Hard Target (38 page)

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Adams said.

“I’m not implying anything. I asked if you knew they were planning to assassinate the vice president.”

Garza held up a hand. “Let’s not lose our focus, gentlemen.”

Actually, losing focus would be a good thing for me at the moment
. “How do you feel about gun control, Adams? Better yet, are you a member of NFA?”

“Right now,” Garza said, his eyes locked on Uzi, “we’re discussing what you were doing on that compound last night. Adams’s political views aren’t the issue here.”

“If he knew about the plot and withheld the information—”

“The question on the table right now is why you were on the compound.”

Uzi turned away, his eyes finding the carpet.

“This is the fucking FBI, Uzi. You can’t land a goddamn Black Hawk in someone’s living room just because you feel like it—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enough of this,” Adams said. “He was there last night with some other guy. I don’t know who he was, but he definitely had Special Forces training.”

Uzi stood up. “This is a waste of time.”

“Is this the way you follow procedure?” The voice from behind him pierced the thick tension in the room. It was Osborn. He’d been so quiet Uzi forgot he was there. Uzi turned slowly, his hands curled into fists. “What was that?”

“He said, ‘Is this the way you follow procedure?’” Adams, a few feet from Uzi, tilted his head, daring Uzi to make a move.

“Two sets of rules,” Osborn said. “One set for you and one for everyone else. You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

Uzi charged forward, but Adams grabbed him around the torso. The two men struggled, but Garza was now out from behind his desk and in the mix. Uzi squirmed against their hold for another few seconds, then backed off.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Osborn said. “Our reports have been filed. Now you’ve gotta answer to the director. Or are you gonna try to punch his lights out, too?”

Uzi sorted himself out. He had to get Osborn and Adams out of his head. He needed to think of the here and now, of the implications of Osborn reporting his ARM visit to Knox. Would Knox then be obligated to inform Coulter, to protect his own ass? Where did that leave Uzi, Shepard, and Meadows?

“Wait a minute,” Uzi said, swinging his gaze to Garza. “Knox knew about Adams?”

“Of course.”

Uzi ran both hands through his hair.
If Knox had someone on the inside, at the very least, why didn’t he tell me? Had he told DeSantos?

“You placed a very sensitive Bureau op in danger, Uzi.” Garza shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t think they did anything wrong by filing reports with the director. Like it or not, they were just following procedure.”

Uzi’s insides tensed. “Were they? Or was there more at work here—like revenge?”

“Hey,” Osborn said, “you made your own bed. Don’t blame me for having to sleep in it.”

Uzi steeled himself against the urge to pummel Osborn’s self-righteous smirk into the plasterboard wall. The man knew nothing of the pressures he faced, the tug of war he had been living through. The pawn he had become. To Garza: “He was the source you told me about at Union Station. Why didn’t you tell me you had a guy on the inside?”

“It was need-to-know. And I figured you might connect the dots anyway.”

Uzi didn’t reply. It explained why Garza didn’t tell Uzi—but why hadn’t Knox? It seemed like too important a detail to leave out. Then again, knowledge was power—and as Uzi was learning, Knox’s clout was bolstered by the inside information he was able to amass.

He needed to get out of there, to get some answers. Was Knox setting him up? Uzi never heard Knox actually say he should continue pursuing ARM; it was a message delivered to him by DeSantos.

Uzi decided he couldn’t make any admissions to Garza—certainly not in front of Adams or Osborn—until he knew more about who was involved and how it all fit together. For now, he would take his chances.

After giving Garza a parting glance, Uzi turned toward the door. He found himself nearly face-to-face with Osborn.

The two of them locked eyes for a moment. Then Uzi pushed past him and walked out.

5:26 PM

44 hours 34 minutes remaining

Uzi left a couple of messages for DeSantos. While the Osborn-Adams situation burned at the lining of his stomach like bad whiskey, he realized it was something out of his control. What was going to happen would happen, and he would have to deal with it. All Uzi could do now was focus on the million other balls he had suspended in the air.

