Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  “Your gut? That’s all we’ve got?”

  “At the moment.” Uzi shifted his weight. “I can’t manufacture evidence—”

  Knox’s head snapped up. He stopped moving, his cold eyes penetrating Uzi’s, as if he were trying to bore right through his skull and peer into his brain. “I’m not suggesting you do, Agent. Just get me answers. The right answers.”

  Get me the right answers? What the hell does that mean? Was it a plea for Uzi to bring him the correct suspect, or the correct suspect for Knox’s needs? He flashed back on his conversation with the president, the ambiguous innuendoes leaving him at a loss to fully understand what he was saying. Or am I reading too much into it? Heeding his boss’s prior advice, Uzi merely nodded at Knox, then added, “Of course, sir.”

  “Director Knox,” Shepard said, lumbering into the room. “Started without me. Good. I was talking with the lab—”

  “Yes. Fine. I was just informing Agent Uziel here about the expansion of his task force.”

  Shepard gave Uzi a serious look, as he would any other field agent who was not his personal friend. Turning back to Knox, he said, “Just so you know, Mr. Director, Command Post is now staffed and operational. Revised plan calls for JTTF to hit three-hundred—”

  “ADIC Yates has kept me fully briefed,” Knox said with a wave of his hand. “But let me make something perfectly clear, Mr. Shepard: the number of bodies we’ve got assigned to this case doesn’t matter if we don’t break it. And soon. I don’t want a failed investigation on my watch.”

  Shepard answered without hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

  Uzi shuffled the toothpick in his mouth but did not say anything. He was busy observing the interplay between Knox and Shepard.

  “You have a problem with this?” Knox was focused on Uzi, his gaze deep and stern.

  “Not at all. It all makes perfect sense.”

  Knox squinted a bit, no doubt trying to read the body language and attitude that underscored Uzi’s comment. He turned back to Shepard. “I’d like an update by oh-nine hundred.”

  Shepard sat down heavily into his seat. “I hope to have something substantive to report by then.”

  “Make sure you do.” Knox turned and left the room, failing to make eye contact with Uzi on the way out.

  “He doesn’t like me,” Uzi said after the door had clicked shut.

  “Douglas Knox doesn’t like most people in the Bureau. I should say, he doesn’t trust most people in the Bureau. I think it’s been the same wherever he’s been. It’s his way of keeping his distance. Part of the power trip.”

  “How come you’re not into that scene?”

  Shepard reached into his drawer to pull out a toothpick. “You been in my desk again?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I am into the power trip scene. That’s why I’m an Assistant Special Agent in Charge. In Charge, get it? That’s all about power, my friend. And within a couple years I plan to drop the ‘assistant’ from my title. Difference between me and the director is that I don’t believe in stabbing people in the back to get where you want to go.”

  “You believe in a frontal assault.”

  “Exactly, exactly right.” Shepard shoved the toothpick into his mouth. “So you think you can handle this, three hundred guys under your watch, some of ’em who hate your guts?”

  “First of all, they’re not all male, and second of all, yeah. I can handle it. The task force is designed to compartmentalize everything.”

  “It’s also designed to have everything and everyone funneled to you. You will be interfacing with a lot of these people. You will.”

  “Not a problem,” Uzi said.

  “Don’t let me down,” Shepard said. “Just don’t let me down.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me where we stand.”

  “Working on a number of things. A buddy of mine from the Pentagon is poking around with me. Hector DeSantos.”

  “I know.”

  Uzi hesitated—Shepard clearly had his sources—then said, “Hector’s sharp. We make a good team.”

  “Don’t forget you’ve got two hundred ninety-nine other team members.”

  Uzi reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of message slips. “They won’t let me forget. Can I go now? I’ve got some calls to return.” He stood up and started for the door.

  “I heard you kept your appointment with the shrink.”

  Uzi turned, his hand on the knob. “I made you a promise. I keep my word.”

