Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  He approached DeSantos, who was crouching beside the NTSB Powerplants specialist, John Maguire. DeSantos had a bright white LED flashlight trained on a large piece of metal that Maguire was handling with rubber gloves.

  “Boychick. Look what we’ve got here.”

  Uzi knelt beside DeSantos. “A hunk of aluminum. So what?”

  “It’s what this hunk of aluminum tells us that’s got my interest.” DeSantos elbowed Maguire. “Tell him.”

  “It’s only preliminary, Hector. I don’t know how accurate it is. I could be way off—”

  “Tell him. Uzi’s cool, you won’t catch any heat if you’re wrong.”

  Maguire hesitated, then sighed deeply. “First of all, best I can tell, there’s nothing here from the tail rotor. If this bird fell from the sky, as I would expect it to, all the pieces would be in a well-defined area. They’re not. That would lead me to believe that the tail rotor might be part of the debris that was picked up on radar a few miles back.” He looked at Uzi, as if willing him to draw a conclusion.

  Before Uzi could speak, Maguire nodded at the piece of metal in his hands. “This is from the transmission housing.” He motioned to DeSantos to shine his flashlight on the fragment. “See this?” he asked, pointing with an index finger. “Right here.”

  Uzi leaned closer, his warm breath fogging the chilled air. “What am I supposed to be seeing that I’m not?”

  “The sharp, jagged edges.”

  “Okay, yeah,” Uzi said. “And that means what?”

  “When we look for mechanical fatigue, and therefore structural failure, we expect to see chafing of the metal. If we look closely, we can see cracks where the metal gave way. It breaks, and the bird falls from the sky. But there’s no chafing, no overt signs of cracking here. No signs of fatigue whatsoever. In fact, all these parts look damn well brand new.”

  “So you’re saying it’s not structural failure.”

  “That’s a conclusion I’m not willing to commit to just yet. What I’m saying is that I don’t see any signs of the parts being defective or worn. But there is evidence that something pushed against the transmission housing. Something very powerful and very sudden,” Maguire said.

  “‘Something’ as in...what?” Uzi asked.

  DeSantos said, “Man, you’re thick. A freaking bomb, that’s what.”

  “But there’s something that disturbs me,” Maguire said.

  Uzi frowned. “If it ‘disturbs’ you, I’m willing to bet it’s really going to upset me.”

  Maguire placed the metal fragment where he’d found it. “Whoever did this used a sophisticated device to take down the vice president’s bird. As for the Stallion...” Maguire shrugged a shoulder. “Had to be something very powerful. And gaining access to these choppers is damn-near impossible.”

  “The fact that they were able to do it is definitely alarming,” Uzi said. He studied Maguire’s face a moment. “But...that’s not what disturbs you.”

  “No,” Maguire said. “If you’ve got a bomb, and you’ve gained access to the chopper, I could think of several more effective places to put it. Places that would’ve made it immediately drop out of the sky. Like the Stallion did. But if radar and the flight path check out, they flew Marine Two for almost five minutes after the first Mayday call.”

  “Let’s go back to the Stallion for a minute. They took it down real fast. No fooling around there. What’s its Achilles’ heel?”

  “Without a doubt, the Jesus Nut.”

  Uzi smiled out of the right portion of his face. “Excuse me? What the hell’s a Jesus Nut?”

  “I’m not being sacrilegious. It’s the ‘nut’ that holds everything together at the top of the main rotor. Screw around with it, put a bomb on it, the bird’s toast. Drops out of the sky.”

  “Which is what happened.”

  Maguire bobbed his head. “That’s what we think happened, based on radar. We’ll know more once I hear from the team assigned to that crash site. They’re searching right now with infrared, but there’s miles to cover. That said, if you want my opinion on the most effective way of bringing that chopper down in the middle of the Virginia countryside, that’d be it.”

  They were silent for a few seconds before Uzi spoke. “So whoever did this wanted the Stallion down quickly, but they wanted Marine Two to stay up awhile longer. Why?”