His biggest concern was that he had more questions than hours left before he had to give the president an answer. He returned to WFO and immersed himself in work. But when his PC clock showed 7:00, the realization hit that he was getting nowhere. He stopped into the Command Post and poured through the thousands of tips the agents had taken, none of which were panning out.

As he stood in the elevator on the way back to his office, he rolled his neck around, the tension burning his muscles like a flame. He closed his eyes and, with the subtle movement of the elevator, felt like he could fall asleep if he were somewhere horizontal. But the tone of his phone stirred him. It was Leila, calling to tell him she had a surprise planned for the evening.

“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” he said as the doors parted. “Just too much damn work and too little time.”

“You know what they say about Jack,” she said. “Want me to think you’re a dull boy?”

“Maybe Jack is running a major investigation. Cut him some slack.” He walked into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. “Tell you what, though. In a few days I’ll make sure you don’t confuse me with boring old Jack. But for now, I just can’t leave.”

“You have to get some rest, give your mind a break. Have you even eaten dinner?”

Uzi glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. Where had the day gone? “No, mother, I haven’t eaten.”

“You have to eat sometime. Let’s do it together. I won’t keep you long.”

His stomach rumbled on cue. He rested his head in his hand, stifled a yawn. He really did need to eat, if nothing else to keep him awake.

“Meet me at HeadsUp Brewery,” she said. “A few doors down from Angelo & Maxie’s. Ninth and F.”

It was only a few blocks away. He could walk it, take in some cold night air. “I’ve got a couple things I have to wrap up. Meet you there in half an hour.”

UZI LOOKED UP FROM THE MENU. “I thought you said we’d grab dinner.”

“First we do this. Then we eat.” She must have read the disappointment on his face, because she placed a hand on his. “C’mon, you can spare an extra half hour.”

Uzi sighed. She was right. He needed the time to clear his mind, return with a fresh perspective.

“Okay, I’m game. How does this thing work?”

Leila leaned over his shoulder, seductively touching his back with her breasts. “You brew your own beer. You choose what ingredients you want, mix it all together, bottle it, and label it. A couple of weeks later it’s ready to drink.” She pointed to a laminated placard that described the process. “Used to be a lot of these places, but the idea didn’t catch. This may be the only one left.”

Uzi glanced around at the mahogany paneling, the etched glass windows and brass fittings that lined the bar, tables, and light fixtures. “They’re into this place for a bundle. You don’t cover your monthly nut, you’re done.” He looked at Leila. “You sure this place will still be here in a couple of weeks when we come back for our beer?”

“Who knows if we’ll be here in a couple of weeks.”

Uzi raised his eyebrows. “That’s a fatalist comment, don’t you think? Or just pessimistic?”

Leila shrugged. “You never know, do you? No guarantees in life.”

Uzi was looking at her but wasn’t really seeing her.
No guarantees in life.
That’s what the director general of the Mossad had said to him after Dena and Maya were murdered. Before the agency completed its analysis of what had gone wrong. Before Gideon Aksel removed him from the payroll and made him leave Israel in disgrace.

“No guarantees,” Uzi repeated. He set the menu down and cleared away the gloomy memories. “I’m a dark beer guy. You?”

“I’m a dark beer guy, too.” She smiled.

“Then let’s get started.”

They laughed their way through the process, realizing their beer may not taste any better than a can of Coors—but having a good time nonetheless. Uzi typed their assigned lot number into the computer and hit Enter. A wizard appeared, walking them through the process of creating a label.

They chose the design style they wanted—a delicate strand of grain draping across the top with a serifed Olde English font below it.

“What should we call it? Two lines, twenty characters.”

Leila scrunched her lips. “Something fun.” She grinned. “How about Spy Brew?”

Uzi looked over at her to see if she was joking. “How about something meaningful? To us. Like, Genesis...or New Beginnings.”

“New Beginnings?”

“Because a relationship takes time to brew, just like beer.” Uzi winked at her, then typed in the words. He clicked Finish and waited while the label was making its way to the color printer. He leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his neck. “In two weeks we’ll be enjoying this.” He winked. “Assuming we’re both still around.”

