Then, as he stared at the cold iron bars, a weightier question gnawed at him: who had framed him— And how did they do it? But as the minutes ticked by, the reality of being imprisoned began to eat at him like necrotizing bacteria. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that whoever was behind the downing of the VP’s chopper was probably responsible for putting him in this cell. And though the wheels of justice ground slowly, sometimes they got off-track, and bad people got away. Which meant, in his case, the good guy didn’t.
He laid back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Shepard said he was working on it. Uzi hoped to hell he was working fast.
9:04 AM
28 hours 56 minutes remaining
Alpha Zulu sat in a 2004 Dodge Stratus and watched Tim Meadows pull away from the curb in front of his Alexandria home. When Meadows’s Ford disappeared down King Street and then turned, Zulu set his watch and waited. Because of the Fibber’s expertise in detecting sensors and bugs, Zulu had to resort to low-tech human methods to track his target.
Sierra Bravo, in his equally nondescript and untraceable gray 2007 Mazda 6, was now following Meadows. If the Ford did an about-face and started heading home, a phone call to Zulu would alert him.
They used the same procedures to track Agent Uziel when they tailed his SUV around town. Zulu’s people were skilled in city surveillance and kept reasonably close to their target. But determining what Uziel did once he arrived at his destination was more difficult.
But that was where strategically placed state-of-the-art equipment played a role: high-tech concepts with low-tech applications. Nevertheless, Zulu’s extensive training taught him that relying less on devices and more on intuition, logic, and reasoning were more reliable methods of gathering accurate intelligence.
He pulled the baseball cap further down over his forehead, got out of his car, and quietly closed the door. He walked briskly across the street, keeping his eyes straight ahead, and went directly into the yard, where he had previously identified his method of entry: the basement window. Using a diamond-edge circle cutter and a suction cup, he scored an opening. After making additional slices, he removed enough glass for him to crawl through, bypassing the alarm.
The surveillance, the intelligence gathering, the mock maneuvers... they had their moments. But this was the part of his job he enjoyed the most; each situation was designed to confuse the authorities. Throwing a fastball when they were expecting a curve was pure art. No, it wasn’t just art. Working covertly in a target’s own home and manipulating law enforcement provided an indescribable sense of power.
But not the power politicians craved. It was more than that. It was the ultimate violation. And when executed to perfection, a rousing—no, explosive—culmination of a job well done.
10:53 AM
27 hours 7 minutes remaining
An hour and a half passed. Paulson had not brought the phone and Uzi hadn’t heard anything from Shepard. He was fighting to contain his anger, but panic was worming its way into his thoughts. Scenarios were running through his mind, becoming more nightmarish as the moments passed.
Why had they arrested him? Sure, he’d had an altercation with Adams, but so what? That’s suspicion, not evidence. They were running a gunshot residue test on him—but that was being done to bolster the evidence they already had.
Uzi tried to compartmentalize his anger and fear to reason this through. If Adams was killed, it had to be someone from ARM—someone who’d discovered Adams was a government agent. But Adams had been there two years. Who would suddenly betray him—and why now? Fallout from his and DeSantos’s incursion on their compound?
Perhaps the incident had been captured on film and Adams was killed for incompetence—an example to the others of what would happen if they didn’t do their jobs properly.
He stuck to known facts. They were running a GSR and had recovered a slug from Adams’s body. It was from a .40 caliber Glock—the weapon Uzi, and just about all FBI agents, used. Combined with the altercation they’d had, someone must have convinced a judge to issue an arrest warrant. Yet no judge would authorize the arrest of a federal agent unless he had damn good proof. But the magistrate had said there was a ballistics match.
A ballistics match. How can that be?
He stood up and grabbed the bars, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the painted metal. This was not helping. He needed to know what the cops knew.
Suddenly the main door to the room cracked open. And Uzi’s head snapped up. DeSantos pushed through.
“Boychick... I came as soon as I heard.”
“What the hell is going on?”
DeSantos settled himself in front of the cell, placed his hands on the bars. “I wish I could tell you everything’s under control, but things are all fucked up.”
