Hard Target

DAY NINE

Uzi turned to DeSantos, anger battling the fog clouding his thoughts. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“He’s come to help.”

“Bullshit. That man doesn’t help me, Santa.”

DeSantos pressed a button on the panel to his left and three interior lights came on. One, a ceiling-mounted halogen above the visitor’s head, threw harsh shadows across the face of Mossad Director General Gideon Aksel. With coarse skin and stubby but strong arms and legs, Aksel was built more like a truck than a human, the years of battle-hardened maneuvers from numerous war fronts wearing on him like the bleaching effects of the sun on an abandoned car’s hood.

“You were my best kidon, Uzi, and you threw everything away. First your family, then your career, then your life.”

Uzi started to charge forward, but DeSantos grabbed him and threw him back into the seat. Aksel remained still, his face impassive.

Uzi struggled a moment, then relented. “Fuck you, Gideon!”

Aksel folded his thick hands across his lap. “Go ahead, let it out, if it’ll make you feel better. Who knows, maybe you’ve done good things for the FBI. Then again, maybe not.”

“Enough,” DeSantos said. “Uzi’s one of the Bureau’s top agents, Director General.”

Aksel turned away, waving at the air with a dismissive hand.

Surrounded by Iran, Libya, and Syria — with Hezbollah and Hamas a constant threat and Egypt’s government under pressure — Israel’s survival was dependent on an effective Mossad. And Gideon Aksel had adeptly restored the agency’s tarnished reputation; no one was more aware of this than Uzi.

Still, after Uzi’s personal tragedy, Aksel moved swiftly to dismiss him, to disgrace him publicly for causing the debacle that left his family dead. Right or wrong, Uzi felt it shouldn’t have been made public — and it certainly was not something Uzi needed when he himself had been so close to the edge.

“This man has no business being trusted with things of importance to national security,” Aksel said.

“I don’t have to take this, Santa.” Uzi looked toward the front of the limo. “Let me off,” he shouted in the direction of the driver.

“Yes,” Aksel said, “run away again—”

“I didn’t run away, Gideon. I made a mistake. I blew it. I just thought we should’ve given Ahmed a chance to explain. I was wrong.”

Aksel’s brow hardened. “It’s taken you six years to admit it.”

Uzi looked away. “All that killing. On both sides. Maybe we should’ve given the Palestinians what they wanted.”

“You have a short memory,” Aksel said. He leaned forward in his seat. “We offered them almost everything. Everything. Arafat said no. Because he wasn’t interested in the West Bank and Gaza. He wanted the entire state of Israel, and that was never going to happen.”

“Maybe if we’d given them something, as a show of good faith—”

“Good faith?” Aksel pulled out his smartphone and began stabbing at it with a thick index finger. “We gave them a police force and armed them. They used the weapons against us. We gave them infrastructure, and they used it to build bombs to attack our people. We pulled out of Gaza and turned over the entire territory. We said, ‘Here, it’s yours.’ What have they done? They’ve fired six thousand rockets and four thousand mortars at our homes and schools.”

He turned his phone toward Uzi. “Look at the photo, Uzi. A kindergarten classroom destroyed by a Grad rocket.” He swiped his finger and another image appeared. “A school bus, struck by a missile. They target our children and families.” Aksel’s face was blood red, engorged veins pushing from his temples. “Look at it. Don’t turn away!”

Uzi, gazing at his feet, said, “The problem is with the terrorists, Gideon, not the Palestinian people.”

“Of course. But Hamas was an elected government, by the people.” Aksel sat back. “Even if you’re right, do you honestly think giving them land and calling them a country will make the terrorists go away? It won’t, for one simple reason: they refuse to recognize Israel’s right to exist. They refuse to recognize it as the Jewish state. Their goal isn’t just to have their own country. It’s to have all of Israel for themselves.”

Uzi looked out the black window, at his own reflection.

“With all due respect,” DeSantos said, “that’s not their official position.”

“Of course not,” Aksel said. “Their PR people and negotiators say one thing to the world, but their leaders tell a different story to their people. Uzi, you’ve seen the secretly recorded videos in Arabic. You know this is true.”

Yes, I’ve seen them. But… Uzi turned back to Aksel. “Something should’ve been done. I don’t know what. But something. All these years… all the killings… all the terrorist attacks. If I had to pick up flesh and body parts off the street one more time—”

“Israel has made concessions all her life to get peace,” Aksel said. “We gave away the Sinai to Egypt. I was part of that negotiation team. And it was the right thing to do because Sadat was an honest broker. We had lasting peace for forty years. It takes a viable partner to make peace. Real peace. We didn’t have that in Arafat. And we certainly don’t have that in Hamas.” He faced DeSantos. “Do you know the Golda Meier quote, Mr. DeSantos?”

DeSantos shifted uncomfortably. “Which one are you referring to?”

“She said, ‘We will have peace with the Arabs when they love their children more than they hate us.’ They strapped bombs to their children and called them martyrs.” He swung his gaze back to Uzi. “They blew up their children, Uzi. Where do you think that leaves us?”

Uzi closed his eyes. I can’t deal with this now.

“Living in America has made you soft,” Aksel said. “Poisoned your thinking.”

“It’s given me distance. Sometimes we get caught in a never-ending cycle and we can’t break it.”

“Have you forgotten what the terrorists did to your family?”

Uzi ground his molars. “I’ll never forget. It’s with me every waking moment. I can’t go anywhere without seeing my daughter’s face, smelling my wife’s perfume. You think the terror ended that day six years ago? That was just the beginning, Gideon. The pain is forever. My life’s been a torture all its own. So don’t you dare lecture me on getting soft.”

“Then I’ve got some more pain for you,” Aksel said, his eyes dark and penetrating. “You’ve put your government at risk. Again.”

“Director General,” DeSantos said, holding up a hand. “Please. Let me.” DeSantos received a stiff upper lip and a slight dip of the chin in response.

DeSantos turned to Uzi, his eyes searching his partner’s face. “I’ve got some bad news, and I really wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you. But I’d rather it be me than him.” DeSantos nodded in Aksel’s direction.

“Tell me what?”

“Man…” He looked to his right, out the limo’s window. “It’s about Leila.”

“C’mon, Santa. Just tell me. What about her?”

“Part of it is my fault. I didn’t do my job, I just saw what I saw and accepted it. And for that, I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. DeSantos.” Aksel leaned forward. “Your girlfriend is a terrorist with al-Humat. She’s Palestinian.”

Uzi’s mouth was agape as he looked from Aksel to DeSantos. Then he began to laugh. “Who put you up to this, Santa? Did he convince you this would be funny? We’ll it’s not, man, it’s not. I finally find some happiness…. It’s goddamn disgusting is what it is. I almost get fucking blown up tonight, and you lay this shit on me? Fucking joke, that’s all it is.”

Uzi grabbed his temples with both hands. His greatest fears seemed to be materializing right before him. Was DeSantos working against me all this time? “This is retaliation for going after Knox, isn’t it?” He began to rock back and forth on the leather car seat. “Some kind of payback, that’s what it is. Are you playing me? Who are you working for?”

“Uzi, I know it’s a lot to absorb, and I really am sorry. If I’d done my homework on Leila that first day, I might’ve realized something wasn’t right. But I just didn’t see it. My buddy told me she’s with the Agency. And he was right. She is with the CIA.”

“It’s all a lie,” Uzi said, his face still down, his head clamped between his hands. “She’s Jewish, her brother was in the IDF, he was killed by Hamas.” And she’s got Havdalah candles in her apartment… “Gideon, why are you doing this to me? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“She runs a sleeper cell for al-Humat,” DeSantos said softly.

Uzi cringed. Al-Humat. The irony was not lost on him. The group whose name means “The Protectors” murdered his wife and daughter, the people he failed to protect.

“They get funding through a complex series of innocuous trusts,” Aksel said, “that much we know. We’ve been watching al-Humat for a decade, and we know they’re affiliated with al-Qaeda. But it wasn’t until a few days ago that we discovered they had active cells in the US.”

“Nuri was tracking them, too,” Uzi said, his voice weak.

“Nuri?” Aksel looked from Uzi to DeSantos and back. “Nuri Peled?”

Uzi set both elbows on his knees and bent over, palms massaging his forehead. “He was found dead, a little over twelve hours ago. Staged to look like suicide. He was looking into a rumor that a new sleeper had set down roots here. It got him killed.”

Aksel sat back, affected by this news, but absorbing it. “He wasn’t working for us.”

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence before Aksel continued. “Your girlfriend might have been the one who killed him.”

“No,” Uzi said, his head still down, like a child who doesn’t want to hear what his parent is telling him. Cover your eyes and ears and it won’t be so. “She’s a CIA counterterrorism expert. She’s on my task force. Shepard assigned her, she’s on my task force,” he said, as if stubborn insistence made it true. “She works for the CIA, Gideon. They would’ve vetted her. They couldn’t have missed that, not something like that, not after 9/11.” He lifted his head. His face was hot and his eyes felt swollen with tears.

“There’s a lot we still don’t know,” DeSantos said. “But we’re telling you the truth, Uzi. I can’t speak for the director general, but I’ve got no agenda. I’m not trying to hurt you. But your feelings aren’t what’s at issue here. It’s Leila—”

“Batula Hakim,” Aksel said. “Her name is Batula Hakim.”

