Hard Target (13 page)

But for all he knew, the castings were merely an expensive reproduction of the gardener’s work boots. His better sense told him otherwise. For now, he would have to wait—and hope.

6:30 PM

187 hours 30 minutes remaining

Quentin Larchmont stood just outside the impromptu press room at Glendon Rusch’s transition headquarters—formerly the suite of offices used to direct his campaign— a short distance from the White House.

Larchmont, a low-level cabinet member in the Whitehall administration’s first term, was poised to elevate his game—and political profile—under Rusch’s presidency.

Starting now. The widely anticipated chief-of-staff title would distinguish him as a driving force in Rusch’s administration, but there was no better way for him to shape his political personality than by appearing on national television, talking to the People when they were emotionally vulnerable. In the past, leaders were born by giving rousing speeches at critical moments, by rising above the fray and showing the stuff of which they were made. This was his chance to indelibly imprint his image in the photographic silver of public consciousness.

Normally the task would have fallen to Rusch’s communications director or senior campaign advisor—but both perished in the crash. Someone on the president-elect’s team had to go before the cameras to speak for Glendon Rusch, to reassure the public their newly elected leader was alive and well. Or, rather, that he was alive. The task fell to Larchmont.

He was not complaining.

Heart thumping, his breath a bit short, he closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and found his emotional balance. He entered the room and somewhere in the back of his mind became aware of the droning buzz of press-room chatter as he strode to the podium. The noise hushed as if a judge had rapped a gavel. This wasn’t the Quentin Larchmont of his days as the translucent deputy commerce secretary. And it wasn’t the campaign trail anymore. This was the Big Show.

He looked up and took in the three dozen reporters and foreign press correspondents in front of him and the campaign workers who had gathered behind them. Cameras clicked. He found the handful of television cameras in the back, then let his eyes wander the room.

“Good evening,” he began. “It was my hope that President Rusch would be addressing all of you at a time of great joy and triumph, at the dawn of a new era, highlighting the strengths and beauty of the democratic institution: candidates campaign and debate, and then the American people cast their votes to choose who it is they want to lead them, who it is they want to set policy, who it is they trust with our well-being and the well-being of our families.

“But the underpinnings of this system of democracy, the bricks and mortar, if you will, is our right to vote. It is a right, a freedom that exists because hundreds of thousands of Americans spilled their blood defending the rights given us by visionaries, forefathers who walked this very land well over two hundred years ago. But as we’ve seen in the more immediate past, threats to our freedoms are all around us, poised to challenge our great democracy.

“Response to challenge is what separates greatness from irrelevance. We are a country of greatness made up of people who face adversity and meet those challenges head-on. Witness the events of the past two days. An attempt on our president-elect’s life. The slaughter of more than a dozen innocent people. And now, the cold-blooded murder of Congressman Gene Harmon, a dedicated member of Congress. In our own way, we each grieve alongside their families, saddened by their loss.” He paused, looked at his notes, then glanced up at the press corps.

“But in the wake of such challenges, we persevere and grow stronger. Because Marine Two and its escort went down on the eve of a great awakening. The American people are resilient, and they have spoken, loud and clear: Glendon Rusch was elected to lead the greatest country in the free world, and despite these unexpected obstacles, the United States remains a nation built on unshakable principles. No one—not terrorists nor ruthless dictators—can take that away. Nor can they weaken our resolve.

“I tell you now, as I told you several weeks ago: Glendon Rusch will be your next president. When I’d said it back in September it was a prediction, a display of our strength of conviction to win the White House. Today I say it as a declaration that despite the efforts of a criminal mind—or minds—President-elect Rusch lives. He
will be
your next president.” Cameras clicked again, in unison, as if on cue.

Larchmont shifted his weight slowly, carefully. “I want to reaffirm your belief in this extraordinary man. And to those people who did not vote for him, you are now witness to the stuff of which Glendon Rusch is made. What happened several thousand feet above the Virginia countryside is testament to his mettle. Two people survived the destruction of both helicopters, but only Glendon Rusch lived to talk about it. Some may say it’s luck. But Glendon Rusch survived because that’s just the sort of man Glendon Rusch is. He’s a warrior, a survivor.

