Hard Target (51 page)

Uzi cleared the entire area, and, convinced there was no one else present, turned his attention to the bound psychologist.

“Doc, are you okay?” He slid his knife blade behind Rudnick’s head and sliced away the bandana. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to involve you.”

Rudnick spat out the gag, and then looked up at his patient with sad eyes. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t want to call you—”

“Who did this?”

“I believe it was Leila. And an associate.” He swallowed hard. “They wanted information on you. About the investigation. They thought I knew something.”

“What did you tell them?”

Rudnick lifted his head proudly. “Nothing.”

That was when Uzi noticed it. A large black resin box behind Rudnick’s chair that sprouted gray metal flex conduit which snaked to a flat device below the doctor’s right shoe.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Rudnick bowed his head. “I’m afraid so.”

Uzi grabbed the doctor’s phone on the desk—but there was no dial tone. He dug out his cell and called his office. “Hoshi—it’s me. Get EOD to 2311 M Street. Fast—we’ve got a hot one, and there isn’t much time!”

“I’ll try, but they’re on special assignment because of the conference—”

“I don’t care how you do it, just get them over here—now!”

He hung up, ran into the hallway, and pulled the fire alarm. At least there was a chance some of the building’s occupants would get out in time. He ran back to Rudnick, got down on all fours, and began studying the devices.

There was a red LED display that read 5:58. The seconds were ticking down.
Shit!
He had six minutes to get him out of the building. But his foot was on what appeared to be a pressure sensitive device. Lift the shoe, the bomb detonates.

He dialed Tim Meadows. “Tim, it’s Uzi.”

“Good timing. I was about to call you. I found something—”

“You know something about bombs, right?”

“That’s a bit of a sore subject, especially coming from you—”

“My friend’s wired to one and I’ve got five minutes before it blows. There appears to be a spring-loaded pressure sensitive device under his foot. It’s got a very small trigger, otherwise I’d try wedging something under his shoe—”

“Don’t do that. Devices like that have redundancy mechanisms that’ll make the whole thing blow if they’re tampered with.”

“There are no exposed wires— I’m guessing they’re inside a length of electrical conduit that connects the two devices. Can I open the bomb’s casing? Looks like a composite material, about two feet square—”

“These people know what they’re doing when it comes to bombs, Uzi. I can tell you that from personal experience. It’s booby trapped, I’m sure. If you touch it without knowing what you’re doing, they’ll be picking you up with a vacuum cleaner.”

“Shit.” He fisted a clump of hair and pulled. “Shit. So what do I do?”

“How about a fire extinguisher? Spraying it with CO
₂
might freeze the trigger mechanism long enough for you to take cover.”

Uzi’s knowledge of microcircuitry told him this wouldn’t work. “The drop in temperature will contract the metal. It’ll change the tolerance of the components. That alone may set it off.”

“Jesus, Uzi, this is a tough one.”

“Tim, I can’t just...I can’t just let him die.”

“How about amputating his leg? You’d have to secure it to the chair with duct tape so it doesn’t move—if that’s even possible, which I don’t think it is. You’re talking about cutting through a big freakin’ bone. Unless you cut through the knee joint. No,” he said, discounting his own suggestion, “best thing to do is call EOD.”

“This thing’s history in a little over four minutes.”

“Then I’ve got one last suggestion: get the hell out of there.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m sorry, man. If there was something you could do, I’d tell you—”

Uzi ended the call. He bit his lip and stared at the black and red screen as the numbers cascaded downward. Maybe this was just an elaborate joke to scare the hell out of him. Meant to send him a message.
Yeah, that’s it. It’s really not a bomb. It’s fashioned to look like one, but it’s really not. It’s really not.

Damn you, Leila. Damn you!

“Uzi,” Rudnick said softly, “you must leave.”

He got down on all fours and peered at the black resin housing. “Can’t do that, Doc. But thanks for your concern.”

“That wasn’t a request, Uzi. It was an order. You need to follow your doctor’s orders.”

Uzi continued to study the device. “Always the joker. Have you always had such a keen sense of humor?”

“Uzi, look at me. Look at me,” he said, schoolteacher stern. “At my eyes.”

