“I don’t know if Director Knox is involved. I would find it hard to believe given his decades of distinguished service. But I’ve also been around the block a few times, and I know that men are sometimes driven by things people like me can’t pretend to understand. For one, I could never do some of the things our covert operatives are paid to do. But they do them without hesitation. Whatever their internal motivation is, I don’t know. Honor, duty, love for their country is what I’m told. But all I need to know is that when the call goes out they put their lives on the line and do what’s necessary to get the job done.” Whitehall turned to Uzi. “There’s something about you, agent, that makes me think you understand such men and their motives. And that’s why I’m asking you to continue doing what you need to do to get the job done.”
Uzi’s head snapped left. “But you just called the director—”
“Because until January twentieth I’m still president of the United States, and I have to follow procedure. But sometimes following procedure is ineffective. I think you’ve been around Washington long enough to understand what I’m saying.”
Uzi nodded. But he wondered if Whitehall knew more than he was letting on. Was there more depth to his comment on following procedure or was Uzi to take it at face value? Had the president been briefed by Knox—or Shepard—about his clash with Osborn? He had no doubt that Whitehall had asked the Secret Service to prepare a full dossier on him after, or even before, their first meeting at the White House. But exactly how much Whitehall knew about his past was unclear.
“You’re wasting time, son, and that’s something we can ill afford. Now get going. And Godspeed.”
Uzi pushed his thoughts aside, shook the president’s hand, and was off.
9:29 AM
4 hours 31 minutes remaining
Alpha Zulu paced outside his car, rubbing at his forehead but keeping his Redskins ball cap pulled low over his brow. He was good at keeping cool under pressure; it was more a learned skill than an inherited personality trait. But with time growing short, he was in operations mode. Expectations rose along with tempers. This was not the time for things to go wrong.
At the moment, there were no serious indications the plan was in jeopardy. Like any successful business, safeguards were built in, redundancies and backups. The anticipated glitches caused by law enforcement’s inevitable probing made the intricate strategizing vital, the challenge that much more alluring. It was a chess game on a grand scale, with pawns and queens, moves and countermoves.
Like a master, Zulu had drawn up a winning plan, yet continued studying his opponents—measuring their weaknesses, finding holes in their methods. Identifying ways to use their deficiencies against them to break down their defenses. In this deadly game, when all was said and done, preparation, patience, and experience were king. They planned to have the board cleared in a matter of hours. But if getting to checkmate took weeks, or days, or years, so be it.
He glanced at his scorpion-engraved pocket watch: it was time. He climbed into his car and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, a late-model sedan pulled up alongside his and stopped. Oscar Delta got out, adjusted his jacket, and then moved around to Zulu’s back door. He got in and closed the door quietly.
Zulu cranked the engine and drove off. “Things are hot. There’s a lot in play.”
“We expected that.”
Zulu’s eyes roamed the street. “Yes.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Delta, then continued. “Be ready in case we need to implement Fallback.”
“You think it’ll come to that?”
Zulu knew what this could mean to Delta, but he had never doubted the man’s resolve. “Hard to say.” Zulu made a U-turn and accelerated back toward the park.
“What does your intel indicate?”
“I’ll evaluate and advise. For now, that’s all you need to know.” He saw Delta’s mouth contort in rebuke. A moment later, Zulu stopped beside the sedan and looked off to his left. “Good luck.”
Without a word, the rear door closed. The interior was quiet.
Another car door slammed, and the sedan drove off.
AS UZI WALKED ALONG West Executive Avenue toward his motorcycle, he pulled out his phone and called Tim Meadows. After obtaining the number for Larchmont’s encrypted cell, he got onto his Suzuki and peeled away, headed for the Rusch transition headquarters.
He did a couple of drive-bys, casing out the place and locating all the entrances and exits. It would’ve been a great deal easier to involve the Secret Service detail assigned to the vice president’s staff, but Uzi’s plan demanded he engage as few people as possible.
