Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  He pulled out his Nokia and entered her number into his contacts list. Then he watched her walk out into the chilled DC night.

  “She’s quite beautiful,” Clarence said behind Uzi’s shoulder.

  Uzi did not bother to turn around. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

  DAY THREE

  6:58 AM

  151 hours 2 minutes remaining

  Uzi pushed through the maple-framed glass doors to Leonard Rudnick’s building, ascended the paneled lobby’s steps, and then ran up the five flights to the doctor’s special entrance. He preferred taking the stairs whenever possible—not because he didn’t like elevators, but because his grandmother had ingrained in him the value of exercise. She religiously walked several flights daily to and from her fifth-story Brooklyn apartment, well into her nineties.

  He took a few deep breaths to calm his lungs, then walked into the small waiting room, where he found Rudnick standing with the door open.

  “Right on time,” the doctor said.

  Uzi followed Rudnick into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. “Look, Doc, I don’t know if this is going to work. This case is taking all my time. Even meeting at seven AM... I need to keep my mind focused on the investigation—”

  “Are you the only agent working this case?”

  Uzi snorted. “We’re up to about five hundred. But I’m in charge of more than half of them, and there’re leads I’m following up myself.”

  “I understand. That’s a tremendous amount of responsibility. Some thrive on it. But I want to know about you. Tell me what brought you to the FBI,” Rudnick said with a casual wave of a hand.

  Uzi blinked, realizing the doctor had just gently, yet abruptly, changed the subject.

  “Was it the prestige?” Rudnick asked.

  Uzi sighed in concession. He pulled a protein bar from his leather jacket and tore it open. “Breakfast. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Rudnick gestured for him to continue. “I understand your time is short. Eating and talking is fine. So, to my question.”

  Uzi swallowed, then said, “I needed a job, and I wanted something that would fit with my professional background.” He took another bite from the bar.

  “I see. But that could describe a lot of jobs.”

  “The Bureau has a great retirement plan,” he said as he chewed.

  Rudnick grinned, as did Uzi. But then the doctor’s face hardened as he leaned elbows onto knees and said, “I think it’s time we talked about what happened to your family.”

  It was the most direct Rudnick had been, and in the instant the doctor finished his sentence, Uzi felt a surge of fear rattle his body. Had Rudnick been a boxer, he would’ve been dinged for hitting below the belt.

  Uzi knew his body language had betrayed him. His eyes had widened, if only for a second, and then he had looked away. He swallowed hard. “If you know to ask,” Uzi said, “then you already know what happened.”

  Rudnick remained stone-faced. “That’s not how this works, Uzi. What I know or don’t know is ultimately unimportant. But let me put you at ease. I was only told that you suffered a terrible family tragedy, and that as a result you moved back to the United States.”

  Uzi nodded but did not speak. The two of them sat there in silence, Uzi’s gaze directed at the carpet, his mind sifting through tortured memories.

  “It will help to talk about it.”

  Uzi looked down at the protein bar, no longer felt like eating, and shoved it back in his pocket. “I don’t think I can.”

  “I see,” Rudnick said. “How about I ask you a question I usually ask my patients who’ve gone through a ‘terrible family tragedy.’ He interlocked his fingers and leaned back. “Why haven’t you committed suicide?”

  “What?”

  “Your answer could prove valuable in shaping our treatment.”

  Uzi’s eyes found the ceiling. He didn’t even know how to approach such a question.

  “Have you ever considered it? Suicide?”

  “The answer to your question, Doctor, is that I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t commit suicide.”

  “Okay. Some people have an answer for me, and others, well, others discover the answer in the weeks that follow. So let’s start with something a bit easier. Were you born in Israel?”

  Uzi began bouncing his right knee. “My father was. He met my mother on a visit to New York and ended up staying there. I was born in Queens but he moved us back to Israel after I turned three. When I was about ten, we started living in both places. My aunt, who lived in Brooklyn, had Cerebral Palsy, and my mom didn’t wanna be so far away from her.

