Hard Target (27 page)

Uzi wanted to tell her he felt the same way, but was afraid he would break down. It was too difficult to discuss what he’d gone through in the days after the murders. He realized she had gone quiet. He craned his neck a bit to see her face and saw a shiny streak coursing down her cheek. “You okay?”

“Tell me about this shrink you’re seeing.”

“I really like the old guy. I’ve only had a few sessions with him, but I feel very close to him. He’s a good man. And maybe a little too good at what he does.”

She sniffled. “Is he helping?”

“He’s dredging up all sorts of things. I’m telling him stuff I never thought I’d tell anyone.” He looked off at the wall of photos. “Is that good? I’m not sure.”

She brought her knees up onto the couch and reclined onto Uzi’s thigh. His hand instinctively rolled off the back of the couch and came to rest on her left shoulder. “Sometimes I wake up crying. In the middle of the night.”

“Me too.”

He began stroking her hair, thinking of the times when Dena would lay across his lap and he would gently run his fingers across her scalp, around her ears. She would fall asleep and he would follow. They would remain like that until he would awaken hours later, the two of them sprawled out on the couch in each other’s arms.

He closed his eyes and was instantly back in Haifa, the warm wind rippling his T-shirt, enjoying his time off between missions. Remembering the last time they’d gone there, only days before Dena and Maya were killed. They had picked flowers and he’d snapped some photos of Maya, photos he never looked at. Photos that were still on the SD card in his camera. Memories too painful to remember.

He shut his eyes and, moments later, fell asleep.

DAY FIVE

1:15 AM

108 hours 45 minutes remaining

Soft lips against his, hands pulling at his belt buckle. He kissed back, hearing himself moan.
Feels good.
She was touching him, her body against his, her warm tongue on his neck, her hair falling into his face.

He awoke from his dream, a dream where he had been lying in the tall grass with Dena. He opened his eyes and saw Leila, her head back as she moved slowly, rhythmically, as if seduced by a love potion. Her breath deep and regular, her hands unzipping his pants as her tongue trailed across his cheek and penetrated his mouth.

Uzi wanted to resist, but couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to stop. The guilt was strong—the sense that this wasn’t right tangling with feral desire. The warmth, the intimacy, the comfort of being close to someone, of being touched and caressed. Her lips wandered down his chest, slowly making their way toward his waist.

He shut his eyes and cleared his mind. It felt too good to resist. He deserved this, he kept telling himself. Enough grief, enough anger, enough feeling sorry for himself. He relaxed and let his head fall back, lost in the moment.

THE MORNING CAME UPON him suddenly. Uzi awoke with a start, disoriented to time and place. He glanced around the room, saw the two glasses and the empty bottle of Port, Leila asleep in his lap. He wiped his face with a hand, then blinked several times to clear his vision. Leila stirred, then moved to her left and curled up with a crushed velvet pillow that lay beside her on the couch.

Her clothes were askew, a knit afghan draped across her dark skin.

Uzi rose, stiffness in his back causing him to straighten slowly. What time was it? He twisted his watch so he could read the face, and yawned. Five-sixteen. He gathered his shirt and jacket, fastened his pants, then walked lightly to the door and left the apartment.

Downstairs, he found his car where he’d left it, no ticket attached to the windshield. A different doorman was on duty, but apparently Alec or Jiri had left instructions to look after Uzi’s vehicle. When Uzi asked for his keys, the man knew exactly where they were.

As he drove home, his mind started to clear. He replayed the evening’s events—starting from when they were sitting in the car—and suddenly flashed on Leila awakening him at some point during the night, her lips trailing across his lips, his face, his stomach. He missed his street and cursed under his breath.

“We had sex,” he said into the still air. “Or did I just dream it?”

As he turned down his street, he slipped into cop mode and thought of how he had found himself when he had awakened: his pants undone, his shirt lying on the floor. If it were a crime scene, the clues would be too few to be of value.

He pulled into a spot near his townhouse, the possibility that he had made love to Leila weighing on his thoughts. What did it mean? How could he deal with it if it were true?

Of course it was true. He remembered it: she had awoken him from a deep sleep. He was dreaming of Dena at the time— How riddled with guilt could he possibly be?

He made himself a cup of coffee, threw a couple of ice cubes in it, then downed it quickly. He still felt sluggish, and he needed his mind sharp, so he could think, try to figure out what he was feeling, what it all meant.

Having finished his drink and reached no resolution to any of his dilemmas, he pulled out his phone and found Dr. Rudnick’s home number. He did not like using it, but he figured the doctor had given it to him for just such a reason. The phone rang twice before Rudnick picked up. Uzi explained the situation and asked if he could meet him in forty-five minutes, knowing that the answer would be yes, regardless of the doctor’s schedule and despite the fact that it was Sunday.