  “There’s no terror in a quick death,” DeSantos offered. “Whoever did this not only wanted Rusch dead, he wanted him and his family to suffer the terror of his helicopter going down.”

  “So this might’ve been personal,” Uzi said. His gaze met DeSantos’s. “Looks like this is going to be my job for the next year or so.”

  “It would appear so.”

  A DUST SWIRL ROSE FROM the ground a hundred yards to the north. Uzi, who had left DeSantos and Maguire moments ago, could tell a helicopter had landed, and seconds later the backlit silhouettes of a clot of men began moving toward the debris field. One of them had Marshall Shepard’s shifting gait. Another appeared to be FBI Director Douglas Knox—followed by an unusually large security detail—and another gentleman Uzi could not immediately identify in the murky darkness.

  The men stepped into the bright klieg light aura that hovered above the crash site. Knox, wearing a dark suit and matching overcoat that contrasted with his thick head of gray hair, looked out at the firefighters hauling their equipment back to their rigs and the army of investigators combing the debris.

  At this proximity, Uzi recognized the other official with Knox as Director of Central Intelligence Earl Tasset, which explained the large contingent of bodyguards: in addition to Knox’s security detail, Tasset’s Security Protection Officers were also along for the ride.

  Tasset said a few words to Knox, shook his head in disapproval at the scene before them, then approached Uzi and Shepard. Tasset had pointed, petite features, John Lennon glasses, and above-the-collar wavy, salt-and-pepper hair with a tightly cropped goatee. Uzi always thought the guy looked more like a progressive college professor than a top spy master.

  “Mr. Directors,” Shepard said, “this is Special Agent Aaron Uziel, head of WFO’s JTTF.” Both men, each intimately aware of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, nodded.

  Uzi shook Knox’s gloved hand, then Tasset’s. “An honor to meet both of you,” Uzi said.

  Knox’s eyes roamed the area beyond Uzi’s right shoulder. “Report.”

  “Everything’s very preliminary at this point, sir, but my impression is that this was not an accidental downing. No overt signs of mechanical or structural failure. Not to mention they were both real tough birds.”

  “Anything point to a bomb?”

  “There’s some...suggestion that an explosive device was placed beside the transmission housing of the veep’s chopper. But this is all very preliminary.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Knox clenched his jaw. “Find these people, Shepard. Whatever resources you need, whatever it takes, I don’t care.” He turned to Uzi. “You’ve got nine days to get me an answer.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Nine days?”

  “Yes sir,” Shepard said quickly. “We’ll have that information for you, not a problem.”

  “I want to be kept aware of everything you learn,” Tasset said to Shepard. “The idea is to work together here, pool our intel.”

  Knox’s scowl deepened. “I’m sure he’s well aware of ‘the idea,’ Earl.” Knox threw a cautious look at Uzi, then moved off to tour the wreckage. Tasset and his people followed.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Uzi spoke. “Shep, I can’t guarantee we’ll be any closer to solving this thing in nine weeks, let alone nine days.”

  “When the director tells you he wants something done, you do it, Uzi. No excuses, just answers. Answers.”

  Uzi frowned and turned away.

  “You need something, let me know. More agents, just tell me how many. That’s how this is going to work.” When he didn’t get a reply, Shepard put a reassuring arm a
round his friend’s shoulders. “Hey, someone tried to kill the president-elect of the United States, Uzi. That’s never happened before. This is major shit. And you get to be the guy in the middle of it all.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better, Shep.” Uzi held up a hand before Shepard could respond. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t.” He tightened his large paw around Uzi’s shoulder, then turned and headed off toward the director.

  Uzi rolled his head back, ran his hands across his face...and wondered how he was going to deliver.

  DAY ONE

  3:06 AM

  Uzi brought his fist up to his mouth as the yawn stretched his lips wide. Fatigue was not just announcing its arrival, it was propping up the pillows and begging him to find a bed. He needed a Turkish coffee—but at this time of night, in the middle of the countryside, that was not going to happen. He hugged his body tight as a shiver rippled through his shoulders.

