Hard Target (48 page)

“I’ve uncovered a lot of facts and information, some corroborated and some not, Mr. President. I’m not sure yet how it all fits together, but there are some things I am ready to report on because they require immediate action. I know we don’t have a lot of time left.” Uzi stopped, suddenly recalling that conversations in the Oval were recorded. “Can we take a walk, sir?”

“Not at the moment. Go on.”

Trust notwithstanding, he felt uncomfortable discussing this if it could later be used against him. But with time short, he pressed on. “We obtained several pieces of paper from the Armed Resistance Militia compound the other day. They contained phone numbers, one of which was traced to an encrypted army mobile phone. That phone is being used by Quentin Larchmont.” Uzi paused to let that fact sink in.

Whitehall’s face suddenly bunched into a mask of wrinkles. “What in hell does that mean?”

“This information is only thirty minutes old, sir, so I can’t answer that. But let’s just say that there’s no reason why anyone affiliated with ARM should have a coded mobile phone number for Quentin Larchmont. One might also ask what use Mr. Larchmont has for such a device.”

Whitehall’s eyes seemed to study Uzi’s face as he digested this thought. The grandfather clock against the far wall over the president’s right shoulder ticked softly in the background. Finally, Whitehall leaned back on the couch. “Frankly, son, you’re going to have to give me more than—”

Uzi’s phone began ringing. The president looked at Uzi’s pocket with disdain.

“I’m sorry, sir. This is important.” He pulled the cell and answered it.

“Hey, man,” Tim Meadows said, excitement boosting his voice. “I got the logs for that certain group we’ve been tracking, the one that sounds like an appendage—”

“Got it, Tim. I’m meeting with the president right now, so if you could make this quick—”

“
The
president? Right, okay. The logs. Well, they’ve got a bunch of calls to the Executive Office Building. Daily, it looks like, going on for several weeks before they suddenly stop.”

“Who were they calling?”

“I can’t tell, at least not yet. But there’s more. Some of the calls from that phone went to another encrypted mobile. And that one apparently belongs to someone named Lewiston Grant.”

Oh, man
. Uzi rubbed at his temple. “Are you sure?” His eyes flicked over to the president, who was listening intently to Uzi’s end of the conversation. “It was listed under that name?”

“Gee whiz, Uzi, I didn’t look it up in the phone book under ‘Grant,’ if that’s what you mean. I had to dig. I traced a pretty convoluted strand that led me to this guy. I’m about as sure as I can be on short notice. It takes time to hack—I mean, to
obtain
this information.”

“Great work. Really, really good. Call me when you’ve got more.” Uzi hung up and apologized to the president. “Again, sir, I don’t know yet how this all fits together. But we’ve got encrypted phone calls from the militia to the Executive Office Building. And we’ve got a large caliber Russian round from their compound that matches one that killed one of our informants.”

Whitehall straightened up. “Are these militia people in custody?”

“No, sir.” Uzi looked down at the plush carpet. “Remember that discussion we had on the green when you were putting—”

“Let’s take a walk, son.” Whitehall rose from the couch and turned for the French door.

Uzi pushed off the sofa and followed.

“Benedict to Horsepower,” the Secret Service agent said into his cuff mike as he pulled open the door. Horsepower referred to the presidential detail’s command post beneath the Oval Office. The agent continued talking into his sleeve. “Authorized break on the Oval Colonnade door. Big Bear on the move.”

Whitehall and Uzi stepped out onto the Colonnade’s long, covered fieldstone walkway, stone columns to their immediate right and the Rose Garden beyond. When they’d cleared the range of the recording devices in the Oval, Whitehall nodded for Uzi to continue.

“On the lawn,” Uzi said. “Remember sir, when you told me to ‘just get the job done’?”

Whitehall kept his gaze on the ground as he walked. “Go on.”

“The evidence gathered at the ARM compound was not obtained... legally. The attorney general ordered us to give the militia some breathing room, to back off our investigation of them. But Director Knox made it known in private that he wanted us to disregard that order.”

Whitehall stopped walking and inserted his hands into his pockets. “So what you’re saying is that none of this can be used against them.”

