Hard Target

by Alan Jacobson

  After a once-over to visually inspect for faux engine parts fashioned from C-4, he unlocked his black M-4 Bell helmet and removed the ski mask he stored beneath the seat. As he pulled both over his head, he thought of the day he’d bought the motorcycle—against the wishes of his parents. His mother eventually caved, saying he could only ride the thing if he wore the best helmet money could buy. He squirreled away cash for three weeks, then bought a top-of-the-line Bell, which he used until he mothballed the bike in his parent’s garage. He gave the helmet to a neighbor’s son who couldn’t afford one—and it ended up saving the teen’s life two weeks later when he collided with a truck.

  Uzi unlocked the hardened steel cable, pushed the Suzuki off its stand and rolled it around the corner. He got it going at a decent rate down L Street, then hopped on and started it up. It idled rough, but when he accelerated hard, the engine responded as it had so many times in the past.

  Helmet and leather overcoat disguising his identity, he sped away.

  8:17 AM

  5 hours 43 minutes remaining

  Uzi parked his motorcycle a block from Leila’s apartment and peered through a Hensoldt Wetzlar rifle scope—courtesy of the FBI lab—at his former girlfriend’s window. Had she been back? Was she there now, getting ready to leave for work? He had no way of knowing.

  As he eyed the garage entrance to his right and the building’s charred and damaged entryway further down the street, he realized Tim Meadows had no way of getting in touch with him if he had awoken and continued analyzing the “evidence.” He pulled the Bureau phone from his pocket: he had only two of five bars of battery life left. And no charger.

  Nothing he could do about it. He dialed WFO and asked for Tim Meadows, concerned about having the conversation because he’d have to talk loud due to Meadows’s hearing deficit.

  “Nice of you to call,” Meadows said. “I’ve got a good mind to tell you what you’ve put me through—”

  “You probably don’t remember because you were so doped up, but I already apologized about the... incident at your house.”

  “I’m not talking about that. And I remember everything. Or almost everything. Guess I wouldn’t know if there was something I forgot, if I can’t remember it.”

  “Tim—”

  “Okay, here’s something you’ll be interested in. Those rolled up pages you gave me— Is this line secure?”

  “No, and grab a look at your Caller ID so you’ve got my number. In case you need to reach me.” For as long as the battery lasts.

  “Here’s what I’ve got,” Meadows said. “Though I have to tell you there aren’t many techs who could do an alternative light source on a tightly coiled piece of thin paper. ALS requires—”

  “Tim? Here’s the thing: I’m running out of time—and my battery’s running out of juice. So get to the point.”

  “Fine. I lifted three phone numbers off the fourth page. I traced all but one. The first was to a computer parts supplier, the second to a White House extension, and the third—”

  “White House? Which extension?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have to get clearance from the Secret Service for that. I put in a call to the detail’s special agent in charge, but it may be a while before I hear back. It was the middle of the night and I don’t think they considered it a matter of national security. Even though I told them it might be. But—you’re gonna love this—that’s not the best thing.”

  “Tim, the battery...”

  “Okay, okay. The best thing is this third number. See, it’s not listed anywhere. So I did some digging, and seems the number is for an encrypted mobile phone. Cutting-edge stuff. It’s got some kind of information security software embedded into its commercial TETRA system—”

  “More than I need to know. Bottom line: Who’s using it?”

  “I was in the middle of figuring that out when you called. Give me another few minutes.”

  “Call me back.” Uzi hit End, then rested his right foot on the engine bar of the Suzuki. He sat there trying to figure out who would have access to such a device. Obviously, the military. But why would anyone in the military be associating with ARM? Then he remembered what Ruckhauser had told him: that there were some active-duty members who were sympathetic to the militia cause. Some had pilfered equipment and supplies and passed them on to militias, while others joined the groups when they’d completed their tours.

  Ten minutes later, as Uzi sat there tumbling it all through his mind, the phone rang.

  “I’ve got a name,” Meadows said. “How about Quentin Larchmont?”

