Hard Target (43 page)

THEY LAY IN THE HOT WATER, candles flickering around them, their glasses of Zinfandel—and the empty bottle—sitting precariously on the tub edge. Leila spread oil across his shoulders and rubbed, working out the knots with her strong thumbs.

“You’re a mess,” she said. “Even after the wine...”

“I didn’t take this job because it was dull and boring. Stress comes with the territory. I’m sure it’s the same with you.” He thought of telling her about Nuri Peled’s death, but as quickly as it leapt into his consciousness, he shoved it aside. He didn’t want anything spoiling the moment.

“I know how to ease the tension. It usually works really well. Want to know my secret?”

Eyes closed, he absorbed the kneading relief of her hands. “You’re killing me with the suspense.”

“Yoga. Yoga is the key.”

“Yoga.”

“And meditation.”

Uzi reached over and lifted the wine glass to his lips. “Yoga and meditation. Good to know.”

“I’m serious. Have you ever tried them? I can teach you some moves.”

“I can think of some other moves I’d like you to teach me.”

She leaned forward, her chest resting against his back, as she drew her arms around to his front. “Are you ready? Here’s the first one.”

UZI AWOKE AT 11:20 and reached for his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed any important texts or emails. It wasn’t in his pocket or coat—but he had to pee badly, so he ran into the adjacent bathroom. On returning, he checked his jacket again—and noticed Leila stirring. He gave her a peck on the lips and she looked up at him, then smiled.

He knelt beside her, took her warm hand, and smiled back. “I didn’t think I’d find happiness again,” he said. “I figured I’d be alone the rest of my life.”

“The pain must be unbearable, constantly thinking about your wife and daughter.”

Uzi nearly jerked backwards. “Yes.” How could such a heavenly moment come crashing down to reality so fast? “Unbearable.” He could feel tears welling up in his eyes.
Shit. Why’d she have to bring that up?

“You okay? Did I upset you?”

“No,” he said. He remembered his phone, and needing a diversion before he started bawling, said, “Can’t find my phone. Must’ve left it in the car. If anyone’s trying to reach me...” He leaned on the bed and pushed himself off the floor.

“You’re coming back?”

“Of course,” Uzi said as he pulled on his pants. He slipped on his V-neck sweater, then grabbed his jacket and headed out.

His ride down to the first floor seemed to take longer than usual: alone with his thoughts, the guilt burrowed into his gut. Making such a precipitate emotional descent left him feeling like he was skydiving without a parachute.

He wiped the tears from his eyes as he stepped out of the elevator, then walked to the concierge’s desk, where Jiri was reading a magazine.

“Mr. Uzi, is everything good?”

“Everything’s fine. I think I left my phone in the car.”

“Alec went to move it. Limo coming with the Chilean ambassador. We need the front curb open.” Jiri craned his head to peer out the large windows that fronted the street. “You might catch him soon. He just leave.”

Uzi turned toward the ornate lobby and took off toward the front doors, sidestepping the overstuffed chairs and sofa. “Thanks,” he yelled over his shoulder.

If Alec drove off before Uzi could reach the car, he’d have to wait till the doorman parked the car and made his way back to the lobby through the parking structure on the other side of the enormous building. Then Uzi would have to get his keys, find his Tahoe, and retrieve the phone. This late at night, in his current frame of mind, he was not in the mood to go searching through a parking garage. He cursed himself for leaving it in the car. He shouldn’t be out of touch.

As Uzi ascended the three steps to the canopied street-level entryway, he saw Alec in the Tahoe’s driver’s seat as the door closed and the glow of the dome light went out.

But before Uzi could take another step, a searing fireball exploded upward and outward. Heat slammed against his face, the blowback throwing him to the pavement like a rag doll. Metal and rubber flew past him. He curled into a fetal position and buried his head, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His brain was sluggish, his hearing muffled by the blast.

He felt someone grabbing his arms, dragging him along the rough brick, the heels of his boots scraping and kicking up with the jagged surface, bouncing down the three steps, and across a threshold.

