“But you gave me the impression Oklahoma City was significant.”
“Personally,” Ruckhauser said, shifting uneasily in his chair, “Timothy McVeigh scared the crap out of me. Not because of what he was, but because of who he was.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He didn’t exactly fit your typical far-right race-hating workingman. He came from a middle-class upbringing; he was articulate and polite. This guy was different from, say, Nelson Flint. That’s what made him so scary. He didn’t fit the profile of the people we watch—not unless you dug deep and looked at him after the fact. He slipped under our radar. He had loose affiliations with a few militia groups, but did most of his work alone—a brilliant strategy, actually. Small, independent cells are harder to track.”
“Sounds like a tactic out of the Middle East book of terrorism.”
Ruckhauser’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting observation. On September tenth, 2001, your typical militia considered all people of color—Arabs included—to be the devil. Suddenly, on September twelfth, the average Neo-Nazi and militia member thought of the al Qaida terrorists as heroes. Anyone willing to fly a plane into a building to kill Jews had to be admired.
“Since then, I think we’ve seen a convergence between the radical right and some elements of the radical left—conspiratorial anti-globalists and hard-core anarchists in particular; and, most recently, support for foreign anti-American terrorists. It’s a disturbing trend. Even mainstream, nonviolent movements— At the fringes of the Occupy Wall Street movement, people were spouting stereotypical rhetoric about the Jews being the bankers who took their homes away.”
Uzi took the wood stirrer and sloshed his coffee. Steam rose like a ferocious snake suddenly awakened from its sleep. “Anti-Semitism’s been around for centuries. It’s not going away anytime soon.”
“Do you know the basics of ARM’s history?” Uzi nodded. “Okay then. Stop me if I start wasting your time. ARM had been stuck in a financial rut. They’d made a lot of their money by robbing banks— Took in a little over three million until four of them were caught and thrown in jail.”
“Around ’99 or 2000, right?”
Ruckhauser nodded. “The money was seized, and the heat was on, but their comrades refused to roll on them. So they were cash-strapped until about six years ago when they merged with SRM, Southern Ranks Militia. SRM’s leader, ‘General’ Lewiston Grant, was a progressive thinker who realized they needed to expand their reach.
“After the merger, they had big membership numbers, but money was still an issue because their plans grew more grandiose. But Grant wanted to raise the funds legally, if possible, because it wouldn’t do the group much good if any of them got thrown in jail. He saw an opportunity and took them into business. Instead of selling copies of their racist manifesto, they bought low-end servers and embraced the Internet. They started an entity called Southern Ranks Internet, doing business as SRI—”
“The web-hosting service?”
“That’s the one.”
“Holy shit,” Uzi said. “I had no idea who was behind that.”
Ruckhauser’s lips spread into a sardonic smile. “That’s why they call it SRI. You won’t find Southern Ranks Internet spelled out anywhere. We only knew because we were plugged into what they were doing. Their outlay was minimal but the payoff was great. Grant was a self-taught computer whiz, and he set it all up on his own. Within months, they had a steady inflow of money from their members and other white power/neo-Nazi/militia groups. They got everyone to be their marketing force, talking up SRI as a low-cost web-hosting service. Their members who were businessmen switched their websites over to SRI and they had a steady stream of cash coming in every month to cover their maintenance and startup expenses.”
“That can be a cash cow business.”
“Exactly— Especially when they started getting businesses from beyond their own circle. They started buying cheap server space in India and reselling it. Pure profit. That’s when the money really started to flow. That’s also around the time when we got some intel that they were purchasing less traceable foreign weapons.”
Uzi had taken a drink of coffee, but suddenly pulled the cup from his lips. “Foreign weapons? From where?”
“I don’t know.”
Uzi nodded slowly, realizing he might have finally found the connection he needed to start building a case against ARM. “If you had to make an educated guess?”