Uzi’s head snapped to Aksel. “What? I know what Batula Hakim looks like, Gideon. I memorized every angle of her evil face. Leila Harel is not Batula Hakim.” He turned to DeSantos. “Have you confirmed any of this with the Agency? I mean, how sure are you of this?”

“We have to be very careful. I’ve spoken with Director Tasset, no one else. If she is a mole, we don’t know who else has slipped under our radar. These people are very good.”

“My God, Santa… Do you realize what this means?”

“Yeah. And I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t think you understand.” Uzi looked at Aksel. “You didn’t tell him, Gideon?”

Aksel looked away.

Uzi ran his fingers through his hair, then let his head fall back against the seat. “This can’t be. It’s gotta be a mistake.”

DeSantos’s gaze ping-ponged between Aksel and Uzi. “What is it? What’s the problem?”

Uzi closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Batula Hakim is the terrorist bastard that murdered my wife and daughter.”

The wide eyes, the parted lips told Uzi that DeSantos’s shock was genuine. His partner didn’t know — if it was true — that Leila was the woman who’d murdered Dena and Maya.

That this could be the case was too horrific for Uzi to bear. Not now, not tonight. Not with all that had happened. He didn’t know when he would be able to deal with such a thing. At the moment, he had to focus, remove all emotion from the equation — something he didn’t do six years ago. The event that had set all this in motion.

He had to clear his head. He had to think.

He asked the first question that came to mind. “Why has she suddenly surfaced?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Aksel said. “Why now, why here?”

Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “She’s involved with Rusch’s chopper,” DeSantos said. “Has to be. Her cell takes it down, then she inserts herself into the investigation. That way she can keep an eye on what’s going on, know what we know.”

“It’s your job to turn the tables on her,” Aksel said. “You must find out what she knows. She’s a terrorist. To know what she’s after, you have to think like she does.”

“We have to figure out what her interests are,” DeSantos said.

Uzi reached into his jacket for a toothpick, then struggled to rip it from its plastic. After sticking it in his mouth, he said, “Assuming she is who you think she is, we know the groups she’s affiliated with. Their views are the same as most Islamic terrorist groups—” He stopped himself, the sudden realization like a knife wound to the lung: The peace talks, the covert meeting tomorrow — no, today. Shit, it’s today.

“You need someone else on the case,” Aksel said to DeSantos.

Uzi’s face tingled as if he’d just been slapped. “I’m on the case, Gideon. In fact, I’m the one in charge.”

“And you’re the one who failed. Hakim was operating a cell right under your nose, and you didn’t pick it up. Ultimate responsibility falls on your shoulders, Uzi.”

DeSantos’s face tightened. “With all due respect, that’s ridiculous, Director General. There’s over a hundred joint terrorism task forces across the country — tens of thousands of intelligence agents in the US alone. None of them picked it up. It isn’t one person’s failure any more than 9/11 was.”

Despite DeSantos’s attempt to defend him, Uzi realized that Aksel was right. There are 104 JTTFs, but only one in Washington — clearly a center of activity for al-Humat, possibly even their US base. In his own backyard, and he failed to see it.

“He’s right,” Uzi said. He looked out the window. The limo was stopped at a light on 23rd, approaching L Street. Uzi knew exactly where he was. He popped open the door and got out.

“Uzi, wait—” DeSantos followed him out of the limo. “C’mon, man, he’s just playing head games with you. You can’t bear the weight of all this on your shoulders.”

Uzi stopped but did not turn around. He felt like he was in another session with Rudnick — which, he was beginning to think, would not be a bad place to be right now.

“Boychick, listen to me.” He gently pulled on Uzi’s shoulder, then stepped in front of him. “Leila had the ultimate cover story. Working for the fucking CIA, for Christ’s sake. No one would’ve thought to look there.”

“But fourteen people died because of my failure to see it. Another mother and daughter are dead because of me—”

DeSantos grabbed Uzi’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Uzi, listen to me. None of this is your fault. If anything, Tasset has to take responsibility. His agency is the one that hired her. They should’ve vetted her better.”

Uzi chuckled. “Yeah, we both know that’s foolproof. Look at me.”

“Except that in your case, Knox knew who you were.”

“If he knew from the beginning, why didn’t Shepard?”

DeSantos let go of Uzi’s shoulders and looked off at the building behind them. “I don’t know. Knox has a reason. He’s always got a reason.”

“Maybe he figured I’d bring info with me that’d help in flushing out these groups. If that’s what he was thinking, if that’s what he was after, then I obviously let him down.”

“Uzi….” DeSantos looked at the ground, then rubbed at his forehead. “Batula Hakim is here, right? She murdered your wife and daughter, right?”

Uzi looked away, then nodded.

“You have an opportunity here to even the score. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I’m not a kidon anymore. I’m not part of Mossad. I’m not on a mission to eliminate a terrorist who’s planning a massive strike on civilians.” He thrust his hands into his jacket pocket. “When I went on a mission, it was never personal. I had no stake in the outcome other than to do my job. I work for the US government now. I’m a federal agent.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I can’t just go out and… eliminate her.”

“Yeah, but I can.” DeSantos’s voice matched Uzi’s timbre. “I can arrange for her to go away.” His eyes patrolled the dark recesses of the narrow commercial street.

Uzi did not hesitate. “No. We do it the right way. Gather evidence, make an arrest.”

“You sure?”

Uzi nodded. “I’m not a killer, Santa. With the Mossad, I was a soldier in a war, with a mission to save lives. I’m on the other side of the world now. Different job, different life.”

“But my job lets me settle the score for you.”

Uzi shook his head. “We arrest her.”

DeSantos shrugged. “Okay. Your call.” He indicated the idling limo. “Let’s get back.”

As they turned toward the vehicle, which had pulled over to a curbside loading zone, they saw Aksel standing beside the open rear door, his head rotating slowly in all directions.

“We stopped without warning,” DeSantos said to Aksel. “No one could know we’re here.”

Aksel turned to Uzi. “Did you get your issues settled? Do you feel better now?”

“Don’t start with me, Gideon.”

“We’ll be doing this by the book,” DeSantos said.

Uzi stepped closer to Aksel. “Just how sure are you that Leila Harel is Batula Hakim? Her physical appearance—”

“Is somewhat different.” Aksel smiled. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? When you saw a surveillance photo of her eight or nine years ago, she was a nineteen-year-old living in the backrooms of a terrorist lair. Tents, sleeping bags. But her body’s matured. She lost weight, works out, wears makeup and tight dresses with high heels. She’s had plastic surgery and uses her tradecraft well. She may be a terrorist, but she’s a professional.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing,” DeSantos said. “We know the type.” He looked at Uzi and received an acknowledging glance.

“You didn’t answer my question, Gideon. Just how positive is your ID? Confirmed by fingerprints, facial recognition, functional gait—”

“Intel,” Gideon said.

Uzi tilted his head. “Intel? A CI?”

“Reliable intel,” Aksel said firmly.

DeSantos brought a hand up to his eyes.

Uzi bit down on his toothpick and snapped it in half. He spit the fragments out and said, “So you’re not even sure it’s her. Who’s doing sloppy intelligence now?” He turned around and began to pace. “How dare you come here and tell me this story — turn my life upside down again — without absolute proof? What if we move against her and you’re wrong?”

DeSantos let his hand fall to his side. “You told me you were sure, Director General.”

Aksel’s jaw muscles clenched. “Leila Harel is Batula Hakim.” His eyes were hard and cold. “You do what you want with this information. If you don’t believe it, do your own analysis. Just make it fast.”

Uzi noted the hard stare shared by both men, and then it clicked. “You wanted Hector to take her out. Because kidons don’t operate on US soil.” Uzi turned to his partner. “And you were going to do his bidding. No matter what I wanted—”

“No, Uzi. I mean, yes. At first. Knox said—”

“Knox?”

DeSantos held up a hand. “It’s not what you think.” He took Uzi’s left arm and ushered him away. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Director General, the longer we’re out here in the open, the more vulnerable we are. Please, get in the car. We’ll join you in a moment.”

DeSantos led Uzi toward a landscaped planter in front of Ris, an upscale restaurant at the corner of 23rd and L. They stopped by a line of covered patio tables, dark with inactivity.

“You asked me to help you arrest her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But if Knox—”

“I’ll deal with Knox.”

“If we’re going to arrest her,” Uzi said, “we’ll need evidence… at least a positive ID.”

“Good news is there’s a simple solution to this problem,” DeSantos said with a shrug. “We get a positive ID.”

Uzi extended his fist, and DeSantos touched it with his own.

After the limo departed, Uzi sat on the curb, mentally spent. Angry, confused, frustrated — but despite his efforts to shove his emotions aside, they kept forcing their way to the forefront of his thoughts.

Finally, at nearly two in the morning, he began making his way from 23rd and L toward the Hamilton House. The brisk air gave him a chance to clear his mind and regain some lucidity. As he headed down New Hampshire Avenue, the apartment building rose from the asphalt like a block-long monolith, partially obscured by a dozen trees. A series of Metro Police barricades and warning lights were arrayed across both lanes, blocking the street. The crime-scene techs had finished their analysis of the blast site and the crowd had dispersed.

He felt naked without his tricked-out smartphone. But it was now history, so much cinder and ashes. He found one of the few remaining pay phones a couple of blocks away and accessed his voicemail. He paged through the thirteen messages, hoping to get an eleventh-hour handle on his investigation. There was one from Hoshi, left only ninety minutes ago. She was heading home, hoping to grab a few hours’ rest. Because of the approaching deadline — since it was now past midnight, “D-day” was technically today — she urged him to call her as soon as he retrieved the message.