“That’s right, sir. But I believe Quentin Larchmont is involved with ARM and there could be a larger conspiracy involving other members of the incoming administration. And possibly yours.” Uzi braced himself for the president’s wrath. But none came.

“Has Assistant Director Yates been fully briefed on all this?”

“No, sir. I wasn’t sure who could be trusted, so I’ve kept this info close to the vest.”

“And the peace talks. What can you tell me relative to the Palestinians?”

I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that
. “It’s not looking good, sir. Al-Humat’s mixed up in all this. Looks like they’ve had a sleeper cell operating here for years. But I’ll need more time to get you a definitive answer.” He hoped Whitehall would give him some room on this, that somehow the credibility he had just earned with his exposure of ARM vouched for the quality of his work and his ability to follow the president’s orders.

The commander in chief was silent, his gaze off somewhere in the vicinity of the Rose Garden. Abruptly, he turned and headed back into the Oval Office. Uzi followed.

“Benedict to Horsepower,” the Secret Service agent said into his sleeve. “Authorized break, Oval Colonnade door. Big Bear returning.”

Whitehall walked to his desk and lifted the phone. He punched a number and said, “Get me Director Knox.”

Uzi stepped forward. “Sir, with all due respect, I wouldn’t recommend that. Director Knox might be part of—”

Whitehall cupped the phone. His entire body tensed. “What are you saying?”

“Until we’re clear on the players, we should be careful about who we bring into this.”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any reason to believe the director of the FBI is a co-conspirator?”

Careful, Uzi.
“No evidence, sir, but I do have ‘reason to believe’ there might be a connection. Potentially even the attorney general.” Uzi realized he was sticking out his neck extremely far, but given the gravity of the information he now possessed, and the time he had left, he felt he could remain silent no longer.

Whitehall shook his head but kept his hand firmly over the receiver. “I refuse to accept that. Either way, I have to bring in the FBI. It’s not an option.”

The two men locked stares, neither willing to give ground. “Yes,” Whitehall said, quickly removing his hand from the mouthpiece. “Douglas. Good to hear your voice. I’ve got something I need you to look into.”

Uzi closed his eyes and bowed his head as the president laid out the information Uzi had provided. When he finished, the president listened for a moment, then said, “For now, Douglas, let’s not discuss how I obtained that information. I would like you to move on it, however.” Whitehall rocked slightly on his heels, his left hand tucked behind his back. He nodded a few times. “I understand that, Douglas.... Yes, I realize that.... That’s for you to figure out. But please do let Director Zallwick and Secretary Braun know they might have an internal security problem. Keep me posted.”

Whitehall hung up the phone. “Agent Uziel, I can tell you’re not pleased with my decision. But I’m not some covert operative in the middle of Afghanistan. I have procedures to follow.”

The comment was like a kick in the rear. Uzi cringed internally. He suddenly realized just how far he had strayed from “procedure.” Whose orders was he now following—and were their motives genuine, or was he being used?

“Notifying the directors of the FBI, Secret Service, and Homeland Security we may have a serious breach of security is crucial to maintaining the safety of this country.”

“Yes, sir.”

The president turned right and headed for the door again. Uzi followed. Back out on the Colonnade, Whitehall started walking down the path, but this time did not stop. He gave Uzi a sidewards glance, then said, “Unofficially, I believe you’ve started something you would like to finish. Am I right, son?”

Uzi nodded, unsure of where the president was leading.

“I don’t know if Director Knox is involved. I would find it hard to believe given his decades of distinguished service. But I’ve also been around the block a few times, and I know that men are sometimes driven by things people like me can’t pretend to understand. For one, I could never do some of the things our covert operatives are paid to do. But they do them without hesitation. Whatever their internal motivation is, I don’t know. Honor, duty, love for their country is what I’m told. But all I need to know is that when the call goes out they put their lives on the line and do what’s necessary to get the job done.” Whitehall turned to Uzi. “There’s something about you, agent, that makes me think you understand such men and their motives. And that’s why I’m asking you to continue doing what you need to do to get the job done.”

Uzi’s head snapped left. “But you just called the director—”

“Because until January twentieth I’m still president of the United States, and I have to follow procedure. But sometimes following procedure is ineffective. I think you’ve been around Washington long enough to understand what I’m saying.”

