Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  Uzi squinted against the bright sky. Was Whitehall telling him not to do or say anything that might implicate the Palestinians, even if he later found that they were involved? Or was he conveying his hope that they were innocent—but that they’d suffer severe consequences if they had done the deed?

  “Make no mistake,” Whitehall said. “Whoever they are, the bastards who did this are going to pay, Agent Uziel. Whether it’s in the courts, at the wrong end of a volley of Tomahawks, or in some back alley, they will pay for ruining my last days in office.”

  After nearly fifty years in politics, it appeared that Jonathan Whitehall’s public and private personas had merged, shaped by political rhetoric and sound bites. Uzi felt like he needed a translator to cut through the chaff, to be clear what this man was truly asking him to do.

  “My last two months will be a hallmark of my administration,” Whitehall continued. “It’s not always how you perform, it’s how you leave the stage that people remember. I want to be remembered as a strong leader who led the people through a difficult time, who brought us out better than when we went in. Above all, it’s imperative we show these terrorists that no one fucks with the United States of America and gets away with it. Getting bin Laden was a really good deal. But it’s old news. This— This latest attack is now the story of the day, maybe of the decade. Each day these terrorists escape justice is an insult. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Uzi definitely did not. At the same time, this was the president. He felt intense pressure to appear confident, competent, and up to the task. But he wasn’t sure what that “task” actually was. He had to risk asking for clarification. “Sir, what exactly would you like me to do?”

  Whitehall jammed his putter into the turf. “I want justice, goddamn it!” The president looked hard at Uzi. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t care how you get it. Do things by the book, but if you have these fuckers by the balls, don’t let ’em disappear into thin air while you jerk around with a judge trying to get a warrant, goddamnit. Just get the job done.” His eyes coursed Uzi’s face again, as if searching for something. “If you can’t do that, tell me now and I’ll find someone else who can.”

  Was the president directing him to shoot a suspect in cold blood if the “need” arose? Due process right there on the street? Uzi had taken orders like this in the past, but they were always backed by hard evidence and the corroborating proof of reliable intelligence.

  A stiff wind smacked Uzi in the face. He looked at the president a few feet away and realized the man was awaiting his response. It appeared Whitehall was ordering him to be judge and jury. Uzi wondered if he was, indeed, up to the task. His commanding officer was giving him his marching orders, and he was expected to comply. In the past, there was only one time when Uzi had questioned his superior, and it ended in disaster.

  Still, Whitehall’s demeanor gave him pause. Whatever Uzi did, he had to be damn sure he was right. There was a lot in play, a great deal at stake. Uzi nodded slowly. “You can count on me, sir.” Then he turned and walked away, unsure of the methods by which he would act. But the president’s admonition continued to bounce around his thoughts like a superball on speed.

  Just get the job done.

  5:01 PM

  188 hours 59 minutes remaining

  Alpha Zulu had the constitution of a retired Navy SEAL. Yet though he moved with the slyness of a wild cougar, he prided himself more on his chameleonic ability to reinvent his appearance and demeanor to suit his environment. But an innate sense of timing was his most valuable asset.

  He was the ideal person for this job, even if his business partners had not known the depth of his talents when they first initiated contact.

  Alpha Zulu had a real name, of course, but almost no one knew it. He had several aliases, including bogus credit cards he used once a month, checking accounts, and studio apartments in seedier parts of town with utility hookups set on automatic debit from the bank to give the appearance of regular activity. Whatever he couldn’t do himself, he had a small group of confidants he could count on to legitimize his illusion. It was all about credibility and the ability to blend in—into society, into a crowd, into everyday life, without anyone noticing him.

  And in spite of all the post-9/11 security hype, he still functioned with impunity. No one in law enforcement knew who he was or what he was up to. He literally operated off the radar.

  Zulu parked his run-of-the-mill Ford Escort on Tracy Road in Kalorama Heights, three blocks from the home of Republican Congressman Gene Harmon. Harmon held a powerful position in the United States government: head of the House Select Committee on Intelligence. Harmon was privy to secrets a mere handful in the government knew, and when a covert mission was undertaken, he was one of only eight individuals who were informed of the action before it was launched.

