Hard Target (47 page)

7:29 AM

6 hours 31 minutes remaining

As Uzi headed home, he realized the landscape of his case had changed substantially in the past twenty-four hours: he had been sure ARM was behind the helicopter bombing and subsequent murders; the brass casing recovered from Bishop’s crime scene matched the Russian 7.62 round he and DeSantos had pilfered from their compound. That was a pretty damning connection. But if he took a hard, objective look at his “evidence,” all it proved was that the person who assassinated Bishop had access to ARM’s ammo—or their storage shed, or to the same ammo supplier. Or, he was a lone wolf affiliated with the group. After all this time and trouble, Uzi had hoped to have more substance behind his suspicions.

Yet the bombs that took out Fargo and Harmon, and the attempts on Rusch and himself—appeared to be connected. Even though the explosive devices and MO differed, Karen Vail said a bomb was a less traditional assassination tactic. In terms of most probable explanations, it was likely the bombings were all perpetrated by the same group. Who had the most to gain from taking out these people? Was it ARM, in coordination with NFA, the attorney general and... Douglas Knox? All to remove Rusch from power in an attempt to eliminate a staunch gun-control advocate?

Then there was Nuri Peled’s death. Suicide? Not likely. Murder, then— But why, and by whom? The obvious answers could not be overlooked. Even if he’d been taken out by an al-Humat terror cell Peled had discovered, Uzi had no hard link, direct or indirect, to his case.

Perhaps his answers hinged on Leila. This was the question that gnawed deep inside him, the one that demanded resolution if he was to have any peace of mind going forward: Was Leila al-Far in fact Batula Hakim? It appeared not—the fingerprint discrepancy was absolute proof of that—but Aksel’s intelligence was flawless. Unless he was purposely leading Uzi down the wrong path.

But if Leila was Batula Hakim, how would she and al-Humat fit into the equation? Or were they part of another equation—gearing up for an unrelated attack on US soil? The terrorism conference? Or the supposedly secret Israeli-Palestinian peace talks?

If she wasn’t Hakim, the complexion of his case—of everything—would change. He thought back to when he’d first met her. Was it merely coincidence that he had gotten involved with her? After all, he had pursued
her
; she wanted no part of him. Or was that by design? Was she a honey trap to draw him in? A few hours ago, he’d been convinced it had been just that.

Yet again, all he had were mere suspicions, theories without substance. In many respects, a case without evidence.

His years as a Mossad operative came roaring back to him—the unease, the paranoia, the questioning of everyone and everything, of not knowing who you can trust. He was out of practice—if there was one thing Gideon Aksel had said that rang true, it was that living in America had softened him. Uzi did not want to admit it, but he also could not dispute it.

His survival skills had eroded substantially in six years. It was a natural effect of becoming an administrator and investigator rather than a covert assassin. Two different skill sets. Two different lives.

No matter. He needed to tap those rusty instincts and abilities. He needed to be on top of his game. Because the people he was facing were undoubtedly on top of theirs. Several corpses were proof enough.

After parking two blocks from his house, Uzi observed the immediate area, watching for and evaluating stray movement—especially people or cars out of place. Despite the paucity of time left, he reminded himself that patience was a strength. He moved stealthily, blending into his surroundings the way he’d been schooled so many years ago.

Rucksack on his back, he knelt behind a line of bushes and peered about. Convinced it was safe to approach his townhouse, he moved to a planter by the building’s entrance. Well hidden by shrubs, he squatted and withdrew his boot knife. Sticking the tip into the moist soil, he dug around until he located a small plastic container that housed a tiny combination-locked metal case. He dialed in the numbers and pulled open the lid. Inside were three keys: one to his house, one to his Tahoe—which he wouldn’t be needing anymore—and one to his Suzuki motorcycle.

Uzi quickly reburied the container and headed down the block to his bike. Reasoning it was more difficult to plant a bomb on a motorcycle than a car—almost everything was exposed—he moved swiftly, eyes keeping sentry over the street for unexpected movement.

As Uzi neared the corner, he snuck a peak at his watch: 8:10. He undid the rope tie holding the heavy vinyl-coated canvas cover and pulled it off the vehicle. He hadn’t used the beast in two months, but figured it would start.