The helping hands then dropped his arms. Cool air breezed across his face. Uzi looked up and saw the high, taupe ceiling of the lobby. His senses started to come back to him. He fought dizziness and rose to his knees, using the large, adjacent flower pot for leverage and support.

He touched his face, felt something thick and slippery, and immediately identified it as blood when he saw his smeared hand. The elevator doors opened and Leila came running out. She looked to her right, out the large windows, and saw the still-burning Tahoe. Uzi’s vision was slightly blurred, and he wasn’t ready to venture the few steps toward her, but at the moment all he wanted to do was run to her arms. He needed something—support? Confirmation that he was still alive? He wasn’t sure what it was, but he reached out to her with his left hand while leaning his full weight on the flower pot.

She was still staring out the window, watching the car burn. Why wasn’t she coming?

“Leila,” he managed. “Leila—”

She turned and saw him, confusion crumpling her face. “Uzi! Oh, my God!” She ran toward him, grabbed his body and hugged him tight. “What happened— Are you all right?”

“Car bomb,” he said. “I’m...okay. I’m alive.” He looked at her eyes. “I am alive...aren’t I?”

“I’m calling an ambulance. Come, sit down on the couch.”

She disappeared behind Jiri’s concierge desk. Uzi heard her talking, reporting the incident. A moment later, she was back at his side. When she sat down, her weight tilted the couch cushion toward her body. He started to fall into her, then stuck out his hand to steady himself. “Just a little off balance.”

“Ambulance is on the way. I paged Shepard, too. We’ll get you taken care of, don’t worry.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE FINE,” the paramedic said. “You’ve got a minor concussion, but you’ll recover fully. Meantime, you might have some headaches and dizziness. If there’s someone who can wake you every couple of hours, check your pupils, just to make sure—”

“I’ve got it covered.” The voice came from behind him. Uzi turned and saw his partner standing there.

“Santa, glad you could make it.”

“C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Uzi was feeling better—not as weak, his mind clearer, his hearing more distinct. “Where’s Leila?”

“Outside, briefing Shepard.”

“I should say good-bye—”

“I already took care of it.”

“You? No, let me—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But what about Shepard? I should check in—”

“No.” DeSantos’s grip on Uzi’s arm was suddenly firm. “Come on.”

UZI FOLLOWED DESANTOS into the garage, where a large black limousine was parked.

“Where’s your ’vette?”

“You’re lucid now, that’s a good sign.” DeSantos nodded at the limo. “This is our ride.”

Uzi glanced at his partner seeking an explanation.

“Get in. There’s someone inside who wants to talk with you.”

Uzi tilted his head. DeSantos opened the door and nodded at the backseat. DeSantos followed Uzi inside, then shut the door. The driver accelerated, headed for the exit.

Uzi could make out a large figure sitting several feet in front of him, and another, broad-shouldered figure to the man’s right. With the tinted windows and darkness of the garage, he couldn’t see anything else.

The electronic door locks clicked. “Am I supposed to guess who’s in the car with us?”

“You should tell him, Mr. DeSantos. He’s not smart enough to figure it out.”

Had he not just been blown ten feet by a car bomb, he would’ve exploded across the car’s interior and pounced on the man.

Uzi knew the voice. Though he wished otherwise, it was one he would never forget.

DAY NINE

12:04 AM

13 hours 56 minutes remaining

Uzi turned to DeSantos, anger battling the fog clouding his thoughts. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“He’s come to help.”

“Bullshit. That man doesn’t help me, Santa.”

DeSantos pressed a button on the panel to his left and three interior lights came on. One, a ceiling-mounted halogen above the visitor’s head, threw harsh shadows across the face of Mossad Director General Gideon Aksel. With coarse skin and stubby but strong arms and legs, Aksel was built more like a truck than a human, the years of battle-hardened maneuvers from numerous war fronts wearing on him like the bleaching effects of the sun on an abandoned car’s hood.

“You were my best kidon, Uzi, and you threw everything away. First your family, then your career, then your life.”