  Zulu moved in the shadow of early nightfall, timing it so that even the occasional streetlight did not awaken while he was in the middle of his maneuver. Carrying a small device that fit inside the housing of a standard cell phone, he stepped briskly past the columned entryway of the sprawling, four-story, five-thousand-square-foot brick-and-slate Victorian mansion.

  He turned right into the sunken driveway, knelt to tie his shoe, and set down the rigged phone. He continued down Tracy Road another two blocks, then crossed the street and headed back toward the Harmon residence. His destination was a narrow easement between two well-maintained three-story homes, one of which had a realtor’s sign sunk in the postage stamp lawn. While well-hidden, this location provided an unimpeded view of the congressman’s garage.

  Zulu removed two pointed snowshoes from his compact backpack and fastened them to his Timberlands. Walking with them provided a challenge, but it was a necessary precaution. He settled himself behind the black iron gate and blended into the fauna that filled the space: ivy and well-pruned privet hedges. He repositioned the ski mask, then pulled a pocket watch from his fanny pack.

  This was no ordinary watch, however. It was custom-crafted in Switzerland, the mecca of time-constipated artisans whose creation of accurate timepieces approached sexual ecstasy. Commissioned by Zulu’s group three years ago, the pocket watches were fashioned from Italian sterling silver, engraved with curls and whorls in a pattern that emphasized its classic—indeed timeless—style.

  In the center of the lid was a gold-inlaid scorpion, its powerful oversize claws, jointed tail, and venomous stinger manifest evidence of its menacing lethality. Zulu related to the arachnid; he owned several species from around the world and bonded with them as some do dogs. His shared kinship and common modus operandi made the scorpion a logical choice for the group’s unofficial crest.

  Thirty-five minutes passed. Zulu, dressed in black neoprene pants and top, was doing his best to fend off the chilled temperature. Though it was no colder than forty degrees, remaining still and squatting in bushes stagnated the blood and numbed his extremities.

  After Zulu rose to flex and extend his feet—contracting the calf muscles helped the circulation in his legs—Congressman Gene Harmon’s garage door rolled up. The midnight blue BMW crawled forward, up the driveway’s gentle incline. Zulu brought a pair of compact night-vision binoculars to his eyes, positively identified the congressman through the windshield, and prepared to trigger the device, waiting for the right moment. Timing, as always, was key.

  He squeezed the button and a split second later, his task was complete.

  4:52 PM

  189 hours 8 minutes remaining

  After retrieving his car, Uzi headed off to interview Glendon Rusch at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. After arriving, he was directed to Building 10, where he took the stairs to the ICU. After clearing the security protocols at the door to Glendon Rusch’s room, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. He’d seen injured soldiers before, men whose faces were obliterated by mortar rounds, women and children whose flesh and body parts were strewn a block away by a suicide bomber’s explosives. But
no matter how many times he’d done it, facing a terror victim was never easy.

  Uzi had been told the president-elect’s ability to talk would be dictated by his level of sedation and pain tolerance. He didn’t expect the interview to last long or provide a magic bullet lead, but he had to make the attempt.

  After gowning, Uzi settled the mask over his face and pushed through the door. He took in the scene with one quick glance: blinking and quietly thumping machines monitored Rusch’s vitals and infused his ravaged body with fluids. He let the door swing closed behind him, then nodded at the Secret Service agent and took a few steps to Glendon Rusch’s bedside, a move that drew the patient’s attention. He slowly turned his head and his gaze found Uzi’s. Though Uzi could not see his face, he thought he read pain in his gray, medication-hazed eyes. Not physical pain, however. Emotional pain.

  Uzi squared his shoulders and said, “Special Agent Aaron Uziel. FBI.”

