Hard Target (56 page)

“Problem was, Tasset refused to fold up the tent. He thought he could still make it work—until Muhammad bin Zayed escaped after his shot ricocheted and killed Ahmed. If it got out that Ahmed was on Mossad’s payroll, the prime minister would’ve demanded full disclosure. It would’ve been a disaster for Mossad. But Tasset freaked because he was afraid Aksel would leak the US role to deflect attention off Mossad. Aksel said he was more worried about finding bin Zayed in case there was a backup plan for the attack on the Knesset.

“But Tasset didn’t believe that an accidental ricochet killed Ahmed. He thought Zayed found out that Ahmed was working with Mossad, and he killed him for being a traitor.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“But Tasset didn’t know that. He freaked. He knew it could’ve meant the end of his power trip as director. So he pressured Aksel for deniability. He told him to create a lie to protect the CIA.”

“And
I
was that lie. A scapegoat.”

DeSantos nodded. “Aksel refused. But Tasset bluffed, told him that if Mossad wanted full CIA cooperation and intel going forward, he’d better play ball.”

Uzi sighed deeply. “And because of that, my family was killed. I guess I owe Earl Tasset something. A punch in the face.”

“Or something a little more permanent.”

Uzi bit his lip. His eyes scanned the men standing out of earshot. “Someday. Right now, I just want to decompress. Reflect. Heal.”

Shepard stuffed his phone in a pocket and rejoined Uzi and DeSantos. “Tasset’s on his way. Not happy he wasn’t invited to the party.”

Uzi snorted.
Tough shit.

Shepard squinted confusion, but said, “I’ve got agents on their way over to deal with Larchmont.”

“Tell them he’ll need a medic,” Uzi said. “He accidentally shot himself in the foot.”

Shepard looked at Uzi with a sideways glance. “Oh, yeah?”

“Bummer when that happens,” DeSantos said.

Uzi shrugged. “Struggle for the gun.”

“Right,” Shepard said, appraising Uzi. “You and me, my friend. We’ve got some things to discuss. About following procedure. Following procedure is vital to a field agent’s duties—”

“Shep? Shut up.”

Shepard started to back away. “I’ll catch up with you at the office. And before you ask, answer’s ‘no.’ You don’t have the rest of the day off.”

Douglas Knox walked up to them, his BlackBerry extended toward Uzi. “The president would like a word with you.”

DeSantos raised his eyebrows. Uzi smiled, enjoying the moment of self-importance as he took the phone.

“Mr. President, this is Uzi.”

“Agent Uziel, my man of the hour. I want to congratulate you, son. I had faith in you that very first day we met. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. For your country.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be glad to know that at this very moment, two Secret Service agents are taking Bryce Upshaw into custody. And according to the insightful Constitution of this great country, the Twenty-fifth Amendment outlines an orderly succession to Vice President-elect Nunn. Thank goodness for amendments. I doubt the Founding Fathers could’ve envisioned such a scenario as we’re faced with today.”

“No, sir, I doubt they could have.”

“I’d like you to be my guest for lunch. Does tomorrow work for you?”

“My schedule’s suddenly clear, Mr. President. Thank you, sir.”

Uzi handed the phone back to the director.

Knox nodded at Uzi. It was a short, subdued dip of the chin, an expression Uzi took as a look of admiration. Though he felt he might be reading more into it than intended, he didn’t think so. He interpreted it as an acknowledgment of respect the director didn’t dole out very often.

But Knox’s next comment removed all doubt. “Welcome to the fold,” he said.

Uzi wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be one of Knox’s chosen few. Despite being clean in this instance, Uzi still wasn’t sure about the man. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the offer. “Thank you, sir.”

Knox gave DeSantos a “follow me” tilt of the head, then moved off toward his car.

Uzi shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I’ll meet you at your place in a couple of hours.”

As DeSantos walked off, Uzi felt something in his right rear pocket and pulled it out. It was the claim check for the beer he had brewed with Leila.
New Beginnings
. He crumpled the ticket into a tight ball. He was turning a new leaf—a new beginning, indeed—and the first thing he was going to do was bring that chapter of his life to a close.

