Hard Target (44 page)

“UZI, WAIT—” DESANTOS FOLLOWED HIM out of the limo. “C’mon, man, he’s just playing head games with you. You can’t bear the weight of all this on your shoulders.”

Uzi stopped but did not turn around. He felt like he was in another session with Rudnick—which, he was beginning to think, would not be a bad place to be right now.

“Boychick, listen to me.” He gently pulled on Uzi’s shoulder, then stepped in front of him. “Leila had the ultimate cover story. Working for the fucking CIA, for Christ’s sake. No one would’ve thought to look there.”

“But fourteen people died because of my failure to see it. Another mother and daughter are dead because of me—”

DeSantos grabbed Uzi’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Uzi, listen to me. None of this is your fault. If anything, Tasset has to take responsibility. His agency is the one that hired her. They should’ve vetted her better.”

Uzi chuckled. “Yeah, we both know that’s foolproof. Look at me.”

“Except that in your case, Knox knew who you were.”

“If he knew from the beginning, why didn’t Shepard?”

DeSantos let go of Uzi’s shoulders and looked off at the building behind them. “I don’t know. Knox has a reason. He’s always got a reason.”

“Maybe he figured I’d bring info with me that’d help in flushing out these groups. If that’s what he was thinking, if that’s what he was after, then I obviously let him down.”

“Uzi....” DeSantos looked at the ground, then rubbed at his forehead. “Batula Hakim is here, right? She murdered your wife and daughter, right?”

Uzi looked away, then nodded.

“You have an opportunity here to even the score. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I’m not a kidon anymore. I’m not part of Mossad. I’m not on a mission to eliminate a terrorist who’s planning a massive strike on civilians.” He thrust his hands into his jacket pocket. “When I went on a mission, it was never personal. I had no stake in the outcome other than to do my job. I work for the US government now. I’m a federal agent.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I can’t just go out and...eliminate her.”

“Yeah, but I can.” DeSantos’s voice matched Uzi’s timbre. “I can arrange for her to go away.” His eyes patrolled the dark recesses of the narrow commercial street.

Uzi did not hesitate. “No. We do it the right way. Gather evidence, make an arrest.”

“You sure?”

Uzi nodded. “I’m not a killer, Santa. With the Mossad, I was a soldier in a war, with a mission to save lives. I’m on the other side of the world now. Different job, different life.”

“But my job lets me settle the score for you.”

Uzi shook his head. “We arrest her.”

DeSantos shrugged. “Okay. Your call.” He indicated the idling limo. “Let’s get back.”

As they turned toward the vehicle, which had pulled over to a curbside loading zone, they saw Aksel standing beside the open rear door, his head rotating slowly in all directions.

“We stopped without warning,” DeSantos said to Aksel. “No one could know we’re here.”

Aksel turned to Uzi. “Did you get your issues settled? Do you feel better now?”

“Don’t start with me, Gideon.”

“We’ll be doing this by the book,” DeSantos said.

Uzi stepped closer to Aksel. “Just how sure are you that Leila Harel is Batula Hakim? Her physical appearance—”

“Is somewhat different.” Aksel smiled. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? When you saw a surveillance photo of her eight or nine years ago, she was a nineteen-year-old living in the backrooms of a terrorist lair. Tents, sleeping bags. But her body’s matured. She lost weight, works out, wears makeup and tight dresses with high heels. She’s had plastic surgery and uses her tradecraft well. She may be a terrorist, but she’s a professional.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” DeSantos said. “We know the type.” He looked at Uzi and received an acknowledging glance.

“You didn’t answer my question, Gideon. Just how positive is your ID? Confirmed by fingerprints, facial recognition, functional gait—”

“Intel,” Gideon said.

Uzi tilted his head. “Intel? A CI?”

“Reliable intel,” Aksel said firmly.

DeSantos brought a hand up to his eyes.

Uzi bit down on his toothpick and snapped it in half. He spit the fragments out and said, “So you’re not even sure it’s her. Who’s doing sloppy intelligence now?” He turned around and began to pace. “How dare you come here and tell me this story—turn my life upside down again—without absolute proof? What if we move against her and you’re wrong?”

DeSantos let his hand fall to his side. “You told me you were sure, Director General.”