“He’s a soldier fighting for what he believes is right. Whether that be in a free-falling helicopter or ordering our troops into battle against a terrorist regime, President Rusch will fight to uphold the principles I spoke of a moment ago, the ones that make our United States of America the greatest nation on Earth.”

Larchmont bowed his head, counted to three for effect, then looked directly into the television cameras. “I promise you that we will persevere. We will catch those responsible.

“But this country is not just about retribution. We will continue to lead the world, to aid the sick, to help poor nations meet their food and healthcare needs, to assist those less fortunate.

“To do that we need a seasoned leader, one with vision, convictions, and perseverance. I assure you now our new president will be fit to govern. The transition will proceed. Not as smoothly as we’d anticipated, of course. Challenges stand in our way. But remember: our response to challenge defines us as a people. I assure you the United States of America will emerge stronger.”

Larchmont looked out at the cameras. “Thank you all for your prayers. God bless.”

UZI MADE HIS WAY TO the front of the large room, where Quentin Larchmont was shaking hands with a number of supporters who were clearly moved by his speech. Uzi flashed his credentials at the Secret Service agent, and the man permitted him into the hallway with Larchmont. “Sir, I’m Agent Uzi. FBI.”

Larchmont gave Uzi a quick once-over, then turned away. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, and we’re several blocks away.”

“As I told your assistant, I’m in charge of the task force responsible for finding the terrorists who did this, sir. She said you’d be able to talk with me for a few moments. If you’ve got more pressing matters, let me know when might be more convenient for your schedule.” Uzi folded his arms. He was pissing on the ground in front of Larchmont, letting him know they were standing on his territory.

Larchmont’s jaw muscles tightened. “I’ve got very little of value to offer you, Agent Uzi.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Larchmont, it’s best if I determine that.”

Larchmont’s face flushed, but he kept his cool and gestured to the corridor ahead of them. “Walk and talk?” He started down the hall, two Secret Service agents bringing up the rear.

“What did you think of my little speech?”

“Good show. Plenty of well-crafted sound bites.”

Larchmont stopped walking and faced Uzi. His face was taut, his jaw jutting forward. “This incident could weaken the president-elect’s image, damage his ability to lead. Others might see it as an opportunity to step on the United States when she’s down. So I had to spin it. Right now I see myself as a kind of Secret Service agent: protecting the political life of the president at all costs. Need be, I’d gladly take a bullet and kill my career if it meant saving the president’s. Now, what’s on your mind?”

Uzi glanced at the Secret Service agents to gauge their response to Larchmont’s comment. They remained stoic.

“As the president-elect’s protector,” Uzi said, “perhaps you can shed some light on who might want to kill him.”

Larchmont chuckled. “A loaded question. No one specifically, if that’s what you mean. Glendon Rusch is a very popular man. You saw what he did at the polls—”

“‘No one specifically’?” Uzi asked. “Does that mean you know of someone in general?”

A smile broke Larchmont’s leathery face. “That’s very good. Sitting on my every word. Kind of like the press. Never thought of that before. The FBI and the press both scour your words for hidden meaning.”

“There’s always hidden meaning with politicians, since they generally say a lot about nothing. Safer that way.”

Larchmont’s smile faded. “There are all sorts of nuts out there, no shortage of religious fanatics or rogue leaders. Look at Iran—which tried to assassinate an ambassador here in DC—or North Korea, or—hell, even Russia’s taken to killing officials and journalists they consider to be a threat. You want someone specific? No idea who’d want to kill Glendon Rusch. That better, Agent? Direct enough for you?” He shook his head, then resumed his stride toward the lobby.

Choosing not to follow Larchmont, Uzi stood at the edge of the hall with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “So you’re at a loss to explain what happened,” he called across the lobby. “No political motives, personal vendettas, nothing like that.”

Larchmont’s shoulders fell submissively. He turned slowly and said, “Explaining what happened is your job. Instead of bothering me, why don’t you go do something useful?”