Uzi started to charge forward, but DeSantos grabbed him and threw him back into the seat. Aksel remained still, his face impassive.

Uzi struggled a moment, then relented. “Fuck you, Gideon!”

Aksel folded his thick hands across his lap. “Go ahead, let it out, if it’ll make you feel better. Who knows, maybe you’ve done good things for the FBI. Then again, maybe not.”

“Enough,” DeSantos said. “Uzi’s one of the Bureau’s top agents, Director General.”

Aksel turned away, waving at the air with a dismissive hand.

Surrounded by Iran, Libya, and Syria—with Hezbollah and Hamas a constant threat and Egypt’s government under pressure—Israel’s survival was dependent on an effective Mossad. And Gideon Aksel had adeptly restored the agency’s tarnished reputation; no one was more aware of this than Uzi.

Still, after Uzi’s personal tragedy, Aksel moved swiftly to dismiss him, to disgrace him publicly for causing the debacle that left his family dead. Right or wrong, Uzi felt it shouldn’t have been made public—and it certainly was not something Uzi needed when he himself had been so close to the edge.

“This man has no business being trusted with things of importance to national security,” Aksel said.

“I don’t have to take this, Santa.” Uzi looked toward the front of the limo. “Let me off,” he shouted in the direction of the driver.

“Yes,” Aksel said, “run away again—”

“I didn’t run away, Gideon. I made a mistake. I blew it. I just thought we should’ve given Ahmed a chance to explain. I was wrong.”

Aksel’s brow hardened. “It’s taken you six years to admit it.”

Uzi looked away. “All that killing. On both sides. Maybe we should’ve given the Palestinians what they wanted.”

“You have a short memory,” Aksel said. He leaned forward in his seat. “We offered them almost everything. Everything. Arafat said no. Because he wasn’t interested in the West Bank and Gaza. He wanted the entire state of Israel, and that was never going to happen.”

“Maybe if we’d given them something, as a show of good faith—”

“Good faith?” Aksel pulled out his smartphone and began stabbing at it with a thick index finger. “We gave them a police force and armed them. They used the weapons against us. We gave them infrastructure, and they used it to build bombs to attack our people. We pulled out of Gaza and turned over the entire territory. We said, ‘Here, it’s yours.’ What have they done? They’ve fired six thousand rockets and four thousand mortars at our homes and schools.”

He turned his phone toward Uzi. “Look at the photo, Uzi. A kindergarten classroom destroyed by a Grad rocket.” He swiped his finger and another image appeared. “A school bus, struck by a missile. They target our children and families.” Aksel’s face was blood red, engorged veins pushing from his temples. “Look at it. Don’t turn away!”

Uzi, gazing at his feet, said, “The problem is with the terrorists, Gideon, not the Palestinian people.”

“Of course. But Hamas was an
elected
government, by the people.” Aksel sat back. “Even if you’re right, do you honestly think giving them land and calling them a country will make the terrorists go away? It won’t, for one simple reason: they refuse to recognize Israel’s right to exist. They refuse to recognize it as the Jewish state. Their goal isn’t just to have their own country. It’s to have
all
of Israel for themselves.”

Uzi looked out the black window, at his own reflection.

“With all due respect,” DeSantos said, “that’s not their official position.”

“Of course not,” Aksel said. “Their PR people and negotiators say one thing to the world, but their leaders tell a different story to their people. Uzi, you’ve seen the secretly recorded videos in Arabic. You know this is true.”

Yes, I’ve seen them. But...
Uzi turned back to Aksel. “Something should’ve been done. I don’t know what. But something. All these years...all the killings...all the terrorist attacks. If I had to pick up flesh and body parts off the street one more time—”

“Israel has made concessions all her life to get peace,” Aksel said. “We gave away the Sinai to Egypt. I was part of that negotiation team. And it was the right thing to do because Sadat was an honest broker. We had lasting peace for forty years. It takes a viable partner to make peace. Real peace. We didn’t have that in Arafat. And we certainly don’t have that in Hamas.” He faced DeSantos. “Do you know the Golda Meier quote, Mr. DeSantos?”