With all that had happened today, he felt he was finally able to do that. He flashed on something Rudnick had told him:
Don’t let yesterday’s pain become tomorrow’s sorrow. It’s healthy to move on. Not to learn how to forget, but to learn how to remember.
Though it made sense at the time, Uzi didn’t fully comprehend what the doctor was trying to tell him.

Now he understood.

January 20

The US Capitol

West Portico

The crisp winter wind wound through the barren trees along the periphery of the Capitol building. Heavy snow had fallen throughout the day yesterday, well into the late evening hours, snarling traffic and nearly shutting down the district. Inaugural event planners sat on their phones, ensuring vendors made their planned deliveries, while others worked their cells trying to arrange alternate routes of transportation for VIPs and invited guests.

The Secret Service poured over their blueprints and diagrams, grumbling about crowd control for two million people amid mounds of snow that had yet to be adequately cleared—wish-list cover for prospective gunmen.

Although thought was given to postponing the presidential Inauguration or changing its venue, it was an idea that garnered little support. If ever there was a time for America to show its resiliency and strength, it was now. Today. During the succession and transfer of power laid out by the Constitution. In accordance with our laws and customs. When and where it’s supposed to happen. Pomp. Circumstance. Politics and power. All on display.

If God decided to blanket the land in white, so be it. Perhaps it was a purveyor of good things—of purity—to come.

And perhaps not.

Television cameras, their cables snaking along the winter-pale grass, rolled as black-robed, white-haired Chief Justice Wendell Harris faced President-elect Vance Nunn.

Uzi had an unbelievably close seat, slightly off to the side and just over Nunn’s right shoulder, dressed in a pinstripe suit, beside Hector DeSantos, Douglas Knox, and outgoing president Jonathan Whitehall. Whitehall gently nudged Uzi’s elbow and leaned in close. Uzi bowed his head.

“You should be quite proud right about now, Agent Uziel. Of anyone else standing here today, you are almost single-handedly responsible for this.”

Uzi suppressed a smile, then turned to face the podium where President-elect Nunn and his wife, Doris, stood, their coats fluttering in the wind like the proud American flag atop the Capitol. Uzi did, in fact, feel good about the role he had played. But for the past few weeks, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed something. An insidiously creeping feeling—a mosquito bite that wouldn’t go away. Itching, scratching, red and swollen—always there, sometimes intolerable.

He’d been over things several times, and when he had continued to come up empty, finally confessed his unease to DeSantos. DeSantos chortled and punched him in the shoulder. Told him to relax, the job was done and everything ended happily ever after.

There were moments when Uzi was able to let it go, to revel in the knowledge he had done his job and done it well. Then there were the moments when it gnawed at him so much he had to go for a run. Or lift weights. Or shoot a few hundred rounds at the range.

He huddled with Tim Meadows and they dug some more, crawling through various hacked databases, an unofficial journey through official files, hoping to find other digital irregularities. Other than Rusch’s altered electronic medical records file—doctored to contain data belonging to Bryce Upshaw—they found nothing. The identity of the CJIS technician, whose digital wizardry played a crucial role, remained a mystery.

Finally, having reached the conclusion he had done everything in his power, Uzi began to relax. He immersed himself in a new case with Hoshi, and that seemed to help.

But now, standing on the West Portico of the United States Capitol building, amidst the ceremony and splash of the official political event being watched the world over, that sense of disquiet crept back under his skin. The mosquito bite rose again.

“This is the part I lived for,” Whitehall said by his ear. “Franklin Roosevelt was a fortunate man, yes sir. Term limits ought to be abolished, I’ve said it many times. I could’ve gone for a third term, you know. Seventy percent approval rating right up to the end.”

Uzi forced a thin grin, his mind once again running through the details of the case. Searching for that one thing he might have missed.

As Uzi mused unproductively, Vance Nunn stood opposite the judge, his right hand held high and his left resting on the good book. “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution....”