  Rusch blinked, but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The words tumbled from Uzi’s lips, but hurt the instant they left his mouth. He hadn’t considered what he would say to the man when he first saw him. Only the investigative questions he needed to ask had populated his thoughts. But he immediately felt the inadequacy of his impersonal condolence. Uzi had once been on the receiving end, and in his fragile state, it irritated him with each successive utterance, like a repeatedly chafed wound. He hoped his delivery was sincere, somehow stained with his own pain.

  “What can I do for you, Agent?” Rusch’s voice seemed labored, coarse, and fatigued.

  “Mr. Vice President, as hard as this may be for you, I need to talk to you about what happened. In the helicopter.” Uzi was unsure how he should refer to Rusch. Mr. Vice President? Mr. President-elect? He chose the safest one, figuring that at the moment Rusch had more problems to deal with than caring about what title an FBI agent used when addressing him.

  Rusch nodded ever so slightly. Uzi took that as a signal to continue.

  “Sir, we know that explosives took down both choppers—”

  “Then you already know... as much as I do.”

  Uzi hesitated. “Is there anything you can add? Can you tell me what happened in the cabin?”

  “I lost my wife and daughter.” Each word was undercut by anguish. “Nothing else matters.”

  Uzi knew firsthand this man’s pain. He searched for the right words. “There’s nothing we can do to change that, sir, but we want to catch the people who did this. Bring them to justice.”

  After a moment’s silence, Rusch said, “I don’t remember much. I heard the explosion—or felt it, I guess. The escort was first. And then...us. Next thing I know, a medic’s bent over me.” His eyes shuttered closed. “I wish I could tell you more.”

  “Do you have any idea of who might’ve wanted you dead?”

  Rusch focused his gaze again on Uzi. “You’re assuming I was the target.”

  “At the moment, we’re looking at everything, everyone. But you always start by giving the most obvious the most emphasis. Someone went through an awful lot of trouble and risk to pull this off. Given that, you’re the obvious target.”

  Rusch looked away. “As a prosecutor, I went up against teamsters, mobsters...violent criminals. As governor I signed the death penalty into law.” He took a drowsy breath, smacked his petroleum-glossed lips. “I was a bastard of a VP, fought people... on several volatile issues. Point is...the list of who’d want me dead is...is too long to even keep track of.”

  Uzi hoped Rusch would say more, but he merely shut his eyes. Uzi took the hint. He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the cabinet beside Rusch’s bed. “Call me if you think of anything. Thank you for your time, sir.” He turned and headed for the door.

  “One thing,” Rusch said, his pain-weary voice barely audible over the whirring medical equipment. “Catch the people responsible, Agent Uziel. Don’t do it for me. Do it for my wife and daughter. For this great country of ours.”

  Uzi dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then left.

  5:25 PM

  188 hours 35 minutes remaining

  Uzi stood a dozen feet from the charred and exploded remains of Congressman Gene Harmon’s BMW. He leaned against the moss-covered distressed-brick wall, sucking on a toothpick as the crime scene techs combed the ruins.

  He had barely made it out of Glendon Rusch’s room when his cell phone rang.

  “Better get your ass over to Kalorama Road,” Shepard said.

  “What’s on Kalorama Road?”

  “Not what, Uzi, who. Congressman Gene Harmon. Or what’s left of him.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yes, shit. Big time shit. Director’s out of his freakin’ mind—”

  “I’m on my way.” After Shepard gave him the address, Uzi headed for the exclusive neighborhood where congressional representatives, ambassadors, and other foreign dignitaries resided. He made good time, but now that he was at the scene, he realized there was nothing for him to do but watch. And think.

  He felt helpless. Though his better sense told him Gene Harmon was only the latest target of their anonymous assassin—or group of assassins—he needed to find the connection...that one strand of evidence that established a relationship between Rusch, Ellison, and Harmon. Then he could begin focusing on motive. And once he had motive, it would only be a matter of time before he fingered the Unknown Subject, or UNSUB.

  At least in theory. In practice, nothing was easy. Nothing was merely “a matter of time.” Often it was hard work, intuitive insight, and a lot of luck thrown into a pot and allowed to simmer. How long? Who the hell knew. Sometimes years.

