“You already spoke to him?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got an open line to him. He usually knows what’s going to happen before it does. Must have good intuition.”
“Or good sources. Is he legit?”
“Thoroughly vetted. Totally clean. Graduated from UC Berkeley with a law degree, went to work for a huge firm in San Francisco but hated it. Became a PI specializing in cases that had a legal slant. Did that for eleven years, then moved east a decade ago.”
“Moved east? Why?”
“Found his calling in certain political issues. Figured best place to be is here.”
“You’re comfortable with him?”
“Don’t take my word for it. Talk to him, decide for yourself.”
Uzi shoved the message slip into his pocket as he entered Marshall Shepard’s office.
SHEPARD WAS ON THE PHONE, his elbows resting on the desk and his face buried in his large hands. Uzi and Hoshi took seats in front of him and waited.
“Yeah, do that,” Shepard said. “Keep me informed.” He pulled off the headset, then slammed it down on his desk. “Christ. That guy drives me up a wall. Up a freakin’ wall.” His face seemed to take in the presence of Hoshi—and the significance of her visit. “She told you,” Shepard said to Uzi.
“What do you make of it?”
“Just got back from a briefing with the director. I was going to fill you in.”
“Now’s a good time.”
Shepard looked at Hoshi. “What did you tell him?”
Hoshi’s cheeks flushed, and Uzi realized he should have come alone.
“Just what we discussed, sir.”
“If Koh here told you what she knows,” Shepard said, “you probably know most of it. Director is placing some restrictions on our investigation.”
Uzi found a toothpick on Shepard’s desk. He pulled it from the wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. “You talk as if it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not, Uzi, it’s not. There are bigger issues for us to deal with.”
“He’s our chief, but he’s handcuffing us. We need those gun records.”
“We’ve had roadblocks in investigations before. We’ll find other ways of getting the info.”
Uzi shared a look with Hoshi, whose face remained neutral. She was clearly uncomfortable with Uzi’s challenging Shepard.
“Hoshi,” Uzi said, “why don’t you go finish that background sheet on Wheeler?”
Hoshi checked her watch, then glanced up at Shepard for his approval.
“Go,” he said with the flick of a large hand.
She gathered herself and left the room.
As the door clicked shut, Uzi turned back to Shepard. “She’s afraid of you, you know.”
Shepard twisted his lips. “Most of my agents are. Except you. Why is that?”
“Because I know your secret. You’ve got a heart as big as your head.” Shepard growled. Uzi got the impression that if his boss had been a Rottweiler, he’d have bared his teeth. “Back to Knox. Who else was in on this meeting?”
Shepard looked away. “The attorney general.”
“That must’ve been fun. Cats and dogs.” Uzi chuckled. “Did Coulter lay into him?”
“The Attorney General didn’t have much of anything to say. He asked a few questions for clarification, but that was it.” Shepard lifted a shoulder. “Maybe this whole NICS thing is Coulter’s idea to begin with.”
“You think?”
“Who the hell knows. They’re both very conservative, Uzi. Strict interpretation of the Second Amendment.”
Uzi held the tip of his nose and leaned forward.
“What’s wrong?”
“Second Amendment or not, something stinks, Shep. And it’s bad, whatever it is.”
Shepard held up a big paw. “Let it stink. You just stay away from it. It’s the fucking director, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got enough problems—and enough on your plate.”
Uzi could feel Shepard’s eyes glaring at him. But he was lost in thought.
“Uzi, did you hear me? Did you hear what I said? Leave it alone.”
Uzi rose from his chair and headed out.
“Where are you going?” Shepard barked.
Uzi stepped through the door, not bothering to stop as he called out over his shoulder, “To clear some room on my plate.”
6:58 PM
139 hours 2 minutes remaining
After finishing with Shepard, Uzi grabbed his jacket and walked two blocks from the office toward that once ubiquitous, yet now rare, convenience: a pay phone. He pulled out the message slip Hoshi had given him and stood there, deciding if he wanted to call—and if he did, what he would say.
Figuring he had little to lose, he punched in the cell number for Hoshi’s contact, Tad Bishop. The phone rang three times, but as Uzi entertained thoughts of hanging up—
“Bishop.”
Uzi dipped his chin. Good tradecraft. Always. “Mr. Bishop, I was given your name by a friend. She told me you’ve got a good handle on the gun lobby.”
“A bit of an understatement, but I won’t hold that against you.”
“Good, because I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Fine,” Uzi said. “Meet me in the park behind Bureau of Printing and Engraving, off Wallenberg Drive. Go to the fireplug along Wallenberg and wait there.”
“It’ll take me about twenty minutes,” Bishop said.
“I’ll be the tall, dark, handsome guy in the leather overcoat.”
“And I’ll be the bald guy who’s been thinking of dieting but can’t seem to find the time.”
UZI STOOD IN THE PLAZA of the United States Holocaust Museum, down the block from the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Finally, forty minutes after they had first spoken, a rotund man ambled up to the traffic light stanchion.
“You’re late,” Uzi said.