  Shepard let a smile creep across his lips. The toothpick poked through. “I know you do.”

  DAY TWO

  8:01 AM

  173 hours 59 minutes remaining

  When Uzi walked into his office, he found that a new stack of message slips had accumulated on his desk. He spent nearly three hours returning calls when Madeline, his assistant, handed him another note.

  “I thought you might want to see this one right away,” she said. “The results are back on some of the evidence from Congressman Harmon’s home.”

  Uzi arrived at the lab twenty minutes later.

  He sat on a stool beside the FBI lab technician, Keisha Beekert. Clad in a white lab coat, the prematurely gray Beekert nudged a pair of reading glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose, then indicated the counter in front of her where several castings of the assailant’s footprints rested.

  “Do you see the problem?” she asked.

  Not being an expert at reading plaster, he hesitated. As his eyes started their second pass over the castings, Beekert lifted one and cradled it in her hands.

  “Here. What kind of shoe does this look like to you?”

  Uzi tilted his head, appraising the large plaster chunk. “One belonging to Bigfoot?”

  “I might accept that answer, because it would appear that your suspect is over eight feet tall judging by the size of his shoe.”

  Uzi thought of a joke dealing with men and their shoe size, but didn’t want to get nailed with a sexual harassment suit. “What kind of shoe does it look like to you?” he asked instead.

  “A Redfeather Women’s Performance 21 snowshoe.”

  “A snowshoe,” Uzi said. “But there’s no snow on the ground.”

  Beekert looked at him over the tops of her glasses, probably wondering if he was dense or stupid.

  Uzi decided to put her concerns to rest. “So you’re saying the UNSUB used snowshoes to mask his shoe make and size. So we can’t track him that way.”

  “Sharp guy you’re dealing with here.”

  “Wait a minute. You said it was a women’s snowshoe.”

  “So you’re pretty sharp yourself. Yes,” Beekert said, “that is what I said. According to the manufacturer, it’s got ‘an innovative V-tail tapered design with an Aircraft 6-series aluminum frame.’ Rated for up to 175 pounds. But judging by the depth of most of the imprints, I’d estimate this person to be north of 200 pounds. A rather hefty woman, I’d say.”

  “A fact the manufacturer might be pleased to learn. They can expand their market.” He shrugged. “To heftier women.”

  Beekert twisted her mouth in disappointment.

  “Okay,” Uzi said, “I get your point. You’re saying that either this was a very large female assassin, or a slightly-larger-than-average male hit-man. The latter is more likely.”

  “I wouldn’t want to draw conclusions for you. My job is merely to point out the facts.”

  “And the fact is, this guy is good. Very good.”

  “Wish I could’ve helped you more.”

  Uzi pushed off the stool. “Me, too.”

  2:05 PM

  167 hours 55 minutes remaining

  Following a classified briefing at the Strategic Information and Operations Center, Uzi was leaving the Hoover Building’s garage when he saw Karen Vail’s red hair inside a Bureau-issue Dodge Stratus. She rolled down her window and pulled up alongside him.

  “I’ve been doing some more thinking on the Marine Two downing.”<
br />
  “Oh, yeah? I thought this was Frank Del Monaco’s case.”

  “You want my help or not?”

  Uzi smiled. “Go on.”

  “Can’t talk right now. Gotta drop off some papers. Meet me at the coffee house across the road from my office. Gargoyles. Give me about an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Karen Vail walked into Gargoyles ninety minutes later. Uzi was seated at a table watching the door and waiting for her, an empty cup of espresso in front of him. He had been returning calls, mowing through his message slips and emails when he saw Vail by the door. He set his phone on the table and leaned back in his seat.

  “You didn’t tell me there were a couple of gun-related homicides connected to this case,” she said before her buttocks had hit the chair.

