Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  His ASAC drove to Millie’s Coffee Shop, a greasy spoon in Georgetown that apparently catered to college students who needed an early place to get their off-campus caffeine fix before classes started. It was dark inside, with single-bulb original art deco lights hanging over each booth. The wood floors were varnished, but well worn in traffic areas to the point where a groove had been ground into the main aisle, with branching furrows leading to each table.

  Shepard was nestled in a corner booth on the left side of the restaurant, the Post spread across the metal-rimmed Formica table with a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage by his right elbow. Uzi slid onto the seat beside him and peered over the top of the newspaper.

  “Uzi. What—”

  “What am I doing here? Well, let’s see. It’s been a hell of a night, highlighted by nearly getting blown into the heavens.”

  Shepard eyed his friend silently before speaking. “Uzi, have you spoken with your shrink? I mean, this is a really traumatic thing to go through.”

  “You know what, Shep? Nearly getting blasted to oblivion doesn’t really bother me. Someday it’ll hit me. It always does. But right now I’m pretty focused.”

  “I know this case bothers you,” Shepard said. “Knox isn’t just breathing down your neck, he’s on my case, too. Today’s the big day, and we’ve still got shit—”

  Uzi slammed his hand down on the table. The silverware jumped. All heads in the small restaurant turned. “Damnit, Shep, don’t fucking play games with me. I’m not in the mood.”

  Shepard raised his fork and pointed it at Uzi. “Calm the hell down. And watch your mouth.” He glanced around the café. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Where were you fifteen minutes ago?”

  Shepard looked away. “What the hell business is that of yours?”

  “Wrong answer, Shep.” Uzi stared coldly at his friend.

  “Anita,” Shepard called across the counter, where a large African-American woman with hair netting was bent over the cooktop. “I’ve gotta take a walk. Will you keep this warm for me?”

  “Sure thing, shugah,” she sang. She slapped the edge of her metal spatula against the stove a couple of times, ridding it of a few stray pieces of cooked egg, then threw an evil eye at Uzi.

  Shepard and Uzi got up from the booth and walked outside. The sky was a bit brighter in the east, but sunrise was still a way off. Vapor rose from their mouths in the morning chill.

  Shepard walked a dozen feet, turned right down an alley, and put his big hands on his hips. “Okay. What the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s what I want to know.” He stared at Shepard but his boss was not volunteering any information. “Why did you just meet with Leila Harel?”

  “Were you tailing me?”

  “I’m asking the questions here, Shep.”

  “Fuck you, my friend. Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m still your superior, and friendship aside, you have no right to talk to me that way.”

  Uzi held up a hand. He was pushing Shepard in the opposite direction. He closed his eyes and tried to think of what to say, where to begin. “You passed her an envelope. What was in it?”

  Shepard looked away.

  “Your fingerprints were on encrypted DVDs recovered from her apartment. Explain that.”

  “Intelligence,” Shepard said quickly. “It’s a need-to-know basis—”

  “I need to fucking know, Shep. I’m running a major investigation. If I ask you a question that might be related to that investigation, you have to answer it.”

  “Is it related?”

  The two of them locked stares.

  Finally, Shepard blinked. “Okay, you want to know what’s going on? I’ll tell you. But this goes beyond any level of trust we’ve ever shared. This is beyond top secret, beyond top secret, you hear what I’m saying?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah. You know you can trust me.”

  Shepard put a hand behind his neck and squeezed. “Man, oh man. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it.” He walked a few feet away, through a few puddles and past a pile of litter, then returned to Uzi. “What do you know about Leila?”

  “I’m not sure. Yesterday I would’ve had a different answer. Today, I just don’t know.”

  “And yesterday’s answer?”

  “CIA. Counterintelligence. A member of M2TF.”

  “And today?”

  Uzi closed his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “A terrorist with al-Humat,” Shepard said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  Uzi’s eyes snapped open. “You knew?”

  Shepard turned and started to walk down the alley. Uzi followed. “I’ve known for a while.”