“I had to check you out. It took longer than I thought.”
Uzi looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“You didn’t think I’d just show up to meet someone who calls me and says, ‘Meet me in a park to discuss the gun lobby’ without doing a little due diligence.”
Uzi pursed his lips. “Fair enough.”
He lowered his voice. “I’ll cut right to the chase. You want to know about the director, right? We’re coming out with a report on Douglas Knox tomorrow. I’ll make sure you get a copy, or if you want, you can download it from our website.”
“But that doesn’t tell the whole story,” Uzi said.
Bishop turned and crossed Raoul Wallenberg Place, Uzi at his side. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know the whole story. But no, some things were left out of the report. I believe in what we do, but I know there are limits to the buttons we push. We want to stay alive, so there are certain lines we don’t cross. If there’s something that falls outside those lines, I tell Agent Koh and let her deal with it.”
Uzi felt the moist dirt of the park grass giving a bit beneath his loafers. He stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued a few more paces in silence. “Consider me an extension of Agent Koh. I’ll make sure any information you give me can’t be traced back to you.” When he got no objection, Uzi continued. “Let’s start with some easy questions. Is Knox a member of the NFA?”
“Yes.”
Uzi nodded. He figured as much. “How do you feel about that?”
“Over the years, congressmen have served on the NFA’s board of directors. That’s bad enough. But the director of the FBI? He should be squeaky clean. No ties to any group, organization, or corporation that could color his judgment on the issues he has to face while doing his job.”
“How’s NFA different from the NRA? I’m sure plenty of conservative politicians are NRA members.”
“Different animal,” Bishop said. He stopped walking and faced Uzi. “They’ve also got lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and the NRA respects that line. But the NFA’s a different story. Twe
nty years ago, when they were more concerned with the rights of hunters, it wasn’t a big deal. But since then, the NFA’s morphed into a political animal, a huge lobby group with substantial resources and a slab of new turf. They became the foot soldiers of the far right. The sales force, so to speak.”
“I’m going to remain neutral on the merits of the NFA’s beliefs and intentions,” Uzi said. “I don’t want my personal views to affect our discussion one way or the other. But tell me more about the NFA’s leadership base. What motivates these people?”
Though Bishop was a good six inches shorter than Uzi, when the man looked up at him and their eyes met, even in the darkness Uzi could sense the fire that brewed there.
“What I hear you asking is how aggressive they’d get, right?” Uzi gave a slight nod, and Bishop continued. “These people want to win. They’re respected members of the community, every one of them. Their backgrounds are clean, at least as far as law enforcement is concerned. Some have ties to fringe groups but their association is unofficial, carefully protected.”
“But you know about them, these connections.”
“I know about them, but I don’t know the specifics. And don’t ask me how I know.”
Uzi glanced around the park, always on guard, always exercising caution. He lowered his voice. “I assume you had a defection from within their ranks.”
“You understand the situation well,” Bishop said.
“So you don’t know who these ‘fringe groups’ are.”
“No.” Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “And I’m better off not knowing.”
“I hear you,” Uzi said. “How about some perspective, then. How does all this tie in to President-elect Rusch?”
“It’s a miracle Rusch made it this far.”
“What do you mean by ‘made it’?”
“That he won the election. Rusch is a problem. When his sister was killed three years ago, he went through an epiphany. He suddenly realized what we’d been preaching for the past fifteen years. That guns kill.” Bishop wiped at his nose with a gloved hand. The temperature had dipped to the high thirties, and standing around was making it feel several degrees colder.
Bishop turned and started walking again, headed toward Independence Avenue. Uzi followed. “Rusch was a major challenge to the party. He was VP in a conservative administration that successfully defended against another 9/11. The economy was humming along and there was a steady growth in employment. They’d held the White House for eight years, but Whitehall was a goner on term limits. With his approval rating still in the seventies, they knew they had a strong shot at another four years—and Rusch was their ticket. But he had to be corralled. The main power brokers in the party sat him down and explained it all to him. They told him they needed him to be a team player or his career in politics would be over.”
“But Rusch came out against the gun lobby.”
“Big time. He played ball, rallied the party behind him. But the peace didn’t last long. He didn’t intend to make it a campaign issue, but a reporter with the New York Times asked the question during one of Rusch’s rallies in October. Remember?”
“Typical campaign chatter, that’s all that stuff ever is. I usually ignore it. Anyone can spin or promise anything to get elected—and the media plays right into it. Character is what counts.”
“The reporter asked Rusch where he stood on gun control. He couldn’t lie, because he knew the issue would come back to bite him in the ass later. So he danced around it. But during the last debate Gibson pressed him on it and Rusch officially came out against the gun lobby. At that point, a week before the election, there was nothing the party could do. He was their candidate.” Bishop sniffled, rubbed his hands together. “The media made a big thing of it, of course, but it was nothing compared to what went on behind the scenes.”
“And you know this, how?”
“Don’t ask me that. But if it makes you feel any better, my sources are solid. And I always verify what they tell me. The last thing I want is to start rumors or say anything I’d have to go back on later. It would destroy my credibility. And in this business, credibility is everything.”