  “No way. You sure?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t ask me how I got it, because I kind of broke some rules—”

  “Keep working on those pages. Get me the call history on that encrypted phone. And call me if you find anything else.” He thought about turning off the handset to conserve battery life, but power cycling the phone used more juice than leaving it on standby.

  Uzi shoved the device into his pocket, then twisted the key and revved the motorcycle.

  8:49 AM

  5 hours 11 minutes remaining

  As the morning sky brightened with unexpected sunshine burning through a cloudy haze, Uzi approached the gothically gaudy Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House. He parked his Suzuki, pulled off the helmet and ski mask, and fastened them to the bike. He looked in the side-view mirror and attempted to comb his short hair with his fingers. Realizing it wasn’t going to do any good, he walked confidently up to the guard booth on West Executive Avenue. He pulled out his credentials and presented them to the officer. “I need to see the president. Tell him it’s Agent Uzi.”

  The Secret Service Uniformed Division police officer raised an eyebrow at the name, wondering if it was a joke, but after inspecting the ID, he nodded, then lifted a phone from the counter. He spoke for a moment, then turned to Uzi, twisting the mouthpiece away from his lips.

  “The president will be in the Oval in twenty minutes. Once he’s there—”

  “I need to see him now. Tell whoever you’re talking with to tell the president it’s a matter of national security. I’m working under his direct orders.”

  “Agent, I’m sorry, but—”

  Uzi pointed to the phone. “Just tell him.”

  He saw the muscles of the officer’s jaw tense as the man turned back to the phone.

  Minutes passed. The officer finally hung up the phone and said, “Someone will be here in a moment to escort you.” He handed Uzi a red clip-on visitor’s pass, then turned away to make a note in his log.

  Uzi shoved his hands into his jacket and began pacing. He hated wasting time. But two minutes later, another officer appeared and ushered Uzi to the West Wing. He was deposited in the Oval Office, a Secret Service agent hovering in the background near the door to babysit him.

  Uzi gazed up at the dramatic concealed lighting that radiated from behind ornate crown molding, creating a halo effect around the presidential seal stamped in relief in the center of the ceiling. Ahead of him stood the stately and history-laden Resolute desk, only a handful of items resting on the glossy inlaid top. He walked to the middle of the room, where a steel blue and burnt sienna presidential seal was woven into the dense, oval-shaped area rug. Brown rays radiated from its center and tapered at its edges. Woven in an arch around the eagle logo’s periphery were the words “Of the people, for the people.”

  Uzi took a seat on the sofa to his right, threw his left arm onto the back of the couch, and crossed his legs. From this seat he had a view out the three bay windows of the magnolias and Katherine crab apple trees beyond. Directly ahead and slightly to the right was the glass door that led to the covered walkway where President Jonathan Whitehall now stood, about to enter.

  Whitehall stepped into the Oval, leaving his two Secret Service agents outside the door. Uzi quickly unfolded his body and stood. Whitehall was dressed in a navy suit, which, against his short salt-and-pepper hair, whit
e shirt and red tie, gave him an air of clean, pressed confidence.

  Uzi, not having showered or changed after being blown to the ground in a massive explosion just hours ago, felt somewhat underdressed for the meeting.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Agent Uziel.” Whitehall’s eyes seemed to roam the length of Uzi’s body, from his facial cuts and abrasions to the disheveled appearance of his clothing.

  “I apologize for my appearance, sir. I narrowly escaped getting killed last night and haven’t had time to shower and change clothes.”

  Whitehall motioned to the cream and taupe couch and took a seat himself on the matching sofa directly across from Uzi.

  “Was this attempt on your life related to the assassination attempt on the vice president?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  Whitehall pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He then raised an eyebrow and said, “The message I received said you had something to discuss that was a matter of national security. I assume that means you have the answer I’ve been waiting for.” He glanced at his Démos watch. “And with not much time to spare, I might add.”