  “How could you not tell me? I mean, don’t you think that would be an important detail for me to have—not just as head of JTTF, but for the investigation?”

  “I wasn’t being difficult before, Uzi. It really is need-to-know. The order came from Knox. And from what little I know, I agree with his decision.”

  Knox. Why am I not surprised that all winding roads lead back to that man? “Do we have definite proof she’s with al-Humat?”

  Shepard chuckled. “You bet, Uzi. You bet. Hard evidence.”

  “I just ran her prints, they came up a big zero. We even pulled Batula Hakim’s prints and compared them visually.”

  “Batula Hakim? That’s the woman who—”

  “Yes.”

  Shepard was silent a moment. “Leila’s real name is Leila al-Far, and her prints aren’t in the system because the CIA doesn’t post their counterintelligence agents’ identities anywhere. For obvious reasons, you know that.” They walked another few feet before Shepard said, “What made you think al-Far was Batula Hakim?”

  Now it was Uzi’s turn to demonstrate some trust. “I met with Gideon Aksel last night.”

  “The Mossad Director General?” Shepard appeared to chew on that one a bit. “He’s here for the terrorism conference. That explains part of it. But why would he seek you out?”

  The conference. Only five hours left and I still don’t have answers for the president. He felt a surge of urgency in his chest.

  “I don’t know,” Uzi said. “Maybe Knox had something to do with it. But it seems Aksel’s main purpose was to tell me that Leila was Hakim.” Cold wind ripped through his jacket. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and brought them together, pulling his coat closed. “Aksel has his agendas, just like Knox. But the man’s a legend. He’s not often wrong.” It hurt Uzi to utter those words, but it was the truth.

  Shepard turned to his friend and twisted his mouth. “As for having an agenda in telling you Leila is Batula Hakim...yeah, that’s probably a good assumption.”

  “I told him I needed positive ID, and that I was gonna get it.”

  “Then he knows that sooner or later you’re going to find out the truth.”

  They both stood silent for a moment, each seeming to process the puzzle in their own way. Finally, Uzi said, “What intelligence were you passing to Leila?”

  “She was assigned to be the counterintelligence liaison between the Bureau and the Agency. Shit hit the fan when some of the info she was entrusted with ended up in the al-Qaeda manuals we found when we took out bin Laden. Only a few people had access to that info, only a select few. But she didn’t know that. It took a long time to parse all the data and unwind the convoluted network of subterfuge, but Knox and Tasset narrowed it down to Leila. So Knox had us set up a flow of disinformation. When NSA intercepted some of that bogus intelligence being passed to al-Humat and al-Qaeda, we knew we had our mole.”

  “Why didn’t you move on her?”

  “Knox and his NSA cronies felt she was more valuable if we used her, controlled what information she passed on. Some of the security plans she’s got for the conference are bogus. An added precaution just in case they were planning something. But NSA said it’s been quiet. Which means our intel’s limited, so we’re blind. T
he conference is an obvious target, but it might be too obvious. Know what I mean?”

  As Uzi’s shoes crunched against the pavement, he thought of the president’s clandestine peace talks. Shep didn’t bring it up, so maybe it was something the ASAC did not “need to know.” He shook his head. “Playing with fire, Shep. If this is true, Leila’s dangerous. Leaving her in place at the Agency, giving her access—”

  “Tasset had all access codes changed as part of a system upgrade. She was pigeon-holed, locked out of essential systems. It’s all been taken care of.”

  Uzi couldn’t help wondering if DeSantos, joined at the hip with Knox in so many ways and over so many secrets, knew about the covert op against Leila. And if he did know, why didn’t he tell Uzi about it? Was he under a similar gag order from Knox? For now, Shepard’s answer was the only available explanation as to why the information had been kept from him. And what did any of them know of Nuri Peled’s “suicide”?

  “Would’ve been nice to tell me of all this.”

  “Knox felt it would jeopardize the operation.”

  Uzi bit his lip. Did Knox not trust him with the information because of his Mossad past? If so, why would he let him head Washington’s JTTF? Because of his Mossad past? “You should’ve told me all this, Shep. You should’ve trusted me with the info.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “C’mon, man, I thought you were my friend. You either trust me or you don’t.”