  He hadn’t wanted to call his old contact. There were issues such a meeting would bring up, things he didn’t want to discuss. But he needed information his former colleague might be able to provide; the man was dialed in, always was, and with a nine-day deadline, Uzi needed something to set him in the right direction, intel that could streamline his efforts and spark his investigation. If there was anyone who could do that, like jumper cables to a dead car battery, it was Nuri Peled.

  Uzi sat beneath a grove of trees on a metal mesh bench in Pershing Park, an unexpected slice of suburbia two blocks from the White House. To his right and across the street stood the regal centenarian Willard InterContinental Hotel, the “crown jewel” of Pennsylvania Avenue. Uzi remembered reading that the term “lobbyist” had been coined in the Willard’s grand lobby and that writers Mark Twain and Walt Whitman had once chosen it as a place to gather and socialize.

  The dense tree canopy filtered what little moonlight trickled down amidst the weary glow of streetlamps dotting the park’s multiple levels. Uzi checked his watch, then fought off another yawn. A welcome teeth-chattering breeze blew across his face and woke him a bit. He wished Peled would arrive soon.

  Fifteen minutes past the hour, the stocky form of a man in a running suit sauntered up to the reflecting pond set into granite banks near the center of the park. Uzi nonchalantly gazed in the man’s direction, positively identified his friend, and then pulled himself off the bench, headed toward the large bronze statue of General James Pershing, the park’s namesake. Marbled charcoal granite walls surrounded the figure; historical World War I blurbs and battle tales etched the smooth rock face.

  The patter from the pond’s fountain masked surrounding noises—so well that Peled was able to make a silent approach. Uzi turned and took in the man’s face. More lines creased the eyes and a few scraggly gray hairs sprouted beneath his knit cap, but otherwise Nuri Peled looked the same as the last time Uzi had seen him.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” Peled said, his voice as rough as a nail file.

  Uzi looked away. “I’m with the Bureau now.”

  “We know.” Peled rocked back and forth on his heels. “How have you been? Since, well...since you left.”

  “Fine. I’ve been fine.”

  To this Peled looked at Uzi for the first time, his clear, appraising eyes doing a quick calculation. “You’re lying.”

  “I need some info,” Uzi said. He glanced over his left shoulder and scanned the park’s crevices. He faced the statue again, the high walls behind it effectively shielding their mouths from anyone attempting to lip-read from a distance. The fountain noise would foil parabolic microphones and other high-tech listening tactics. “Intel,” Uzi said, “on hostiles back home.”

  A short chuckle blurted from Peled’s throat. “That’s a bit open-ended, my friend. Can you be more specific?”

  “Relative to the US, anything major being planned the past few months?”

  “There’s always chatter.”

  “I’m not interested in chatter. Reliable intel, Nuri. You know what happened tonight. You know what I’m asking.”

  “I’m no longer with our former employer. A friendly ally, though. Not to worry.” Now it was Peled’s turn to check their surroundings. After a scouring look around, he turned back to Uzi and said, “Possibly some activity involving a radical Islamic group. A whisper on the wind that one of them has set up shop here. Haven’t been able to verify any of that yet.”

  “This whisper. Related to the chopper bombing?”

  “Can’t say. But if they are here, they’re quite good, very quiet. Unaffiliated with mosques or imams. Independent funding. At least, no known connections with traditional money sources.”

  “Best guess.”

  “Best guess is that I can’t guess yet. If you don’t mind some friendly advice, this one smells domestic. But that’s just my gut. Other than the whisper—which may or may not be related—I’m not seeing anything that puts a foreign terrorist anywhere near your case. But I just started poking around. If they’re here, I’ll find them. I’ll have to dig a little faster in light of tonight’s...events.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “You know me well enough to know I’m not doing it for you.”

  Uzi nodded contritely. “Of course.”

  “I miss working with you, Uzi.”

  “Yeah, well, things don’t always turn out the way we expect them to, you know?”

  Peled kicked at a pebble by his shoe, then said, “I’ll contact you if I find anything.”