After a once-over to visually inspect for faux engine parts fashioned from C-4, he unlocked his black M-4 Bell helmet and removed the ski mask he stored beneath the seat. As he pulled both over his head, he thought of the day he’d bought the motorcycle—against the wishes of his parents. His mother eventually caved, saying he could only ride the thing if he wore the best helmet money could buy. He squirreled away cash for three weeks, then bought a top-of-the-line Bell, which he used until he mothballed the bike in his parent’s garage. He gave the helmet to a neighbor’s son who couldn’t afford one—and it ended up saving the teen’s life two weeks later when he collided with a truck.

Uzi unlocked the hardened steel cable, pushed the Suzuki off its stand and rolled it around the corner. He got it going at a decent rate down L Street, then hopped on and started it up. It idled rough, but when he accelerated hard, the engine responded as it had so many times in the past.

Helmet and leather overcoat disguising his identity, he sped away.

8:17 AM

5 hours 43 minutes remaining

Uzi parked his motorcycle a block from Leila’s apartment and peered through a Hensoldt Wetzlar rifle scope—courtesy of the FBI lab—at his former girlfriend’s window. Had she been back? Was she there now, getting ready to leave for work? He had no way of knowing.

As he eyed the garage entrance to his right and the building’s charred and damaged entryway further down the street, he realized Tim Meadows had no way of getting in touch with him if he had awoken and continued analyzing the “evidence.” He pulled the Bureau phone from his pocket: he had only two of five bars of battery life left. And no charger.

Nothing he could do about it. He dialed WFO and asked for Tim Meadows, concerned about having the conversation because he’d have to talk loud due to Meadows’s hearing deficit.

“Nice of you to call,” Meadows said. “I’ve got a good mind to tell you what you’ve put me through—”

“You probably don’t remember because you were so doped up, but I already apologized about the... incident at your house.”

“I’m not talking about that. And I remember everything. Or almost everything. Guess I wouldn’t know if there was something I forgot, if I can’t remember it.”

“Tim—”

“Okay, here’s something you’ll be interested in. Those rolled up pages you gave me— Is this line secure?”

“No, and grab a look at your Caller ID so you’ve got my number. In case you need to reach me.”
For as long as the battery lasts.

“Here’s what I’ve got,” Meadows said. “Though I have to tell you there aren’t many techs who could do an alternative light source on a tightly coiled piece of thin paper. ALS requires—”

“Tim? Here’s the thing: I’m running out of time—and my battery’s running out of juice. So get to the point.”

“Fine. I lifted three phone numbers off the fourth page. I traced all but one. The first was to a computer parts supplier, the second to a White House extension, and the third—”

“White House? Which extension?”

“I don’t know yet. I have to get clearance from the Secret Service for that. I put in a call to the detail’s special agent in charge, but it may be a while before I hear back. It was the middle of the night and I don’t think they considered it a matter of national security. Even though I told them it might be. But—you’re gonna love this—that’s not the best thing.”

“Tim, the battery...”

“Okay, okay. The best thing is this third number. See, it’s not listed anywhere. So I did some digging, and seems the number is for an encrypted mobile phone. Cutting-edge stuff. It’s got some kind of information security software embedded into its commercial TETRA system—”

“More than I need to know. Bottom line: Who’s using it?”

“I was in the middle of figuring that out when you called. Give me another few minutes.”

“Call me back.” Uzi hit End, then rested his right foot on the engine bar of the Suzuki. He sat there trying to figure out who would have access to such a device. Obviously, the military. But why would anyone in the military be associating with ARM? Then he remembered what Ruckhauser had told him: that there were some active-duty members who were sympathetic to the militia cause. Some had pilfered equipment and supplies and passed them on to militias, while others joined the groups when they’d completed their tours.

Ten minutes later, as Uzi sat there tumbling it all through his mind, the phone rang.

“I’ve got a name,” Meadows said. “How about Quentin Larchmont?”

“No way. You sure?”