Having repeated the oath, Nunn firmly shook the hand of the Chief Justice, then turned to give Doris a kiss and hug.

Uzi sighed heavily and for some reason—perhaps it was Rudnick’s comment about the need to “move on”—his apprehension caught the next gust and blew away, into the angry gray skies. It was over now, the final period at the end of a long chapter. It wasn’t such a bad day after all, he realized. Democracy was being served—which was, of course, the purpose behind the oath he himself had taken: to uphold the laws of the greatest country on the face of the Earth.

A twenty-one-gun salute marked the change of command as the national anthem roared through the high-powered, stadium-style speakers. Vance Nunn appeared to fight back tears, then saluted the crowd. With Doris at his side, he turned regally to the large walnut podium to deliver his inaugural address. As the masses settled down and took their seats, the teleprompter operator queued up the speech. Nunn dug a hand into his overcoat, rooted out a palm-sized object, and glanced down at it. It was a pocket watch.

A sterling silver pocket watch with a gold-inlaid scorpion.

Acknowledgments

Hard Target
required input from professionals in a myriad of fields. Because my research spanned many years, some of their titles might presently be different from what I’ve noted below. I’ve made corrections where known, but otherwise left their positions as they were when I worked with them. Thanks to those individuals, named and unnamed, who gave me access to vital places and information:

Brian Mitchell
, Master Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, at Quantico Marine Base’s HMX-1. Brian patiently answered all of my questions and reviewed pertinent portions of the manuscript for accuracy relative to the operation and maintenance of the United States’s executive detail’s helicopter fleet (“HMX-1”) and the vice president’s transport, Marine Two. Brian has flown these birds, transporting presidents and vice presidents on missions around the world. He’s walked the walk. I couldn’t have written those chapters without his experience and assistance.

Lee Bassett
, Master Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, for taking me on a tour of Quantico Marine base—particularly HMX-1. Given the stringent security requirements, this was no simple request.

Melissa Thomas
, FBI Special Agent, and
John Adams
, Joint Terrorism Task Force Special Agent at the Bureau’s Washington Field Office, for a behind-the-scenes tour of their facility, and for Agent Adams’s detailed answers to my logistical and procedural questions.

Mark Safarik
, FBI Supervisory Special Agent and Senior Profiler (ret.) at the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, for his behavioral analysis guidance and bomber profile information. In addition, his FBI and military contacts and thorough review of the manuscript for procedural accuracy proved invaluable.

Cole W. Cordray
, Lieutenant, US Army Crisis Response Team (deceased), and
Brian Hains,
Special Reaction Team Officer, for sharing their expertise relative to knives, assault rifle weaponry, and their in-depth information on the Sikorsky VH-3 and SuperStallion helicopters.

Robert L. Snow
, Captain of Detectives, Indianapolis Police Department homicide unit (and author of
The Militia Threat: Terrorists Among Us
), for his expertise and invaluable insight on militia psychology, structure, and organization.

Lee McDonald
, United States Marine Corps veteran and ordnance expert, for his assistance, suggestions, and manuscript edits relative to explosives and bomb detonation scenarios.
Mike Fergus
at the FAA for his orientation and information on accident scene investigation.
Guyllermo Canedo
, Major, United States Marine Corps Headquarters Washington, for information regarding the USMC’s procedures involving crash investigations.

Kai Barkhald
, Chief Inspector, for his personal instruction on helicopters. Asking for information on how to blow up the vice president’s helicopter met with...some raised eyebrows. Kai handled the questions with integrity and honesty. And without massive paranoia.

Steve Garrett
, US Navy Hospital Corpsman Senior Chief (Diver/Free Fall Parachutist/Fleet Marine Force) (ret.), for his thorough review of the manuscript and for correcting my Special Operations Force terminology and procedures (as well as other military, medical, and governmental agency jargon). Details matter—and Steve’s review made a huge difference in my “getting it right.”

Bill Caldwell
, armorer and police officer (ret.), for his knowledge and expertise on ballistics and weaponry, and for reviewing numerous excerpts for accuracy.
Gabriel Salgado
, former First Sergeant with the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), for background and information relative to his time with the IDF and the Shin Bet security service.