“The field is relatively narrow. Russia, China, and North Korea top the list.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“SRI’s obviously privately held, so they don’t have to file financials with the SEC. But my people feel it’s enough to give them serious spending money—and with that, comes influence.”
“Influence. With who?”
Ruckhauser smiled. “You like mystery novels, Uzi?”
“Thrillers mostly. My life can get a little boring at times. Fiction adds some spice.” Uzi hesitated, realizing the depth of the truth behind that statement.
“Then here’s something that’ll raise your eyebrows.” Ruckhauser leaned forward in his chair and the spring squeaked. “How about ARM and the NFA in bed together?”
Uzi leaned forward as well, resting his forearms on the desk. “Really.”
“I don’t know if you heard about it, but there was a guy killed yesterday who was looking into it. You should check it out. Name was Tad Bishop.”
“You knew Bishop?”
“Judging by your reaction, I take it you did, too.”
“Not well. Met him a couple of times. Was the guy legit?”
“Oh, he lived in his own world. Used to be a private investigator. He left because he couldn’t pay his bills, but I think deep down he loved the hunt.”
“Credibility-wise—”
“A bit quirky, but he was a straight-shooter. From what I could tell, he was well grounded.”
Uzi nodded. “So he was looking into the ARM-NFA connection?”
“Suspected connection,” Ruckhauser said. “We had lunch a few weeks ago. He mentioned the players he was looking into. I put two and two together. He wasn’t a good friend or anything, just someone I could get together with and shoot the breeze about common stuff.”
“Did you know what Bishop was working on—what he’d found out?”
“No.” Ruckhauser hesitated. “But based on what he was telling me, I started poking around myself.”
“And?”
“And I think there’s probably some money laundering going on, a way of passing the cash from the NFA to ARM. I’d guess they’re doing it through one of their companies or subsidiaries. Or a well-to-do member who owns a lucrative business.”
“Any proof? I can’t do anything with theories.”
“I gave everything I had to one of your guys at the Bureau. I talk to him a few times a week. Everything I know, everything I’ve got, he gets. Name’s Pablo Garza. Good man.”
Uzi thought of his encounter with Garza an hour ago. “Good man” were not the words Uzi would use to describe him. “When did you give him this info?”
“Couple of days ago. Delivered it myself.”
Uzi sat there, getting as hot under the collar as his coffee. He rose from his chair. “Then I guess I should go talk with Agent Garza.”
“You need anything, give me a holler. Or stop by. When I’m not out sleuthing, I’m right here.”
“Yeah, well, be careful. The people who took out Tad Bishop don’t want anyone sniffing around their business. You gave us the ball, let us run with it now.”
“That’s not the way a former journalist thinks.”
“Tell that to Daniel Pearl.” The Wall Street Journal reporter had been kidnapped and murdered by al-Qaeda terrorists—a videotaped beheading shown on the Internet.
“I knew Danny,” Ruckhauser said. “The Journal lost more than a reporter that day. It lost a brilliant mind and a gentle soul.” He looked down at his desk. “Poi
nt taken. I’ll be careful.”
Uzi thanked him, then headed out. He suddenly had an unscheduled appointment, and he had a feeling it was not going to be pleasant.
12:12 PM
97 hours 48 minutes remaining
Uzi did not even acknowledge the sixth-floor receptionist as he breezed past her desk.
She rose from her chair. “Hey, you can’t—”
“Watch me,” Uzi said under his breath as he rounded the corner. He grabbed the knob of Garza’s office and flung open the door.
The room was empty. “Shit,” Uzi said. He set his hands on his waist and stared at the empty chair twenty feet in front of him.
“Back so soon?”
The voice came from behind him. He spun, his right hand instinctively reaching for the handle of his Glock, as he’d done so many times before when his brain screamed “imminent danger.” But he stopped himself before he’d drawn the weapon, the adrenaline subsiding a bit when he saw Garza standing behind him.
Uzi clenched his jaw. “You’re an asshole, Garza.”