Aksel’s jaw muscles clenched. “Leila Harel is Batula Hakim.” His eyes were hard and cold. “You do what you want with this information. If you don’t believe it, do your own analysis. Just make it fast.”

Uzi noted the hard stare shared by both men, and then it clicked. “You wanted Hector to take her out. Because kidons don’t operate on US soil.” Uzi turned to his partner. “And you were going to do his bidding. No matter what I wanted—”

“No, Uzi. I mean, yes. At first. Knox said—”

“Knox?”

DeSantos held up a hand. “It’s not what you think.” He took Uzi’s left arm and ushered him away. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Director General, the longer we’re out here in the open, the more vulnerable we are. Please, get in the car. We’ll join you in a moment.”

DeSantos led Uzi toward a landscaped planter in front of Ris, an upscale restaurant at the corner of 23rd and L. They stopped by a line of covered patio tables, dark with inactivity.

“You asked me to help you arrest her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But if Knox—”

“I’ll deal with Knox.”

“If we’re going to arrest her,” Uzi said, “we’ll need evidence...at least a positive ID.”

“Good news is there’s a simple solution to this problem,” DeSantos said with a shrug. “We get a positive ID.”

Uzi extended his fist, and DeSantos touched it with his own.

1:56 AM

12 hours 4 minutes remaining

After the limo departed, Uzi sat on the curb, mentally spent. Angry, confused, frustrated—but despite his efforts to shove his emotions aside, they kept forcing their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

Finally, at nearly two in the morning, he began making his way from 23rd and L toward the Hamilton House. The brisk air gave him a chance to clear his mind and regain some lucidity. As he headed down New Hampshire Avenue, the apartment building rose from the asphalt like a block-long monolith, partially obscured by a dozen trees. A series of Metro Police barricades and warning lights were arrayed across both lanes, blocking the street. The crime-scene techs had finished their analysis of the blast site and the crowd had dispersed.

He felt naked without his tricked-out smartphone. But it was now history, so much cinder and ashes. He found one of the few remaining pay phones a couple of blocks away and accessed his voicemail. He paged through the thirteen messages, hoping to get an eleventh-hour handle on his investigation. There was one from Hoshi, left only ninety minutes ago. She was heading home, hoping to grab a few hours’ rest. Because of the approaching deadline—since it was now past midnight, “D-day” was technically today—she urged him to call her as soon as he retrieved the message.

He dug more quarters from his pocket and dialed the number. Hoshi was in a dreamy half-sleep, but had enough wits to be oriented as to time and place. “I take it this line isn’t secure.”

Uzi nearly laughed. “Not even close.”

“Okay.” She grunted as if pushing herself into a seated position. “Phish and Mason said Danny Carlson called you twice, once on the tenth, lasting two minutes—remember, they round up—”

“Just one, Hoshi, he only called me once. The tenth sounds about right.”

“There’s also an outgoing call on the fifteenth, lasting only a minute.”

“When yesterday? I never spoke to him.”

“Best they could tell, he called you shortly before he was killed.”

Uzi did the math.
Son of a bitch. He called while I was in jail.
“He might’ve left a voicemail.” Uzi knew that cell service was notoriously unreliable, and sometimes the message notification didn’t buzz back to his phone for days. “Have Phish and Mason look into it. Give them my password and find out if he left a message, and if he did, what it was. Tell them to coordinate with DeSantos. I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

“Occupied?”

“Occupied. We’ve only got about twelve hours, Hoshi. Go back to the office. I’ll check in with you later.”

He hung up and headed back to Hamilton House. Across the street were large brick-and-stone Victorian-style homes, where he would set up camp. As he passed in front of the apartment building, his eyes scanned the crime-scene-taped area.

Remaining across the street from Hamilton House, Uzi sat on the concrete steps beside a brick column. He wrapped his scarred leather jacket around his body and leaned his elbows on his knees. Through the barren trees—the ones that survived the fiery blast—he could see the dark window of Leila’s apartment. On the walk over, he’d decided to continue thinking of Batula Hakim as Leila Harel—at least for now—because if he encountered her, he didn’t want it slipping that he knew her real name.

If Gideon Aksel was correct.