Marc Usatin
, MD, for instructing me on the physiology and treatment of burn injuries.
Bill Kitzerow
, Lieutenant, Fairfax City Police Department, for being my Virginia and Washington, DC, police presence and “eyes on the ground,” and for helping me select an appropriate location for ARM’s compound.
Micheal Weinhaus
, ICE Special Agent and former Fairfax County Police Officer First Class, for a thorough tour of the Mason District Station.

Matt Nosanchuk
, Senior Counselor to the Assistant US Attorney General, former Assistant US Attorney (Washington, DC), and former Litigation Director and Legislative Counsel for the Violence Policy Center in Washington, for helping me frame the issues relative to the fictional National Firearms Alliance.

Paul Ortega
, Emerging Technology Executive at AT&T, and
Joy E. Lovell
, Client Solution Executive of the IBM eBusiness Hosting Services division, for their assistance with server backup technology.

Jack Nargil
, head concierge, director Les Clefs D’or, the Hay-Adams Hotel, and
Andrew Crosby
, President of Crosby-Volmer Communications, for roof and facility access, information, floorplans, and historical background on the Hay-Adams.

Sue Stengel
, Western States Counsel, Anti-Defamation League, for information on militia groups; and
David Friedman
, Director of the ADL office in Washington, DC, for his candidness and perspective.
Michael Brown
, Battalion Chief, San Ramon Valley Fire Protection District, for his detailed explanations of helicopter fire-fighting procedures.

George Q. Fong
, ESPN Director of Security and FBI Supervisory Special Agent (ret.) for assistance with procedural issues pertaining to Jake Osborn’s transgression.
Corey Jacobson
, Policy Analyst and Strategic Communications Associate with Purple Nation Solutions, for his information on campaign finance laws and electoral procedure.
Salem Wali-Ali
, linguist, for his assistance with Arabic translations.

RoseMarie Mirabella
, Barns and Facilities Rental Director, and
Valerie Wheels
, Stage Manager of Wolf Trap Foundation for the Performing Arts, for providing access to their facility.

To those unnamed sources who provided information and background on the Mossad and the Department of Defense, thank you.

My agents,
Joel Gotler
and
Frank Curtis
, for their insight, decades of knowledge, and hard work on my behalf.

My editor,
Kevin Smith
, with whom I share a brain during the editorial phase. Sometimes we’re so much in sync I think that if we were women, we’d be cycling together.

My publishers: On the “e” side,
Thomas Ellsworth
,
Daniel Tibbets
,
Hutch Morton
, and
Julie Morales
at Premier Digital Publishing. The gang at PDP are revolutionaries and outside-the-box thinkers in a constantly changing industry. It’s refreshing to work with professionals who understand the landscape and who aren’t afraid to adapt when they identify a trend. On the hardcover side,
Virginia Lenneville
and
John Hutchinson
at Norwood Press: their primary interest is to turn out a first-rate top-quality product. Their hardcovers look beautiful on the shelf and will last a lifetime, and I’m honored to be part of the Norwood stable of legendary authors.

My fans and readers, worldwide, and those who follow me on Facebook and Twitter: You’re the best! A special shout-out to the active posters for participating in spirited discussions, and for spreading the word about “Alan Jacobson”; and a special thank you to the two administrators of my Facebook fan group, Terri Landreth and Sandra Soreano. There are three ways to stay socially networked with me: my official fan page,
www.facebook.com/AlanJacobsonFans
; my fan-run Facebook group, which you can find at
www.FansOfAlanJacobson.com
; and Twitter,
@JacobsonAlan
.

Ultimate thanks goes to Jill, my wife and life partner. It’s not easy navigating the challenges an author faces dealing with an industry in perpetual flux, but having one’s mate solidly behind him during that uncertain journey, which has now spanned eighteen years, makes it bearable (and possible).

Any deviations from fact that appear in the novel should not reflect on the above named professionals. On (very) rare occasions, certain facts were modified to protect national security interests.