Uzi nodded. But he wondered if Whitehall knew more than he was letting on. Was there more depth to his comment on following procedure or was Uzi to take it at face value? Had the president been briefed by Knox—or Shepard—about his clash with Osborn? He had no doubt that Whitehall had asked the Secret Service to prepare a full dossier on him after, or even before, their first meeting at the White House. But exactly how much Whitehall knew about his past was unclear.

“You’re wasting time, son, and that’s something we can ill afford. Now get going. And Godspeed.”

Uzi pushed his thoughts aside, shook the president’s hand, and was off.

9:29 AM

4 hours 31 minutes remaining

Alpha Zulu paced outside his car, rubbing at his forehead but keeping his Redskins ball cap pulled low over his brow. He was good at keeping cool under pressure; it was more a learned skill than an inherited personality trait. But with time growing short, he was in operations mode. Expectations rose along with tempers. This was not the time for things to go wrong.

At the moment, there were no serious indications the plan was in jeopardy. Like any successful business, safeguards were built in, redundancies and backups. The anticipated glitches caused by law enforcement’s inevitable probing made the intricate strategizing vital, the challenge that much more alluring. It was a chess game on a grand scale, with pawns and queens, moves and countermoves.

Like a master, Zulu had drawn up a winning plan, yet continued studying his opponents—measuring their weaknesses, finding holes in their methods. Identifying ways to use their deficiencies against them to break down their defenses. In this deadly game, when all was said and done, preparation, patience, and experience were king. They planned to have the board cleared in a matter of hours. But if getting to checkmate took weeks, or days, or years, so be it.

He glanced at his scorpion-engraved pocket watch: it was time. He climbed into his car and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, a late-model sedan pulled up alongside his and stopped. Oscar Delta got out, adjusted his jacket, and then moved around to Zulu’s back door. He got in and closed the door quietly.

Zulu cranked the engine and drove off. “Things are hot. There’s a lot in play.”

“We expected that.”

Zulu’s eyes roamed the street. “Yes.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Delta, then continued. “Be ready in case we need to implement
Fallback
.”

“You think it’ll come to that?”

Zulu knew what this could mean to Delta, but he had never doubted the man’s resolve. “Hard to say.” Zulu made a U-turn and accelerated back toward the park.

“What does your intel indicate?”

“I’ll evaluate and advise. For now, that’s all you need to know.” He saw Delta’s mouth contort in rebuke. A moment later, Zulu stopped beside the sedan and looked off to his left. “Good luck.”

Without a word, the rear door closed. The interior was quiet.

Another car door slammed, and the sedan drove off.

AS UZI WALKED ALONG West Executive Avenue toward his motorcycle, he pulled out his phone and called Tim Meadows. After obtaining the number for Larchmont’s encrypted cell, he got onto his Suzuki and peeled away, headed for the Rusch transition headquarters.

He did a couple of drive-bys, casing out the place and locating all the entrances and exits. It would’ve been a great deal easier to involve the Secret Service detail assigned to the vice president’s staff, but Uzi’s plan demanded he engage as few people as possible.

He called DeSantos, but it went to voicemail; his partner either did not recognize the phone number of Uzi’s borrowed cell, or his phone was off. Regardless, Uzi hoped DeSantos checked his messages soon.

After making his third pass around the office building, he settled on his surveillance point. A reinforced black Suburban was parked at the front curb, twenty feet from one of the two exits. Uzi reasoned the Secret Service would choose the shortest unprotected path to the car, and this was, indeed, the door Larchmont had used when Uzi had visited him.

He parked his bike two blocks away and across the street. From this vantage point, the Hensoldt scope gave him a clear view of the building and the Secret Service’s black Suburban.

He inserted a small Y-connector plug into the side jack of the cell phone, then pressed Record on a digital recorder in his pocket. He dialed the encrypted mobile, hoping Larchmont kept the phone on at all times. If not, this could take longer than he’d planned. And the longer it dragged out, the greater the likelihood Knox could take actions that would interfere with Uzi’s plans. At this point, Uzi wasn’t sure if that was good—or bad.