Uzi stopped what he was doing and looked up. “I’ve lived seven decades longer than God intended, my friend. I should’ve died as a scrawny kid in Buchenwald. Somehow, I survived and lived a whole lifetime. The time has come for me to join my parents and sisters.”

“No, I can’t just—”

“Yes, Uzi. You can. Promise me one thing—that you’ll be the one to tell my son Wayne at the BSU. Tell him I love him, that you were with me and that I wasn’t afraid.”

“I will. I’ll tell him.” But Uzi was not ready to give up. He searched his brain, trying to think of a solution. He needed something—a stray thought from his training. Or—

“Doc, did they say anything about the bomb? When they were talking to each other. Anything at all.”

“Just that it would take down a good part of the building. And that if I lifted my shoe even just a bit, I’d set it off.” Rudnick hesitated before continuing. “The man was in a hurry, though. I think they were going to plant another bomb, a car bomb.”

Uzi sat up straight. A car bomb? “Where? What makes you think it was a car bomb?”

Rudnick’s gaze tilted toward the ceiling as he struggled to remember. “He said something about the axle, getting it on the axle by the brake. That it’s set to go at two. Whoever gets in that car, Uzi, they’re dead. You have to find out whose car, before more people die—”

Uzi closed his eyes.
First things first. Concentrate
. He looked at the display: three minutes left. The piercing fire alarm siren blared in the background. He sat there, frozen, watching the numbers tumble lower.
There’s gotta be something I can do!

“Uzi, it’s time to go. You must live your life, just as I did. You still have many questions that need answers. But I’m going to leave you with one answer. I usually let my patients figure it out themselves—and I’m sure you would have—but time is a bit short.” He forced a smile. “That question I kept asking you, about committing suicide. I’ll tell you why you didn’t do it. It’s the same reason why I didn’t do it after getting out of the death camp.”

Uzi’s eyes moved from the red numbers to Rudnick’s face.

“I needed to preserve their memories, of my parents and sisters and my aunt and uncle. Because I was the only one left. Inside me, they lived on for another seven decades. I thought about them, told stories about them. Talked to them, if only in my mind.” He fought back tears. “If I’d committed suicide, their essence would have died along with me. Now, Wayne will pass on those memories. Do you understand?”

“Dena and Maya.”

“There isn’t much time,” Rudnick said calmly. “You must go.”

Uzi looked down at the bomb. Ninety seconds left.

“Honor a dying man’s request,” Rudnick said. “Would you do that?”

Uzi could not bring himself to look at him.

“Find the people who did this, Uzi. Find them and make them pay.”

With this uncharacteristic request from such a gentle person, anger welled up in Uzi’s chest. He looked up and met Rudnick’s gaze. He didn’t know if this kind-hearted man actually meant for him to take vengeance, or if it was a clever psychological play to get Uzi to leave. Whichever it was, it worked.

Uzi stood up. His lips started to tremble. Tears sprouted spontaneously, and he cried. He wanted to hug the old man, to give him strength to face what was coming, and to thank him for all he had done for him. But Uzi knew that any movement could set the bomb off prematurely. Instead, he leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’ll keep your memory alive. I’ll tell Wayne. And I’ll find the people who did this to you.”

Rudnick smiled, the kind of grin a proud father gives his son when he has accomplished something of great value.

And then Uzi tore himself away, and he backed out of the room, away from the man who, up until recently was unknown to him, someone he now felt he had known all his life. Someone he had come to respect as much as he had respected his own father.

He turned and ran into the hallway, where the piercing siren was incapacitatingly loud. He hit the fire door with his shoulder and entered the staircase, slipping twice as he turned landings.

Uzi wasn’t sure how much time he had left, but his gut told him it was no more than mere seconds. He counted down from ten as he ran the steps, taking two or three at a time, using the handrail to propel himself forward.

He rounded the second floor when he hit five seconds and kept on going, then reached the lobby at the moment he figured the bomb would go off. A dense crowd packed the area, moving slowly, clearly unaware the building was about to come down.

“Get out,” Uzi shouted, darting toward the glass doors. “Everyone out!”

