Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “Nothing,” DeSantos said. “You?”

  “There was a message. On his answering machine.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I lowered the volume. If this turns into something, I wanted to make sure this time we got the jump on our ‘buddies.’ With nine days to get to the bottom of this, we can’t afford to waste time with turf battles.”

  Uzi glanced back at the apartment again before continuing. “It was a female voice.” He pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped at the screen several times with a finger and said, “He’s got a younger sister, lives off-base. Could’ve been her. She was reminding him of her doctor’s appointment at eight. She also wanted him to pick up some groceries on the way to work.”

  DeSantos squinted. “Groceries? Strange favor to ask a brother, don’t you think? Especially when he lives on base and she doesn’t. Not exactly ‘on the way.’”

  “Maybe she’s laid up and he’s helping her out. Hence the doctor’s appointment.”

  “Time stamp on the message?”

  “Nope. Old microcassette deal. Rewind the tape to the beginning and record over the messages. It was right at the beginning, so it’s recent. He’s missing this morning, so maybe she left it last night.”

  DeSantos indicated the apartment with a nod of his head. “You got anything else you want to look at in there?”

  “I’d rather go check in with the sister.”

  “Let’s do it. Before our friends get the same idea.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Uzi tapped his pocket, where the tape was safely buried. “For the moment, this is our lead.”

  KATHERINE ELLISON LIVED IN DUMFRIES, Virginia, a small, backward-leaning town fifteen miles from her brother’s apartment. Her house was a dilapidated clapboard, with weeds and gravel in place of a lawn, and weathered siding that was once blue but had long lost most of its pigment. Still, the surrounding land was wooded and green, pleasant and quiet.

  Uzi pulled against the curb, blocking the short driveway where a red Dodge Ram was parked. “Does the corporal own a pickup?”

  “In fact, he does.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose, an understated movement intended to punctuate the fact that Ellison was there and that something had to be amiss. “He hasn’t called into work.”

  DeSantos thought for a second, then said, “Sister’s ill and he took her to the hospital.”

  “His pickup is blocking the driveway.”

  DeSantos’s eyes darted around as he sought another explanation. “They took her car, which was parked at the curb. Or an ambulance came and took both of them to the hospital. Or—”

  “When you hear hoof beats,” Uzi said, “think horses, not zebras.” It was an old medical school saw his father had drummed into him: when presented with the unknown, first consider the most obvious explanation before turning to the obscure ones.

  DeSantos reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his Desert Eagle. Uzi was doing the same with his Glock. “Ready?”

  Uzi nodded, then quietly popped his car door. Crouching low, they hurried up the broken concrete walkway, hands on their weapons and eyes scanning the windows for movement. As they stepped onto the wood porch, a floorboard creaked loudly under their weight. Uzi winced.

  They took positions on either side of the door. DeSantos pointed at the doorbell. Uzi shrugged. At this point, if a nefarious sort was inside, he’d probably know they were there. Uzi nodded for DeSantos to continue. He pushed the button and a tinny, high-pitched bell sounded.

  A moment later, Uzi balled a fist and rapped on the flaking wood door. Nothing.

  “Is that blood on the doorframe?” DeSantos asked.

  “Where?”

  “There.” DeSantos indicated generally with a dip of his nose.

  Uzi didn’t see anything, then understood.

  “Someone’s life could be in danger,” DeSantos said. “We’d better go in.”

  As Uzi opened his mouth to object, DeSantos kicked in the door.

  Uzi swung into position, Glock held in front of him, knees bent, eyes darting around the interior. He slid in, followed by DeSantos. Pistols leading the way, they began clearing rooms.

  It didn’t take long for Uzi to find what they were looking for. “Santa! In here.”

  DeSantos appeared seconds later. His shoulders slumped in resignation as his eyes found the uniformed Marine lying faceup on the threadbare carpet. “Shit.”

  “Corporal Ellison, I presume.”