Leila opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a chirp from Uzi’s phone. As he reached into his pocket, Leila’s cell began ringing. They both answered their calls, Leila turning away while she talked.

“It’s Hoshi. I’ve got something you need to see.”

“Okay, but I’m in the middle—”

“You’ll want to see this now, Uzi.”

He looked up at Leila, who was turning toward him. “Gotta go.”

Leila held up her phone. “So do I.”

Uzi sighed, then swiveled the handset back to his mouth. “On my way.”

AS UZI MADE HIS WAY to Hoshi’s fourth floor cubicle, his mind made the slow transition back to work mode. Doing the reverse used to be difficult—the Mossad required him to be “always on.” Dena often complained that his inability to turn off the stresses of work and focus on her and Maya threatened their relationship. Although he knew she was right, he was never able to change the situation.

It eventually became a moot point.

He exited the elevator, swiped his ID card, then walked through the glass doors en route to Hoshi’s cubicle. He found her there, squinting at her computer monitor.

“Hey,” she said. “Pull up a chair. Got some things to show you.”

Uzi moved in tight and looked at her screen. “Go.”

She hesitated a second, then leaned back a bit and appraised him. Sniffed, moved closer to his body and sniffed again. “Were you on a date?’

Uzi felt his face turn crimson. “What are you, a hound?”

“I don’t think that particular perfume works with your body chemistry.”

“You’re jealous.”

Hoshi turned to face her computer. “Maybe.”

Uzi interposed his head between the screen and her face. “Really?”

She swiveled her chair toward a stack of files to her left. “I’ve been going through Tad Bishop’s phone logs. His home and office lines were pretty sparse—but his cell’s another story. I saw the call he made to you, a few he’d made to me. And then there were about two dozen over a two-week period to someone else.”

“Two dozen? Short or long calls?”

“Most were a minute long.”

“Leaving a voicemail?”

Hoshi shook her head. “Bishop didn’t like to leave messages. For anyone.”

“So if these calls weren’t to leave messages, then what were they for? Setting up meetings?”

“That would be my guess.”

“And who’s the owner of this number?”

“Brady Haldemann. According to NCAVC,” she said, referring to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, “he’s got a sheet.”

“This is a guy Bishop was meeting with regularly?”

“He didn’t believe anything he couldn’t independently verify. He was very careful.”

“For now I’ll accept that as fact. But despite what we may want to believe, he wasn’t a cop and he doesn’t know the standards we have to uphold.” Uzi flashed on his ARM compound incursion and guilt stabbed at his gut. “What’s on Haldemann’s sheet?”

“Mostly petty stuff. Did ten months for assault, but that was twenty years ago. Pretty clean since. I did a search through Southern Poverty Law Center, and got hold of some articles Haldemann wrote for Southern Ranks Militia’s monthly newsletter. He was pretty high up there, a Founding Tactical Commander or something like that.”

“And the articles?”

“Typical stuff. The government’s trampling our constitutional rights, the IRS is unfairly harassing hard-working Americans. Ruby Ridge—and lots of conspiracy garbage on 9/11.”

Uzi lifted the phone receiver. “What’s the number?”

She scrolled down her screen and read it off to him.

Uzi dialed and let it ring four times before a man answered.

“Brady?”

“Who wants to know?”

“A friend of ours suggested we meet before he...expired. I’d like to talk with you about the same things you discussed with him. I think you know who I’m talking about.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend. More than that I can’t say over the phone. Let’s meet. Judicial Square Metro station. By the big lion on the left as you face the sign. How about twenty minutes?”

“Come alone.” The line went dead.

UZI CHECKED HIS WATCH. It was approaching 11
PM
, thirty minutes since he had spoken with Brady Haldemann. But he figured the guy was at least as paranoid as Bishop was, and the best thing he could do was to stay put, look nonthreatening, and wait him out.

He leaned against the lion and glanced across the street at Hoshi, who was observing from a darkened ground-floor window inside the adjacent building fifty feet away.

Five minutes later, a bearded man approached wearing a baseball hat and canvas fishing jacket. Uzi waited till his contact was within ten feet, then slowly pushed himself off the statue. He didn’t want to make any threatening moves.