  Shepard grabbed Uzi’s arm to stop him. Though Uzi was sizable himself, Shepard’s heft dwarfed even him, and his grip on Uzi was like an offensive lineman grabbing a quarterback from behind. “‘You either trust me or you don’t’? What a freaking hypocrite. Don’t act so high and mighty. And don’t ever question my friendship, don’t ever do that.”

  They locked eyes. Shepard’s were red with rage.

  “ARM. Knox’s order.”

  “Yes,” Shepard said, nodding his head animatedly. “Knox’s order. I know he told you to go after ARM. You may think I’m rusty around the edges, been behind a desk too long, but I’ve still got my instincts and my inside sources, Uzi, I’ve still got ’em.”

  “Look, Shep... Coulter specifically said to leave them alone. You were there, you heard what he said. I didn’t want you taking any more heat for me. After I left, DeSantos told me Knox wanted me to keep on them. I couldn’t tell you, not without dragging you into it.”

  “I asked you point blank about being on that compound, Uzi, and you flat out lied to me.”

  “To protect you.”

  “Bullshit. My ass is in the fire even if I claim I didn’t know.” Shepard rubbed his eyes with meaty fingers. “And why in hell would you defy the AG anyway? Knox tells you to break the law, so you just go and do it? You should’ve come to me, leveled with me, and let me handle it.”

  Uzi turned away. He closed his eyes tight and hoped he could vanish into the vapor pouring from his mouth. “I couldn’t do that, Shep.”

  “Trust, remember? You trust me, I trust you. It’s gotta work both ways.”

  “Knox has something on me.”

  Shepard tilted his head back and looked down on Uzi. “Is this another thing you should’ve told me about?”

  “Shep, please don’t make me—”

  “Damnit, Uzi, what other freaking surprises do you have for me?”

  “Just this one.”

  Shepard began pacing. “If this job doesn’t give me a coronary, I swear, you’re going to. Another seven years and I’ve got my pension. Another seven years. I’d hoped to go out an SAC, but with you under me, I’ll either stroke out before then or get canned.” He stopped in his tracks and turned to face Uzi. He folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

  Uzi stepped closer, then nodded in the direction of the street. They started walking. They’d gone a dozen feet before Uzi spoke. “I used to be with the Mossad.” Uzi felt Shepard’s angry stare on his back like the red laser beam of a sniper’s scope.

  “You didn’t disclose that on your app.” Uzi didn’t reply. “Head of the Washington Bureau’s JTTF, and you were once— Jesus Christ, Uzi. I knew about Shin Bet, that was cool. But Mossad? Not cool, not cool at all. Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m sorry, Shep. I really am sorry. I needed to—to make a new life. Escape my past.”

  “I was there, remember?” Shepard kept his gaze forward. “But ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it. This is bad, very bad.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “Ohhh, man. If the press gets wind of this, we’re fucked. Congressional inquiry. Front page of the Post. Bloggers. Twitter. Politico. You think the director will take any of the heat? No way, it’ll be our asses.”

  “Knox has known for a long time, Shep. So he’d be in the shit, too. But he and DeSantos—and now you—are the only ones who know. It can stay that way.” Uzi ventured a glance at his boss.

  Shepard’s face was hard, his brow thick, his gaze focused on the sidewalk ahead. He abruptly turned left at the corner. Uzi stopped. “Where are you going?”

  “To finish my breakfast,” Shepard yelled over his shoulder. “At least with that, I know what I’m getting. Eggs are eggs. No surprises.”

  Uzi stood there, watching the big guy trudge down the street, feeling the same sense of loneliness he’d felt six years ago. Despite all the intervening time and his attempts to repair his life and fill the void, the only friendships he’d managed to harvest were now rooted in uncertainty.