“Absolutely. Don’t ask me how I got it, because I kind of broke some rules—”

“Keep working on those pages. Get me the call history on that encrypted phone. And call me if you find anything else.” He thought about turning off the handset to conserve battery life, but power cycling the phone used more juice than leaving it on standby.

Uzi shoved the device into his pocket, then twisted the key and revved the motorcycle.

8:49 AM

5 hours 11 minutes remaining

As the morning sky brightened with unexpected sunshine burning through a cloudy haze, Uzi approached the gothically gaudy Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. He parked his Suzuki, pulled off the helmet and ski mask, and fastened them to the bike. He looked in the side-view mirror and attempted to comb his short hair with his fingers. Realizing it wasn’t going to do any good, he walked confidently up to the guard booth on West Executive Avenue. He pulled out his credentials and presented them to the officer. “I need to see the president. Tell him it’s Agent Uzi.”

The Secret Service Uniformed Division police officer raised an eyebrow at the name, wondering if it was a joke, but after inspecting the ID, he nodded, then lifted a phone from the counter. He spoke for a moment, then turned to Uzi, twisting the mouthpiece away from his lips.

“The president will be in the Oval in twenty minutes. Once he’s there—”

“I need to see him now. Tell whoever you’re talking with to tell the president it’s a matter of national security. I’m working under his direct orders.”

“Agent, I’m sorry, but—”

Uzi pointed to the phone. “Just tell him.”

He saw the muscles of the officer’s jaw tense as the man turned back to the phone.

Minutes passed. The officer finally hung up the phone and said, “Someone will be here in a moment to escort you.” He handed Uzi a red clip-on visitor’s pass, then turned away to make a note in his log.

Uzi shoved his hands into his jacket and began pacing. He hated wasting time. But two minutes later, another officer appeared and ushered Uzi to the West Wing. He was deposited in the Oval Office, a Secret Service agent hovering in the background near the door to babysit him.

Uzi gazed up at the dramatic concealed lighting that radiated from behind ornate crown molding, creating a halo effect around the presidential seal stamped in relief in the center of the ceiling. Ahead of him stood the stately and history-laden Resolute desk, only a handful of items resting on the glossy inlaid top. He walked to the middle of the room, where a steel blue and burnt sienna presidential seal was woven into the dense, oval-shaped area rug. Brown rays radiated from its center and tapered at its edges. Woven in an arch around the eagle logo’s periphery were the words “Of the people, for the people.”

Uzi took a seat on the sofa to his right, threw his left arm onto the back of the couch, and crossed his legs. From this seat he had a view out the three bay windows of the magnolias and Katherine crab apple trees beyond. Directly ahead and slightly to the right was the glass door that led to the covered walkway where President Jonathan Whitehall now stood, about to enter.

Whitehall stepped into the Oval, leaving his two Secret Service agents outside the door. Uzi quickly unfolded his body and stood. Whitehall was dressed in a navy suit, which, against his short salt-and-pepper hair, white shirt and red tie, gave him an air of clean, pressed confidence.

Uzi, not having showered or changed after being blown to the ground in a massive explosion just hours ago, felt somewhat underdressed for the meeting.

“Mr. President.”

“Agent Uziel.” Whitehall’s eyes seemed to roam the length of Uzi’s body, from his facial cuts and abrasions to the disheveled appearance of his clothing.

“I apologize for my appearance, sir. I narrowly escaped getting killed last night and haven’t had time to shower and change clothes.”

Whitehall motioned to the cream and taupe couch and took a seat himself on the matching sofa directly across from Uzi.

“Was this attempt on your life related to the assassination attempt on the vice president?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Whitehall pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He then raised an eyebrow and said, “The message I received said you had something to discuss that was a matter of national security. I assume that means you have the answer I’ve been waiting for.” He glanced at his Démos watch. “And with not much time to spare, I might add.”

Uzi squirmed a bit on the couch. Comments Hoshi had made about NFA’s massive contribution to Whitehall’s campaign flittered through his thoughts. Yet, in spite of that, he trusted the man. And with time perilously short, he had little option; he had to press on. “You wanted me to get to the bottom of this mess, no matter the cost.”

Whitehall dipped his chin slightly. “Go on.”