He dug more quarters from his pocket and dialed the number. Hoshi was in a dreamy half-sleep, but had enough wits to be oriented as to time and place. “I take it this line isn’t secure.”

Uzi nearly laughed. “Not even close.”

“Okay.” She grunted as if pushing herself into a seated position. “Phish and Mason said Danny Carlson called you twice, once on the tenth, lasting two minutes — remember, they round up—”

“Just one, Hoshi, he only called me once. The tenth sounds about right.”

“There’s also an outgoing call on the fifteenth, lasting only a minute.”

“When yesterday? I never spoke to him.”

“Best they could tell, he called you shortly before he was killed.”

Uzi did the math. Son of a bitch. He called while I was in jail. “He might’ve left a voicemail.” Uzi knew that cell service was notoriously unreliable, and sometimes the message notification didn’t buzz back to his phone for days. “Have Phish and Mason look into it. Give them my password and find out if he left a message, and if he did, what it was. Tell them to coordinate with DeSantos. I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

“Occupied?”

“Occupied. We’ve only got about twelve hours, Hoshi. Go back to the office. I’ll check in with you later.”

He hung up and headed back to Hamilton House. Across the street were large brick-and-stone Victorian-style homes, where he would set up camp. As he passed in front of the apartment building, his eyes scanned the crime-scene-taped area.

Remaining across the street from Hamilton House, Uzi sat on the concrete steps beside a brick column. He wrapped his scarred leather jacket around his body and leaned his elbows on his knees. Through the barren trees — the ones that survived the fiery blast — he could see the dark window of Leila’s apartment. On the walk over, he’d decided to continue thinking of Batula Hakim as Leila Harel — at least for now — because if he encountered her, he didn’t want it slipping that he knew her real name.

If Gideon Aksel was correct.

The thing that gnawed at Uzi was that he had never known Aksel to be wrong. That’s why he had been so successful as director general. He weighed facts and made informed judgments. But he always seemed to have such damn good facts. And if Gideon was right about Leila being Hakim, he was wasting his time with this exercise. Still, aside from law enforcement protocols, for his own peace of mind, he needed to know — quickly — if she was Hakim. He could then move forward… with the investigation, and with his life.

While he wanted to believe that meeting her was pure chance, at a crash site on a random event, he now knew that if she was Hakim, everything had happened by design. She played him like a skilled flautist coaxing music from a rusty flute. He bowed his head out of disgust. Gideon was right. Shame on him that he could be suckered so easily. That he’d let his guard down. That he hadn’t done his job properly six years ago.

The time passed slowly. He almost dozed twice — and was tempted to grab a little shuteye because it was three o’clock in the morning and a prime rule of covert ops was that you took short naps at odd moments, whenever it was safe. He doubted he was in danger sitting where he was. Even before Dena’s death, he was a light sleeper. He’d learned the skill when in training for Mossad. Under normal circumstances, if anyone came within twenty feet of him, it would awaken him.

But with a concussion and the recent physical and emotional stress, he couldn’t risk falling into a deep sleep, putting himself in danger and missing his window of opportunity.

Across the street, as he watched the lighted traffic cones flash rhythmically on and off, his eyes settled on the area where the shattered Tahoe sat only hours ago. In many ways, his damaged psyche was not much different from the SUV: shattered from within, nothing more than a burned-out hulk.

Hoping that Leila was either asleep or not returning tonight, he entered through the parking garage, staying clear of the building’s front entrance in case someone had been watching. He took the elevator to the lobby and saw Jiri sitting behind his large marble desk, shoulders slumped and head drooped forward. Uzi thought he was asleep, but as he approached, Jiri looked up. His face brightened a bit but it was clear the man was in a funk.

“I’m sorry about Alec,” Uzi said.

“He was only twenty-six,” Jiri said, his Czech accent thicker than Uzi had noticed in the past. “Always on time, always did good job.” He closed his eyes. “These terrorists are, what do you say, pigs?”

Uzi had other words for them. He placed a reassuring hand on Jiri’s shoulder. “I’ll make you a promise, okay? We’ll catch the person who killed Alec. You have my word.”

Jiri tilted his head in confusion. “You’ll catch…?”

“I’m with the FBI.”

Jiri nodded. “Miss Harel, she took hard drive for the camera. She said they may show person who planted bomb.” He shook his head. “I know her a year and didn’t know she was part of FBI.”

Uzi didn’t bother correcting the concierge. He looked above Jiri’s head at the two black-and-white monitors, one of which was trained on the curbside of the Hamilton House’s entrance. If Leila took the digital recording, she was probably going to erase it using Department of Defense secure deletion algorithms. It was taking a big risk, though, because the responding Metro cops — or someone else from the Bureau — should have inquired about the recording, too. “Anyone else ask you about the surveillance — about the cameras?”

Jiri nodded. “I told them I already give them to Miss Harel. That’s okay, what I said?”

Uzi forced a smile. “Yeah, that was good.” He glanced back at the security monitors.

“Are you okay?” Jiri asked. “I got you away from the fire best I could. Tried to find Alec, but—”

“That was you who pulled me away from the car?” Uzi noted a muted nod from the Czech. “I owe you, man. You ever need help with anything, let me know.” He faked a wide yawn. “Meantime, I’m gonna head upstairs and get some sleep. Can I get the key?”

Jiri lifted his thick body from the stool and reached beneath the desk. He pulled Leila’s apartment key from a drawer and handed it to Uzi.

“Thanks, man. Take some time off. Go for a drive. Clear your head.”

Jiri checked his watch. “Someone supposed to come soon. I go home.”

He gave Jiri’s shoulder a gentle pat, and then headed for the elevator.

The doors parted on the eighth floor. Uzi stepped onto the thick carpet and strode slowly toward Leila’s apartment. At three-thirty in the morning, nearly everyone on the floor was asleep. He put his ear to her door and listened. Quiet.

He inserted the key, gave it a slow turn, and then stepped inside. His main objective was to secure a number of items that would contain Leila’s fingerprints — and preferably some DNA — without her becoming suspicious. One of the wine glasses they’d used should contain at least an index or thumb print and saliva. But reaching the kitchen meant crossing in front of the bedroom.

He slowed his breathing and waited until his eyesight had accommodated to the darkness. A moment later, he began inching along the wall, focusing his hearing, keying in on movement.

The bedroom door was open. He stood beside it, listening, trying to see as much of the interior without revealing himself — in case she was lying awake in bed. If she startled, he would merely explain that DeSantos had insisted he be examined by the Bureau emergency room doc, and that he was returning to get some sleep. He didn’t want to go back to his place because if he was the target of the car bomb, it was no longer safe. And he didn’t want to be alone. Coming back to be with her after a life-threatening event would be consistent with his recent behavior.

As he stood outside her door, he realized he had left his Puma and Tanto knives somewhere in the apartment. He remembered taking them off — but when? Probably when they started undressing one another. Where? In the bedroom. No — the bathroom.

He still had his boot knife, but a weapon in hand would blow his cover story.

Uzi waited by the door but heard nothing. He knelt down and peered around the jamb at the bed. The side where he had been sleeping looked unchanged: the comforter was drawn to the side just as he had left it. His eyes trailed over to Leila’s side, and the covers there, too, appeared to be folded back. He could not see her body. He decided to walk in, as if returning to her after meeting with DeSantos. It would make his job more difficult but not impossible: he would have to resort to his backup plan — use the bathroom and quietly search her medicine cabinet and drawers for items that might contain her prints. He rose from his crouch and walked into the bedroom.

It was empty. Uzi stood there, considering his options. Best to know if she was in the apartment before he started snooping around.

“Leila?” he called into the darkness. He walked into the kitchen, then moved into the living room. “Leila?”

He returned to the bedroom to find his knives — but they were not there. He searched his mind, replaying the evening. He remembered getting up around 11:30 and realizing he’d left the phone in his car. Did I take the knives with me? No, I was just going out to the car to get my phone.

He unsuccessfully searched the room again. Uzi bit his bottom lip, craving a toothpick like a smoker craves a cigarette. Did Leila take my knives? Did she know I wasn’t coming back because her group planted the bomb?

There were no answers, not yet.

He stepped into the bathroom, his eyes scanning the surfaces, the floor — and then he remembered. The countertop, under the gold towels they had thrown on the vanity after getting out of the bath. He grabbed a handful of fine Egyptian terrycloth and tossed it aside — exposing his knives, right where he’d left them. Cool.

He slipped the Tanto around his neck and clipped the Puma to the inside of his pocket, and then moved back to the kitchen, resuming his primary task. But the dinner glasses they’d used were no longer in the sink. And the dishwasher was empty.

Beside the stove was a ceramic container filled with multicolored toothpicks. He grabbed one and stuck it in his mouth. He still needed to find something with a liftable set of fingerprints. Back in the living room, he noticed two DVDs on the end table beside a small briefcase. He rummaged through the soft-sided leather attaché, but other than various books on counterterrorism and a blank notepad, he found nothing of value. But the DVDs…

He handled them by their edges and flipped them over. They had the purplish hue of “burned,” or homemade, discs — as well as smudges, which looked like two partial prints. Without proper lighting and equipment, it was hard to tell with certainty. But even if there weren’t any usable latents, the discs might contain incriminating data.