“Go on,” Uzi said. They had crossed Independence and were headed toward the brilliantly lit Washington Monument.
“What no one knew is that the National Firearms Alliance got involved. They’d given three million dollars to the Republicans over the past several years, and that bought them a lot of influence. Like I said before, the NFA became a clandestine leader of the conservative right wing. They pushed Rusch to the edge but couldn’t get him to budge.
“Problem was, the NFA needed the right-wing as much as the right wing needed them. And in the end, both were powerless to stop Rusch. If he lost, the conservatives were out of power. If he won, they were scared shitless that he’d team with congressional Democrats to pass strict new gun laws. And with three Supreme Court judges about to retire or kick the bucket, you can bet Rusch’s appointees will see things the way he does. The long debate over interpretation of the Second Amendment would be settled. Rusch would see to that.”
Bishop let his theory hang in the thick air as his shoes crunched against the walkway.
Uzi felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, his body suffusing with euphoric anticipation. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt in several years—and even then, he’d only experienced it a handful of times—the sudden realization that he had stumbled onto something far larger than the original mission he’d been assigned. He tried to keep his voice even and restrained. “So you’re saying it’d be in their best interest if Glendon Rusch wasn’t in the picture.” He had chosen his words carefully, making it seem like a casual remark rather than a suggestion of motive for assassinating the man who had been elected the next president of the United States.
Bishop glanced sideways at Uzi. “They don’t pay me enough to draw such conclusions.”
They pay me enough. Uzi shook Bishop’s hand, and then headed off into the darkness.
8:05 PM
137 hours 55 minutes remaining
Uzi went back to his office, too wired to go home. Forget about eating or sleeping. If there was validity to what Bishop had said, he knew the best place to be was at his desk, tapping away on his keyboard.
He exited the elevator, held his ID card in front of the sensor, and the electronic lock clunked loudly. After pushing through the thick glass doors, he made his way down the hall. A hint of movement by Hoshi’s cubicle brought him to her desk.
“I didn’t mean you should finish that report tonight,” Uzi said.
She looked up, her eyes glazed from concentration. “I had nothing better to do. Might as well work.”
“A beautiful woman like you has nothing to do? Impossible.”
The skin flushed beneath her high cheekbones. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You need something, don’t you.”
Though the sentiment behind his comment was genuine, he did, in fact, need her assistance. “You feel like going on a mission with me?”
She leaned back in her chair. “What kind of mission?”
He raised his eyebrows, then indicated that she should follow him. They walked over to his office and sat down beside his computer. “I met with your pal Bishop. He made some rather interesting assertions. I figured I’d dig a little, see what I could uncover. Other than the guys in cybercrime, you’re the only other person here who knows her way around a computer network.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Uzi pulled a laptop from behind his desk, taking care not to mess the papers that were arranged in their bins according to due date and level of complexity. He plugged it into an outlet and booted up. “You take the laptop and I’ll be on my terminal. Let’s see what we can find out.”
Hoshi’s eyes narrowed. “Find out about what?”
Uzi summarized Bishop’s information, then pointed to his laptop. “You take the executive leadership of the NFA and I’ll take our esteemed director. Let’s start there. See where it
leads us.”
Hoshi swiveled her chair to face the screen and went to work.
TWO HOURS LATER, UZI ROSE from his seat and stretched toward the ceiling. “I’m hungry. You?”
Hoshi fought off a yawn. “I could use some coffee.” She looked at Uzi’s LCD monitor and inched closer. “What’s that?”
Uzi turned to find a blinking red cursor beside a short paragraph of text. “Hmm. Interesting.” He re-read the few sentences, then leaned back to consider what he’d seen. “I ran a little program I wrote last year. It takes a set of facts, like people’s names and other identifying info—SSNs, drivers license numbers, whatever you’ve got—and compares it to other people in a given database, using the parameters you set for the search.”
Hoshi squinted at him. “You wrote a program that could do all that?”
Uzi shrugged. “In my spare time.” He realized what that might say about his lack of a social life, but he was more interested in the information he had just discovered. “So I gave it certain names to compare. I wanted it to tell me if it found any crossover relationships. And here we go,” he said, pointing to the screen. “It found one between Douglas Knox and Skiles Rathbone, president of the NFA. They grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same high school and college, and graduated the same year.”
“Yeah, and that means what? Guilty by association? Guilty of what?”
Another blinking light grabbed Uzi’s attention before he could answer. He looked at the screen, read the information, and grabbed for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Hoshi asked.
“A partner in crime.” He moved the handset to his mouth as the line connected. “Hey. We need to talk.”
Hector DeSantos hesitated. “Like some time tomorrow, or first thing in the morning—”
“Like now. It’s important. But not over the phone.”
DeSantos groaned. “Fine. Come by my place. But I’ve got company.” He gave Uzi directions and hung up.
“Get yourself a coffee, then keep on that,” he said, waving a finger at his laptop. “Play with my program some more, see what you find.”
Hard Target Page 16
