Hard Target

DAY SEVEN

With less than five hours’ sleep under his belt, Uzi reported to the task force’s new base of operations: the suite used by the standing Counterterrorism Task Force, a once-woefully small group of experts that, after 9/11, expanded faster than a filling helium balloon. Caught off-guard, the FBI revamped their thinking on terrorist groups. They reorganized with serious manpower and — something that had been lacking — budgetary support.

Uzi was there to receive status reports. At this point, he could not rally the troops behind an investigative assault on ARM; he would have to tread lightly in view of Coulter’s orders to back off — despite Knox’s covert orders to the contrary. Of more concern was that if Meadows found something suspicious in the materials he was examining, Uzi and DeSantos would have to find a legal reason for returning to the compound with a properly executed search warrant. And with the attorney general in the way, with no way of disclosing what they’d found, that would be difficult, if not impossible.

And knocking around his thoughts was that there were only two days remaining before he had to finger a suspect and report to the president. He felt something stir deep down in his stomach. He used to thrive on pressure-packed missions like these. The ARM incursion definitely rekindled a spark inside him, the pinch of spice that had gone missing in his stir fry of a life.

As Uzi left the task force meeting, he was handed a message that Marshall Shepard wanted to see him. He winced; he had known there would come a time when he’d be forced to face his boss. He’d just hoped it would be later rather than sooner.

He made eye contact with Shepard’s secretary and got the nod to continue into the ASAC’s suite. When he entered, Shepard was standing at the large window behind his desk, his back to Uzi.

Uzi took a seat, and for the first time he could remember, was nervous about seeing his friend. He unwrapped a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth as he waited for Shepard to acknowledge his presence. In the meantime, he would play it as cool as he could, hoping Shepard’s reason for wanting to see him had nothing to do with his circumventing Coulter’s direct orders.

“You were told to stay away from ARM,” Shepard finally said. Still facing the bright window, his large form was silhouetted against the glare of a gray Washington December morning. “You were told to stay away not just by me, Uzi, but by the fucking attorney general.”

“Shep, what gives? What are you talking about?”

“I have reason to believe you didn’t drop it like the AG told you to do. You didn’t drop it.”

“Look, we’re conducting an investigation. You know how that goes. It’s hard doing stuff from a distance. But if that’s what we have to do, that’s what we have to do. You hear what I’m saying?” Uzi wasn’t sure he understood what he was saying. Shepard must have been confused as well, because he turned around. But the window glare prevented Uzi from seeing his boss’s face.

“Uzi, you’re talking in circles and when you talk in circles it’s because there’s something going on. Tell me there’s nothing going on, because I sure as hell don’t want to find out about it from the director or AG. I fucked up once. My ass is on the line. And I like it here. I like my job. Now you wouldn’t be doing anything to put me in a bad way, would you?”

Uzi swallowed hard, but tried to disguise it by shifting the toothpick around in his mouth. “Shep, your friendship means everything to me. I want you here for as long as I’m here.” Given the covert raid of ARM’s compound, he wondered how long that would be.

“Better fucking be telling the truth, ’cause I heard things. I heard that something went down at ARM last night, and that you were involved. I just wanna know that it’s all bullshit. That you’re clean. Are you? Clean?”

Uzi couldn’t stand it anymore. He hated lying; it was something he hadn’t had to do since his black ops days with Mossad. Worst of all, he had to lie to his close friend. And he had to do it by placing his complete faith in Douglas Knox, a man he did not trust.

But he also knew that telling the truth would have dire consequences. Uzi looked his boss in the eyes, squared his shoulders, and said, “Clean, Shep.” He wondered if he had been successful at maintaining a poker face.

Shepard turned back toward the window. “I sure hope so, Uzi. Sure hope so.” A few seconds passed in silence. Finally, Shepard said, “We’re done here.”

Uzi chomped hard on the toothpick, then pushed himself from the chair and turned to leave. He stopped in the doorway, wondering if he should tell Shepard what had happened last night. Could he be trusted? Would he keep a lid on it? Would Knox really stand by him, defend him, shield him from Coulter’s inquiry? Was Knox as powerful as DeSantos seemed to think — enough to deflect Coulter? If not, Uzi’s career was over — including those who had participated knowingly — and unknowingly. But Knox had not given him a choice. For the time being, it was best to keep it to himself. Even if it meant lying to his friend.

Uzi bit the toothpick in half, then walked out, leaving Shepard staring out the window.

“Tango is on the move again.”

Echo Charlie was standing in front of a street vendor’s cart, ordering up a hot dog and Coke, the Sat phone pressed against his ear, his bodyguards scanning the area with trained eyes.