  DeSantos moved the man’s arm with the tip of his Desert Eagle, and the nametag, now visible, confirmed Uzi’s assumption. “Large caliber weapon.” He got down on a knee to examine the gunshot wounds in the forehead and chest. “A forty-five with hollow point rounds, I’d guess.”

  “Shooter was standing about fifteen, twenty feet away. Over there,” Uzi said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Groceries are on the counter. Bag’s from the base commissary.”

  “I love it when everything fits together.”

  “Sister?”

  “Let’s go see.”

  They walked together down the hallway, on alert with guns still drawn, though Uzi figured the killer was long gone. They entered the first room on the right.

  “Oh, Jesus,” DeSantos said.

  In the bed sat a radiation-bald Katherine Ellison, a bullet hole in her forehead, the dark stare of death draped across her face.

  WHILE DeSANTOS BRIEFED VASQUEZ by phone, Uzi called the field office and informed Marshall Shepard of what they had found at Katherine Ellison’s house. The FBI forensics unit was dispatched immediately and arrived in twenty-five minutes. One of the task force members accompanied the lab techs, allowing Uzi and DeSantos to return to Corporal Ellison’s apartment.

  Upon their arrival, they began a methodical search of the Marine’s residence. While DeSantos rifled through old papers and files, Uzi mentally walked through the facts of the case. Someone wanted Ellison and his sister dead. The questions were obvious: who and why? And more significantly, was there a connection to the downing of Marine Two?

  Uzi sat down at a cabinet housing the corporal’s computer and started poking at the keyboard.

  A few minutes later, DeSantos gestured at the monitor. “Find anything with ARM letterhead?”

  Uzi managed a laugh. “I have a feeling we’re not gonna find any smoking guns in this case.”

  “No, guess not.” DeSantos tossed the file onto the bed behind him. “Just smoking helicopter ruins.”

  “We should bring his PC over to the lab, have CART go through it,” Uzi said, referring to the Bureau’s Computer Analysis Response Team. “There’s all sorts of shit that gets buried on hard drives that people don’t know about. They think because they delete something, it vanishes into thin air.”

  DeSantos nodded. “Brian once said the data’s still there, but the computer can’t find it.”

  “Your partner was right,” Uzi said. “A computer’s hard drive is like an index system. When you delete a file, it stays on the hard drive but its entry in the index is removed. The supersmart computer thinks it’s gone, but good old low-brow human intelligence can find it.”

  DeSantos leaned back. “You admit that?”

  “Hey, what’s fair is fair.” He nodded at the PC. “Can we take what we need, or do we have to clear it with Vasquez?”

  “You have to clear it.” The voice came from behind them, down the hall. Warren Vasquez appeared a second later. “Just submit an inventory of what you’re taking,” he said to Uzi. “And don’t forget to copy me on every report you people generate.”

  “Of course,” Uzi said. “We’re all on the same side.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Vasquez said.

  Uzi’s head tilted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ignoring Uzi’s comment, Vasquez tossed a glance at DeSantos. “I assume that answering machine tape will show up on the inventory, right?”

  Uzi could feel a slight sweat break out across h
is back. “Of course.”

  Vasquez’s eye twitched slightly. “Good,” he said, then walked out.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, UZI ENDED a phone call, then found DeSantos in the garage. “Anything?”

  “He was a gear-head, apparently.” DeSantos swiveled his body, nodding at the mess of objects strewn before him. Car magazines, specialized tools, cases of synthetic oil.”

  “You’re on your own for a while.” He held up his phone. “Shepard just called. I was summoned to the White House—”

  “Agent Uziel?” A suited man entered the garage and displayed his Secret Service credentials. “Please come with me.”

  “As I was saying,” Uzi said to DeSantos as he backed away toward his escort. “The president wants a dialogue with me.”

  DeSantos cocked his head in bemusement. “A dialogue with the president? How quaint.”

  Uzi tossed DeSantos his keys. “Catch up with you later. Don’t scratch the paint.”