  Uzi stood there, considering the inadequacy of his own words, thinking how life can change from white to black in the tick of a second hand. He knew this meeting would refresh unpleasant memories, memories he could ill afford to sort through right now. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Directly in front of him stood General Pershing, hero of a war nearly a hundred years earlier. And now a different war in a different world, a war fought against an elusive enemy, without masses of troops or land, tanks or submarines. Brutal and deadly nonetheless.

  Uzi turned to shake Peled’s hand, but the man was gone. Only the empty cement plaza stared back at him, the white noise rush of the pond’s fountain the lone sound of the sleeping city. A brisk breeze reminded him how tired he was. He turned and lifted heavy feet toward his car.

  7:00 AM

  Long murky shadows stretched across the sidewalk like tendrils from a hideous monster. The dark night stank of death, of destruction and terror. Uzi moved amidst the darkness, through Jerusalem’s myriad alleys and hidden spots only he knew...scores of stray cats sensing his urgency and scurrying away as he approached.

  His nerves were like rotten teeth, ready to crumble at the slightest hint of pressure.

  The phone call from Nuri Peled had been short and laced with warning. “Go home, Uzi. Now.” Peled then hung up and Uzi took off on foot. Driving a car this close to home was too risky. The chances of being followed were great, the ability to lose your pursuer difficult.

  Uzi moved anonymously through the bustling Ben Yehuda with speed and efficiency, weaving among the raucous youth, musicians, and tourists. He cut across the dark Independence Park and emerged on Agron, the urgency in Peled’s voice pushing him, driving him faster than was safe.

  Go home, Uzi. Now.

  What could possibly await him at home that would warrant Peled’s attention? Had he discovered a bug buried in a wall of his apartment? Papers hidden away in his floorboards? He had no hidden papers.

  Dena... Had Dena discovered something and called Gideon? Had something startled her? With Uzi having gone dark—officially an “important business trip” to his wife, while in reality a covert mission in Syria and then Gaza—Dena knew the protocol: call the private security line, and whoever answered would alert Gideon. Gideon would then dispatch someone to look in on his wife and daughter. Dena, of course, did not know who Gideon was, or who manned the private line...only that she was to call it at the slightest hint of trouble.


  Trouble. Had something happened to Dena and Maya? It was a possibility too painful to even consider. Besides, it was highly unlikely. “They’ve got the best security anyone could have,” Gideon Aksel had told Uzi when he signed on. “Your family will be safe. We live and die by procedure, my friend. Follow it to the letter and everything will be fine.” Uzi had branded the rules into his brain like a technogeek embeds an encryption algorithm on a computer chip. And until yesterday’s mission, he had always followed procedure. Always.

  But now, as he turned the corner to his apartment building and took in the scene before him, his heart skipped and jumped and his stomach pumped his throat full of bile. Police cars—fire engine—ambulance. Living room window missing. No, not missing, blown out—

  “Uzi!” Emerging from the front entrance of the building was Nuri Peled, his face as long and dark as the night’s shadows.

  Uzi moved toward his friend, though he didn’t remember covering the distance. They stood toe to toe, Uzi searching his mentor’s face for information. Peled only looked up toward the stairs. Uzi turned and flew up the steps, floating, an apparition navigating the air currents as he headed toward his apartment. Through the open front door—no, it was blown off its hinges—he saw a large figure, its back to him.

  Gideon Aksel turned. His stout body was rigid, the lines in his leathered face deep. Thick arms wrapped across his chest. He took in Uzi’s face, then turned back toward the kitchen.

  Rubble lay scattered about the floor of Uzi’s small apartment. His home.

  Gideon’s feet were firmly planted amongst the debris. But he was not looking into the kitchen. He was looking out the window at something below.

  Intense fear exploded through Uzi’s body like a jolt of electricity.

  Dena. Uzi shouted it this time. “Dena!”

  He started down the hallway to his right, his legs moving slowly, as though trudging through knee-deep mud.

  “Maya?” His mind started to come around, adding things up, taking in the scene. Police. Fire. Bombed out window and door. Nuri Peled at the front, Gideon Aksel inside his apartment.