Charlie held up a hand. “No mustard.”

“What?” Alpha Zulu asked.

“Nothing.” Charlie switched ears as he handed the man a five dollar bill. “How are you able to still keep tabs on our man without the… device?”

“We’re doing it. That’s all you need to know.”

“Then why are we talking?”

“I need some help understanding where he’s been. I need the big picture.”

Charlie tucked the handset between his shoulder and ear, then took his food from the vendor. It was a brisk day, and steam from the juicy, sauerkraut-smothered frank was fluttering away on the breeze. He wished his comrade would make it quick — before his hot dog was no longer true to its name. “What places?”

“Private house off King Street, Alexandria. Five-twelve Jasper. But the one that had us most concerned was a location just outside Vienna.”

That caught Zulu’s attention. “Vienna?”

“Yes, but our residents there don’t know anything about it.”

“I don’t like that.” Charlie started toward his bodyguards. “I’ll check on both.”

“He could be getting too close. You know what’s at stake.”

Charlie motioned one of his men to take the Coke from him. He shifted the phone back to his hand and turned away. “Then we need to throw him off. But be smart about it. If Tango… disappears now, it’ll bring problems that we don’t need. Even though he’s only a thorn, if we cut it off, suddenly the whole bush will be in our face.”

“Not if we do it right.”

Charlie ground his teeth. “Let me dig around. Need be, we’ll erase the trail. That works, our problem may be solved. If not, we can take it a step further. I’ll be in touch.”

Before Zulu could object, Charlie ended the call. He took a large bite of his hot dog, and then dumped the rest in the garbage. “Gentlemen,” he said as he chewed, “let’s get moving.”

Uzi headed down to his car. He needed to see DeSantos, find out how Shepard knew about their visit to ARM. Was Knox playing both sides of the fence? He wouldn’t put it past him.

Would DeSantos tell him the truth even if he knew it? What if DeSantos was the leak? Uzi dismissed the thought, feeling that DeSantos wouldn’t place his team in jeopardy. But the bond between Knox and OPSIG was inseparable, and even if Knox wouldn’t keep his promise to defend Uzi, he would go to war to protect DeSantos and his men.

As Uzi turned onto M Street, his secretary called. He was to report immediately to headquarters to meet with Pablo Garza. His chat with DeSantos would have to wait.

When Uzi arrived at the Hoover Building, he was cleared by the FBI Police and drove over the retractable metal barrier, down the ramp, and into the underground garage. His mind was adrift with thoughts, trying to make sense of the facts they had amassed, when he entered the lobby.

But his eyes locked on a man standing in an elevator fifty feet away as the doors slid closed. That face— I’ve seen it somewhere.

There was something wrong with this man being here, like he was out of place, in the wrong context, or the wrong time. But Uzi couldn’t fight through the mental cobwebs to figure out why.

He took the stairs up to the fourth floor, allowing his mind to sort through facial images stored in his memory — like a massive binder of mug shots of people he had met during his law-enforcement careers. Someone from his past? Or more recently, from his FBI tenure?

Uzi walked into Garza’s office; the agent flipped a file folder closed and asked Uzi to shut the door. He took a seat and waited for Garza to speak.

“So you’re a risk taker,” Garza said. He opened another file and appeared to be perusing its contents. But Uzi could tell the man’s heart was not in it.

“Is that a question or a statement?” Uzi asked. He kept working through the virtual photos in his mind.

“You’re also very, very stupid. You can’t skulk around behind the scenes. There are rules. You know that. We’ve discussed that as it related to Osborn—”

“Yes, Garza. I know that. Your point?”

“My point?”

The office door opened and in walked the man from the elevator. Bringing up the rear was Jake Osborn. Uzi’s intestines immediately knotted.

And that’s when it hit him, as hard and fast as a rubber bullet to the thigh. The mysterious elevator man Uzi had seen was almost certainly “GI Joe” from the ARM compound— the one who had stopped him before he reached the fence, the one DeSantos had handcuffed.

At first pass through his logic, that didn’t make any sense. It was nearly impossible for an ARM member to be a Federal agent. How could anyone have access to both FBI Headquarters and one of the most notorious militia compounds in the US? Unless— Holy shit… They’ve got an undercover operative at ARM.

And he saw us there.

Nausea swept over Uzi as his mind raced through permutations on how to handle this. He needed to know what Garza knew, and what he was going do about it.

One thing was clear: he’d be getting answers soon enough.

Uzi tried to keep his facial expression impassive. “Yes, Garza. What’s your point?”

