Hard Target (33 page)

Uzi turned and started down the hall, back toward the elevator. Five long strides and he had pressed the down button.

But before the car came, he heard a latch throw and the jiggle of a doorknob. Rather than turn around, he focused on the closed doors, willing the elevator to arrive.

“Uzi?”

He twisted his neck. Dressed in a suit and high heels, Leila had one foot inside the apartment and one in the hallway, a bulging Hefty bag in her hands and the door resting against her buttock. She put the garbage down in the middle of the threshold, then started toward him.

He turned his body fully toward her, regretting the question he knew would be on her lips.

“What are you doing here?”

And there it was. “I thought I’d stop by, surprise you,” he said, taking the honest approach.

“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” she said, looking back at the door as if the glance would explain why it hadn’t worked.

“Did you eat?” he asked.

“I just got home,” she said. She took another few steps toward him, her long legs grabbing his eyes and refusing to let go. “I was going to cook up some eggplant parmigiana. Why don’t you stay, have some with me?”

He stood there, his feet riveted to the ground as if stuck in cement. The arriving elevator dinged. He turned his head to look, but before he could make a move, he felt fingers hook his left elbow, gently urging him forward, toward her apartment.

LEILA CALLED TO UZI to turn on the oven while she changed out of her work clothes. He stood there staring at the digital readout, trying to make sense of the display. He was a whiz with a keyboard or circuit board, but in the kitchen, it was like the intelligence got sucked out of his brain cells. After several failed attempts, he pushed the right buttons and the oven began to heat.

Looking over the LED readout, satisfied he had initiated the preheat process and not a countdown toward a nuclear launch, he let a smile of accomplishment creep across his lips.

He found a bottle of Niebaum-Coppola Estate Merlot and poured two glasses, flashing on the first day when he had met Leila at the crash site. Aloof, unwilling to let him into her life—and now, a warm savior, taking him by the arm and pulling him to safety.

He lifted the wine glasses off the counter, then turned toward the living room. He nearly slammed into Leila, who was right behind him, standing there in a white lace negligee and spiked high heels. Her hair was tousled and she was wearing glitter lip gloss.

Uzi had to fight from losing his grip on the glasses. She leaned forward, between his occupied hands, and let her lips brush his. He could hardly breathe. His chest was tight, the heat from the oven suddenly unbearable.

She reached up to each of his hands, removed the glasses, and placed them on the counter. She then turned and walked out of the kitchen, her buttocks sliding beneath the short negligee, pulling him forward, inviting him to follow.

DAY SIX

6:00 AM

80 hours remaining

Uzi toweled off as he walked toward the living room, leaving Leila to finish showering. The sun was beginning to wake up along with the rest of the district. The evening was past him, the guilt simmering beneath the surface, new fodder for internal conflict. What had been a wonderful night with Leila had turned into “buyer’s remorse” in the morning.

He lifted the phone and dialed Rudnick’s home number. He kept his request short: he needed to talk. With the op scheduled for this evening, he needed to get this off his chest so he could be fully focused on the mission. In the past, he would’ve pushed it out of his mind and stuck it in his emotional closet, shoved back behind boxes and old memories. But if there was one thing his sessions with Rudnick had taught him, it was better to deal with such issues sooner, rather than later, before they morphed into painful, longlasting complications. He thought of the old computer monitors, and how images would get burned into the screen if left there indefinitely. He needed to avoid the burn-in factor.

As he hung up, he became aware of Leila standing behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands reaching down through the towel that draped across his front.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “An appointment.”

She groaned disappointment, but withdrew her hands without protest.

He kissed her lightly on the lips, then moved into the bedroom to dress.

UZI ARRIVED AT Rudnick’s office, his thoughts in greater disarray than his rumpled clothes. He waited outside the doctor’s main entrance, pacing back and forth, absently running both hands through his damp hair. Back doors, secret entrances were no longer a concern.

He was making his third pass when Rudnick exited the elevator, moving as fast as his short legs and arthritic knees would permit. Rudnick cancelled the alarm, then nudged his patient through the door. He flicked on the fluorescent lights and they hummed loudly, as if complaining because they had been called into work earlier than usual.

Rudnick disappeared into a narrow anteroom beside the reception area. “Coffee or tea?”

“Absolution. Got any of that in there?”

Rudnick poked his head out the door. “Got some in here,” he said, an index finger pointing to his temple.

“I sure could use some,” Uzi mumbled. He walked into Rudnick’s treatment room, turned on the doctor’s desk lamp, and studied the books on the shelf:
Caring for the Mind
;
Psychoneuroses
;
Handbook of Dissociative Disorders
;
Relationship Issues;
The Psychology of Living
— Uzi stopped on the last one and was tempted to page through it when Rudnick walked in, a steaming coffee mug in hand.

“If this gets any earlier, I’m going to have to buy a futon to keep in my office.”