  7:29 AM

  6 hours 31 minutes remaining

  As Uzi headed home, he realized the landscape of his case had changed substantially in the past twenty-four hours: he had been sure ARM was behind the helicopter bombing and subsequent murders; the brass casing recovered from Bishop’s crime scene matched the Russian 7.62 round he and DeSantos had pilfered from their compound. That was a pretty damning connection. But if he took a hard, objective look at his “evidence,” all it proved was that the person who assassinated Bishop had access to ARM’s ammo—or their storage shed, or to the same ammo supplier. Or, he was a lone wolf affiliated with the group. After all this time and trouble, Uzi had hoped to have more substance behind his suspicions.

  Yet the bombs that took out Fargo and Harmon, and the attempts on Rusch and himself—appeared to be connected. Even though the explosive devices and MO differed, Karen Vail said a bomb was a less traditional assassination tactic. In terms of most probable explanations, it was likely the bombings were all perpetrated by the same group. Who had the most to gain from taking out these people? Was it ARM, in coordination with NFA, the attorney general and... Douglas Knox? All to remove Rusch from power in an attempt to eliminate a staunch gun-control advocate?

  Then there was Nuri Peled’s death. Suicide? Not likely. Murder, then— But why, and by whom? The obvious answers could not be overlooked. Even if he’d been taken out by an al-Humat terror cell Peled had discovered, Uzi had no hard link, direct or indirect, to his case.

  Perhaps his answers hinged on Leila. This was the question that gnawed deep inside him, the one that demanded resolution if he was to have any peace of mind going forward: Was Leila al-Far in fact Batula Hakim? It appeared not—the fingerprint discrepancy was absolute proof of that—but Aksel’s intelligence was flawless. Unless he was purposely leading Uzi down the wrong path.

  But if Leila was Batula Hakim, how would she and al-Humat fit into the equation? Or were they part of another equation—gearing up for an unrelated attack on US soil? The terrorism conference? Or the supposedly secret Israeli-Palestinian peace talks?

  If she wasn’t Hakim, the complexion of his case—of everything—would change. He thought back to when he’d first met her. Was it merely coincidence that he had gotten involved with her? After all, he had pursued her; she wanted no part of him. Or was that by design? Was she a honey trap to draw him in? A few hours ago, he’d been convinced it had been just that.

  Yet again, all he had were mere suspicions, theories without substance. In many respects, a case wi
thout evidence.

  His years as a Mossad operative came roaring back to him—the unease, the paranoia, the questioning of everyone and everything, of not knowing who you can trust. He was out of practice—if there was one thing Gideon Aksel had said that rang true, it was that living in America had softened him. Uzi did not want to admit it, but he also could not dispute it.

  His survival skills had eroded substantially in six years. It was a natural effect of becoming an administrator and investigator rather than a covert assassin. Two different skill sets. Two different lives.

  No matter. He needed to tap those rusty instincts and abilities. He needed to be on top of his game. Because the people he was facing were undoubtedly on top of theirs. Several corpses were proof enough.

  After parking two blocks from his house, Uzi observed the immediate area, watching for and evaluating stray movement—especially people or cars out of place. Despite the paucity of time left, he reminded himself that patience was a strength. He moved stealthily, blending into his surroundings the way he’d been schooled so many years ago.

  Rucksack on his back, he knelt behind a line of bushes and peered about. Convinced it was safe to approach his townhouse, he moved to a planter by the building’s entrance. Well hidden by shrubs, he squatted and withdrew his boot knife. Sticking the tip into the moist soil, he dug around until he located a small plastic container that housed a tiny combination-locked metal case. He dialed in the numbers and pulled open the lid. Inside were three keys: one to his house, one to his Tahoe—which he wouldn’t be needing anymore—and one to his Suzuki motorcycle.

  Uzi quickly reburied the container and headed down the block to his bike. Reasoning it was more difficult to plant a bomb on a motorcycle than a car—almost everything was exposed—he moved swiftly, eyes keeping sentry over the street for unexpected movement.

  As Uzi neared the corner, he snuck a peak at his watch: 8:10. He undid the rope tie holding the heavy vinyl-coated canvas cover and pulled it off the vehicle. He hadn’t used the beast in two months, but figured it would start.