“What could possibly be fucked up? I didn’t kill Adams. What could they have on me?”
“All I know is Coulter signed an order authorizing Fairfax PD to access the Academy’s ballistic profile database. They ran the slug they pulled from Adams. It’s a match.”
“For my gun.”
DeSantos hiked his eyebrows. “Apparently.”
“That’s impossible, Santa. How could someone steal my gun, kill Adams, and then return it to me?”
“Unless the Glock you’re carrying isn’t really your Glock. If it was switched at some other time, say a few days ago, you wouldn’t have known.”
Uzi felt his heart skip a beat. He slumped down onto the cot. “Either way, I’m fucked.”
“Not on my watch.”
The two men turned to see Douglas Knox standing in the doorway to the cell block.
“Mr. Director,” Uzi said, quickly rising to his feet. He glanced at his partner for an explanation, but DeSantos seemed just as surprised.
“Obviously, there’s been a mistake,” Knox said. “Detective?” He turned to the open doorway.
Paulson walked in, keys dangling at his side. He didn’t look pleased. He unlocked Uzi’s cell, then walked away without saying a word.
Knox shut the door to the room and stood toe to toe with Uzi. “GSR was negative.”
Uzi knew that was a bullshit explanation— the GSR could’ve been negative even if he had killed Adams. And if that was the reason for his release, Knox would not have wasted his time showing up at the local police station.
“I’ll leave you to get your belongings,” Knox said. “Hector, with me.”
DeSantos gave Uzi’s shoulder a shove, then left with Knox.
AS TIM MEADOWS MADE a U-turn, he took another glance at the sedan down the block from his house. It was one he hadn’t seen before. Although some considered his self-preservation measures paranoiac, he had seen more of humanity’s seedier slices than most individuals would experience in a lifetime.
And this car bothered him. Sure, its windows were tinted, but there was an intangible something about it that set off his internal alarm.
He checked his mirrors, then got out of his vehicle and hustled up the path to the front door. He disabled the house alarm and descended the basement steps to grab a pair of binoculars. He’d find a safe place where he had a clear view, get the license plate, and call it in.
As he lifted his Leupold Mark 4 tactical glasses from their case, he noticed something in the darkness. Rather, it was what he didn’t see that caught his attention: the lack of green power LEDs that normally glowed from his PC across the room. He flipped on the lights. The computer—and a couple of projects on the workbench—were missing. And the door to his gun safe was ajar.
Meadows bit his lip. Someone had broken into his home and stolen his PC. Why? Was it related to the Russian 7.62 round Uzi had brought him? As he reached for his cell phone, his eye caught sight of a red light on the floor, attached to a device that wasn’t supposed to be there: a detonation unit piggybacked by what looked like multiple blocks of C-4.
“Jesus Christ!”
Meadows darted forward, as fast as his thick legs wou
ld carry him, toward the basement’s side wall. He grabbed the heavy gun safe door and pulled it open, then shoved his body inside, rotating his beer gut and squeezing himself against the velour interior.
He struggled to swing the door shut. But he couldn’t lock it— This was a safe, with hardened steel lugs that latched into the frame. As long as he didn’t secure the handle, he could get out. But if the mechanism engaged accidentally, or if debris piled in front of the door, he’d die from asphyxiation.
If the blast didn’t kill him outright. He gambled the explosion would push the door tight enough for the duration of the pressure wave, then leave the path free of rubble for his exit. Gambling. With his life. Damn it...
Images flicked through his mind like an out-of-control movie projector. Calm yourself. Think!
He pictured the device, analyzing its setup. Reviewing his options. What options? Defeat it. Difficult, but not impossible. If he had time to study it. But if he guessed wrong, or if it was booby trapped, the fat lady would be singing so loud everyone in the neighborhood would hear her.
Then there was that car. If the bombers were sitting out there waiting for the right second to set off the device, they’d probably shoot him dead if he tried to leave the house.