He called DeSantos, but it went to voicemail; his partner either did not recognize the phone number of Uzi’s borrowed cell, or his phone was off. Regardless, Uzi hoped DeSantos checked his messages soon.
After making his third pass around the office building, he settled on his surveillance point. A reinforced black Suburban was parked at the front curb, twenty feet from one of the two exits. Uzi reasoned the Secret Service would choose the shortest unprotected path to the car, and this was, indeed, the door Larchmont had used when Uzi had visited him.
He parked his bike two blocks away and across the street. From this vantage point, the Hensoldt scope gave him a clear view of the building and the Secret Service’s black Suburban.
He inserted a small Y-connector plug into the side jack of the cell phone, then pressed Record on a digital recorder in his pocket. He dialed the encrypted mobile, hoping Larchmont kept the phone on at all times. If not, this could take longer than he’d planned. And the longer it dragged out, the greater the likelihood Knox could take actions that would interfere with Uzi’s plans. At this point, Uzi wasn’t sure if that was good—or bad.
Ninety minutes later, after repeated attempts and Uzi’s patience—and time—wearing thin, the call to Larchmont’s encrypted mobile finally went through.
“Mr. Larchmont,” Uzi began. “It’s good to hear your voice again. I’ve been trying to reach you. Now don’t hang up. I know, this comes as a bit of a shock—”
“Who is this?”
“Oh—sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. This is Special Agent Aaron Uziel. Remember me? We met—”
“What do you want?”
“Easy, Mr. Larchmont, easy. I’ve got a problem and you’ve got a problem. I figure maybe we can help each other out.”
“And just what problem do I have, Agent Uziel?”
Uzi chuckled. “I know all about your work with ARM. Specifically, Lewiston Grant.”
“You don’t know anything because there’s nothing to know.”
“Really? See, I’ve got this phone number, now, don’t I? And I know about your calls to the Executive Office Building. By the way, I should remind you that your phone may be encrypted, but mine isn’t. Still want to discuss this so close to the government’s probing ears?”
“You didn’t mention what your problem was.”
Uzi smiled. He had him. What had been a listing of suspicious phone calls and unusual circumstances was about to turn into hard evidence. Larchmont was sniffing the bait, weighing the risks, wondering if it was a trap. Whether or not Uzi could hook him and reel him in depended on his next comment.
“Let’s just say that certain...undesirable details about my past have come to light that...threaten my career. And my pension. Before CNN gets hold of it and it all blows up in my face, I need you to make it all go away. In a few weeks, you’ll be in a position to do that. You make that happen, and I’ll conveniently forget about this phone number.”
There were several seconds of silence.
“My next call,” Uzi continued, “won’t be to you, Mr. Larchmont. It’ll be to the Post, where I have a really good relationship with one of the editors who’ll pay me pretty well for the story. And then I’ll write a book and hit the talk show circuit—and the loss of my pension won’t matter.”
“The warehouse near Union Station, Fourth and G. Meet me there in twenty
minutes.”
The line went dead. Uzi pulled on his ski mask, followed by the helmet, then brought the rifle scope up to his eyes and watched the entrance. Inside of two minutes, Quentin Larchmont appeared, followed by two dark-suited men—Secret Service agents. The chief of staff-to-be stopped outside the building’s large glass doors and said something to them. One of them spread his arms wide and replied.
Larchmont motioned with his hand, and the agent on the left reached into his pocket and passed over a small object. Larchmont then turned away and climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Uzi shoved the scope into his pocket and started the Suzuki. There was no turning back now.
11:53 AM
2 hours 7 minutes remaining
Echo Charlie squeezed the encrypted mobile so tightly his knuckles ached. He sat at his desk, wondering how the Fed had gotten this phone number. And how could he have known he was working with Lewiston Grant?