“Let me lay it out for you. This is Special Agent Adams. Recognize him?”

Uzi looked at the man, then turned back to Garza. “Should I?”

Garza slammed the file closed. “Let’s cut through the bullshit, Uzi. I know you were on that ARM compound last night. Adams was there. He works for us, he’s an infiltrator. We placed him with ARM after they merged with Southern Ranks. He’s been there two years, feeding Flint stuff here and there to keep his position with ARM intact.”

“Some key insight offered at just the right moment keeps me in Flint’s good graces,” Adams said. “He thinks I’m a freakin’ genius, a brilliant strategic planner.”

“We’ve given him some useless stuff along the way, then backed it up with some action to give it legitimacy. Flint thinks he’s gotten away with something. And he thinks Adams is someone he needs to keep close.”

“The militias started to get wise to us,” Adams said. “They were on the lookout for infiltrators and informants. Some in the movement advocated splitting into small cells to make the groups harder to crack. If you’ve got five members in your closed militia cell, and they’re all family or longtime friends, there’s no chance any of them’s a government plant.”

Cell-based structure… Exactly what a lot of Islamic terrorist groups use. “Obviously,” Uzi said, “ARM doesn’t like that model.”

“Most of them don’t,” Garza said. “With small cells you can’t have leaders. Some call it leaderless resistance. But militia leaders are like preachers. Take away their followers, you take away their pulpit. No audience, no needy masses to look to them for guidance. No stage to preach from. Fortunately for us, the typical militia leader’s ego is his own undoing.”

“They don’t suspect anything?”

Garza shook his head. “There are three things the militias are trained to look for in spotting infiltrators. Most obvious is the guy who tries to push the group into illegal activity. Infiltrators tend to volunteer for things like selling or purchasing illegal weapons, drugs, bombs, shit like that.”

“I do the opposite,” Adams said. “I try to point out the danger in getting too aggressive. That way, when I do suggest they go on the offensive, it’s got credibility. Because there may be five other times I’ve steered them away from doing something risky.”

“You’ve been there two years. Don’t you have enough on them?”

“Flint may seem like an idiot, but he’s got decent instincts. He’s very careful to insulate himself. He never directly gives the orders to do something. The weekly radio address, streamed over their website, comes from someone called “The General.” I don’t know who he is, and no one’s talking, if they even know. He’s the guy we want.”

Uzi shook his head. “If we’d moved on them sooner, the attempt on the veep never would’ve happened—”

“There are other reasons for taking it slowly,” Garza said. “If we moved against ARM based on what Adams gave us, and the prosecution failed—”

“How could it fail?”

“A sharp defense attorney convinces one juror Adams was trying to entrap them. It’s happened, more times than I wanna admit. We couldn’t take the chance.” Garza leaned back, satisfied he’d quieted Uzi. “If they got off, our internal source is gone. We’d never get another mole in. But if we move on them based on other evidence, stuff that can’t be traced back to Adams, our ears stay in their organization until we’ve got enough to take another shot at them.”

“So far it’s worked real well,” Adams said.

Uzi grunted. “Yeah, it’s worked so well that our veep and more than a dozen other people were blown out of the sky. Did you know about those plans — before it went down?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Adams said.

“I’m not implying anything. I asked if you knew they were planning to assassinate the vice president.”

Garza held up a hand. “Let’s not lose our focus, gentlemen.”

Actually, losing focus would be a good thing for me at the moment. “How do you feel about gun control, Adams? Better yet, are you a member of NFA?”

“Right now,” Garza said, his eyes locked on Uzi, “we’re discussing what you were doing on that compound last night. Adams’s political views aren’t the issue here.”

“If he knew about the plot and withheld the information—”

“The question on the table right now is why you were on the compound.”

Uzi turned away, his eyes finding the carpet.

“This is the fucking FBI, Uzi. You can’t land a goddamn Black Hawk in someone’s living room just because you feel like it—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Enough of this,” Adams said. “He was there last night with some other guy. I don’t know who he was, but he definitely had Special Forces training.”

Uzi stood up. “This is a waste of time.”

“Is this the way you follow procedure?” The voice from behind him pierced the thick tension in the room. It was Osborn. He’d been so quiet Uzi forgot he was there. Uzi turned slowly, his hands curled into fists. “What was that?”

“He said, ‘Is this the way you follow procedure?’” Adams, a few feet from Uzi, tilted his head, daring Uzi to make a move.