DeSantos shifted uncomfortably. “Which one are you referring to?”

“She said, ‘We will have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.’ They strapped bombs to their children and called them martyrs.” He swung his gaze back to Uzi. “They blew up their children, Uzi. Where do you think that leaves
us
?”

Uzi closed his eyes.
I can’t deal with this now.

“Living in America has made you soft,” Aksel said. “Poisoned your thinking.”

“It’s given me distance. Sometimes we get caught in a never-ending cycle and we can’t break it.”

“Have you forgotten what the terrorists did to your family?”

Uzi ground his molars. “I’ll never forget. It’s with me every waking moment. I can’t go anywhere without seeing my daughter’s face, smelling my wife’s perfume. You think the terror ended that day six years ago? That was just the beginning, Gideon. The pain is forever. My life’s been a torture all its own. So don’t you dare lecture me on getting soft.”

“Then I’ve got some more pain for you,” Aksel said, his eyes dark and penetrating. “You’ve put your government at risk. Again.”

“Director General,” DeSantos said, holding up a hand. “Please. Let me.” DeSantos received a stiff upper lip and a slight dip of the chin in response.

DeSantos turned to Uzi, his eyes searching his partner’s face. “I’ve got some bad news, and I really wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you. But I’d rather it be me than him.” DeSantos nodded in Aksel’s direction.

“Tell me what?”

“Man...” He looked to his right, out the limo’s window. “It’s about Leila.”

“C’mon, Santa. Just tell me. What about her?”

“Part of it is my fault. I didn’t do my job, I just saw what I saw and accepted it. And for that, I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. DeSantos.” Aksel leaned forward. “Your girlfriend is a terrorist with al-Humat. She’s Palestinian.”

12:24 AM

13 hours 36 minutes remaining

Uzi’s mouth was agape as he looked from Aksel to DeSantos. Then he began to laugh. “Who put you up to this, Santa? Did he convince you this would be funny? We’ll it’s not, man, it’s not. I finally find some happiness.... It’s goddamn disgusting is what it is. I almost get fucking blown up tonight, and you lay this shit on me? Fucking joke, that’s all it is.”

Uzi grabbed his temples with both hands. His greatest fears seemed to be materializing right before him.
Was DeSantos working against me all this time?
“This is retaliation for going after Knox, isn’t it?” He began to rock back and forth on the leather car seat. “Some kind of payback, that’s what it is. Are you playing me? Who are you working for?”

“Uzi, I know it’s a lot to absorb, and I really am sorry. If I’d done my homework on Leila that first day, I might’ve realized something wasn’t right. But I just didn’t see it. My buddy told me she’s with the Agency. And he was right. She
is
with the CIA.”

“It’s all a lie,” Uzi said, his face still down, his head clamped between his hands. “She’s Jewish, her brother was in the IDF, he was killed by Hamas.”
And she’s got Havdalah candles in her apartment...
“Gideon, why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“She runs a sleeper cell for al-Humat,” DeSantos said softly.

Uzi cringed. Al-Humat. The irony was not lost on him. The group whose name means “The Protectors” murdered his wife and daughter, the people
he
failed to protect.

“They get funding through a complex series of innocuous trusts,” Aksel said, “that much we know. We’ve been watching al-Humat for a decade, and we know they’re affiliated with al-Qaeda. But it wasn’t until a few days ago that we discovered they had active cells in the US.”

“Nuri was tracking them, too,” Uzi said, his voice weak.

“Nuri?” Aksel looked from Uzi to DeSantos and back. “Nuri Peled?”

Uzi set both elbows on his knees and bent over, palms massaging his forehead. “He was found dead, a little over twelve hours ago. Staged to look like suicide. He was looking into a rumor that a new sleeper had set down roots here. It got him killed.”

Aksel sat back, affected by this news, but absorbing it. “He wasn’t working for us.”

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Aksel continued. “Your girlfriend might have been the one who killed him.”