He showered and dressed, then drove to Rudnick’s office, unsure of what he was searching for. He felt like he needed to do something.

But what it was, he did not know.

7:03 AM

102 hours 57 minutes remaining

Uzi sat down heavily and stared ahead at the desk, or the wall, or whatever happened to be in front of him. His mind was a flurry of confusion.

“Talk to me,” Rudnick said. He took a seat directly in front of Uzi and rested his forearms on his knees.

Uzi rubbed his eyes with thumb and index finger. “My informant was taken out by a sniper. His bullet missed my head by a few inches.”

Rudnick studied his patient’s face. “How do you feel about that?”

Uzi merely shrugged his shoulders. “How should I feel about that?”

“We’re not here for me to tell you how to feel.” Rudnick shifted his legs. “Were you aware your informant’s life was in danger?”

“He thought it was. That’s one of the things we were discussing when he was killed.”

“But you’re not bothered by the fact that this man was killed. I’m not saying you weren’t affected by his death, but you’ve been in the trenches, this type of thing has happened to you before. So tell me what’s bothering you.”

Uzi shrugged.

“Is it Dena? Are you upset about what we talked about during the last session?”

Uzi rose from the chair, ran his fingers through his freshly combed damp hair.

“Guess my hammer still has some good aim left in it.”

Uzi turned to face the doctor. “What?”

“I hit the nail on the head. We’d touched on the source of your stress the past several years. Your feelings of guilt over the death of your wife and daughter.”

Rudnick’s words hurt. But he realized the man meant no harm; Uzi had asked his doctor to be direct and Rudnick was only doing as he had requested. “There’s more to it than that.” He hesitated, then decided to just say it. “I met someone. A woman.”

“Ahh,” Rudnick said with a knowing nod of his head. “And this bothers you.”

Uzi thought for a moment. “I feel dirty.”

“Unfaithful?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Uzi, my friend, these are normal feelings. It’s nothing to be ashamed of or upset about.”

“I think it’s bothering me because I let it happen, or because it felt good even though I feel bad about it.” He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Does that make any sense?”

Rudnick grinned. “You say you’re not in touch with your emotions, but you really are. I think you’re very astute.”

“Then here’s another astute observation: being told that my feelings are normal doesn’t help.”

“I can only offer you an outlet to talk about what you’re feeling, help you understand why you’re feeling it, and let you know it’s okay. But I can’t get rid of the pain.”

Uzi sat down heavily in his chair. “You mean you’re giving me permission to feel guilty?”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it like that, but I guess the answer would be, yes.” Rudnick tilted his head. “Tell me about her.”

Uzi blew air through pursed lips. “Her brother was killed by Hamas in an ambush.”

“So you two have an instant bond, common ground. You can feel what she feels. Such bonds can make for a solid foundation on which to base a relationship.”

Uzi looked away.

“Tell me more about her.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Sounds to me like you aren’t ready to admit you’re attracted to another woman.”

If only it were that simple.
“It’s more than that, doc. We...made love. Last night.”

“I see.”

“I mean, how can I tell the difference between love and just being hard up? You can talk about ‘bonds’ and ‘solid foundations,’ but maybe I’m just horny after not having been with a woman for six years. I mean, I let down my guard and I’m suddenly in bed with a woman.”

“Letting down your guard is a good thing. Sooner or later, it had to happen. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Who would’ve thought six years later the guilt would still be so fresh?”

“Some people go through their entire lives lugging around excess baggage, never learning how to let go. Never coming to terms with it. You’re just now finding out how. You might want to feel proud of yourself rather than guilty.” Rudnick put the palms of his hands together in front of his nose. “I make it a point not to tell my patients how to feel, but rather steer them, help them figure out how to feel on their own. So I apologize for steering you a little bit strongly there.

“But I want you to view your actions positively, not negatively. We only get one go-round in life, Uzi. You’ve seen how fleeting it can be. Here today, gone tomorrow. Don’t let yesterday’s pain become tomorrow’s sorrow. It’s healthy to move on. Not to learn how to forget, but to learn how to remember. Remember constructively, Uzi, not destructively.” He stopped to appraise his patient. “But I think you’ve finally figured it out for yourself.”

Uzi sat there, absorbing every word Rudnick was saying.
Learn how to remember. Maybe that’s the key.
He sucked in his breath, rose from the chair and extended a hand to his doctor. Rudnick stood and shook it.

“Thanks,” Uzi said.

“I’m just here to listen and give you some perspective. The rest you’re doing on your own.”