“Sorry,” Uzi said. “I’ve got a lot of stuff on my mind and I’ve felt things I haven’t felt in years. Maybe never. I don’t know what to make of it, how to handle it. And I’ve got this important...mission tonight, and I—”

“How about taking a seat. Relax.”

“I can’t, I don’t feel like sitting. I need to...to move around.”

“Okay,” Rudnick said with a lilting voice. “Let’s start with what’s happened since our last visit.”

“It’s Leila. I know we talked about this, but I’m having problems getting past Dena. I keep coming back to her. I don’t know what it is. I mean, there’s guilt, I’ve got that one nailed. But there’s something else. There’s something about Leila. I’m drawn to her and I enjoy being with her, but every time I’m around her I get these visions of Dena.”

“And you don’t think it’s guilt?”

“The guilt hits me at other times, like when I’m thinking about going to see her. But this is different. This happens when I’m with her.”

“The mind is a very complex thing, Uzi. Sensory cues can set off visions, memories that transport us through time and space. Maybe there’s something about her that reminds you of Dena. And those cues are stimulating these memories.”

Uzi stopped pacing for a moment and was standing in front of a wall adorned with a framed lithograph of a late twenties Conde Nast cover. But he was not looking at the print. He was thinking about what Rudnick had said. “That can’t be right, Doc, to be with a beautiful woman and be daydreaming about someone else. That’s not normal.”

“The way we process our senses is not completely understood, Uzi. But we know the brain forms associations with certain sensory memories and imprints them so that when we get a sensory impulse—a scent, a sound, a certain song—the brain references the memory we’ve associated with that sensation. Maybe by unlocking these emotions, you’re discovering all sorts of imprinted sensations you weren’t aware even existed.”

Uzi listened intently to Rudnick’s explanation, paced a bit more, and then stopped. “Maybe.” He found the chair beside him and sat heavily, draping his long arms over the armrests.

“Perhaps we need to explore the concept of guilt more closely. It’s a very powerful emotion. It can motivate or it can suffocate. It can remain beneath the surface, or come to the forefront with such a vengeance that it can affect our ability to socialize. It can permeate every facet of our life, including how we relate to coworkers, friends, significant others.” He waved a hand. “But you didn’t come here for a lecture. It’s best if you do most of the talking.”

Uzi sat there, lost in thought as the seconds passed.

Finally, Rudnick said, “How do you feel about this woman?”

“How do I feel about her?”

“First thing that comes to mind.”

A grin broadened Uzi’s face. “You don’t want to know the first thing that comes to my mind.”

Rudnick raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Okay. So there’s a sexual component to your feelings. Completely understandable.”

“I find myself thinking about her. I want to be with her. My heart aches when I want to be with her, and can’t. Is that ridiculous or what? I mean, how can a heart ache? But it does...”

Rudnick leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Uzi, the heart can ache. With pleasure as well as with pain.” He seemed to be waiting for Uzi to continue. “I think this all comes back to letting go of emotional ties to your past. Not the memories. The emotional baggage. Including the guilt.”

Uzi pulled a wrapped toothpick from his pocket, fiddled with the plastic and finally poked the point through. He leaned forward, gathered himself, and rose from the chair. “Thanks, Doc. I’ve got a lot of shit to take care of and very little time. But I’ll work on it.”

“I’m serious.”

Uzi stuck the toothpick in his mouth. “So am I.”

10:33 AM

75 hours 27 minutes remaining

Uzi met with his task force group heads and exchanged information on what each was working on and where it was leading. He had other meetings and briefings scheduled for this afternoon, but while there were various theories and angles being pursued, there was little in the way of evidence or leads that could be considered “promising.”

He explained to them their investigation was being closely watched by many heads of state, the president, their own director, the director of Central Intelligence, the attorney general, and the director of Homeland Security. Though he was stating the obvious, hearing the stress in his voice would hopefully make
them
feel the pressure
he
felt.

When he returned to his office, Madeline informed him that he had a call holding.

“Who?” he asked as he settled in behind his desk.

“Supervisory Special Agent Garza.”

The mention of Garza’s name caused a flurry of mixed emotions as Uzi reached for the phone.
Is the guy going to help me, or scold me again for ratting out his buddy?

Uzi hit the line button and leaned back in his chair. “Uzi.”

“We need to talk,” Garza said. “Off-site. How about Union Station in twenty minutes?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Stuff. Stuff we discussed yesterday. I need to ask you some questions.”

Uzi looked at his desk, littered by a stack of unreturned messages and a running list of emails. Still, Garza would not have called him if it wasn’t important. He set a specific place to meet, grabbed his coat from the corner stand, and minutes later was leaving the parking garage.

UNION STATION WAS an intriguing architectural marvel: old-world charm melded with the sleek lines of high-tech design and function.