  He didn’t have years. He had a little over a week.

  Uzi pushed away from the brick wall. One of the technicians, a tall, thick woman with latex gloves stretched over pudgy fingers, held a piece of flat black plastic a few inches in length.

  “What’s that?” Uzi asked.

  She held it higher, as if getting a better look at it would give him the answer. He shrugged.

  “It’s part of the injection mold of a cellular phone.”

  Uzi suddenly became aware of DeSantos beside him. He glanced at his partner, then turned back to the technician. “So it’s an injection mold. The congressman had a cell phone. Who doesn’t?”

  She held a flashlight against the material and parallel powder burn striations became evident. “Most people don’t have cell phones bearing evidence of an incendiary device. C-4 residue, I’d guess. But that’s preliminary.”

  Uzi looked at DeSantos. “That might be our link.”

  “Remote device, detonated by a simple call,” DeSantos said. “Leave the phone somewhere, in this case the driveway, and when your target drives over it, you make your call.”

  Uzi sucked some more on his toothpick, then said, “So that means our UNSUB was somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for the right time.”

  DeSantos nodded, then turned to assess the street. “There’s a lot of tree cover. It’s a short block. Even with NVGs, he’d need a clear view.”

  “Well, let’s get started. Short block or not, this is gonna take a while.”

  IT DID NOT TAKE AS LONG AS Uzi had thought. Within the hour, a Metro PD cop found prints in the moist dirt across the street from the congressman’s house, in a narrow easement between two adjacent homes. The crime scene techs were on it immediately and made plaster castings.

  If this was, in fact, where the killer knelt an hour or so prior, it was potentially the break for which Uzi had been hoping. At least they could estimate the suspect’s height, weight, and gender, and possibly even determine where he bought his shoes. From such tiny bits of information, major leads were often born.

  But for all he knew, the castings were merely an expensive reproduction of the gardener’s work boots. His better sense told him otherwise. For now, he would have to wait—and hope.

  6:30 PM

  187 hours 30 minutes remaining

  Qu
entin Larchmont stood just outside the impromptu press room at Glendon Rusch’s transition headquarters—formerly the suite of offices used to direct his campaign— a short distance from the White House.

  Larchmont, a low-level cabinet member in the Whitehall administration’s first term, was poised to elevate his game—and political profile—under Rusch’s presidency.

  Starting now. The widely anticipated chief-of-staff title would distinguish him as a driving force in Rusch’s administration, but there was no better way for him to shape his political personality than by appearing on national television, talking to the People when they were emotionally vulnerable. In the past, leaders were born by giving rousing speeches at critical moments, by rising above the fray and showing the stuff of which they were made. This was his chance to indelibly imprint his image in the photographic silver of public consciousness.

  Normally the task would have fallen to Rusch’s communications director or senior campaign advisor—but both perished in the crash. Someone on the president-elect’s team had to go before the cameras to speak for Glendon Rusch, to reassure the public their newly elected leader was alive and well. Or, rather, that he was alive. The task fell to Larchmont.

  He was not complaining.

  Heart thumping, his breath a bit short, he closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and found his emotional balance. He entered the room and somewhere in the back of his mind became aware of the droning buzz of press-room chatter as he strode to the podium. The noise hushed as if a judge had rapped a gavel. This wasn’t the Quentin Larchmont of his days as the translucent deputy commerce secretary. And it wasn’t the campaign trail anymore. This was the Big Show.

  He looked up and took in the three dozen reporters and foreign press correspondents in front of him and the campaign workers who had gathered behind them. Cameras clicked. He found the handful of television cameras in the back, then let his eyes wander the room.

  “Good evening,” he began. “It was my hope that President Rusch would be addressing all of you at a time of great joy and triumph, at the dawn of a new era, highlighting the strengths and beauty of the democratic institution: candidates campaign and debate, and then the American people cast their votes to choose who it is they want to lead them, who it is they want to set policy, who it is they trust with our well-being and the well-being of our families.