He walked back into the bathroom and slid open the drawers. He pulled several strands of hair from her brush, a few of which contained follicles — and DNA. As he turned to leave, a small makeup mirror caught his eye. He huffed on the surface, and a number of fingerprints appeared. Gotcha. He took it back into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of Ziplocs, and placed the mirror, hair strands, and DVDs in their own bags.

Now he had to get them to the lab.

Uzi caught a cab and arrived at the Hoover Building at 4:30 in the morning, time melting away like an ice cube on a Phoenix street in August. He was greeted by the stout FBI policeman who had owned the lobby’s graveyard shift the past two decades.

“Anyone in the lab?” Uzi asked.

The man snorted. “Hang out for a few hours and you’ll have your pick of whoever you want.”

“I don’t have a few hours.” Uzi went behind the security desk and lifted the receiver. He dialed the extension and waited. As he was about to hang up, the line was answered. The voice was groggy and raspy.

“Yeah. Lab.”

“This is Special Agent Aaron Uzi—”

“Can you speak up a little?”

“I’ve got some latents,” Uzi shouted. His voice echoed in the empty glass-enclosed booth. “I need them run through the system. Yesterday.”

There was a loud groan on the other end of the phone. “Uzi, you’re not really doing this to me, are you? Please tell me this is a dream.”

“Tim? What the hell are you doing here?”

“They got me out of that god-awful hospital and wanted to transfer me to another god-awful hospital. Hate those places. Then they said something about a safehouse but I didn’t want any part of that. So I had them bring me here. There’s a cot in the back room. If I’m not safe here—”

“Jesus, Tim. Okay, listen. I’m serious about these latents. It’s super important.”

“You know what, Uzi? I’ve never said no to you before, but there’s a first time for everything, right?”

“Tim—”

“No, I’m putting my foot down here. I just got my freakin’ butt blown off. Have some compassion.”

“These prints could be from the person who planted the bomb in your house.”

There was a pause, then Meadows said, “Bring ’em right up. Let’s get this bastard.”

Uzi stepped into the break room and found Meadows reclining on the cot, eyes closed and his right shoulder scrunched against the wall.

Uzi nudged him in the side. “Sleeping on the job, eh?”

Meadows opened a lazy eye and groaned. “This is a nightmare, right?”

“We just talked on the phone, you told me to come up.” The dazed look on the tech’s face told Uzi to continue doling out clues. “The latents, the bomber…”

Meadows groaned again, then licked his lips. “Damn medication. Puts me out. Yeah, okay, fine, the bomber. I remember.” He tried to push himself off the soft cot, but couldn’t get much purchase. “Well, you gonna watch me struggle or you gonna help me up?”

Uzi grabbed Meadows’s left arm and pulled him off the cot. “You should be in a hospital.”

Meadows steadied himself against the wall with his right hand. “And when did you get your medical degree? Or are your FBI creds just a cover?”

Uzi pulled the Ziplocs from his pocket. “I don’t think ‘Doctor Uzi’ would work. Might scare away the patients. Although I once saw a dentist named Payne.” Before Meadows could comment, Uzi held up the bags. “I couldn’t dust them, but I huffed on the mirror and saw a print.”

Meadows slowly made his way into the adjacent lab. “You did what?”

“Huffed. You know, blew on it with— Just dust the damn sample.”

Meadows sat down heavily on a stool and pulled a small kit from a drawer. His movements were clumsy because of the injury to his hands, but Uzi noted the doctor had removed the bandage wraps. Only casts remained, affording him some dexterity with his fingertips. Meadows dipped a wide brush into black powder, then tried to twirl it over the mirror. “Oops.”

“Oops?”

He blew away some of the powder. “You try doing precise work with these things on your hands.” He tilted his head to assess his work. “Don’t worry, if there’s something here, I’ll find it.”

Uzi yawned hard, then shook his head. “Sure hope so.” He took the DVDs and, handling them carefully, slipped them into the drive of a nearby PC. He opened Windows Explorer and browsed them. There were two encrypted files from six months ago.

“When you’re done with the latents, you’ve got a couple of files to crack.”

“Oh, goody. You really don’t want me sleeping tonight, do you?”

Uzi dragged the files onto the PC’s hard drive, then brought the discs back to Meadows and grabbed a stool of his own. The tech looked at Uzi and seemed to appraise him for the first time.

“You look about as good as I did after the blast.”

Uzi looked at his reflection in the glass cabinet above the slate work surface. Numerous abrasions covered his face and neck, and a dollop of dried blood was plastered just above his left eye. “Let’s put it this way: you weren’t their only target.”

Meadows glanced sidewards at Uzi. “No shit?”

Uzi nodded at Leila’s mirror. “Anything?”

“Looks like one on the front and another on the back.”

“Okay. Run them through the system, dust the discs, and see what they show. I’ve also got some DNA. And no, I really don’t want you sleeping tonight.” He rose from the stool. “I’m gonna use the bathroom, clean up and try to make myself look a little less scary.”

When Uzi returned to the lab, Meadows was asleep in a chair beside a computer monitor where digitized fingerprint images rolled by at astounding speed. Uzi walked down the hall to a vending machine and bought a Coke and a granola bar, both of which he downed in record time.

He joined Meadows, set another bar in front of the computer, then gently woke the technician. “Tim, time to eat. We’ve got green eggs and ham. Tim…”

Meadows opened his eyes to half mast, groaned, and then sat up. “I dreamt I was eating breakfast. Eggs and—”

“No dream.” Uzi nodded at the granola bar. “At least your hearing’s coming back.”

“What?”

“Anything on the latents?”

Meadows looked at the screen, rubbed his eyes with a shirt sleeve, and struck a few keys. “This ain’t easy with freakin’ casts on.” Finally, he leaned back. “Nope. No hits.”

Uzi stood and leaned over the desk to look at the monitor. “How can that be?”

“Guess this person wasn’t in the database.”

“She’s gotta be. Where’d you run it?”

“Everywhere. Even Interpol.”

“Call up Batula Hakim.”

“Hakim, that name rings a bell,” Meadows said as he pecked awkwardly at the keyboard. He hit Enter and seconds later, the fingerprint for Batula Hakim appeared on-screen.

“Compare it to the ones you just lifted.”

Meadows created a split screen, and the two prints popped up beside one another.

“Any matching points at all?”

Meadows studied the screen, then shook his head. “Not even close. See these whorls here? They’re— Well, look for yourself. It doesn’t take a computer to call this a nonmatch.”

Uzi fell back onto his stool. Aksel was wrong. He put me through all this for nothing.

“Sorry. You thought we had something, didn’t you?”

Uzi rose, nodded absentmindedly, and then turned away.

A beep sounded, and Meadows rotated his body to check the monitor. “But we do have a match on one of the latents from the DVDs.”

“Yeah?” Uzi asked impassively. “Whose?”

“None other than our own Marshall Shepard.”

“Shep?” Uzi spun around and looked at the screen. “What would his prints be doing on those discs?” Uzi began pacing. On the fifth pass, he mumbled, “I just don’t get it.”

Uzi looked over and noticed Meadows sleeping again, his head nestled in the fold of his elbow. Uzi guided his friend back to the cot and gently set him down. He then grabbed a backpack and made his way through the many rooms of the lab, helping himself to various supplies and equipment.

He had the sense that his answers did not reside in a database. For the next few hours, he’d have to figure this out on his own.

Uzi signed out an unmarked Crown Victoria BuCar — Bureau Car — from the FBI motor pool and grabbed a cell phone from the communications center. If he had wanted to replace his Glock, he would have had to do so at the Academy’s armory — and complete paperwork about his prior handgun, which was now evidence in Adams’s murder. But he hadn’t taken the time — and there certainly was no chance to do that now.

As Uzi headed for Marshall Shepard’s home — where he hoped to obtain answers to at least a few of his questions — he decided he had to make one major assumption: that the DVDs containing the encrypted files were passed from Shepard to Leila. That conclusion seemed logical.

When Uzi left the Hoover Building, his intention was to confront his boss, ask direct questions, and gauge the honesty of his answers. But as he turned onto his ASAC’s street, he realized that until he knew what was in the encrypted files, he didn’t want to create hard feelings with the man who had done so much for him over the years, someone he considered a close friend. If I’m wrong about all this, I don’t want to throw all that away.

Uzi parked a block from Shepard’s townhouse in Foggy Bottom and slumped down in his seat. He wished he had his night vision monocle — let alone his Glock — but he had gotten by with far less on missions in the heart of Damascus and Tehran.

Fifteen minutes passed without activity. He wasn’t even sure his surveillance was going to bear fruit, but the alternative — getting some much-needed sleep — was no longer an option.

Despite all that he and DeSantos had amassed, it seemed like a nest of disjointed information, fragmented pixels lacking the cohesion that could bring the picture into focus. Another week and he might have most of the answers. He needed at least another week.

I’ve got less than eight hours.

As the dashboard clock changed to 6:21, activity stirred near Shepard’s townhouse. The porch light snapped on, and in the dim throws of the bulb’s glow, Uzi recognized his boss’s lumbering gait. Shepard descended the five brick steps that led from his front door to the cement path that ended at the sidewalk. Shepard got into his car and hung a U-turn.

