metal bucket with the tight-fitting lid.
    The captain twisted open the lid and rummaged through the contents of the bucket. He pulled out a round piece of flat bread. “Tear it.”
    Tavana took the flat piece of bread and tore it in two.
    “Again.”
    The captain held out his hand for the four pieces of bread. He looked at the edges, pulled the bread apart. Then threw the pieces back into the bucket and pushed on the lid.
    “Your lunch,” said the captain, holding out the bucket toward Tavana. “I should make