“Two sets of rules,” Osborn said. “One set for you and one for everyone else. You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

Uzi charged forward, but Adams grabbed him around the torso. The two men struggled, but Garza was now out from behind his desk and in the mix. Uzi squirmed against their hold for another few seconds, then backed off.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Osborn said. “Our reports have been filed. Now you’ve gotta answer to the director. Or are you gonna try to punch his lights out, too?”

Uzi sorted himself out. He had to get Osborn and Adams out of his head. He needed to think of the here and now, of the implications of Osborn reporting his ARM visit to Knox. Would Knox then be obligated to inform Coulter, to protect his own ass? Where did that leave Uzi, Shepard, and Meadows?

“Wait a minute,” Uzi said, swinging his gaze to Garza. “Knox knew about Adams?”

“Of course.”

Uzi ran both hands through his hair. If Knox had someone on the inside, at the very least, why didn’t he tell me? Had he told DeSantos?

“You placed a very sensitive Bureau op in danger, Uzi.” Garza shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t think they did anything wrong by filing reports with the director. Like it or not, they were just following procedure.”

Uzi’s insides tensed. “Were they? Or was there more at work here — like revenge?”

“Hey,” Osborn said, “you made your own bed. Don’t blame me for having to sleep in it.”

Uzi steeled himself against the urge to pummel Osborn’s self-righteous smirk into the plasterboard wall. The man knew nothing of the pressures he faced, the tug of war he had been living through. The pawn he had become. To Garza: “He was the source you told me about at Union Station. Why didn’t you tell me you had a guy on the inside?”

“It was need-to-know. And I figured you might connect the dots anyway.”

Uzi didn’t reply. It explained why Garza didn’t tell Uzi — but why hadn’t Knox? It seemed like too important a detail to leave out. Then again, knowledge was power — and as Uzi was learning, Knox’s clout was bolstered by the inside information he was able to amass.

He needed to get out of there, to get some answers. Was Knox setting him up? Uzi never heard Knox actually say he should continue pursuing ARM; it was a message delivered to him by DeSantos.

Uzi decided he couldn’t make any admissions to Garza — certainly not in front of Adams or Osborn — until he knew more about who was involved and how it all fit together. For now, he would take his chances.

After giving Garza a parting glance, Uzi turned toward the door. He found himself nearly face-to-face with Osborn.

The two of them locked eyes for a moment. Then Uzi pushed past him and walked out.

Uzi left a couple of messages for DeSantos. While the Osborn-Adams situation burned at the lining of his stomach like bad whiskey, he realized it was something out of his control. What was going to happen would happen, and he would have to deal with it. All Uzi could do now was focus on the million other balls he had suspended in the air.

His biggest concern was that he had more questions than hours left before he had to give the president an answer. He returned to WFO and immersed himself in work. But when his PC clock showed 7:00, the realization hit that he was getting nowhere. He stopped into the Command Post and poured through the thousands of tips the agents had taken, none of which were panning out.

As he stood in the elevator on the way back to his office, he rolled his neck around, the tension burning his muscles like a flame. He closed his eyes and, with the subtle movement of the elevator, felt like he could fall asleep if he were somewhere horizontal. But the tone of his phone stirred him. It was Leila, calling to tell him she had a surprise planned for the evening.

“I’ll have to take a raincheck,” he said as the doors parted. “Just too much damn work and too little time.”

“You know what they say about Jack,” she said. “Want me to think you’re a dull boy?”

“Maybe Jack is running a major investigation. Cut him some slack.” He walked into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. “Tell you what, though. In a few days I’ll make sure you don’t confuse me with boring old Jack. But for now, I just can’t leave.”

“You have to get some rest, give your mind a break. Have you even eaten dinner?”

Uzi glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. Where had the day gone? “No, mother, I haven’t eaten.”

“You have to eat sometime. Let’s do it together. I won’t keep you long.”

His stomach rumbled on cue. He rested his head in his hand, stifled a yawn. He really did need to eat, if nothing else to keep him awake.

“Meet me at HeadsUp Brewery,” she said. “A few doors down from Angelo & Maxie’s. Ninth and F.”

It was only a few blocks away. He could walk it, take in some cold night air. “I’ve got a couple things I have to wrap up. Meet you there in half an hour.”

Uzi looked up from the menu. “I thought you said we’d grab dinner.”

“First we do this. Then we eat.” She must have read the disappointment on his face, because she placed a hand on his. “C’mon, you can spare an extra half hour.”

Uzi sighed. She was right. He needed the time to clear his mind, return with a fresh perspective.

“Okay, I’m game. How does this thing work?”