The agent slid past Uzi into the office, making his way toward his chair. “No, I’m really not. I’m actually well liked by my staff and colleagues. Unlike yourself.” He stopped, looked at Uzi, and grinned.
“What’s your problem? What did I ever do to you?”
“Why are you here?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Garza took a seat behind his desk and lifted the phone. Uzi flashed across the room like a bobcat, his hand slamming the handset back onto the receiver.
“You seem a bit pissed.”
Uzi kept his hand firmly atop Garza’s. “You think?”
“Guess I’d better be careful. I don’t want to get a visit by OPR,” he said, referring to the Bureau’s internal affairs police.
Uzi stood up, releasing his grip on Garza’s hand. “What?”
“Jake Osborn isn’t just my friend, he’s a top-notch agent.”
Osborn. That’s what this is about. I should’ve seen it coming.
“Jake’s paid his dues to get where he is, and then some punk foreigner comes along—”
“Stop right there, asshole. I’m a US citizen. I was born here. Even if I wasn’t, so what? Osborn fucked up. He was unsafe. People could’ve gotten killed. He didn’t follow established protocol, which means that if I look the other way, I’m as guilty as he is. It’s bad for me, bad for the Bureau. It isn’t what we get paid to do.”
“We get paid to make the country a safer place. That’s what Jake was doing.”
“I could’ve referred him for an OPR, made things a lot worse for him. But I didn’t.”
“He engaged the suspect against orders because he felt the asshole was dangerous and could’ve killed others if he’d gotten away. Jake did what he thought was right.”
“So did I.” Uzi looked away. He had important matters to discuss with Garza, and this wasn’t one of them. “I’m here to talk about ARM and the NFA.”
Garza spun his chair to face the large picture window that looked out over downtown DC. “We already had that discussion.”
“We’re gonna have it again. Only this time you’re not going to bullshit me. You’re gonna tell me what you know.”
“What makes you think I didn’t already do that?”
“Obstruction of justice is an ugly thing to appear on your resume,” Uzi said. He leaned both hands on Garza’s desk, and waited.
“You’re so good, I figured you’d find out whatever you needed on your own.”
“I’m not kidding, Garza. You hindered an investigation, obstructed—”
“Give me a break. Where’s the harm? A couple hours of your time? You’re back here, asking questions. Maybe it proves you’re a smart guy, a decent agent.” He turned to Uzi and grinned a one-sided smile. “Then again, maybe it doesn’t.” He turned back to the window.
“Agent Garza, it’s my responsibility to direct the investigation into the attempt on the president-elect’s life. Do you understand the implications of all this? If you don’t cooperate, the next time I give my report to the director—or the goddamn president—he’s gonna know I’ve hit a roadblock. Call it ratting out, call it tattling, call it whatever the hell you want. I’ve got a thick hide, and I’ve heard it all. But I’ve gotta get to the truth, and no one, not some two-bit punk—and certainly not another agent—is gonna keep me from it. You understand what I’m saying?”
Garza seemed to be weighing the risks. His gaze still on downtown, he said, “I hear you.”
“Good. Then tell me about the ARM-NFA connection.”
“What do you want to know about it?”
“Karl Ruckhauser sends you all the info that ADL gets their hands on, their intelligence data. You’ve seen it all. There anything Karl doesn’t know about?”
“There’s no connection. I couldn’t find anything.”
“Ruckhauser seemed to think there might be. You sure about your conclusions?”
“All he had were theories. Theories are good for conspiracy theorists like your dead informant. But they don’t do jack for us.”
“How far did you look into it?”
Garza spun his chair and drew a bead on Uzi’s face. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It was a simple question.”
“I did what I was required to do, what we all do to investigate an allegation. I went as far as I could. Without something substantial, there was nothing more to do, nowhere for me to go.”
“What do you know about Lewiston Grant?”
“Guy’s a dead end. He died in a fire in Utah.”
“Find a body?”
“No. But with the level of destruction—”
“How hard did you look into his death?”