Larchmont, now a few feet from the office building’s front door, motioned to one of the Secret Service agents. “Joseph, we’d better get going. My meeting.” The agent spoke into a microphone embedded in his sleeve. “Pluto is ready to move.”

Having walked to within a few yards of Larchmont, Uzi said, “We may need to talk again.”

Larchmont gave Uzi a disgusted once-over. “On top of everything that’s happened, we’ve got a cabinet to assemble. If anything
significant
comes up, you know where to find me.”

7:27 PM

186 hours 33 minutes remaining

Uzi arrived at the Aquia Commerce Center with a mind full of questions. He parked and took the elevator up to the second floor and informed the receptionist seated behind the bulletproof glass he was there to see a profiler with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Moments later, the large wood door cracked open, Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail’s lightly freckled face bunching a bit with a broad grin. She stepped forward and greeted him with a warm hug. “Let’s head back to my crypt, talk there.”

Vail led the way down various hallways and stopped at her office, a ten-by-ten room filled with files and reports, topic-related textbooks packed onto bookshelves, and FBI binders containing research articles on serial killers and rapists, sexual sadism and psychopathy. Dominating the shelf was an oversize manual of Bureau operational guidelines.

In the far corner of the room, a human skeleton stood beside a framed photo of a teenager and a tall man standing in front of the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial.

Uzi leaned back and appraised the office. “You really need an interior decorator. A bit morose in here, don’t you think?”

“I tangle with serial killers and walk knee deep in their victims’ blood and guts. Morose is my middle name.” She settled into her desk chair. An LCD screen above her left shoulder displayed photos of a crime scene. “So how’ve you been?”

Uzi shrugged. “Been busy, which is good. Well, I guess in a sense having lots to do when you head up the terrorism task force is bad. But for my sanity, staying busy helps. You?”

“My life’s been...very eventful the past several months. I complain, but no one seems to give a shit.”

“I called, you know, after...the thing with Dead Eyes.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I— There was a lot of healing, mentally and physically. I tried to take a vacation in Napa, and that, well, let’s just say I’m still healing from that. Mentally and physically.” She grinned. “And don’t ask me about my time on Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz, huh? Sounds positively arresting.”

“You have no idea. But the good news is that I met someone.”

“An inmate?”

“No, dipshit. A LEO,” she said, referring to a law enforcement officer. “Vienna dick who was on my Dead Eyes task force. He’s now a DEA agent.” She craned her neck back and indicated the framed wall photo.

Uzi sat down in the office chair in front of Vail’s desk. “He looks very...hunky.”

Vail smiled, a bit mischievously. “Something tells me you’re not here about Robby.”

“The chopper. I need some answers. And the identity of our UNSUB, too, if you can swing it.”

Vail grabbed an envelope off her desk and held it up to her forehead. “He’s forty-nine years old, works for the government, and his name is—”

“Okay, okay,” Uzi said, holding out a hand. “I guess I deserved that.”

“You know what I can and can’t do.”

“Karen, I thought you could do everything.” He grinned broadly.

“Like I told you at the crash site, it’s Frank Del Monaco’s case. I was just covering. You want me to call him?” She reached for the phone.

“No,” Uzi said. He leaned to his left and shut the door. “I’d rather work with you.”

Vail watched the door click closed, then said, “Frank and I have had our differences, but I think he can do up a decent profile on this.”

“I don’t know Frank Del Monaco. I know Karen Vail. Check that. I trust Karen Vail.”

“Frank and I are technically assigned to the West Coast. Normally, he and I wouldn’t come within ten yards of this.”

“Then I feel even more lucky to be sitting in your office discussing this case.”

Vail shook her head. “You realize if I help you, it’ll piss off Frank big time. Not that I mind doing that. That’s not the problem. It’s my unit chief and ASAC—”

“Off the record then. Between us, that’s all.”

Vail tossed the envelope back onto her desk and sighed. “This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, but what the hell. I’ve been bitten there before. What do you want to know?”