Leila leaned over his shoulder, seductively touching his back with her breasts. “You brew your own beer. You choose what ingredients you want, mix it all together, bottle it, and label it. A couple of weeks later it’s ready to drink.” She pointed to a laminated placard that described the process. “Used to be a lot of these places, but the idea didn’t catch. This may be the only one left.”

Uzi glanced around at the mahogany paneling, the etched glass windows and brass fittings that lined the bar, tables, and light fixtures. “They’re into this place for a bundle. You don’t cover your monthly nut, you’re done.” He looked at Leila. “You sure this place will still be here in a couple of weeks when we come back for our beer?”

“Who knows if we’ll be here in a couple of weeks.”

Uzi raised his eyebrows. “That’s a fatalist comment, don’t you think? Or just pessimistic?”

Leila shrugged. “You never know, do you? No guarantees in life.”

Uzi was looking at her but wasn’t really seeing her. No guarantees in life. That’s what the director general of the Mossad had said to him after Dena and Maya were murdered. Before the agency completed its analysis of what had gone wrong. Before Gideon Aksel removed him from the payroll and made him leave Israel in disgrace.

“No guarantees,” Uzi repeated. He set the menu down and cleared away the gloomy memories. “I’m a dark beer guy. You?”

“I’m a dark beer guy, too.” She smiled.

“Then let’s get started.”

They laughed their way through the process, realizing their beer may not taste any better than a can of Coors — but having a good time nonetheless. Uzi typed their assigned lot number into the computer and hit Enter. A wizard appeared, walking them through the process of creating a label.

They chose the design style they wanted — a delicate strand of grain draping across the top with a serifed Olde English font below it.

“What should we call it? Two lines, twenty characters.”

Leila scrunched her lips. “Something fun.” She grinned. “How about Spy Brew?”

Uzi looked over at her to see if she was joking. “How about something meaningful? To us. Like, Genesis… or New Beginnings.”

“New Beginnings?”

“Because a relationship takes time to brew, just like beer.” Uzi winked at her, then typed in the words. He clicked Finish and waited while the label was making its way to the color printer. He leaned back and interlocked his fingers behind his neck. “In two weeks we’ll be enjoying this.” He winked. “Assuming we’re both still around.”

Leila opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a chirp from Uzi’s phone. As he reached into his pocket, Leila’s cell began ringing. They both answered their calls, Leila turning away while she talked.

“It’s Hoshi. I’ve got something you need to see.”

“Okay, but I’m in the middle—”

“You’ll want to see this now, Uzi.”

He looked up at Leila, who was turning toward him. “Gotta go.”

Leila held up her phone. “So do I.”

Uzi sighed, then swiveled the handset back to his mouth. “On my way.”

As Uzi made his way to Hoshi’s fourth floor cubicle, his mind made the slow transition back to work mode. Doing the reverse used to be difficult — the Mossad required him to be “always on.” Dena often complained that his inability to turn off the stresses of work and focus on her and Maya threatened their relationship. Although he knew she was right, he was never able to change the situation.

It eventually became a moot point.

He exited the elevator, swiped his ID card, then walked through the glass doors en route to Hoshi’s cubicle. He found her there, squinting at her computer monitor.

“Hey,” she said. “Pull up a chair. Got some things to show you.”

Uzi moved in tight and looked at her screen. “Go.”

She hesitated a second, then leaned back a bit and appraised him. Sniffed, moved closer to his body and sniffed again. “Were you on a date?’

Uzi felt his face turn crimson. “What are you, a hound?”

“I don’t think that particular perfume works with your body chemistry.”

“You’re jealous.”

Hoshi turned to face her computer. “Maybe.”

Uzi interposed his head between the screen and her face. “Really?”

She swiveled her chair toward a stack of files to her left. “I’ve been going through Tad Bishop’s phone logs. His home and office lines were pretty sparse — but his cell’s another story. I saw the call he made to you, a few he’d made to me. And then there were about two dozen over a two-week period to someone else.”

“Two dozen? Short or long calls?”

“Most were a minute long.”

“Leaving a voicemail?”

Hoshi shook her head. “Bishop didn’t like to leave messages. For anyone.”

“So if these calls weren’t to leave messages, then what were they for? Setting up meetings?”

“That would be my guess.”

“And who’s the owner of this number?”

“Brady Haldemann. According to NCAVC,” she said, referring to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, “he’s got a sheet.”

“This is a guy Bishop was meeting with regularly?”

“He didn’t believe anything he couldn’t independently verify. He was very careful.”

“For now I’ll accept that as fact. But despite what we may want to believe, he wasn’t a cop and he doesn’t know the standards we have to uphold.” Uzi flashed on his ARM compound incursion and guilt stabbed at his gut. “What’s on Haldemann’s sheet?”