  Uzi squirmed a bit on the couch. Comments Hoshi had made about NFA’s massive contribution to Whitehall’s campaign flittered through his thoughts. Yet, in spite of that, he trusted the man. And with time perilously short, he had little option; he had to press on. “You wanted me to get to the bottom of this mess, no matter the cost.”

  Whitehall dipped his chin slightly. “Go on.”

  “I’ve uncovered a lot of facts and information, some corroborated and some not, Mr. President. I’m not sure yet how it all fits together, but there are some things I am ready to report on because they require immediate action. I know we don’t have a lot of time left.” Uzi stopped, suddenly recalling that conversations in the Oval were recorded. “Can we take a walk, sir?”

  “Not at the moment. Go on.”

  Trust notwithstanding, he felt uncomfortable discussing this if it could later be used against him. But with time short, he pressed on. “We obtained several pieces of paper from the Armed Resistance Militia compound the other day. They contained phone numbers, one of which was traced to an encrypted army mobile phone. That phone is being used by Quentin Larchmont.” Uzi paused to let that fact sink in.

  Whitehall’s face suddenly bunched into a mask of wrinkles. “What in hell does that mean?”

  “This information is only thirty minutes old, sir, so I can’t answer that. But let’s just say that there’s no reason why anyone affiliated with ARM should have a coded mobile phone number for Quentin Larchmont. One might also ask what use Mr. Larchmont has for such a device.”

  Whitehall’s eyes seemed to study Uzi’s face as he digested this thought. The grandfather clock against the far wall over the president’s right shoulder ticked softly in the background. Finally, Whitehall leaned back on the couch. “Frankly, son, you’re going to have to give me more than—”

  Uzi’s phone began ringing. The president looked at Uzi’s pocket with disdain.

  “I’m sorry, sir. This is important.” He pulled the cell and answered it.

  “Hey, man,” Tim Meadows said, excitement boosting his voice. “I got the logs for that certain group we’ve been tracking, the one that sounds like an appendage—”

  “Got it, Tim. I’m meeting with the president right now, so if you could make this quick—”

  “The president? Right, okay. The logs. Well, they’ve got a bunch of calls to the Executive Office Building. Daily, it looks like, going on for several weeks before they suddenly stop.”

  “Who were they calling?”

  “I can’t tell, at least not yet. But there’s more. Some of the calls from that phone went to another encrypted mobile. And that one apparently belongs to someone named Lewiston Grant.”

  Oh, man. Uzi rubbed at his temple. “Are you sure?” His eyes flicked over to the president, who was listening intently to Uzi’s end of the conversation. “It was listed under that name?”

  “Gee whiz, Uzi, I didn’t look it up in the phone book under ‘Grant,’ if that’s what you mean. I had to dig. I traced a pretty convoluted strand that led me to this guy. I’m about as sure as I can be on short notice. It takes time to hack—I mean, to obtain this information.”

  “Great work. Really, really good. Call me when you’ve got more.” Uzi hung up and apologized to the president. “Again, sir, I don’t know yet how this all fits together. But we’ve got encrypted phone calls from the militia to the Executive Office Building. And we’ve got a large caliber Russian round from their compound that matches one that killed one of our informants.”

  Whitehall straightened up. “Are these militia people in custody?”

  “No, sir.” Uzi looked down at the plush carpet. “Remember that discussion we had on the green when you were putting—”

  “Let’s take a walk, son.” Whitehall rose from the couch and turned for the French door.

  Uzi pushed off the sofa and followed.

  “Benedict to Horsepower,” the Secret Service agent said into his cuff mike as he pulled open the door. Horsepower referred to the presidential detail’s command post beneath the Oval Office. The agent continued talking into his sleeve. “Authorized break on the Oval Colonnade door. Big Bear on the move.”

  Whitehall and Uzi stepped out onto the Colonnade’s long, covered fieldstone walkway, stone columns to their immediate right and the Rose Garden beyond. When they’d cleared the range of the recording devices in the Oval, Whitehall nodded for Uzi to continue.

