As Uzi turned onto M Street, his secretary called. He was to report immediately to headquarters to meet with Pablo Garza. His chat with DeSantos would have to wait.
WHEN UZI ARRIVED at the Hoover Building, he was cleared by the FBI Police and drove over the retractable metal barrier, down the ramp, and into the underground garage. His mind was adrift with thoughts, trying to make sense of the facts they had amassed, when he entered the lobby.
But his eyes locked on a man standing in an elevator fifty feet away as the doors slid closed. That face— I’ve seen it somewhere.
There was something wrong with this man being here, like he was out of place, in the wrong context, or the wrong time. But Uzi couldn’t fight through the mental cobwebs to figure out why.
He took the stairs up to the fourth floor, allowing his mind to sort through facial images stored in his memory—like a massive binder of mug shots of people he had met during his law-enforcement careers. Someone from his past? Or more recently, from his FBI tenure?
Uzi walked into Garza’s office; the agent flipped a file folder closed and asked Uzi to shut the door. He took a seat and waited for Garza to speak.
“So you’re a risk taker,” Garza said. He opened another file and appeared to be perusing its contents. But Uzi could tell the man’s heart was not in it.
“Is that a question or a statement?” Uzi asked. He kept working through the virtual photos in his mind.
“You’re also very, very stupid. You can’t skulk around behind the scenes. There are rules. You know that. We’ve discussed that as it related to Osborn—”
“Yes, Garza. I know that. Your point?”
“My point?”
The office door opened and in walked the man from the elevator. Bringing up the rear was Jake Osborn. Uzi’s intestines immediately knotted.
And that’s when it hit him, as hard and fast as a rubber bullet to the thigh. The mysterious elevator man Uzi had seen was almost certainly “GI Joe” from the ARM compound— the one who had stopped him before he reached the fence, the one DeSantos had handcuffed.
At first pass through his logic, that didn’t make any sense. It was nearly impossible for an ARM member to be a Federal agent. How could anyone have access to both FBI Headquarters and one of the most notorious militia compounds in the US? Unless— Holy shit... They’ve got an undercover operative at ARM.
And he saw us there.
Nausea swept over Uzi as his mind raced through permutations on how to handle this. He needed to know what Garza knew, and what he was going do about it.
One thing was clear: he’d be getting answers soon enough.
Uzi tried to keep his facial expression impassive. “Yes, Garza. What’s your point?”
“Let me lay it out for you. This is Special Agent Adams. Recognize him?”
Uzi looked at the man, then turned back to Garza. “Should I?”
Garza slammed the file closed. “Let’s cut through the bullshit, Uzi. I know you were on that ARM compound last night. Adams was there. He works for us, he’s an infiltrator. We placed him with ARM after they merged with Southern Ranks. He’s been there two years, feeding Flint stuff here and there to keep his position with ARM intact.”
“Some key insight offered at just the right moment keeps me in Flint’s good graces,” Adams said. “He thinks I’m a freakin’ genius, a brilliant strategic planner.”
“We’ve given him some useless stuff along the way, then backed it up with some action to give it legitimacy. Flint thinks he’s gotten away with something. And he thinks Adams is someone he needs to keep close.”
“The militias started to get wise to us,” Adams said. “They were on the lookout for infiltrators and informants. Some in the movement advocated splitting into small cells to make the groups harder to crack. If you’ve got five members in your closed militia cell, and they’re all family or longtime friends, there’s no chance any of them’s a government plant.”
Cell-based structure... Exactly what a lot of Islamic terrorist groups use. “Obviously,” Uzi said, “ARM doesn’t like that model.”
“Most of them don’t,” Garza said. “With small cells you can’t have leaders. Some call it leaderless resistance. But militia leaders are like preachers. Take away their followers, you take away their pulpit. No audience, no needy masses to look to them for guidance. No stage to preach from. Fortunately for us, the typical militia leader’s ego is his own undoing.”
“They don’t suspect anything?”
Garza shook his head. “There are three things the militias are trained to look for in spotting infiltrators. Most obvious is the guy who tries to push the group into illegal activity. Infiltrators tend to volunteer for things like selling or purchasing illegal weapons, drugs, bombs, shit like that.”
“I do the opposite,” Adams said. “I try to point out the danger in getting too aggressive. That way, when I do suggest they go on the offensive, it’s got credibility. Because there may be five other times I’ve steered them away from doing something risky.”
“You’ve been there two years. Don’t you have enough on them?”
“Flint may seem like an idiot, but he’s got decent instincts. He’s very careful to insulate himself. He never directly gives the orders to do something. The weekly radio address, streamed over their website, comes from someone called “The General.” I don’t know who he is, and no one’s talking, if they even know. He’s the guy we want.”
Uzi shook his head. “If we’d moved on them sooner, the attempt on the veep never would’ve happened—”
“There are other reasons for taking it slowly,” Garza said. “If we moved against ARM based on what Adams gave us, and the prosecution failed—”
“How could it fail?”
“A sharp defense attorney convinces one juror Adams was trying to entrap them. It’s happened, more times than I wanna admit. We couldn’t take the chance.” Garza leaned back, satisfied he’d quieted Uzi. “If they got off, our internal source is gone. We’d never get another mole in. But if we move on them based on other evidence, stuff that can’t be traced back to Adams, our ears stay in their organization until we’ve got enough to take another shot at them.”
“So far it’s worked real well,” Adams said.
Uzi grunted. “Yeah, it’s worked so well that our veep and more than a dozen other people were blown out of the sky. Did you know about those plans—before it went down?”
“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, darin
g 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?”
Hard Target Page 32