The thing that gnawed at Uzi was that he had never known Aksel to be wrong. That’s why he had been so successful as director general. He weighed facts and made informed judgments. But he always seemed to have such damn good facts. And if Gideon was right about Leila being Hakim, he was wasting his time with this exercise. Still, aside from law enforcement protocols, for his own peace of mind, he needed to know—quickly—if she was Hakim. He could then move forward...with the investigation, and with his life.

While he wanted to believe that meeting her was pure chance, at a crash site on a random event, he now knew that if she was Hakim, everything had happened by design. She played him like a skilled flautist coaxing music from a rusty flute. He bowed his head out of disgust. Gideon was right. Shame on him that he could be suckered so easily. That he’d let his guard down. That he hadn’t done his job properly six years ago.

The time passed slowly. He almost dozed twice—and was tempted to grab a little shuteye because it was three o’clock in the morning and a prime rule of covert ops was that you took short naps at odd moments, whenever it was safe. He doubted he was in danger sitting where he was. Even before Dena’s death, he was a light sleeper. He’d learned the skill when in training for Mossad. Under normal circumstances, if anyone came within twenty feet of him, it would awaken him.

But with a concussion and the recent physical and emotional stress, he couldn’t risk falling into a deep sleep, putting himself in danger and missing his window of opportunity.

Across the street, as he watched the lighted traffic cones flash rhythmically on and off, his eyes settled on the area where the shattered Tahoe sat only hours ago. In many ways, his damaged psyche was not much different from the SUV: shattered from within, nothing more than a burned-out hulk.

HOPING THAT LEILA WAS either asleep or not returning tonight, he entered through the parking garage, staying clear of the building’s front entrance in case someone had been watching. He took the elevator to the lobby and saw Jiri sitting behind his large marble desk, shoulders slumped and head drooped forward. Uzi thought he was asleep, but as he approached, Jiri looked up. His face brightened a bit but it was clear the man was in a funk.

“I’m sorry about Alec,” Uzi said.

“He was only twenty-six,” Jiri said, his Czech accent thicker than Uzi had noticed in the past. “Always on time, always did good job.” He closed his eyes. “These terrorists are, what do you say, pigs?”

Uzi had other words for them. He placed a reassuring hand on Jiri’s shoulder. “I’ll make you a promise, okay? We’ll catch the person who killed Alec. You have my word.”

Jiri tilted his head in confusion. “You’ll catch...?”

“I’m with the FBI.”

Jiri nodded. “Miss Harel, she took hard drive for the camera. She said they may show person who planted bomb.” He shook his head. “I know her a year and didn’t know she was part of FBI.”

Uzi didn’t bother correcting the concierge. He looked above Jiri’s head at the two black-and-white monitors, one of which was trained on the curbside of the Hamilton House’s entrance. If Leila took the digital recording, she was probably going to erase it using Department of Defense secure deletion algorithms. It was taking a big risk, though, because the responding Metro cops—or someone else from the Bureau—should have inquired about the recording, too. “Anyone else ask you about the surveillance—about the cameras?”

Jiri nodded. “I told them I already give them to Miss Harel. That’s okay, what I said?”

Uzi forced a smile. “Yeah, that was good.” He glanced back at the security monitors.

“Are you okay?” Jiri asked. “I got you away from the fire best I could. Tried to find Alec, but—”

“That was you who pulled me away from the car?” Uzi noted a muted nod from the Czech. “I owe you, man. You ever need help with anything, let me know.” He faked a wide yawn. “Meantime, I’m gonna head upstairs and get some sleep. Can I get the key?”

Jiri lifted his thick body from the stool and reached beneath the desk. He pulled Leila’s apartment key from a drawer and handed it to Uzi.

“Thanks, man. Take some time off. Go for a drive. Clear your head.”

Jiri checked his watch. “Someone supposed to come soon. I go home.”

He gave Jiri’s shoulder a gentle pat, and then headed for the elevator.

THE DOORS PARTED on the eighth floor. Uzi stepped onto the thick carpet and strode slowly toward Leila’s apartment. At three-thirty in the morning, nearly everyone on the floor was asleep. He put his ear to her door and listened. Quiet.

He inserted the key, gave it a slow turn, and then stepped inside. His main objective was to secure a number of items that would contain Leila’s fingerprints—and preferably some DNA—without her becoming suspicious. One of the wine glasses they’d used should contain at least an index or thumb print and saliva. But reaching the kitchen meant crossing in front of the bedroom.