  “So we lived in New York during the school year and Israel during the summers. After doing my three years in the IDF, I ended up staying there. I got my degree from Braude College of Engineering.” He laughed. “Because of my performance with the defense forces, my first job offer actually came from the Shin Bet security service. It’s like our FBI. I was with them for three years before Intel offered me a full-time position working on the first NetBurst microarchitecture CPUs. They’d just opened Fab18, a new manufacturing facility in Israel and I had an ‘in’ through a friend, so it was perfect.” He stopped, reflected for a moment. “Around that time, my father had also gotten sick, so my mother had all she could handle.”

  “And then what?”

  “Spent almost five years with Intel as a design engineer. Five really good years. And then one day, things changed.”

  Rudnick sat patiently. But Uzi did not elaborate. “What changed?” he finally asked.

  Uzi pulled a cellophane wrapped toothpick from his pocket and tore it open. He stuck it in his mouth and played with it between his tongue and teeth. “I ran into someone from my childhood. This man was very special to me, kind of like a hero. Other kids had Batman, or Superman, but this guy was real.” Uzi rolled the toothpick around a bit, then said, “Ever hear of Rafi Eitan?”

  “The man who ran the operation that captured Adolf Eichmann.”

  Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. I didn’t think an American would know his name.”

  Rudnick’s expression did not change. “The Nazis held special meaning for me. Why do you bring him up?”

  “Rafi was a neighbor of mine. On summer afternoons he used to sit in front of his house and tell me and my friends about the time they kidnapped Eichmann and brought him back to Israel to stand trial. It was an incredibly daring operation, filled with intrigue and the sexiness of a good spy novel. Only this mission was real, and the peace it brought to the survivors ran deep. And it proved to the world that Israel’s intelligence agency was a player, capable of anything.” Uzi stared off for a moment. “I remember sitting there as a kid the first time he told the story. I was mesmerized. I knew then I wanted to be a Mossad agent.”

  “But instead you went into technology.”

  “My first year with the Shin Bet, I put in an application to the Mossad, figuring it was a sure thing. But I was rejected.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “They don’t tell you. You just never hear from them.”

  Rudnick rose from his chair and took a water pitcher from his desk. He poured Uzi a glass. “How did that make you feel?”

  “I thought I was good at what I did, and I had this burning desire to serve. I felt it was something I was born to do.” He took the drink from Rudnick.

  “But how did it make you feel?” Rudnick locked eyes with Uzi.

  Uzi shrugged. “Angry, I guess. Left out. Like someone was preventing me from doing something I really wanted to do. And that just made me more determined.” He gulped some water. “One day when I was with Intel, I went home to visit my mom and I found Rafi in his backyard welding scrap metal into these really cool sculptures. We talked for several hours, late into the night. He told me about missions he’d been on, what he’d been doing after he’d retired. But then he asked me why I never went to work for Mossad. I told him I’d been rejected.” Uzi paused for a moment.
“What I tell you stays here, right?”

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality is the cornerstone of trust in a relationship like ours.”

  Uzi nodded slowly. He didn’t know if he should continue, but his instincts told him he could trust Rudnick. Besides, the doctor would have no reason to betray him. “A few days later,” Uzi said, “I got a call from Gideon Aksel, the director general himself, asking me to come to his office for a meeting.” He took another drink. “Rafi had vouched for me. And when Rafi Eitan vouches for you, they listen. I resigned from Intel the next day.” Uzi set the glass down, then stole a glance at the wall clock. “Look, Doc—I really don’t have time for this. Fifteen minutes is all I can give you today.”

  Rudnick’s shoulders slumped. “I feel like we’re making some good progress here. How ’bout you give me another fifteen, hmm?”

  Uzi rose from the chair, unwilling to verbally concede that talking about the past had felt good. “Too much going on.” He gave Rudnick a pat on the shoulder, then turned and walked out.