  Uzi squirmed a bit. “Until we get some more evidence, I can’t say they’re—”

  “My gut says they’re related. You seem to trust my gut, so what that’s worth, I’m not exactly sure. Any case, to your bomber. I think I can give you some general parameters. But we’re clear this is unofficial. I don’t even want you giving me shit if it turns out I’m wrong.”

  “No shit.” He wiggled his fingers. “Spill.”

  “Okay, here’s what I think.” She looked at his empty cup, then stood up. “I need some coffee first.”

  She led the way to the counter, Uzi following, feeling like a kid who couldn’t wait to open his birthday present. “Come on now, don’t keep me in suspense—”

  “Can I get you anything, Agent Vail?” the man behind the counter asked.

  Uzi raised his right brow. “Guess you come here a lot.”

  “Shut up,” Vail said to Uzi. She looked at the counterman. “The usual. And my friend will have some coffee grinds.”

  “Black,” Uzi said. “Lots of sugar.” He looked at Vail. “’Cause I’m so sweet.”

  Vail rolled her eyes.

  “Another espresso, please,” he said. The man moved off to prepare their drinks.

  Vail leaned her buttocks against the counter and faced Uzi. “So here’s what I think. That big chopper, the Super Stallion? What a name, typical macho male thing.”

  “Karen—”

  “Okay. First thing you have to understand about bombings is that victimology is critical: who is the victim—or more specifically, who’s the target? Remember the Centennial Park bombing? The big problem was trying to figure out who the guy was trying to kill. It was a directional bomb, we could tell that much, but there were a lot of potential targets in the vicinity: several different corporate tents, families, a security guard— We didn’t know what his intent was, so we couldn’t accurately assess what this offender was all about.

  “In your case, is it the US government this guy is pissed at? Or the Marines? Or was it meant to embarrass the manufacturer of the helicopters? Once we know who the target was, we can begin the process of trying to answer why. Why this target, why now, why here? Why did he place the bomb on the helicopter? There was a specific reason for that. Why not just put a bomb under the target’s car—he’d probably have easier access and less risk. All depends on who the target was.

  “You also have to ask why he hit these helicopters and not others. Was he trying to draw attention by using a high-profile event?” She stopped and waited for him to respond. He said nothing. “You hear what I’m saying? Go down the wrong road, you’ll be way off base.”

  The counterman placed the two drinks on a tray and slid it over to the register. Uzi handed the man a ten. While waiting for his change, he said, “Okay, disclaimers are out of the way. I know you’re sticking your ass out here. Just tell me what you can.”

  Vail sighed. “They’re more than disclaimers. There are some critical pieces of information we don’t have.”

  “Understood.” He took the change from the man and led the way to their table. He sat and sipped his coffee, waiting for her to continue.

  Vail tipped her mug back and took a sip. “The Stallion was blown out of the sky. A cleverly disguised device, placed strategically at the only weak point this machine has, takes the thing right down. That can mean the UNSUB was really pissed at one or more of the inhabitants and wanted to pulverize them. But since there was another chopper involved that didn’t need to be taken down, I don’t think the Stallion was the target. The type of strike on the Stallion leads me to believe they wanted it out of the way, that it wasn’t important. It’s there for protection, right? Wipe out the guard and you can have your way with your weaker target. Serial killers work the same way.

  “Which brings me to the Black Hawk. According to the file, the tail rotor was taken out first. I asked around, and I was told that a really good pilot can fly a chopper with just the main rotor. And the people who fly the Executive Fleet are really good. So assuming the bomber knew that—and I think he must have, otherwise why bother with the tail rotor, he could’ve taken the thing down like he did the Stallion—there was something at play here.”

  “Whoever did this,” Uzi said, “wanted his target to experience fear before he died.”

  Vail raised the cup toward her lips. “Very good. Did your analytical logic skills come from your engineering background or the Bureau’s renowned training?”

  “Neither. I’m just naturally brilliant.”