  “On the lawn,” Uzi said. “Remember sir, when you told me to ‘just get the job done’?”

  Whitehall kept his gaze on the ground as he walked. “Go on.”

  “The evidence gathered at the ARM compound was not obtained... legally. The attorney general ordered us to give the militia some breathing room, to back off our investigation of them. But Director Knox made it known in private that he wanted us to disregard that order.”

  Whitehall stopped walking and inserted his hands into his pockets. “So what you’re saying is that none of this can be used against them.”

  “That’s right, sir. But I believe Quentin Larchmont is involved with ARM and there could be a larger conspiracy involving other members of the incoming administration. And possibly yours.” Uzi braced himself for the president’s wrath. But none came.

  “Has Assistant Director Yates been fully briefed on all this?”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t sure who could be trusted, so I’ve kept this info close to the vest.”

  “And the peace talks. What can you tell me relative to the Palestinians?”

  I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that. “It’s not looking good, sir. Al-Humat’s mixed up in all this. Looks like they’ve had a sleeper cell operating here for years. But I’ll need more time to get you a definitive answer.” He hoped Whitehall would give him some room on this, that somehow the credibility he had just earned with his exposure of ARM vouched for the quality of his work and his ability to follow the president’s orders.

  The commander in chief was silent, his gaze off somewhere in the vicinity of the Rose Garden. Abruptly, he turned and headed back into the Oval Office. Uzi followed.

  “Benedict to Horsepower,” the Secret Service agent said into his sleeve. “Authorized break, Oval Colonnade door. Big Bear returning.”

  Whitehall walked to his desk and lifted the phone. He punched a number and said, “Get me Director Knox.”

  Uzi stepped forward. “Sir, with all due respect, I wouldn’t recommend that. Director Knox might be part of—”

  Whitehall cupped the phone. His entire body tensed. “What are you saying?”

  “Until we’re clear on the players, we should be careful about who we bring into this.”

  The president’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any reason to believe the director of the FBI is a co-conspirator?”

  Careful, Uzi. “No evidence, sir, but I do have ‘reason to believ
e’ there might be a connection. Potentially even the attorney general.” Uzi realized he was sticking out his neck extremely far, but given the gravity of the information he now possessed, and the time he had left, he felt he could remain silent no longer.

  Whitehall shook his head but kept his hand firmly over the receiver. “I refuse to accept that. Either way, I have to bring in the FBI. It’s not an option.”

  The two men locked stares, neither willing to give ground. “Yes,” Whitehall said, quickly removing his hand from the mouthpiece. “Douglas. Good to hear your voice. I’ve got something I need you to look into.”

  Uzi closed his eyes and bowed his head as the president laid out the information Uzi had provided. When he finished, the president listened for a moment, then said, “For now, Douglas, let’s not discuss how I obtained that information. I would like you to move on it, however.” Whitehall rocked slightly on his heels, his left hand tucked behind his back. He nodded a few times. “I understand that, Douglas.... Yes, I realize that.... That’s for you to figure out. But please do let Director Zallwick and Secretary Braun know they might have an internal security problem. Keep me posted.”

  Whitehall hung up the phone. “Agent Uziel, I can tell you’re not pleased with my decision. But I’m not some covert operative in the middle of Afghanistan. I have procedures to follow.”

  The comment was like a kick in the rear. Uzi cringed internally. He suddenly realized just how far he had strayed from “procedure.” Whose orders was he now following—and were their motives genuine, or was he being used?

  “Notifying the directors of the FBI, Secret Service, and Homeland Security we may have a serious breach of security is crucial to maintaining the safety of this country.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president turned right and headed for the door again. Uzi followed. Back out on the Colonnade, Whitehall started walking down the path, but this time did not stop. He gave Uzi a sidewards glance, then said, “Unofficially, I believe you’ve started something you would like to finish. Am I right, son?”

  Uzi nodded, unsure of where the president was leading.