  8:19 AM

  149 hours 41 minutes remaining

  The encrypted cell phone had already rung five times. Echo Charlie knew he wouldn’t be dumped into voicemail, so there was no disadvantage in letting it ring.

  Charlie leaned his car seat back and waited. He rolled down his window, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms was absent from the winter air, replaced by barren branches and musty bay odors blowing off the Chesapeake. No matter. He did not need flowers and breathtaking landscapes. Power and influence were more intoxicating than Mother Nature—and vastly more significant than sensory input, which only diverted his focus.

  “It’s me,” Charlie said when the phone was finally answered. He rolled up his window and dropped his head down, in case someone was trying to read his lips.

  Alpha Zulu said, “Go ahead.”

  “We need our G-man monitored more closely. Controlled. Need be, he might have to be dealt with quickly.”

  “We can handle your G-man. We know things.”

  Charlie checked his scorpion-engraved pocket watch, always aware of the length of the call. Though it theoretically could not be traced, he was not taking any chances that the CIA or NSA had developed new ways of unscrambling the transmission and eavesdropping on his conversation. Technology changed so fast it was best not to take the risk.

  “Our package is ready to be dropped off,” Alpha Zulu said. “It’s packed neatly and waiting to be delivered.”

  “Deliver and install. And make sure it works before you leave the job site.”

  “Our associate will see to it. I’ll contact you after the job’s complete.”

  Charlie ended the call, then stared out at the choppy Chesapeake water. There was no substitute for power.

  None at all.

  9:45 AM

  148 hours 15 minutes remaining

  Alpha Zulu sat beside Oscar Delta in the doctor’s parking lot of the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, eyes slowly moving in a grid pattern, left to right, from the farthest areas to the closest. Observing, watching.

  Finally, keeping his gaze on the landscape before him, he said, “We’re good. Go.”

  Oscar Delta shifted his weight in the bucket seat and pulled out his cell phone, then tapped out a message:

  table set. invite the guests.

  Delta pulled on his baseball cap, and then slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Ten minutes later, he popped open his door and walked to the visitor’s parking lot, where a black Hyundai Dynasty was waiting. After a final glance around the vicinity, he slid behind the steering wheel and moved the car onto the hospital complex. His orders were to park the vehicle in a specific location and then move to an area where he would be capable of observing the aftereffects.

  He locked the doors and peeled off his thin leather gloves while hiking the planned two hundred steps toward his perch. Once in position, he sent a text to Zulu:

  great seats. cant wait for the show to start

  9:32 AM

  148 hours 28 minutes remaining

  Uzi pulled out of the FBI Washington Field Office parking garage, having just completed a briefing with most of the task force agents. Despite the pressure he was under, he felt refreshed and energized. Moreover, he had a sharper awareness of the things around him, as if he’d just gotten over a cold and could smell the pot of fresh-brewed coffee.

  He hadn’t felt that way in years—six years, in fact. As he turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he realized that it had to do with his session with Rudnick. He now understood, intellectually at least, that the more he tried to contain his feelings, the more elusive their underlying meaning became.

  Could talking about your problems be so liberating that it permeates your attitude toward everything? He was instantly grateful for Shepard’s insistence that he start treatment, though he was still cautiously optimistic the effect would last. And he had no idea if he would even be able to keep his next appointment. Or the one after that.

  Uzi parked his car near the National Mall and walked along Madison Drive, eyes roaming the area for DeSantos. He located him a moment later, sitting on a park bench thumbing through an edition of the Post and chewing a piece of gum.

  “Got any more?” Uzi asked, settling down next to him.

  DeSantos folded the paper in quarters, pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit, and offered it to his partner. “I haven’t been able to find anything linking Harmon, Fargo, and Ellison, or any of them to Rusch. About the only thing they had in common was their NFA membership.” DeSantos looked off at the Washington Monument in the near distance.

  “National Firearms Alliance?” Uzi asked. “That’s interesting.”

  “No, it’s not. I was just throwing that out because I didn’t have anything else to say.”

  “Serious? They were all NFA members?”