Charlie realized Uziel could’ve been bluffing—but still, he knew too much if he could place him in the same sentence with Grant. They were too close. No, he was too close. It sounded to Charlie as if the agent was working alone in hopes of pulling off a trade: silence for a favor. This was not unusual in the power-driven winds of Washington. But was it legit? He couldn’t take the risk. This had to be taken care of—quickly.
Charlie consulted his silver pocket watch, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called to the secretary sitting at the front desk as he turned left down the hall.
“But sir, you have a meeting with Mr.—”
“I said I’ll be back,” he yelled, and kept on walking.
Two Secret Service agents fell in step behind him. With the assassination attempt an ugly blemish on their record, the Secret Service was taking no chances, and agents followed him everywhere he went off-site. Though it was annoying, Charlie reminded himself it was merely a constant reminder of the power he now wielded.
He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back shortly. I won’t be needing you on this errand.”
“Procedure, sir,” the older one said. “We’ll be accompanying you—”
Charlie pushed through the glass doors and stopped a dozen feet short of the curb. He turned to face the two men and said, “You guys are just doing your job, I understand that. But I’ll only be an hour. I’d rather be alone for a little while. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“Sir, we’re not supposed to—”
“Actually, there is something you can do for me. Give me the keys to the Suburban.” He extended a hand and wiggled the fingers. “Quickly, please.”
The agents shared a look, then one dug into his pocket and handed over the keys.
Echo Charlie climbed into the armored-up vehicle, started the engine, and drove off.
12:02 PM
1 hour 58 minutes remaining
Uzi accelerated hard. He needed to arrive ahead of Larchmont—and whoever else the chief of staff was bringing with him.
He ran a couple of lights and took turns faster than he should have, but he wanted to give his plan every chance to succeed. He swerved down an alley and the warehouse swung into view.
He did not think the Suburban could have made it here before him, and in fact, his quick recon of the immediate vicinity indicated it had not. He made a tight circle with his bike in front of the dilapidated structure, located its only entrance, and went to work.
DESPITE STOPPING TO PICK UP his four passengers, Echo Charlie was early—important because they wanted to do a reconnaissance drive-by to ensure they were not being set up. Once convinced the area was clear of law enforcement, they would take action. The operation required stealth: work swiftly, dispose of the body cleanly, then get rid of all evidence that they had been there.
Charlie turned the corner of the potholed, puddle-filled alley and slammed on his brakes. Spread across the pavement, blocking the narrow road to the warehouse twenty yards away, was an upended motorcycle. The driver, pinned beneath it and lying on his back, flailed his arms like a beached fish impotently flapping its fins.
Charlie rubbernecked left and right, hoping for a way around the biker. But the area was too narrow. He cursed under his breath as his eyes darted around the alley, which was bordered by two windowless brick buildings. It was unlikely anyone had seen or heard the spill the motorcyclist had taken.
“Go deal with that,” Charlie said to the men behind him. “No matter what, keep him quiet. We don’t want anyone calling an ambulance. Drag him into the warehouse, gag and blindfold him. I don’t want him to be able to identify us—”
“I get rid of him,” one of them said in clipped English. “He see our car, the license plate.”
“Fine. Just be fast, quiet, and clean. And get the goddamn alley cleared. Go! Move!”
The three men left the Suburban, the fourth staying behind with his boss. Charlie gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as his enforcers approached the motorcycle.
UZI LAY IN WAIT. Seconds later, Larchmont’s black SUV lumbered into the alley and ground to a stop. Uzi began flapping his arms, as if he were trapped beneath the motorcycle, which had tipped on its side, taking the driver down with it. At least that’s what he wanted them to think.
Lying on his back wearing a bulbous helmet was not comfortable. But if he was right, he wouldn’t be here very long. He activated his digital recorder as the two back doors opened and slammed shut. Three trim olive-skinned men dressed in dark suits hurried toward him. As the closer one approached, his jacket parted, revealing a large-caliber handgun.
“Help me,” Uzi said, his muffled voice sounding even more desperate.