“Mostly petty stuff. Did ten months for assault, but that was twenty years ago. Pretty clean since. I did a search through Southern Poverty Law Center, and got hold of some articles Haldemann wrote for Southern Ranks Militia’s monthly newsletter. He was pretty high up there, a Founding Tactical Commander or something like that.”

“And the articles?”

“Typical stuff. The government’s trampling our constitutional rights, the IRS is unfairly harassing hard-working Americans. Ruby Ridge — and lots of conspiracy garbage on 9/11.”

Uzi lifted the phone receiver. “What’s the number?”

She scrolled down her screen and read it off to him.

Uzi dialed and let it ring four times before a man answered.

“Brady?”

“Who wants to know?”

“A friend of ours suggested we meet before he… expired. I’d like to talk with you about the same things you discussed with him. I think you know who I’m talking about.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Who are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend. More than that I can’t say over the phone. Let’s meet. Judicial Square Metro station. By the big lion on the left as you face the sign. How about twenty minutes?”

“Come alone.” The line went dead.

Uzi checked his watch. It was approaching 11 PM, thirty minutes since he had spoken with Brady Haldemann. But he figured the guy was at least as paranoid as Bishop was, and the best thing he could do was to stay put, look nonthreatening, and wait him out.

He leaned against the lion and glanced across the street at Hoshi, who was observing from a darkened ground-floor window inside the adjacent building fifty feet away.

Five minutes later, a bearded man approached wearing a baseball hat and canvas fishing jacket. Uzi waited till his contact was within ten feet, then slowly pushed himself off the statue. He didn’t want to make any threatening moves.

Haldemann stopped a few steps away and thrust both hands into his deep coat pockets.

Normally, such a move would heighten Uzi’s paranoia a notch: Did the man have a weapon secreted away? He fought to keep his thoughts in check and said, “I see you found the place okay.”

“I’m here. Why, I’m not sure. But you’ve got five seconds to tell me who you are.”

“Name’s Uzi. I’m with the Bureau. Like I said, I was a friend of Bishop’s.”

“He never mentioned you.”

“He never mentioned you, either.”

“I thought you said—”

“He was working with me on some things that might involve your former group. Your name… came up.” Telling Haldemann he was with Bishop at the moment he was killed wouldn’t put the man’s mind at ease. “I’d like to continue that relationship you had with him.”

“I don’t talk to Feds.”

Uzi pulled a pack of Camels from his pocket. He didn’t smoke anymore, but he wanted to look relaxed, as if he couldn’t care if Haldemann cooperated or not. More importantly, he pegged Haldemann as a smoker, and sharing a hit of nicotine seemed a good way of finding common ground. He offered the man a cigarette, and he took it.

Seconds later, a smoke cloud hovered around them. “You’re no longer with SRM,” Uzi said.

“I didn’t like the merger, didn’t approve of what they were doing. But Lewis had his reasons.”

“Lewis.”

“Lewiston Grant. Guy’s fucking brilliant. Born leader. Ex-Green Beret.”

Grant… An ex-Green Beret. Interesting. If true, how come we didn’t know that? “But you didn’t see eye-to-eye with him.”

Haldemann took a long drag. “He’s also a snake. You know much about Southern Ranks and how it became ARM?”

Uzi shook his head. Even if he knew the whole story — which he didn’t — an insider would provide a different take.

“Southern Ranks used to be about guys getting together because they didn’t like the way the government was taking away our constitutional rights, telling us how to live. What chemicals we could use to fertilize our lawns, which guns we could or couldn’t own. Didn’t seem right to me how they could just take away our freedoms like that, how they could use affirmative action and NAFTA and shit like that to take away our jobs.”

He dragged again on the Camel, left it dangling from his lips. “I saw a flyer on my windshield one day back in late ninety-two, just after Ruby Ridge. It said the same stuff about the government that I thought. So I called the number. It was Lewiston Grant, he was starting up a group to watch out for citizens’ rights. I went to a meeting, and the guy really knew what he was talking about. Said he’d been to some big leadership gathering in Colorado, and it made him think long and hard about things. He wanted to start a group of his own. I mean, I sat there listening to Lewis, and I thought, Finally. Somebody who understands what I’ve been saying all these years.”

Uzi leaned back against the lion and examined the cigarette. “So you two started Southern Ranks.”