Uzi followed with his headlights off, keeping at least a block away. He hated being in a BuCar, as the standard issue Crown Victoria was like driving in a red tomato. It stood out to those in the know, particularly criminals — and federal agents.

But if Shepard had any inkling he was being followed, he never let on. He took a direct route, with minimal turns. Uzi calmed his thoughts, reined in his paranoia.

His sense of tranquility lasted barely a minute, however, as Shepard headed up 23rd Street and parked near Dupont Circle. Uzi parked, too, taking note that he was less than ten blocks from Leila’s apartment. He watched as his boss walked toward the large central fountain and took a seat on what probably qualified as the world’s longest park bench.

Shepard sat alone for ten minutes before being joined by a dark figure Uzi would recognize anywhere as Leila Harel. He knew that body. Perhaps too well.

He watched as Shepard handed her a thick manila envelope; following a moment of dialogue, Leila disappeared into the darkness, dissolving into the surroundings like a practiced spook. Shepard, deskbound and long removed from field work, lumbered back to his car.

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. The 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.

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 without 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.

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.

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.

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, white 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 believe’ 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.

“I don’t know if Director Knox is involved. I would find it hard to believe given his decades of distinguished service. But I’ve also been around the block a few times, and I know that men are sometimes driven by things people like me can’t pretend to understand. For one, I could never do some of the things our covert operatives are paid to do. But they do them without hesitation. Whatever their internal motivation is, I don’t know. Honor, duty, love for their country is what I’m told. But all I need to know is that when the call goes out they put their lives on the line and do what’s necessary to get the job done.” Whitehall turned to Uzi. “There’s something about you, agent, that makes me think you understand such men and their motives. And that’s why I’m asking you to continue doing what you need to do to get the job done.”

Uzi’s head snapped left. “But you just called the director—”

“Because until January twentieth I’m still president of the United States, and I have to follow procedure. But sometimes following procedure is ineffective. I think you’ve been around Washington long enough to understand what I’m saying.”

Uzi nodded. But he wondered if Whitehall knew more than he was letting on. Was there more depth to his comment on following procedure or was Uzi to take it at face value? Had the president been briefed by Knox — or Shepard — about his clash with Osborn? He had no doubt that Whitehall had asked the Secret Service to prepare a full dossier on him after, or even before, their first meeting at the White House. But exactly how much Whitehall knew about his past was unclear.

“You’re wasting time, son, and that’s something we can ill afford. Now get going. And Godspeed.”

Uzi pushed his thoughts aside, shook the president’s hand, and was off.

Alpha Zulu paced outside his car, rubbing at his forehead but keeping his Redskins ball cap pulled low over his brow. He was good at keeping cool under pressure; it was more a learned skill than an inherited personality trait. But with time growing short, he was in operations mode. Expectations rose along with tempers. This was not the time for things to go wrong.

At the moment, there were no serious indications the plan was in jeopardy. Like any successful business, safeguards were built in, redundancies and backups. The anticipated glitches caused by law enforcement’s inevitable probing made the intricate strategizing vital, the challenge that much more alluring. It was a chess game on a grand scale, with pawns and queens, moves and countermoves.

Like a master, Zulu had drawn up a winning plan, yet continued studying his opponents — measuring their weaknesses, finding holes in their methods. Identifying ways to use their deficiencies against them to break down their defenses. In this deadly game, when all was said and done, preparation, patience, and experience were king. They planned to have the board cleared in a matter of hours. But if getting to checkmate took weeks, or days, or years, so be it.

He glanced at his scorpion-engraved pocket watch: it was time. He climbed into his car and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, a late-model sedan pulled up alongside his and stopped. Oscar Delta got out, adjusted his jacket, and then moved around to Zulu’s back door. He got in and closed the door quietly.

Zulu cranked the engine and drove off. “Things are hot. There’s a lot in play.”

“We expected that.”

Zulu’s eyes roamed the street. “Yes.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Delta, then continued. “Be ready in case we need to implement Fallback.”

“You think it’ll come to that?”

Zulu knew what this could mean to Delta, but he had never doubted the man’s resolve. “Hard to say.” Zulu made a U-turn and accelerated back toward the park.

“What does your intel indicate?”

“I’ll evaluate and advise. For now, that’s all you need to know.” He saw Delta’s mouth contort in rebuke. A moment later, Zulu stopped beside the sedan and looked off to his left. “Good luck.”

Without a word, the rear door closed. The interior was quiet.

Another car door slammed, and the sedan drove off.

As Uzi walked along West Executive Avenue toward his motorcycle, he pulled out his phone and called Tim Meadows. After obtaining the number for Larchmont’s encrypted cell, he got onto his Suzuki and peeled away, headed for the Rusch transition headquarters.

He did a couple of drive-bys, casing out the place and locating all the entrances and exits. It would’ve been a great deal easier to involve the Secret Service detail assigned to the vice president’s staff, but Uzi’s plan demanded he engage as few people as possible.

He called DeSantos, but it went to voicemail; his partner either did not recognize the phone number of Uzi’s borrowed cell, or his phone was off. Regardless, Uzi hoped DeSantos checked his messages soon.

After making his third pass around the office building, he settled on his surveillance point. A reinforced black Suburban was parked at the front curb, twenty feet from one of the two exits. Uzi reasoned the Secret Service would choose the shortest unprotected path to the car, and this was, indeed, the door Larchmont had used when Uzi had visited him.

He parked his bike two blocks away and across the street. From this vantage point, the Hensoldt scope gave him a clear view of the building and the Secret Service’s black Suburban.

He inserted a small Y-connector plug into the side jack of the cell phone, then pressed Record on a digital recorder in his pocket. He dialed the encrypted mobile, hoping Larchmont kept the phone on at all times. If not, this could take longer than he’d planned. And the longer it dragged out, the greater the likelihood Knox could take actions that would interfere with Uzi’s plans. At this point, Uzi wasn’t sure if that was good — or bad.

Ninety minutes later, after repeated attempts and Uzi’s patience — and time — wearing thin, the call to Larchmont’s encrypted mobile finally went through.

“Mr. Larchmont,” Uzi began. “It’s good to hear your voice again. I’ve been trying to reach you. Now don’t hang up. I know, this comes as a bit of a shock—”

“Who is this?”

“Oh — sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. This is Special Agent Aaron Uziel. Remember me? We met—”

“What do you want?”

“Easy, Mr. Larchmont, easy. I’ve got a problem and you’ve got a problem. I figure maybe we can help each other out.”

“And just what problem do I have, Agent Uziel?”

Uzi chuckled. “I know all about your work with ARM. Specifically, Lewiston Grant.”

“You don’t know anything because there’s nothing to know.”

“Really? See, I’ve got this phone number, now, don’t I? And I know about your calls to the Executive Office Building. By the way, I should remind you that your phone may be encrypted, but mine isn’t. Still want to discuss this so close to the government’s probing ears?”

“You didn’t mention what your problem was.”

Uzi smiled. He had him. What had been a listing of suspicious phone calls and unusual circumstances was about to turn into hard evidence. Larchmont was sniffing the bait, weighing the risks, wondering if it was a trap. Whether or not Uzi could hook him and reel him in depended on his next comment.

“Let’s just say that certain… undesirable details about my past have come to light that… threaten my career. And my pension. Before CNN gets hold of it and it all blows up in my face, I need you to make it all go away. In a few weeks, you’ll be in a position to do that. You make that happen, and I’ll conveniently forget about this phone number.”

There were several seconds of silence.

“My next call,” Uzi continued, “won’t be to you, Mr. Larchmont. It’ll be to the Post, where I have a really good relationship with one of the editors who’ll pay me pretty well for the story. And then I’ll write a book and hit the talk show circuit — and the loss of my pension won’t matter.”

“The warehouse near Union Station, Fourth and G. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

The line went dead. Uzi pulled on his ski mask, followed by the helmet, then brought the rifle scope up to his eyes and watched the entrance. Inside of two minutes, Quentin Larchmont appeared, followed by two dark-suited men — Secret Service agents. The chief of staff-to-be stopped outside the building’s large glass doors and said something to them. One of them spread his arms wide and replied.

Larchmont motioned with his hand, and the agent on the left reached into his pocket and passed over a small object. Larchmont then turned away and climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV.

Uzi shoved the scope into his pocket and started the Suzuki. There was no turning back now.

Echo Charlie squeezed the encrypted mobile so tightly his knuckles ached. He sat at his desk, wondering how the Fed had gotten this phone number. And how could he have known he was working with Lewiston Grant?

Charlie realized Uziel could’ve been bluffing — but still, he knew too much if he could place him in the same sentence with Grant. They were too close. No, he was too close. It sounded to Charlie as if the agent was working alone in hopes of pulling off a trade: silence for a favor. This was not unusual in the power-driven winds of Washington. But was it legit? He couldn’t take the risk. This had to be taken care of — quickly.

Charlie consulted his silver pocket watch, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called to the secretary sitting at the front desk as he turned left down the hall.

“But sir, you have a meeting with Mr.—”

“I said I’ll be back,” he yelled, and kept on walking.

Two Secret Service agents fell in step behind him. With the assassination attempt an ugly blemish on their record, the Secret Service was taking no chances, and agents followed him everywhere he went off-site. Though it was annoying, Charlie reminded himself it was merely a constant reminder of the power he now wielded.

He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back shortly. I won’t be needing you on this errand.”