  “Them and seven million others.” DeSantos blew on his hands. “It’s not a crime. They do some good.”

  “They do more harm.”

  “Not worth the debate, my friend.” DeSantos tucked the folded Post beneath his arm, then stood. “Point is, it’s not a big deal that they’re all members.”

  Uzi rose and followed in step as they crunched down the fine gravel path, heading west toward the monument.

  “I’ll bet my salary that every single person associated with ARM is an NFA member.”

  “So what? I bet they belong to the NRA, too.” DeSantos shook his head. “You’re trying to create a link where there isn’t any.”

  “Far-right militias and NFA are in bed with each other. That fact can’t be ignored.”

  “First,” DeSantos said, “I’d verify that little assumption before calling it a fact. But fine, don’t ignore it. Look into it. I just don’t think there’s anything there.”

  “Rusch is pro-gun control because of what happened to his sister. Killed by an illegal thirty-eight special. Robbery attempt—”

  DeSantos held up a hand, then stopped walking. “She wasn’t killed by a gun, Uzi. She was killed by the asshole who pulled the trigger.”

  “That’s a classic NFA argument.”

  “Look, boychick. All I’m saying is that if a guy takes a hammer to his best friend, we don’t talk about banning hammers. We prosecute the guy who swung it.”

  “And all I’m saying is that Rusch is not NFA’s best friend.” He waited to read DeSantos’s blank face. When DeSantos didn’t react, Uzi continued. “Motive. They had a reason to eliminate him.”

  “Now you’re way out in left field.”

  “No, go with me on this.” Uzi thought for a second, allowing the theory to form. “Let’s say the NFA was concerned about Rusch’s gun-control agenda. The only way to prevent a disaster—from their point of view—is to get rid of him. They find an ally in ARM and launch their plan.”

  “Too much of a leap for me. This isn’t a goddamn spy movie, Uzi. And this isn’t the Middle East. Don’t forget we work for the US government
. Like it or not— and I usually don’t— there are legal and political checks and balances. There needs to be proof of a connection, a solid case. Not some hare-brained theory about the NFA and right-wing militias plotting to kill the next president of the United States.”

  “This from the guy who’s been on more black ops than the government will admit to? You know what’s out there, what’s possible. Even with 9/11, America’s only gotten a taste of the twisted minds these terrorists have. You and I... We’ve seen it up close.” Uzi paused, looked away. “And personal.”

  DeSantos’s moment of pause told Uzi that his partner agreed with him.

  “Still,” DeSantos finally said, “we don’t have enough to go on.”

  Uzi chomped on the gum, his thoughts churning in unison. “So we need to dig some more. Find those connections.”

  “No,” DeSantos said, poking at Uzi’s leather jacket with an index finger. “You need to find those connections. I’ve got some other things I’m looking into.”

  Uzi started to object when his smartphone began ringing. He listened for a second, then caught DeSantos’s eyes with his own. “Let’s go,” he said, jogging toward his Tahoe.

  “What’s going on?”

  Uzi chirped his remote and the doors unlocked. “Tell you on the way.”

  UZI PUT HIS MAGNETIC LIGHT on the roof and drove like an Israeli, zipping through traffic and arriving at the National Military Medical Center in under fifteen minutes. He had been told that Glendon Rusch remembered something about the explosion and thought it might help their investigation.

  As they approached, the fifteen-story tower of Building One rose like the guardian of the hospital complex, appearing like it did on any other dreary Maryland day.

  Uzi turned his credentials wallet inside out and slipped the end into his coat’s breast pocket so his Bureau ID was visible. Because of his olive complexion, slight accent and casual dress, he did not want to be profiled incorrectly by the military police. On high alert with heightened tensions, the scene could get ugly very fast.

  They cleared security and hurried through the lobby—but before they could make it to the elevators, the ground shook. In the next split second, Uzi wasn’t sure what he felt first—the concussive force against his chest, the rumble of the floor, or the sensation of being weightless and flying backward through the air.