“Hard enough. Guy’s credit card, bank accounts, apartment, everything went dormant after the bombing. No one’s seen him. He’s dead.”
Uzi reserved judgment on that statement, but let it drop. “What’s your gut say? On ARM.”
Garza turned back to the window. He seemed to be giving the question some serious thought. Or maybe he was deciding whether or not he wanted to share his opinions with Uzi.
“I think they’re involved. If there was a way to get at them, I’d be all over their case.”
Uzi pushed off the desk. He had not gotten what he had come for; however, though he still had no hard evidence against an ARM-NFA alliance, he at least had another supporting opinion from someone with knowledge and experience in dealing with these groups. And that was more than he’d had only a few hours ago.
1:19 PM
96 hours 41 minutes remaining
Uzi answered his cell phone as he entered the Hoover Building’s elevator, headed toward the parking garage.
“I found something,” Tim Meadows said.
“Cool. What do you got?” Uzi pressed the elevator button to stop the car at the next floor. If Meadows had something significant, he could be there in a couple of minutes.
“After you left, I ran those brass casings through the spectrometer. Turned up some really interesting readings. So I took it upon myself to do some more digging.”
“That’s what I like about you, Tim. Always going the extra mile.”
“Yeah, that’s what the section chief says. He loves my work ethic.”
“Least you could do after twisting my arm over dinner.”
“Well, I think by the time I’m done with this case, I’ll have made it worth your while.”
The elevator stopped at the next floor. “I’m listening.”
“Come by. I’ll show you.”
Uzi pressed the floor button for the lab. “I’m headed up now. I’m in the building.”
“That makes one of us. I’m supposed to be off today, remember? I went home. Come by my house.”
“You’re working at home? On your day off?”
“That’s what the section chief loves about me. My work ethic.”
“You said that alr
eady.”
Meadows chuckled. “He really means it.”
AFTER JOTTING DOWN THE DIRECTIONS to Meadows’s house in Arlington, Uzi called DeSantos and invited him along for the ride. They arrived at the small two-story colonial residence half an hour later. A tattered American flag hung on a brass flagpole cemented into the front corner of the brown lawn that was dotted with hearty green weeds. Uzi found the doorbell and rang it.
Meadows’s voice came from nowhere. “Who is it?”
“Uzi. And my partner.”
A buzzer sounded. “Come in and go directly down the stairs to your left.”
“Nice setup,” DeSantos said to Uzi.
“Thank you,” Meadows responded through the hidden speaker.
As they descended the staircase, the scent of mildew poked at Uzi’s nose. “Jeez, Tim, you should do a little disinfecting.”
“You talking about bugs, or bugs?” Meadows asked from somewhere behind a line of free-standing, floor-to-ceiling metal shelves.
“The mildew kind.”
The basement was unfinished. Curtained windows poked through the tops of the cement walls at ten-foot intervals. Spider cracks in the concrete extended in several directions, like tree roots branching out in search of water.
Their heels clicked against the brown tile flooring as they strolled down one of the rows, taking in dozens of half-finished projects that lay in various stages of completion.
“What is all this stuff?” DeSantos asked.
“I dabble in my free time,” Meadows said. He squinted at DeSantos. “You are?”
“Sorry,” Uzi said. “Hector DeSantos, DOD. He’s on the Marine Two task force, coordinating with JTTF.”
Meadows cocked his head, sizing up DeSantos. “DOD, huh?” He extended a hand, and DeSantos took it.
“Uzi said you found something.”
“Yes, yes,” Meadows said, then motioned them to follow him across the room.
As they passed a six-foot-tall black lacquer safe, Uzi said, “You in the banking business?”
“More like munitions,” DeSantos said. “This is a gun safe. A big gun safe.”
“I keep my projects in there. And my backup data. Media’s kept in a smaller compartment, though. Had to build it myself. Tolerance to one hundred twenty-five degrees. Otherwise the SSD drives melt.”
Hard Target Page 25