No, there was no defeating it and no escaping. The only thing left to do was hope the safe would survive the explosion. It was fire resistant and blast proof. But even though the force would be directed upwards, he was so damn close to the bomb.
Just how blast proof was “blast proof”?
He was sure whoever planted it had to be associated with Uzi’s case. Who else would want him dead? He was a likeable guy. No enemies, aside from that sixth grade bully he popped in the eye—
So freakin’ hot in here. He struggled to breathe, wishing he’d stuck to the diet and exercise plan he’d started two years ago. Would’ve been a lifesaver in more ways than one.
Nothing to do but wait. His skin was clammy and fear-slick. Mere seconds had passed, but it felt like hours.
His arms ached from pulling on the door to keep it closed— but not locked—not locked!
Cell phone— Would it work in here? Call EOD. Yes! Before the damn thing goes off. But in the next second, that thought vanished.
The blast was deafening.
UZI RETRIEVED HIS BELONGINGS—sans his Glock—and met DeSantos in the parking lot. His partner started talking before Uzi reached him. “Knox said your palm had trace barium and antimony.”
“From handling my weapon, putting it in my holster.”
DeSantos nodded. “That was all they found. Otherwise, GSR was negative.”
They got into DeSantos’s vintage Corvette and swung the doors shut. “Santa, you and I both know they’re not throwing out a murder charge based on a negative GSR. What gives?”
DeSantos turned the key and the massive engine roared to life. “Knox took care of it.”
“Knox made a murder charge go away?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“Don’t worry about it, boychick. Just forget it. Let Knox do his thing, okay?”
“But—”
“He takes care of his people. I told you that. That’s how he builds loyalty.”
Uzi considered this as DeSantos headed out of the lot. Was this Knox’s way of getting Uzi to back off his investigation of the director’s NFA links? I take care of you, you take care of me?
“From what I know of Knox,” Uzi said, “if he does something like this, it’s gotta serve his interests. So I guess the question is, What are his interests?”
“Despite what you might believe, he only tells me what he thinks I need to know. And why he did what he just did is not something he thinks I need to know.”
Uzi looked hard at DeSantos, trying to determine if his partner was being straight with him. “I’m not comfortable with this. Another thing for him to hold over my head.”
“Were you more comfortable in that prison cell with a lethal injection in your future?”
“No.”
“Then don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“No shit. In this case I might find rotten teeth.”
DeSantos frowned. “You’re a hard man to please, you know that?”
As they approached the exit, a black Lincoln Continental pulled in front of the Corvette, blocking their path.
“What the hell is this?” Uzi asked, his right hand moving toward his empty holster.
DeSantos touched his partner’s arm with calm assurance.
The Lincoln’s blacked-out rear window rolled down, revealing the silver-haired Douglas Knox. DeSantos threw the gear shift into Park and got out of the car, Uzi close behind.
Knox, tracking Uzi’s movements, said, “Agent Uziel, do you know who Danny Carlson is?”
Indeed he did. Danny Carlson was Nuri Peled’s cover name. Was this a test? Or a trap of some sort? Unsure as to why Knox would bring up Peled’s name, Uzi simply said, “Yes.”
When Knox’s expression did not change, Uzi concluded the man already knew the answer to his own question.
“Mr. Carlson was found dead an hour ago. In his garage, apparent suicide. He was a former colleague of yours, I believe, so I thought you might want to know.” Knox waited a beat, then said, “JTTF should confirm cause of death. See to it.” When Uzi did not respond, the window rolled up. A second later, the car drove off.
The air in front of Uzi turned Everest-thin, a dizzying array of colored pinpricks dancing around him, sparkling, swirling, shifting. In the next instant Uzi was sitting on the asphalt, DeSantos kneeling in front of him.
“You okay? Uzi. Look at me, man, look at me.” He gently slapped Uzi’s cheeks and, over the next few seconds, Uzi focused on his friend’s face.
“I just saw him, Santa. Just spoke to him.”
“Nuri was a good man. A good operative.”
Uzi licked his lips. “You knew him?”
“You weren’t the only guy in Mossad I worked with.”