He hit the sidewalk and ran into M Street just as the EOD van pulled up in front. Farther down the block, a fire engine was approaching, its siren wailing and lights flashing.

The fifth story windows blew out first, a massive explosion sending dust and glass and metal and cement cascading down toward the street below. People darted in all directions, car tires groaning to a stop as the debris rained onto the pavement.

Uzi joined the bomb squad technicians, who had taken cover beside and beneath their truck. Though he struggled to corral his thoughts, to push his sorrow aside, his oxygen-starved voice was nevertheless edged in pain. “I called it in. Device was on fifth floor. Might be another...a car bomb.”

The commander, back pressed against the glossy black truck, asked, “Where?”

“No idea.” Then it clicked.
Oh, shit.
He took off down the block, heading for the spot where he had left the BuCar.

“Wait!” the commander called after him.

As Uzi turned the corner, he was relieved to find the Crown Vic still there, a ticket flapping against its windshield. He fumbled for his key ring, got in the car, and drove off.

Though he tried to focus on where he was headed, his mind would not let go of Rudnick. The image of him bound to the chair, bravely facing death as Uzi backed out of the room, was too powerful to push aside. It would take time for him to absorb the impact of his loss. He would have an empty space in his life. Again. But now he knew how to get through these things.

Unfortunately for him, he had experience in such matters.

1:36 PM

24 minutes remaining

The Hay-Adams Hotel

800 16th Street NW

The Hay-Adams Hotel took its name from two of the district’s most distinguished residents, Secretary of State John Hay and historian Henry Adams. In the late 1800s, the men purchased adjoining lots across from Lafayette Park and the White House. They erected majestic homes that became a social epicenter for Washington’s elite, including Theodore Roosevelt, Mark Twain, and Henry James.

The Hay and Adams houses were razed in the 1920s in favor of a luxury hotel that, because of its grandeur, history, and location, became a preferred destination for heads of state and international business leaders. Short of being a guest of the president, it is the closest one can get to staying at the White House.

To retain a connection to its past, the wood paneling from the original Hay residence was used in the stately public meeting area, the John Hay Room—the grand social hall in which the International Conference on Global Terrorism was being held.

As Uzi approached Washington Circle, he pulled out his phone to call DeSantos. He now knew Leila and her companion—with help, no doubt, from her al-Humat cell—were in the Hay-Adams implementing the next phase of their plan. What Rudnick heard and mistook for a car bomb was not a vehicle’s axle, but an assassination attempt on Gideon Aksel, the Mossad director general.

The explosive device at Rudnick’s office was a diversion: resources would be mobilized to his building, and attention would be deflected away from the conference as the second bomb was about to explode—killing many of the world’s prominent leaders, counterterrorism experts, and intelligence chiefs.

Uzi now knew something else, as well: the phone call Leila and her accomplice had forced Rudnick to make was designed to lure him there so he would either arrive just as the bomb was going off, or shortly thereafter, so he could view the aftermath. An added, personal bonus for Leila. And very efficient.

As he started dialing DeSantos, his phone began ringing. It was Meadows.

“Just heard. No fun being almost blown to bits, is it?”

“I’m in a hurry, Tim. What’ve you got?”

“You know me, I can’t leave well enough alone, so I had a guy in my department do the fishing on the logs while I went back to those latents you gave me. I may’ve been a little drugged up, but I remember you had a hard time accepting that they weren’t Batula Hakim’s prints. And I really wanted to get those bastards who tried to kill me—”

“And what’d you find?” Uzi rounded the circle and came out of it on Pennsylvania Avenue. He glanced at the dashboard clock. One thirty-nine.

“An irregularity in the data storage file. The algorithm was altered—”

“Tim, I think we’ve got another bomb set to explode in twenty minutes—” Uzi swerved to avoid a bicyclist, then switched the phone to his left hand— “so get to the goddamn point!”

“Someone got into the digital file of Batula Hakim’s fingerprints and changed the algorithm. I found the code they used and estimated what it would do to the print’s pattern. After some reconstruction, I’d say it bears a much closer match to the ones we lifted off that mirror. Leila Harel appears to be Batula Hakim, just as you thought.”