8:10 AM

101 hours 50 minutes remaining

UZI ARRIVED AT THE Hoover Building shortly after eight. Moments later he was exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, where the lab was located. He entered the sprawling facility and saw Tim Meadows sitting in front of a monitor, clicking through a pictorial catalog of rifles and rounds. An iPad sat propped up a smidgen to the right of his screen, a writing stylus lying beside it and electronic notes scrawled across the virtual yellow pad.

As Uzi neared, he noticed that Meadows was wearing a pair of small headphones with a molded band that conformed to the back of his head. Uzi pulled them off and slipped them over his own ears. “What is this?”

Meadows grabbed back his headphones. “You’re shouting.”

“You’ve got the volume cranked.”

“You crank rock music,” Meadows said. “This is New Age. By turning up the gain, the ethereal sense of being in the woods, or lounging by the ocean, is that much more sensual.”

Uzi scrunched his brow, then indicated the screen. “Can we put the forest and ocean aside for a moment and talk about more gut-wrenching topics, like large-caliber rounds?”

Meadows frowned. “You’ve got a violent streak, you know that? A lot of bottled up hostility. Ever consider taking meditation classes?”

“I’ll put it on my To Do list.
After
I break this case. But that’s got no chance of happening if you don’t start talking.”

“You should cut a guy some slack. It’s Sunday, okay?”

“Tim. The rounds.”

“Okay, the rounds. Here’s what I’ve got.” He swiveled in his chair, facing Uzi head on. “Wait. If I give you this, and it’s real helpful, you owe me dinner, remember?”

“For doing your job?”

“Doing my job means you get the report in a couple of weeks, not overnight.”

Uzi grabbed a chair to his left and sat down. “Dinner, fine.”
Didn’t I already agree to that?

“O-kayyy,” Meadows said gleefully, spinning in his seat like a kid on a counter stool in an ice cream shop. He faced his monitor, then hit a few keys. A highly magnified image filled the screen. “This, my friend, is a bullet.”

Uzi’s gaze shifted from the high-resolution photo to Meadows. “No shit.”

“Not just any bullet, Uzi. It’s your bullet. It’s what would be inside the brass casing you recovered at the scene last night.”

“And what does it tell you?”

“Well it brought up some very interesting challenges. First of all, it’s Russian.”

“Russian. You sure?”

Meadows gave him a look. “Yes, I’m sure. Look at the shape of the cartridge. Right here,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Russian cartridge has a rimmed case. American doesn’t.”

Uzi nodded. “Okay. So it’s Russian. Type of weapon?”

“Traditional army-issue Russian sniper rifle is the Dragunov SVD. It’s not considered to be the best choice because it’s a semi-auto, and inherently less accurate than a bolt action. A new high-quality Russian bolt-action rifle was designed in 1998, the SV-98. Here’s where it gets interesting. The SV-98 is chambered for either 7.62 x 54mmR or 7.62 x 51mm NATO rounds. The 54 mmR round isn’t used in many other rifles. The 51 NATO, however, is very common.”

“And my casing fits...which?”

“The fifty-four.”

“Less common. Good,” Uzi said. “But how rare are we talking about?”

Meadows struck another key. A different photo appeared. “The fifty-four is common to only two rifles, the SV-98 and the obsolete Russian/Finnish Mosin-Nagant. The Mosin-Nagant was the Eastern Block sniper rifle in World War Two. Both rifles have four lands and grooves in the barrel, and the rifling in both rifles twists to the right. The difference between these two rifles is that the SV-98 has a barrel twist rate of one in twelve-point-six inches, and the Mosin-Nagant has a twist rate of one in nine-point-five inches.”

Uzi looked at Meadows again. “How do you keep all this shit straight—I mean, how many hats do you wear?”

Meadows leaned close. “I gotta confess, Uzi. You know me, mister honesty. When it got down to the nitty-gritty I had to ask a buddy of mine next door. I got the Mosin-Nagant but I couldn’t accept it. It didn’t seem to fit. I was racking my brain till he told me about the SV-98.”

“So a Russian SV-98,” Uzi said, rubbing his chin with the back of his right hand.

“Probably. I did some checking with the ME, found out the round he recovered from your friend Bishop had a one-to-twelve-point-six twist ratio. That’s why I say ‘probably,’ because it’s possible to have a gunsmith change the chambering on a rifle to almost anything within reason. Just to throw us off.”

Uzi chewed on his lip. “What’s the most likely?”

“Depends on who you’re dealing with, but if you’re looking for ways to focus, I’d say you’d have to be dealing with someone who really knows his shit—and who doesn’t want to get caught.”

“None of ’em want to get caught, Tim. But maybe they’ve got significant exposure—in other words, they’re easily connected to the rifle. This is a way of disguising themselves.”

“Could also mean that by choosing a Russian SV-98, they’re trying to throw you off. They’re a tad bit rare in the US.”