Uzi made his way up the ornate staircase to the second level, sauntered over to the Ann Ricard boutique, and pretended to browse the window. He figured a male wouldn’t look out of place standing in front of a storefront casually perusing female lingerie, but when his eye caught the one in white lace, he flashed on Leila, and his emotions were off and running again.

He realized he was staring when he suddenly became aware of the warmth of someone’s body standing beside him.

“A guy looks hard-up when he stands in front of a storefront staring at lady’s lingerie.”

Garza’s voice was like an alarm clock blaring at five
AM
.

“I wasn’t... I’m not—” Uzi turned and saw that Garza was sporting a large grin. Uzi relaxed and smiled as well. They turned away from the window and fell into step with the mass of travelers scurrying along the walkway.

“I’ve been thinking about Bishop,” Garza said. His head bobbed from side to side as he shoved his hands into his suit pant pockets.

Uzi watched Garza go through his gyrations and figured he was performing casual surveillance of his surroundings, ensuring no one had followed either of them. His movements made Uzi suddenly paranoid.

“I was trying to make sense of his murder,” Garza continued. “I mean, on the surface, it seems obvious someone affiliated with that organization he was tracking was responsible.” His head rotated some more, glancing from left to right and then back behind them. “But things don’t add up. I was wondering if you were involved somehow.”

Uzi slowed his pace, causing Garza to take a few steps forward before matching Uzi’s smaller strides. “You called me here to ask if I was involved in Bishop’s murder?”

“No, no,” Garza said, motioning with his hands for Uzi to keep it down. “I mean, did anyone else on your team know what Bishop was looking into?”

“Just Agent Koh, you spoke to her a few days ago—”

“Other than Agent Koh.”

Uzi continued striding in silence. He couldn’t think of anyone else he had told about Bishop. Had he mentioned Bishop to DeSantos before the night they went to meet him? He couldn’t remember. “Why would you assume I’m the link? There could be a shitload of other people Bishop had told. Colleagues, employees—”

“He had no employees, and he was a paranoid shit who didn’t trust his mother. If he talked to you about it, he must’ve felt he needed some help.” Garza stopped in front of an ice cream stand and glanced into the display case. “Rum Raisin,” he said to the vendor.

Uzi was thinking about what Garza had said when he noticed the man looking at him, waiting for his order. “Uh, mocha chip. Small.”

While the man went to work digging his scoop into the tub of ice cream, Uzi turned his back to the glass counter and watched the commuters shuffle past. Across the way, a crowd of school kids was being corralled by their teacher, who was using her arms to herd them against the far wall. The girls cooperated, but a group of boys preferred to continue goofing off, grabbing each other’s gloves and hoods. The teacher dropped her arms, tilted her head in anger, and moved into the epicenter of her frustration to separate the boys.

“My informant tells me he overheard something,” Garza said. “I don’t have any specifics, but I thought you should know your name came up.”

“My name?”

“This person doesn’t know you, probably doesn’t even know you exist. Said he heard the name ‘Uzi,’ and I got to thinking, there aren’t too many people with that name.”

“In case you didn’t realize it, there’s a very popular submachine gun—”

“It was in the context of a person—an agent, not a weapon.”

Uzi took the cones from the vendor and faced Garza. “Your contact?”

“Someone on the inside. That’s all I can say.”

Uzi licked away a dollop of mocha chip perched on the cone’s edge. “On the inside? Inside of what? What the hell does that mean?”

Garza took a bite of his ice cream.

“You’re supposed to lick it,” Uzi said.

“I bite mine, you mind?” Garza took another mouthful as they moved off into the crowd again. The teacher had gotten her group sorted out and was moving them off in single file.

“Anyway,” Garza said, “I just thought you should be aware of things, people around you. People close to you.”

Is Garza trying to tell me something? People close to me. Shepard?
With the weird things going on, with what DeSantos and Knox had asked of him, his relationship with Shepard felt strained. But his friend, mixed up in a plot to assassinate citizens? On the other hand, Knox and his cadre...

He became aware of Garza again doing his surveillance scans of the area as they neared a bookstore at the end of the station. Could DeSantos be involved in an assassination plot? He had participated in numerous black ops for just that purpose. But all were carefully orchestrated missions on foreign turf to take out rogue leaders, dictators, or terrorists—people who had designs on killing others, or whose purpose was to harm America, her citizens, or allies. Carrying out targeted hits on US soil was unheard of, even for his group of operatives.

That aside, why would DeSantos want Bishop dead? And how did the NFA/Rathbone/Knox connection figure into this? How much could he tell Garza, and how far could he trust him?

“I need to know more about your contact,” Uzi said.

“Can’t. Not without jeopardizing his life and others around him.”

Uzi’s cone had begun to melt, so he lopped off a coagulating hunk with his teeth.

“I thought you’re not supposed to bite ice cream.”

“You’re not giving me much to go on. How can I take this seriously when I don’t know the source? You’re passing on unconfirmed hearsay and expecting me to accept it as fact.”