“Procedure, sir,” the older one said. “We’ll be accompanying you—”

Charlie pushed through the glass doors and stopped a dozen feet short of the curb. He turned to face the two men and said, “You guys are just doing your job, I understand that. But I’ll only be an hour. I’d rather be alone for a little while. Surely you can appreciate that.”

“Sir, we’re not supposed to—”

“Actually, there is something you can do for me. Give me the keys to the Suburban.” He extended a hand and wiggled the fingers. “Quickly, please.”

The agents shared a look, then one dug into his pocket and handed over the keys.

Echo Charlie climbed into the armored-up vehicle, started the engine, and drove off.

Uzi accelerated hard. He needed to arrive ahead of Larchmont — and whoever else the chief of staff was bringing with him.

He ran a couple of lights and took turns faster than he should have, but he wanted to give his plan every chance to succeed. He swerved down an alley and the warehouse swung into view.

He did not think the Suburban could have made it here before him, and in fact, his quick recon of the immediate vicinity indicated it had not. He made a tight circle with his bike in front of the dilapidated structure, located its only entrance, and went to work.

Despite stopping to pick up his four passengers, Echo Charlie was early — important because they wanted to do a reconnaissance drive-by to ensure they were not being set up. Once convinced the area was clear of law enforcement, they would take action. The operation required stealth: work swiftly, dispose of the body cleanly, then get rid of all evidence that they had been there.

Charlie turned the corner of the potholed, puddle-filled alley and slammed on his brakes. Spread across the pavement, blocking the narrow road to the warehouse twenty yards away, was an upended motorcycle. The driver, pinned beneath it and lying on his back, flailed his arms like a beached fish impotently flapping its fins.

Charlie rubbernecked left and right, hoping for a way around the biker. But the area was too narrow. He cursed under his breath as his eyes darted around the alley, which was bordered by two windowless brick buildings. It was unlikely anyone had seen or heard the spill the motorcyclist had taken.

“Go deal with that,” Charlie said to the men behind him. “No matter what, keep him quiet. We don’t want anyone calling an ambulance. Drag him into the warehouse, gag and blindfold him. I don’t want him to be able to identify us—”

“I get rid of him,” one of them said in clipped English. “He see our car, the license plate.”

“Fine. Just be fast, quiet, and clean. And get the goddamn alley cleared. Go! Move!”

The three men left the Suburban, the fourth staying behind with his boss. Charlie gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as his enforcers approached the motorcycle.

Uzi lay in wait. Seconds later, Larchmont’s black SUV lumbered into the alley and ground to a stop. Uzi began flapping his arms, as if he were trapped beneath the motorcycle, which had tipped on its side, taking the driver down with it. At least that’s what he wanted them to think.

Lying on his back wearing a bulbous helmet was not comfortable. But if he was right, he wouldn’t be here very long. He activated his digital recorder as the two back doors opened and slammed shut. Three trim olive-skinned men dressed in dark suits hurried toward him. As the closer one approached, his jacket parted, revealing a large-caliber handgun.

“Help me,” Uzi said, his muffled voice sounding even more desperate.

But these three did not appear to be American Red Cross types; they looked more like the Middle Eastern terrorists he had once been ordered to kill. As the larger man bent over him, Uzi whipped his Puma tactical knife from his pocket and sliced it through the henchman’s neck with the swiftness of a magician. Arterial blood gushed from his carotid.

Uzi swung the blade back to his right, and with equal precision and speed, cut the second man’s trachea. Both reeled back, unsteady hands clutching their fatal wounds.

The last man stepped back and drew his handgun. But Uzi was faster with his blade, and he flung it through the air, the sleek metal slicing the intervening dozen feet in a split second. It was over before the pistol could clear leather. Clumsily grabbing for the handle of the blade protruding from the left side of his chest, the assailant fell back toward the pavement.

Uzi leapt up, and in two long strides reached the man’s shoulder rig. He drew the Smith & Wesson and fired twice at the SUV. The fourth henchman, who had just exited the Suburban’s open front passenger door, got off an errant shot before Uzi planted a suppressed round in the man’s forehead.

He brought the handgun down and put a bullet in the skull of the man still attempting to pull the Puma from his chest.

Quentin Larchmont, seated behind the steering wheel and watching with dropped jaw, grabbed for the gearshift. He threw the Suburban into reverse and started out of the alley, but a black Hummer pulled behind him, blocking the way.

Uzi reached down and yanked his knife from the dead man’s chest as two men jumped from the Hummer and headed toward him.

These men also had olive complexions.

And they were also armed. With suppressed submachine guns.

“DROP IT!”

The order came from the stocky one, his weapon trained on Uzi’s chest. And in a brief split second of irony, Uzi couldn’t help but notice that their weapon of choice was the Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. It appeared to be one of the newer, more compact Minis. Though smaller than its full-size cousin, the Minis killed just as efficiently.

In the next split second, Uzi realized he was in the shit. Two men, approaching from opposite directions, had him drawn down with superior firepower. And he was out in the open, with no way of getting to cover before they made his body resemble a block of Swiss cheese.

Santa, now would be a good time to show up.

“Drop it,” the bearded one said. “Now.”

Uzi flung the handgun back over his right shoulder. He had a fleeting thought of throwing the knife, figuring he might be able to take one of them out — but that would accomplish little. At this distance, with their automatic weapons already in hand and aimed at his chest, he’d be long dead before the knife struck its target.

He tossed the Puma to the same place he had thrown the gun.

Quentin Larchmont, sporting a black fedora pulled down over his head, got out of the Suburban, then slammed the door shut. “Get him inside.”

The two men grabbed Uzi by the arms, spun him around, and shoved him toward the warehouse. One of them used a key to open the door while the other pushed him inside.

Buried beneath his shirt and around his neck, Uzi still had the Tanto — not to mention the boot knife. But getting to either was the problem. He was outnumbered — and his weapons, while nearby, might as well have been a mile away.

“Get his helmet off.”

The stocky one yanked on the black Bell while the other stood guard. As he worked on the helmet, Uzi got a better look at the man’s face, and realized his darker complexion was the result of hastily applied makeup: he was, in fact, the Secret Service agent Uzi had seen only hours ago in the Oval Office. Benedict? Was that his name? Yes, Benedict. That could explain the calls to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, the location of the Secret Service’s command post. But what did this mean? Were other members of the Secret Service involved? What about Whitehall?

“Secure him,” Larchmont said.

The bearded man produced a set of handcuffs and handed them to Benedict, then fished keys out of Uzi’s front pocket. He tossed them to Larchmont.

As Benedict ratcheted the restraints closed, Larchmont tilted his head, appraising his captive. Then his face hardened as he said, “Down on your knees.”

But Uzi did not budge. Benedict, standing slightly behind Uzi and to his right, swung the butt end of his Mini into Uzi’s ribs. Uzi crumpled to the ground.

After struggling to right himself, he knelt on his left knee. “I’m worth more to you alive,” he said through a clenched jaw.

“I didn’t think you’d say you’re worth more dead.” Larchmont removed his fedora and held it in both hands in front of his body. “We’ll talk about your fate in a moment. First, you’re going to do some talking. Based on what you say, we’ll evaluate your future usefulness.”

“I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Larchmont looked at the bearded gunman and chinned a nod in Uzi’s direction. The man shoved the point of his Mini into Uzi’s temple. “Maybe this will help.”

Uzi’s heart rate jumped. He struggled to control it, knowing he needed to keep his wits, to remain composed and be ready to strike at a moment’s notice, when an opportunity presented itself. Assuming one did.

But it was hard to slow your pulse and keep focused when a man was shoving the cold metal barrel of a submachine gun against your skull.

An image of his little girl floated through his mind. Maya. Tears instantly filled his eyes, but he quickly compartmentalized the thought. He couldn’t crumble, not now. Maybe DeSantos would answer one of the voicemails he had left for him. The ring of the phone might distract them long enough for him to make a move. At this point, making an attempt was better than taking a bullet without putting up a fight.

“Does Lewiston Grant know your operation is in danger of collapsing?” Uzi asked, hoping to get something incriminating on tape; the recorder in his pocket was hopefully still running. “I think Lewis old boy would want you to hear me out and cut the deal I’m offering. Everyone wins.”

But Larchmont wasn’t taking the bait.

“Who else knows about my private cell phone?”

Uzi bit his lip. If he told Larchmont there were others who have this information, the next question would invariably be, “Who?” Those people would then be at risk — after they disposed of Uzi. If he told Larchmont no one else knew, he would be killed for sure.

He answered obliquely. “I’ve got a recording of our phone conversation. If we can’t reach an agreement, the whole world will know.”

Larchmont took a step forward. “Where is it?”

Uzi sensed a window of opportunity opening. “It’s on an SD card. If I give it to you, will you let me go?” An absurd question — but Larchmont didn’t know Uzi well, and perhaps his pompous ego would allow him to think Uzi was just stupid enough to consider the notion that trading the recording for his life was a request worthy of consideration.

“It’d go a long way toward convincing me to make a deal,” Larchmont said, apparently buying the stupid agent routine.

“It’s hidden on my motorcycle.”

Larchmont’s lips got thin with the suggestion of a smile.

“But you won’t find it. It’s a micro-SD card, smaller than the nail on my pinky,” Uzi said. “Uncuff me and I’ll get it for you.”

The politician’s smirk blossomed into a grin. “I think we can manage.” Larchmont motioned to Benedict, who slung the Mini over his shoulder and pushed through the doors.