  PRESIDENT JONATHAN WHITEHALL stood on the sloping, manicured patch of grass behind the Oval Office, a puffy goose down vest snapped around his torso and a titanium putter clutched in his leather-wrapped hands. Several balls were arranged in a row in front of him. He was lining up a shot, seemingly oblivious to Uzi’s presence.

  Not wanting to disturb the president’s concentration, Uzi stood off to the side, waiting for Whitehall to acknowledge him. He had been escorted to the Southwest Gate, then handed off to another set of agents who ushered him to the tip of the grass, turned, and left him there.

  “How long are you just going to stand there, son?” Whitehall’s voice had the southern drawl Uzi had become accustomed to hearing the past eight years.

  Uzi felt like he should have been awed by the man’s presence, or at least be a bit nervous because of the setting. He was on the president’s turf—literally—and totally unprepared for this meeting. Had he known in advance, he would’ve worn a suit. Then again, maybe not.

  Marshall Shepard’s warning did not give him much to go on. All he was told was that the president wanted to see him. Innocuous enough. But Uzi had learned years ago that casual chats with powerful leaders could sometimes evolve into something much more significant... if not downright dangerous.

  He stood with his hands shoved deep into his leather overcoat’s pockets, legs spread wide, conveying relaxed confidence. “Didn’t want to disrupt your shot, sir.” Courtesy first and always.

  “Nonsense,” Whitehall said, his eyes still focused on the putter. “Is this the way you’re running your investigation? Afraid to assert yourself?”

  “There are very few things I’m afraid of, Mr. President.”

  Whitehall looked up and found Uzi’s gaze. Uzi did not look away. Whitehall conceded the silent battle and straightened. Keeping the putter in his left hand, he walked the ten feet separating the two men. Though Whitehall had lost half an inch sometime between sixty and seventy, it did not make much difference: his physical stature was not where his strength lay.

  Whitehall had the reputation of being a hard-hitting negotiator, a staunch conservative who held to strict Republican values, a politician who always played fairly—a rarity in Washington. Tough, but fair. A man many liked to hate, but admired. His brutally direct nature had gotten him into trouble, while earning trust and respect among foreign leaders. He once told the Chinese premier his tie was god-awful ugly, and smiled while doing it.

  Uzi had never met Whitehall, but he had read enough of the man to know he was the sort of no-nonsense, straight-shooting leader for whom Uzi preferred to work.

  He seemed to study Uzi’s face with a thorough once-over glance, as if he were inspecting a soldier in boot camp. “This... incident with the vice president—my vice president—can’t go unpunished. I want every fucking terrorist associated with this bombing strung up by his balls. If someone knew about it and didn’t do anything to stop it, I want him held responsible, too. I want their wives hauled in. Their barbers, car mechanics. Nothing overlooked. Am I making myself clear?”

  “I assure you, Mr. President, we’re doing everything possible to get these cowards. We’ll find them.” Uzi’s eyes darted around the periphery. “Sir, it’s not my place to pass judgment, but are you sure it’s a good idea to be out in the open like this? Since we don’t know who’s responsible—”

  “You’re right, son. It’s not your place. I’ve been in meetings round the clock. I needed to clear my mind, get some fresh air. I’ve got a contingent of Secret Service agents who won’t let me take a piss without following me into the goddamn bathroom. After Marine Two went down they shoved me into the PEOC and didn’t let me out for five hours. I won’t be held prisoner like that again. The president of the United States can’t be hiding, cowering away in some protected safe room. It’s degrading.”

  Although he had never been there, Uzi knew that the PEOC was the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, located below the East Wing. An elaborate bunker, it was designed to withstand all types of non-nuclear attacks while allowing the president to remain in communication with other government facilities.

  Whitehall lifted his putter and pointed it at Uzi. “The leader of the greatest country in the world has to lead by example.” The movement of the putter in front of Uzi’s face provided the emphasis. “If 9/11 taught us anything, it was that we’ve got to get on with our lives, show the terrorists they haven’t won. And this is how we go on living.” He craned his head toward the clearing sky. “By taking a few minutes off to clear the mind and hit some balls on a damn fine afternoon.” Whitehall seemed to be lost in thought for a moment as he stared at the moving clouds. “Damn fine afternoon, wouldn’t you say, son?”