“After the chopper went down, I reached out,” Uzi said, his voice coarse with pain. “To see if he knew anything about a Mideast connection. Nuri said there was nothing as far as he knew. But he’d heard a whisper that a new group had a sleeper operating in the States. He was checking it out for his employer. Not Mossad... He called it a ‘friendly ally.’ He shifted things into high gear because of the chopper crash.”
Uzi lifted himself off the ground and straightened his jacket with a wiggle of his shoulders. “I spoke to him again the night I dropped by your place. He hadn’t found anything but was working it. Obviously, the rumor was true and the group he was tracking is here. They must’ve found out he was on their tail.” He looked up at his partner, his face lacking color. “Santa, did I get him killed?”
DeSantos held up a hand. “Before you slop another helping of guilt onto your plate, let’s add this up. Knox said it looked like suicide. Gassed himself in his garage. Not exactly your typical hit.”
“I know Nuri. He wouldn’t do that. And he gave no indication of being in distress. It’s bullshit.”
“I agree. Then if it was a hit, they wanted to keep it low key, to minimize suspicion. So they staged it. But that’s not a terrorist’s typical MO, either.” He regarded Uzi, then asked, “Your reaction to the news tells me Nuri was more than just one of your sources.”
Uzi nodded, then looked skyward as if God could provide an answer. “He was my mentor when I joined up. Taught me a lot about staying alive. But I hadn’t talked to him since I left Mossad. It was good seeing him. I didn’t realize how much I missed talking with him.”
“I’m sorry, man.”
“I have to call Knox, tell him what Nuri was working on. If it wasn’t suicide, and if a sleeper was involved, Homeland Security needs to know. And I need to get some people assigned to it. You call Knox, I’ll call Shepard.”
DeSantos nodded and rooted out his BlackBerry as Uzi dialed. But before Uzi could hit Send, the phone rang. It was Shepard. He start
ed to brief his boss on Peled, but Shepard interrupted him. Uzi listened for a moment, then turned to DeSantos, who was ending his call. “How fast can this thing go?”
“My ’vette?” DeSantos chuckled devilishly. “How fast do you want it to go?”
Uzi started toward the car. “Fast.”
UZI AND DESANTOS RAN into the Virginia Presbyterian emergency room, where Uzi flashed his credentials and asked where Tim Meadows was being treated. The nurse gave them resistance, but Uzi was in no mood for delays, and he made sure she understood his urgency. A moment later, they were striding down the hall looking for treatment suite four.
Gauze bandages covered Tim Meadows’s head and hands. A moment passed before Meadows opened his eyes.
“My old pal,” Meadows said, “the man with the cool name. Uzi. Aaron Uzi.” He licked his dry lips. “It’s got that license-to-kill feel.”
“Tim, I really—”
“Feel guilty? Don’t. I’d hate for you to feel responsible for nearly getting me killed.”
“Tim...I really am sorry.” He looked at the monitors attached to Meadows’s body. “Are you okay?”
“What? You’ll have to speak up because my hearing is, like, how shall I put this? Severely impaired. I was thinking of having a nametag made up to wear around the office: Speak up ’cause I’m freakin’ deaf. What do you think?”
Uzi frowned. “What I said was—”
“I know what you said, I read your lips. So you want to know if I’m okay. Hmm. Let me think about it for a second. Several freaking blocks of C-4 exploded in my basement a few feet from where I was standing. I can still hear the explosion in my head. ’Course, I can’t hear anything else.”
“I’d say you escaped relatively unscathed.”
“Yeah? Easy for you to say. Would you like a concussion and two broken hands?”
“Care to tell us what happened?”
“A bomb exploded. Specific enough?” He must have noted Uzi’s pained expression, because he continued: “I saw this car on my street. Didn’t look right to me. I went into my house to get my binoculars so I could grab the plate, have it run.
“I realized someone had stolen my PC and broken into my safe. That’s when I saw it. Blocks of C-4 connected to a detonation device. I hid in the safe. But it took out a good chunk of my house. My goddamn house, Uzi.”
Hard Target Page 35