“It took off real fast. Lewis had all these great ideas. Pretty soon we had a couple hundred members and started having regular meetings. Lewis even wrote a book. America’s Second Revolution. People started calling in from all over the country wanting to buy a copy. The guy worked at a cannery during the day, then soon as he got home he went to work on his computer. He was a freakin’ machine. And a great speaker. You got goosebumps all over, he really got your blood going. Like a preacher. I mean it, he got you all revved up. Pretty soon, you’re nodding your head, agreeing to do things you never thought you’d be doing.”

“You’re talking about him in the past. Is he dead?”

Haldemann chuckled. “You can’t kill a guy like Lewiston Grant. I’m sure he’s alive and kicking. He faked his death a few years ago, changed his identity, some shit like that. Nelson Flint’s his lackey, a figurehead. People don’t take Flint seriously, so they don’t take ARM seriously. A blip on the radar, just the way Lewis wants it. Behind the scenes, Lewis is the brains.”

This confirmed Uzi’s suspicions and fit with the intel DeSantos had assembled before their first visit to ARM. “You said you agreed to do things you never thought you’d do. What kind of things?”

“You think I’m stupid? I answer that, I’ll find myself rotting away in some federal prison.”

“We’re off the record here. I’m investigating the assassination attempt on the VP. That’s it.”

“So you think I should trust you guys, just because you tell me to.”

Uzi looked the man in the eyes, then took a drag. “Yeah. I got that.” He stuck the Camel in his mouth, pulled open his jacket, and lifted up his pullover sweater. Haldemann looked down at his bare skin. “No wires,” Uzi said. “No recordings. Just two guys talking about things.”

Haldemann looked away, blew some smoke from his mouth. “Lewis said we had to find a way to pay for everything. He said until we had some money behind us, we couldn’t get our message out to enough people. So SRM hit an armored car. That bankrolled our raid of a couple of weapons depots. Took in a ton of arms and explosives before two of our guys got killed.”

“That was ’97 or ’98, right? Shootout near Fort Decatur. Three officers were taken hostage and killed, another infantryman was paralyzed.”

Haldemann’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, ’98. February sixteen. That was the last job we did. I’m sure the Feds figured it was SRM, but they didn’t have anything tying it to us. I kept saying, too close a call, Lewis. Too close.” He took a long drag. “Finally — reluctantly — Lewis agreed with me. Started looking at other ways of increasing membership. But the economy was good, and it’s easier to get peoples’ attention when they’ve lost their jobs and things are shitty.”

“Like now.”

“Like now.” He took another drag, seemed lost in thought a moment. “Anyway, that’s when Lewis started getting weird.”

“How so?”

“He started talking more and more about a government conspiracy. See, most militias believe a secret group called the New World Order is gonna take over the world. They’ll use the UN, which is run behind the scenes by a group of wealthy, powerful men. The UN’s foreign troops will invade the US, enslave the American public, and install a global dictator.”

“And just how are they going to get past the US military?”

“Oh, our government’s in on it. According to Lewis, it’s all being run by FEMA.”

“The Federal Emergency Management Agency?” Uzi stifled a laugh. “They help people. After hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes. They get people back on their feet.”

“Officially, yes. But their original purpose was an offshoot of the military, to help out after a nuclear war. Lewis says they’re now a shadow government that’s in bed with the UN. He said they’ve got executive orders in place that give FEMA control over our communication facilities, power and food supplies, transportation depots… and, they’ve got a hundred thousand Hong Kong police hidden in the salt mines in Utah, just waiting for the word to be given by the UN dictators.” Haldemann took a puff. “Lewis used to mention the New World Order in his talks, how Yahweh commanded us to take up arms against it. But he never got so specific about it.”

“Yahweh?”

“God. We— I mean, they — don’t use the word God because it’s ‘dog’ spelled backwards.”

Uzi’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“Lewis said he’d gotten hold of all kinds of ‘proof’ that the New World Order was real. He said it all started with Ruby Ridge and Waco, how they were dry runs for the Feds going door to door to arrest innocent people like us — good, hard-working Americans who fought to keep our constitutional rights. He said FEMA’s got dozens of subterranean concentration camps set up all over the country, for people who challenge the government and fight the New World Order. They’re gonna kill us all once the invading armies have control.”

Uzi flicked away a train of ashes from his cigarette. “They really believe this crap?”

“Shit yeah. Hate to admit it, but I did, too. It’s in the delivery. Like I said, Lewis is very good at what he does. He got all worked up, told everyone what was going on, and then showed them. Photos of the concentration camps. Hidden messages buried in laws Congress passed. Eyewitness accounts of black helicopters carrying UN troops into position, hovering over militia compounds, following members in their cars, and taking secret pictures of their homes. It was hard to disagree with what he was saying. It all seemed to fit. Everyone bought into it.”