But these three did not appear to be American Red Cross types; they looked more like the Middle Eastern terrorists he had once been ordered to kill. As the larger man bent over him, Uzi whipped his Puma tactical knife from his pocket and sliced it through the henchman’s neck with the swiftness of a magician. Arterial blood gushed from his carotid.
Uzi swung the blade back to his right, and with equal precision and speed, cut the second man’s trachea. Both reeled back, unsteady hands clutching their fatal wounds.
The last man stepped back and drew his handgun. But Uzi was faster with his blade, and he flung it through the air, the sleek metal slicing the intervening dozen feet in a split second. It was over before the pistol could clear leather. Clumsily grabbing for the handle of the blade protruding from the left side of his chest, the assailant fell back toward the pavement.
Uzi leapt up, and in two long strides reached the man’s shoulder rig. He drew the Smith & Wesson and fired twice at the SUV. The fourth henchman, who had just exited the Suburban’s open front passenger door, got off an errant shot before Uzi planted a suppressed round in the man’s forehead.
He brought the handgun down and put a bullet in the skull of the man still attempting to pull the Puma from his chest.
Quentin Larchmont, seated behind the steering wheel and watching with dropped jaw, grabbed for the gearshift. He threw the Suburban into reverse and started out of the alley, but a black Hummer pulled behind him, blocking the way.
Uzi reached down and yanked his knife from the dead man’s chest as two men jumped from the Hummer and headed toward him.
These men also had olive complexions.
And they were also armed. With suppressed submachine guns.
12:13 PM
1 hour 47 minutes remaining
“DROP IT!”
The order came from the stocky one, his weapon trained on Uzi’s chest. And in a brief split second of irony, Uzi couldn’t help but notice that their weapon of choice was the Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. It appeared to be one of the newer, more compact Minis. Though smaller than its full-size cousin, the Minis killed just as efficiently.
In the next split second, Uzi realized he was in the shit. Two men, approaching from opposite directions, had him drawn down with superior firepower. And he was out in the open, with no way of
getting to cover before they made his body resemble a block of Swiss cheese.
Santa, now would be a good time to show up.
“Drop it,” the bearded one said. “Now.”
Uzi flung the handgun back over his right shoulder. He had a fleeting thought of throwing the knife, figuring he might be able to take one of them out—but that would accomplish little. At this distance, with their automatic weapons already in hand and aimed at his chest, he’d be long dead before the knife struck its target.
He tossed the Puma to the same place he had thrown the gun.
Quentin Larchmont, sporting a black fedora pulled down over his head, got out of the Suburban, then slammed the door shut. “Get him inside.”
The two men grabbed Uzi by the arms, spun him around, and shoved him toward the warehouse. One of them used a key to open the door while the other pushed him inside.
Buried beneath his shirt and around his neck, Uzi still had the Tanto—not to mention the boot knife. But getting to either was the problem. He was outnumbered—and his weapons, while nearby, might as well have been a mile away.
“Get his helmet off.”
The stocky one yanked on the black Bell while the other stood guard. As he worked on the helmet, Uzi got a better look at the man’s face, and realized his darker complexion was the result of hastily applied makeup: he was, in fact, the Secret Service agent Uzi had seen only hours ago in the Oval Office. Benedict? Was that his name? Yes, Benedict. That could explain the calls to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the location of the Secret Service’s command post. But what did this mean? Were other members of the Secret Service involved? What about Whitehall?
“Secure him,” Larchmont said.
The bearded man produced a set of handcuffs and handed them to Benedict, then fished keys out of Uzi’s front pocket. He tossed them to Larchmont.
As Benedict ratcheted the restraints closed, Larchmont tilted his head, appraising his captive. Then his face hardened as he said, “Down on your knees.”
But Uzi did not budge. Benedict, standing slightly behind Uzi and to his right, swung the butt end of his Mini into Uzi’s ribs. Uzi crumpled to the ground.
Hard Target Page 42