His odds having suddenly improved, all Uzi had to do was find a way of disabling the man holding the Mini against his head. While still handcuffed.

“Can I have something to drink?” Uzi cleared his throat, dipped his chin, and coughed. “My mouth is dry as hell. Please…”

“Are there any other copies of the recording?” Larchmont asked.

Uzi coughed again. “I just recorded it.” He coughed harder. “When could I have made a copy?” He bent his head down, and launched into a spasmodic coughing fit. Then he felt it. The machine gun barrel left his temple.

It was only a second, but it was long enough. In one swift movement, Uzi pushed up with his right leg while twisting his torso left. His head knocked the gun barrel aside at the same moment his right shoulder slammed into the man’s stomach. The guard flew back, his weapon tilting away and unleashing an impotent volley of nine-millimeter rounds into the cement floor and wall.

The momentum carried Uzi into a shoulder roll. He slid his cuffed wrists beneath his buttocks and under his feet, bringing his hands to the front of his body. He lunged for the Mini and wrestled the tip into the dazed guard’s chin, then squeezed the trigger. The man’s beard blossomed with blood. Uzi yanked away the weapon and wildly sprayed the area with lead.

Larchmont was hugging the ground and had escaped the lethal volley. But Benedict, clearly having heard the suppressed rounds ricocheting off the floors and metal racks, ran back into the warehouse and caught a shower of bullets in the face.

Uzi’s heart was pumping much too fast. Adrenaline had prepared him for war — but though the battle was over, he still felt crazed, out of control. He pointed the gun at Larchmont, who was on his stomach and clutching his head. Uzi walked over to him and with his knee in the small of the man’s back, fumbled around the politician’s jacket pocket for the handcuff key. He finally found it, and after struggling to insert it into the lock, removed his restraints.

Uzi took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then backed away. “Get up.”

Larchmont slowly picked himself up off the concrete floor.

“Hands behind your back.”

Uzi drove the Suburban and sedan inside and removed several fuses from both vehicles. He unlocked Larchmont, moved him to the SUV’s driver’s seat, and then recuffed his wrists to the steering wheel.

“Mind if I borrow this?” Uzi asked as he pulled Larchmont’s suit handkerchief from the breast pocket. He stuffed it between Larchmont’s lips, and fastened the politician’s red paisley necktie around his mouth to hold the gag in place. An unusual use for such luxurious imported silk — and a damn fine embroidered design at that — but effective nonetheless.

Uzi stood outside the car for a moment and checked off his list. With the Suburban’s fuses removed, Larchmont could lean on the horn all he wanted to. It would remain silent.

Almost done.

After dragging the three bloody bodies out of the alley, he went about gathering his things: ski mask and helmet, his knives, and the .40 caliber Smith & Wesson he had tossed aside earlier. He cranked the warehouse door shut, then got on his bike and fled the scene.

Alpha Zulu knelt beside Leila al-Far. Zulu, dressed in repairman gray coveralls, dug through a metal toolbox, looking for a part to complete the electronic device he had been busy assembling.

Gripped in Leila’s right hand was a Taser-type stun wand, and slung across her back was an AKS-74U shorty assault rifle, fitted with a PBS silent fire suppressor. “Well?” she asked Zulu.

“Another ten, then it’ll be ready.” He really would have liked to set the timer and leave, but his cohort had other plans. Though she insisted on taking this more obtuse route, he wasn’t concerned about the overall success of their plan. They would do what they needed to do and get out. Whatever happened after that was merely above and beyond, as far as he was concerned.

After several minutes had ticked by, Zulu gave the nod and Leila approached their hostage, Leonard Rudnick, who was securely fastened to a wood chair. Squaring herself in front of the doctor, Leila cradled the stun wand in both hands, displaying it as if Rudnick were a jeweler preparing to appraise a ring. “This is one of my favorite tools, Doctor. It sends three hundred thousand volts through your body. Do you know how it works?”

The muscles of his jaw tightened but he gave no nod, made no attempt to speak.

“I’d think you’d be familiar with it because you’ve studied the mind, you know how the brain works. Its physiology. Right? This little device scrambles the nervous system, leaves you dazed and confused.” She tilted her head, assessing whether she had his attention. “Oh — I almost forgot. The pain. It lights up your nerve endings like an arcade. Pain beyond your wildest fears.” Failing to elicit a reaction, she held the wand in front of his face. “You’ve got one last chance to cooperate.”

Rudnick closed his eyes and turned away. Had the doctor indicated a willingness to talk, Zulu would’ve removed the gag. But he couldn’t risk the man screaming unless they were sure he was going to tell them what they wanted to know. A screwup now would be disastrous.

Leila shoved the tip of the stun wand into Rudnick’s abdomen and gave him a short burst. He screamed a muffled cry and jerked forward, but the bindings kept him erect. A longer jolt would’ve altered their plan, as there wouldn’t be enough time for him to regain his wits.

A tear escaped Rudnick’s right eye and streamed down his face. Zulu looked on, knowing firsthand the intense pain induced by a stun gun shock to the stomach. This man was a tough bird, that much was evident. But as a health care practitioner, someone who had devoted his entire life to helping people with their own personal hells, the doctor would respond to the one last trick Zulu had in his playbook. In this case, he had no doubt whatsoever it would work.

“Enough,” Zulu said. He stepped forward and brushed Leila back with his left forearm. He held out the compact black box he had been assembling. At present, its red LED screen displayed “00:00,” but soon it would be programmed with numerals. And then the fun would begin.

Alpha Zulu grinned at Rudnick out of one side of his mouth. “This, Doctor, is a powerful explosive that’ll destroy a good portion of this building. Now, your offices have been here for several years, and you know many of the hundreds of people who live and work here. I’m told there are about five hundred here right this very minute. What do you think?”

Rudnick’s eyebrows pointed inward in defiance.

“Maybe you doubt our convictions.” He held up the bomb and poked numbers into its keypad. “But that would be foolish.” He tilted his head. “I know what kind of man you are. You’d rather die yourself than cause others harm. Very noble. But your life isn’t what’s at stake here, Doctor. You hold hundreds of other lives in your hands. Make the wrong decision and they all die. Innocent women. Young children. Their blood on your hands.” Zulu paused.

“My sources tell me you have experience watching people die. Lots of people. Burned in ovens, gassed in chambers. Shot and dumped in pits. But — you’ve got a chance to prevent that type of mass murder from happening again.” He allowed Rudnick to mull the magnitude of his decision. And the guilt.

“So this is what it comes down to,” Zulu continued. “You’re going to make a phone call. Do it well, everything will turn out okay. If you don’t…” Zulu shrugged and bobbed his head. A malevolent smile pursed his lips. “Well, I’m afraid that’s something you won’t be able to live with.”

Uzi dialed Shepard as he headed back to Leila’s house. This time he wouldn’t be skulking around in the dark. There was no time for that. He wasn’t sure where to go, who to talk to, whose help to enlist. But he was certain of one thing: whatever was going down, it was going to happen in less than an hour. And he couldn’t shake the sense that Leila sat at the heart of whatever was to come.

Uzi’s call to Shepard was short and to the point: he needed his ASAC to coordinate with Knox and Yates, Homeland Security, his own JTTF, M2TF, and Director Tasset. It was hitting the fan, and until they could put it all together to figure out what it meant, they had to be ready for anything.

First priority was the International Conference on Global Terrorism, due to begin within the hour. A close second was the peace talks, but he left Whitehall to shore up those preparations. Whatever agencies the president wanted to enlist, and when, was not Uzi’s call. Uzi’s involvement in that particular state of affairs ended with his rendering a definitive answer as to whether or not a Palestinian group was involved in the VP’s assassination attempt.

Shepard assured Uzi the conference was well covered and highly secure. But he would alert all the involved parties. Uzi gave Shepard’s secretary his cell number, then hung a left onto New Hampshire Avenue. As he pulled up in front of Hamilton House, workers were using a bulldozer and dump truck to cart away the shattered chunks of pavement left behind by the explosion of Uzi’s Tahoe.

As Uzi removed his helmet, his cell phone began ringing. It was DeSantos.

“Could’ve used your help,” Uzi said. “Big shit’s gone down.”

“Sorry, boychick, I didn’t know this was your number. I ignored the calls. I’ve been coordinating stuff with Knox. You put the scare into Whitehall—”

“Then he told you about Larchmont?”

“About your suspicions.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not suspicions anymore. He and his thugs just tried to kill me. We need to meet. Where are you?”

“Headed to the Hay-Adams. Me and my colleagues are there as support. Just in case.”

Uzi knew that meant his OPSIG buddies. Made sense.

“Just so you know, Phish and Mason got something on Danny Carlson,” DeSantos said. “A voicemail on your cell, left a little before he died. A warning about Leila and that you were in danger. He also said he’s onto something big. He mentioned a DLB ‘where the tracks meet.’ I know the drop, I used it with him a couple of times. I sent Phish over to grab the package.”

“Not looking much like a suicide now, is it?”

“If it ever did. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

The moment Uzi hit End, the phone rang again.

“Agent Uziel, this is Dr. Rudnick.”

“Doc? How’d you get this number?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, so I called your office.”

Uzi instantly realized he had missed his appointment. “Geez — I’m sorry, Doc, I totally spaced out my session. Things are coming to a head and I had to—”

“Uzi, listen to me. I need to see you, right away.”