  “Mr. President, you asked me here for a reason—”

  “Focus on what you’re paid to do. See the big picture. In case Mr. Shepard didn’t make it abundantly clear, we’re hosting the International Conference on Global Terrorism in eight days. I don’t have to tell you the embarrassment this incident has caused us. We can’t even deal with terrorism in our goddamn backyard, and we’re supposed to be heading up the effort to contain it on a global basis.” He shook his head. “Bastards.”

  Shepard had not, in fact, mentioned it. But as he and DeSantos had surmised, Knox’s deadline was dictated by the conference. Uzi had been briefed three months ago on the security measures being implemented, but Homeland Security and the Secret Service were firmly in charge, and his unit was not involved in either the planning or execution, so it had slipped to the far reaches of his mind. Whitehall had a point...and perhaps the attempt on the vice president was not personal, as he had been thinking. Maybe it was meant to send a message.

  Whitehall moved back to the line of balls. He spread his legs, swung the putter and popped the ball so hard it flew into the air and landed well beyond its intended target.

  Uzi stood there, wondering if Whitehall was done talking to him. He wasn’t going to wait much longer. Standing there was a sign of weakness. He counted to three, then said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” As he started to walk off, Whitehall called after him.

  “There’s something else you should know.”

  Uzi turned and waited for the president to meet his gaze.

  “The conference is a cover. It’s a working meeting, don’t get me wrong. But there are bigger issues at stake. Time-sensitive issues, political issues. Things that mean a great deal to me.”

  Uzi cocked his head and quickly moved closer to the president. The nearest Secret Service agent, blending innocuously into a row of bushes a few yards away, slowly inched forward, clearly taking notice of Uzi’s movement.

  When they reached whisper distance, Whitehall continued. “High-level peace talks between the Israelis and Palestinians. Unofficially sanctioned, totally clandestine. Special negotiators from each side are coming to town to nail down a blueprint for peace. ’Bout fucking time. I don’t intend to let this slip through my hands in the waning days of my presidency. No one, no one knows about this but
me, the secretary of state, my Secret Service detail, and now you. And it has to stay that way, you understand me, son?”

  Uzi suddenly found himself rigid, at attention, his head tilted slightly back, a posture assumed when being addressed by a drill sergeant. “Yes, sir.”

  “Both my national security advisor and Director Tasset tell me there’re some Mideast extremist groups high up on our list of suspects.”

  Uzi fought to absorb this news without reaction. Tasset had said nothing to him at the crash site about foreign extremist involvement. And the CIA rep on his JTTF had not yet made that assertion. Perhaps it was merely a knee-jerk reaction to a bold terror event of such striking scale. With their focus now on ARM, he wondered if he should brief the president on the turn the investigation had taken. He decided to keep his mouth shut until he was more certain of his facts.

  “Some of these groups have had ties to certain factions within the Palestinian leadership for years,” Whitehall continued. “Hamas, for one. That’s no surprise to you, I’m sure. But if they’re responsible for the assassination attempt, I need to know that before I sit down at the table with these people. Because instead of brokering a landmark peace deal, I’ll be telling them they have six hours to get their people to safety because we’ll be bombing their fucking government buildings into a pile of rubble.”

  Whitehall let Uzi chew on that a bit while the crimson drained from his cheeks. He rolled his shoulders, then said, “So you know where I stand on this, son, I do not want this investigation to show Palestinian involvement. I want this peace deal. It’s good for the Middle East and it’s good for the long-term stability of world markets. It further isolates Iran, and it brings some calm to a region plagued by decades of violence. And it’s good for America.” He paused, looked out at the roses a dozen feet away. “And, it’s good for me. If I can come away with a comprehensive peace deal, accomplish something no president’s been able to accomplish, well, then, that would be a mighty pretty feather in my fishing cap.”