“No,” Uzi said, his head still down, like a child who doesn’t want to hear what his parent is telling him. Cover your eyes and ears and it won’t be so. “She’s a CIA counterterrorism expert. She’s on my task force. Shepard assigned her, she’s on my task force,” he said, as if stubborn insistence made it true. “She works for the CIA, Gideon. They would’ve vetted her. They couldn’t have missed that, not something like that, not after 9/11.” He lifted his head. His face was hot and his eyes felt swollen with tears.

“There’s a lot we still don’t know,” DeSantos said. “But we’re telling you the truth, Uzi. I can’t speak for the director general, but I’ve got no agenda. I’m not trying to hurt you. But your feelings aren’t what’s at issue here. It’s Leila—”

“Batula Hakim,” Aksel said. “Her name is Batula Hakim.”

Uzi’s head snapped to Aksel. “What? I know what Batula Hakim looks like, Gideon. I memorized every angle of her evil face. Leila Harel is not Batula Hakim.” He turned to DeSantos. “Have you confirmed any of this with the Agency? I mean, how sure are you of this?”

“We have to be very careful. I’ve spoken with Director Tasset, no one else. If she is a mole, we don’t know who else has slipped under our radar. These people are very good.”

“My God, Santa... Do you realize what this means?”

“Yeah. And I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Uzi looked at Aksel. “You didn’t tell him, Gideon?”

Aksel looked away.

Uzi ran his fingers through his hair, then let his head fall back against the seat. “This can’t be. It’s gotta be a mistake.”

DeSantos’s gaze ping-ponged between Aksel and Uzi. “What is it? What’s the problem?”

Uzi closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Batula Hakim is the terrorist bastard that murdered my wife and daughter.”

12:30 AM

13 hours 30 minutes remaining

The wide eyes, the parted lips told Uzi that DeSantos’s shock was genuine. His partner didn’t know—if it was true—that Leila was the woman who’d murdered Dena and Maya.

That this could be the case was too horrific for Uzi to bear. Not now, not tonight. Not with all that had happened. He didn’t know when he would be able to deal with such a thing. At the moment, he had to focus, remove all emotion from the equation—something he didn’t do six years ago. The event that had set all this in motion.

He had to clear his head. He had to think.

He asked the first question that came to mind. “Why has she suddenly surfaced?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Aksel said. “Why now, why here?”

Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “She’s involved with Rusch’s chopper,” DeSantos said. “Has to be. Her cell takes it down, then she inserts herself into the investigation. That way she can keep an eye on what’s going on, know what we know.”

“It’s your job to turn the tables on her,” Aksel said. “You must find out what she knows. She’s a terrorist. To know what she’s after, you have to think like she does.”

“We have to figure out what her interests are,” DeSantos said.

Uzi reached into his jacket for a toothpick, then struggled to rip it from its plastic. After sticking it in his mouth, he said, “Assuming she is who you think she is, we know the groups she’s affiliated with. Their views are the same as most Islamic terrorist groups—” He stopped himself, the sudden realization like a knife wound to the lung:
The peace talks, the covert meeting tomorrow—no, today. Shit, it’s today.

“You need someone else on the case,” Aksel said to DeSantos.

Uzi’s face tingled as if he’d just been slapped. “I’m on the case, Gideon. In fact, I’m the one in charge.”

“And you’re the one who failed. Hakim was operating a cell right under your nose, and you didn’t pick it up. Ultimate responsibility falls on your shoulders, Uzi.”

DeSantos’s face tightened. “With all due respect, that’s ridiculous, Director General. There’s over a hundred joint terrorism task forces across the country—tens of thousands of intelligence agents in the US alone. None of them picked it up. It isn’t one person’s failure any more than 9/11 was.”

Despite DeSantos’s attempt to defend him, Uzi realized that Aksel was right. There are 104 JTTFs, but only one in Washington—clearly a center of activity for al-Humat, possibly even their US base. In his own backyard, and he failed to see it.

“He’s right,” Uzi said. He looked out the window. The limo was stopped at a light on 23rd, approaching L Street. Uzi knew exactly where he was. He popped open the door and got out.