“Belief in a conspiracy keeps your membership active, interested in the cause,” Uzi said. “It’s no different with the Islamic terrorist groups. If there are powerful enemies plotting against you, your membership stays focused on stopping them. Gives them purpose, an us-against-them mentality.” Uzi eyed Haldemann, gauging his reaction. If what he was saying made sense to the man, Haldemann was truly “over” the militia movement. Only a person outside the closed group could see the conspiracy for what it really was.

Haldemann dragged hard on his Camel but offered no response.

“So you were concerned about where Grant was leading the group,” Uzi said.

“One day Lewis and I were out shooting in the woods and he said he wanted to bomb Camp Grayson, that National Guard base outside Bethesda. He had photos of railroad cars carrying Russian tanks into the base. He said it was the beginning of the foreign invasion, and that we had to stop it. He had this whole plan drawn up. Tell you the truth, it scared the shit out of me. I drove home that night and started thinking. SRM wasn’t like it used to be. It changed. From trying to make people aware of government abuses to some big plot to take over the world.

“So I drove over to Camp Grayson and asked to talk with the person in charge. Some guy came out and I told him what the photos showed. He told me it was part of training exercises using Russian tanks we’d captured during Desert Storm, that if it was a conspiracy, they wouldn’t have been transporting the tanks in open rail cars. I looked at him, and it hit me. Shit, this guy’s right. I wondered if Lewis knew this and didn’t care because he needed us to believe an invasion was in the works, or if he really thought they were coming for us. I went back and told Lewis what I’d done. He went ballistic, said I had no business going behind his back like that. I realized he didn’t care about the truth, he needed ‘the enemy’ just so we’d all stay together, united against a common cause.”

“Exactly,” Uzi said, relieved that Haldemann was exhibiting signs of reason.

“He called off the raid. Next thing I knew, he was saying we needed bigger numbers so our voice would be heard. He changed his title to ‘General’—he said Ulysses S. Grant was a Jew-hater, and he wanted to honor the man’s legacy. So General Grant started talking to Nelson Flint about merging our group with his. Flint’s group was the American Revolution Klansmen back then. Their roots went back to Flint’s father, a Klansman in West Virginia. Nelson took over after the old man pulled a gun on a state trooper.

“They expanded into government conspiracy, too, and that’s where Flint and Lewis found out they had a lot in common. The two groups decided to focus on stopping the New World Order. Lewis sold Flint on the idea that together they were stronger. Really, Lewis just wanted numbers — the power he could get from having more men under his ‘command.’ By merging with ARK, he gained ten thousand members. Most of ’em were racist, white supremacist, card-carrying Klansmen, but to Lewis, that was a good thing. He said it made them more committed to the cause. So ARK and SRM became ARM. They drew up a charter, and first on the list was gun control.”

“Gun control,” Uzi said. He tossed his nearly untouched Camel to the ground. His senses were sharp, refreshed. He felt he’d stumbled onto something important.

“They figured the first thing the New World Order would need to do in order to keep control over the People was to take away our guns. The Brady Bill started it all, they said. Then came the attack on the Second Amendment. Lewis said that any gun law is unconstitutional. Main thing is, they’re afraid that once the New World Order agents take away our guns, there’d be nothing we could do to stop the UN troops from moving in.”

“How serious are they about all this?”

“Dead serious. The militias consider the Second Amendment to be holier than the Ten Commandments. Weapons are sacred to them. Every spare dollar is spent buying more guns and ammunition. Assault rifles, automatic machine guns, rounds and rounds of ammo. The way they see it, you can’t have enough. To the militias, this is a holy war. Like them A-rab extremists.”

“How far would they go to make sure their guns aren’t taken away from them?”

Haldemann laughed. He took a pull on his cigarette, then exhaled and watched the smoke disappear into the night sky.

“Would they kill?” Uzi asked.

“‘Would they kill?’ You kidding? They’d find out whoever was responsible and blow the fucker clear to Kingdom Come.”

Uzi thought of the C-4 on Glendon Rusch’s helicopter. “Does Grant stream a radio show over the Internet to ARM members?”

Haldemann eyed him carefully. “How do you know about that?”

“Thanks for your time. I appreciate what you’ve told me.” He offered Haldemann a card. “If you ever need anything.”

Haldemann hesitated, then took it and walked off toward the Metro escalator. He glanced back at Uzi once, then stepped onto the stairpad.

As it began to descend, Uzi saw Haldemann toss the card to the ground.