  Vail choked on her sip of coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.” She dabbed her mouth with a tissue. “Seriously, though. I think you should focus on the inhabitants of the Black Hawk. Find out who Glendon Rusch is, what he stands for. Not just what the media reports, but behind the scenes. Talk to congressmen, find out who hated whom.”

  “You feel this could’ve been an inside job?”

  “It was an inside job, Uzi. First of all, that was a pretty sophisticated bomb, molded to fit the exterior surface. The labs on the explosive will be super important. We don’t have an intact device, so the next best thing is reconstructing the bomb by the stuff blown off in the periphery. They do a photospectral analysis of the pieces and chemical residues to determine the type of material it was made from. If the preliminary theory is right, and it’s C-4 or Semtex, you’re dealing with limited availability. They could’ve stolen it from the Army or imported it from overseas. Either route involves extensive preparation and resources, indicating a more sophisticated offender.”

  “Everything points to C-4.”

  “Good. What you’ve given me so far indicates substantial planning and forethought. Whoever did this didn’t download a recipe off the Internet and cook up a fertilizer bomb in his kitchen, then leave it in a backpack by a park bench. C-4 planted on helicopters that transport the president and vice president of the United States means a sophisticated operator.

  “But more important than that,” Vail continued, “the main question has to be, How could someone plant bombs on US Marine helicopters used for transporting the executive staff? It’s a question of access. The logical conclusion is that one of the mechanics had to have been involved.”

  Uzi sipped his espresso. “We reached the same conclusion.”

  “Which provides a link, circumstantial of course, but a link nonetheless, to your murdered Quantico mechanic.”

  “See, I knew you were smarter than everyone else said you were.”

  Vail grinned. “I won’t let you bait me. Charm works better, anyway.”

  “I didn’t think someone who stares at dead bodies all the time could be so beautiful.”

  Vail nodded slowly. “That’s a good start. I’ll take more.”

  “Later. Let’s go on. What else can you tell me?”

  Vail drank from her cup, and then set it down. “Bombers like this are often loners. Maybe this mechanic hated the government.” She held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, he worked for the government, and he was considered the best of the best, or else he wouldn’t have gotten this assignment. I agree, but I can’t tell you how many times we’ve discovered that members of our Armed forces harbored deep-seated a
nger toward the country and everything it stands for. Think Timothy McVeigh. And he’s not the only one—not by a long shot. Nidal Hasan’s a slightly different example, but an example nonetheless.”

  “So this guy was a closet anarchist.”

  “Something like that.”

  “We’re looking at ARM. You know anything about them?”

  “Just that Nelson Flint is a bloodsucking good-for-nothing parasite who should be behind bars.”

  “I hate it when you hold back,” Uzi said. “Someone on my task force thinks they’re involved.”

  Vail cocked her head. “Here’s the thing with that. Typically bombers don’t work in groups. When hate-mongers get together, it’s usually to talk about their complaints, kind of like group therapy, a misery-loves-company type thing. Makes them feel powerful. But they don’t usually gather to act on their gripes. That said, there are notable exceptions, especially in recent history. Militia groups, for one. A recent example is that Hutaree ‘Christian warrior’ militia, which planned to use homemade bombs against federal agents.”

  Uzi sipped some more espresso. “I don’t want to miss something important. Before I sell myself on the militia angle, tell me about bombers in general.”

  “Some guidelines?”

  “Yeah. Like the loner thing. What else—Do they fit into some kind of generalized behavioral mindset?”

  “To know the artist, study his art, remember? Bombing is passive-aggressive; the scum suckers who engage in this type of behavior are nonconfrontational. They set the bomb and go away. Poisoners and snipers are the same way. No direct contact with their victims. So when you generalize about who would do something like this, you think of someone who feels they were slighted by their company. So they go into a store and poison the food: others get sick. It’s all done to embarrass the manufacturer.”

  “Can you be a little more specific? About our bomber.”

  Vail lifted the coffee to her lips. “So you want me fully out on the limb, huh? If the branch breaks—”