Rudnick’s voice was unusually tense. Uzi got the sense the doctor was not simply admonishing him for missing his session. Someone’s there with him. Leila.

“You sure it’s gotta be now?”

There was a second’s pause, then a muffled noise as if the handset was being covered.

“Yes. Come now. There’s something I have to discuss with you, something we discussed during your last session. But we can’t do it over the phone. How soon can you get here?”

“Fifteen minutes. On my way.” He hung up the phone, shoved his helmet back on, started up the bike, and twisted the throttle.

In reality, Uzi was five minutes away — but in the likely event Leila or someone else was using Rudnick to lure him there, he didn’t want them expecting him when he was scheduled to arrive. He hung a right on M Street and twisted the throttle, accelerating hard toward Rudnick’s office.

Uzi arrived with the engine off, gliding to a stop on the slate tiles of the building’s exterior entryway. He pushed through the cherrywood-framed glass doors and nearly slipped on the slick marble of the lobby. He decided to forego the elevator — the logical place for him to emerge on Rudnick’s floor — in case his visitor was wise enough to know he had padded his ETA.

He took the steps two at a time. When he reached the fifth floor, he removed his helmet and set it down, withdrew the Puma with his left hand and the pilfered .40 caliber Smith & Wesson handgun with the right. He pushed up against the metal fire door and listened.

Nothing. Uzi opened it a crack and peered into the empty hallway. He moved out of the stairwell and stopped beside a fire alarm pull box. He threw his back against the wall and inched along the corridor, his eyes and ears tuned to any and all noises. He approached the taupe door — the “secret” confidential patient entrance — his best shot at a stealthy entry.

Slowly, he pulled it open. Again, all was quiet. He was now standing in the anteroom to Rudnick’s office. He stopped and listened, heart pounding, mouth desert dry — and made his way across the floor to the opposite door. It was ajar. He crouched low and pushed it open with a foot.

In one motion, he stepped inside and swept the room from left to right with the Smith & Wesson. All clear. Except that sitting in the center of the office was the doctor, bound and gagged.

Uzi cleared the entire area, and, convinced there was no one else present, turned his attention to the bound psychologist.

“Doc, are you okay?” He slid his knife blade behind Rudnick’s head and sliced away the bandana. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to involve you.”

Rudnick spat out the gag, and then looked up at his patient with sad eyes. “I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t want to call you—”

“Who did this?”

“I believe it was Leila. And an associate.” He swallowed hard. “They wanted information on you. About the investigation. They thought I knew something.”

“What did you tell them?”

Rudnick lifted his head proudly. “Nothing.”

That was when Uzi noticed it. A large black resin box behind Rudnick’s chair that sprouted gray metal flex conduit which snaked to a flat device below the doctor’s right shoe.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Rudnick bowed his head. “I’m afraid so.”

Uzi grabbed the doctor’s phone on the desk — but there was no dial tone. He dug out his cell and called his office. “Hoshi — it’s me. Get EOD to 2311 M Street. Fast — we’ve got a hot one, and there isn’t much time!”

“I’ll try, but they’re on special assignment because of the conference—”

“I don’t care how you do it, just get them over here — now!”

He hung up, ran into the hallway, and pulled the fire alarm. At least there was a chance some of the building’s occupants would get out in time. He ran back to Rudnick, got down on all fours, and began studying the devices.

There was a red LED display that read 5:58. The seconds were ticking down. Shit! He had six minutes to get him out of the building. But his foot was on what appeared to be a pressure sensitive device. Lift the shoe, the bomb detonates.

He dialed Tim Meadows. “Tim, it’s Uzi.”

“Good timing. I was about to call you. I found something—”

“You know something about bombs, right?”

“That’s a bit of a sore subject, especially coming from you—”

“My friend’s wired to one and I’ve got five minutes before it blows. There appears to be a spring-loaded pressure sensitive device under his foot. It’s got a very small trigger, otherwise I’d try wedging something under his shoe—”

“Don’t do that. Devices like that have redundancy mechanisms that’ll make the whole thing blow if they’re tampered with.”

“There are no exposed wires— I’m guessing they’re inside a length of electrical conduit that connects the two devices. Can I open the bomb’s casing? Looks like a composite material, about two feet square—”

“These people know what they’re doing when it comes to bombs, Uzi. I can tell you that from personal experience. It’s booby trapped, I’m sure. If you touch it without knowing what you’re doing, they’ll be picking you up with a vacuum cleaner.”

“Shit.” He fisted a clump of hair and pulled. “Shit. So what do I do?”

“How about a fire extinguisher? Spraying it with CO₂ might freeze the trigger mechanism long enough for you to take cover.”

Uzi’s knowledge of microcircuitry told him this wouldn’t work. “The drop in temperature will contract the metal. It’ll change the tolerance of the components. That alone may set it off.”

“Jesus, Uzi, this is a tough one.”

“Tim, I can’t just… I can’t just let him die.”

“How about amputating his leg? You’d have to secure it to the chair with duct tape so it doesn’t move — if that’s even possible, which I don’t think it is. You’re talking about cutting through a big freakin’ bone. Unless you cut through the knee joint. No,” he said, discounting his own suggestion, “best thing to do is call EOD.”

“This thing’s history in a little over four minutes.”

“Then I’ve got one last suggestion: get the hell out of there.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m sorry, man. If there was something you could do, I’d tell you—”

Uzi ended the call. He bit his lip and stared at the black and red screen as the numbers cascaded downward. Maybe this was just an elaborate joke to scare the hell out of him. Meant to send him a message. Yeah, that’s it. It’s really not a bomb. It’s fashioned to look like one, but it’s really not. It’s really not.

Damn you, Leila. Damn you!

“Uzi,” Rudnick said softly, “you must leave.”

He got down on all fours and peered at the black resin housing. “Can’t do that, Doc. But thanks for your concern.”

“That wasn’t a request, Uzi. It was an order. You need to follow your doctor’s orders.”

Uzi continued to study the device. “Always the joker. Have you always had such a keen sense of humor?”

“Uzi, look at me. Look at me,” he said, schoolteacher stern. “At my eyes.”

Uzi stopped what he was doing and looked up. “I’ve lived seven decades longer than God intended, my friend. I should’ve died as a scrawny kid in Buchenwald. Somehow, I survived and lived a whole lifetime. The time has come for me to join my parents and sisters.”

“No, I can’t just—”

“Yes, Uzi. You can. Promise me one thing — that you’ll be the one to tell my son Wayne at the BSU. Tell him I love him, that you were with me and that I wasn’t afraid.”

“I will. I’ll tell him.” But Uzi was not ready to give up. He searched his brain, trying to think of a solution. He needed something — a stray thought from his training. Or—

“Doc, did they say anything about the bomb? When they were talking to each other. Anything at all.”

“Just that it would take down a good part of the building. And that if I lifted my shoe even just a bit, I’d set it off.” Rudnick hesitated before continuing. “The man was in a hurry, though. I think they were going to plant another bomb, a car bomb.”

Uzi sat up straight. A car bomb? “Where? What makes you think it was a car bomb?”

Rudnick’s gaze tilted toward the ceiling as he struggled to remember. “He said something about the axle, getting it on the axle by the brake. That it’s set to go at two. Whoever gets in that car, Uzi, they’re dead. You have to find out whose car, before more people die—”

Uzi closed his eyes. First things first. Concentrate. He looked at the display: three minutes left. The piercing fire alarm siren blared in the background. He sat there, frozen, watching the numbers tumble lower. There’s gotta be something I can do!

“Uzi, it’s time to go. You must live your life, just as I did. You still have many questions that need answers. But I’m going to leave you with one answer. I usually let my patients figure it out themselves — and I’m sure you would have — but time is a bit short.” He forced a smile. “That question I kept asking you, about committing suicide. I’ll tell you why you didn’t do it. It’s the same reason why I didn’t do it after getting out of the death camp.”

Uzi’s eyes moved from the red numbers to Rudnick’s face.

“I needed to preserve their memories, of my parents and sisters and my aunt and uncle. Because I was the only one left. Inside me, they lived on for another seven decades. I thought about them, told stories about them. Talked to them, if only in my mind.” He fought back tears. “If I’d committed suicide, their essence would have died along with me. Now, Wayne will pass on those memories. Do you understand?”

“Dena and Maya.”

“There isn’t much time,” Rudnick said calmly. “You must go.”

Uzi looked down at the bomb. Ninety seconds left.

“Honor a dying man’s request,” Rudnick said. “Would you do that?”

Uzi could not bring himself to look at him.

“Find the people who did this, Uzi. Find them and make them pay.”

With this uncharacteristic request from such a gentle person, anger welled up in Uzi’s chest. He looked up and met Rudnick’s gaze. He didn’t know if this kind-hearted man actually meant for him to take vengeance, or if it was a clever psychological play to get Uzi to leave. Whichever it was, it worked.

Uzi stood up. His lips started to tremble. Tears sprouted spontaneously, and he cried. He wanted to hug the old man, to give him strength to face what was coming, and to thank him for all he had done for him. But Uzi knew that any movement could set the bomb off prematurely. Instead, he leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I’ll keep your memory alive. I’ll tell Wayne. And I’ll find the people who did this to you.”

Rudnick smiled, the kind of grin a proud father gives his son when he has accomplished something of great value.

And then Uzi tore himself away, and he backed out of the room, away from the man who, up until recently was unknown to him, someone he now felt he had known all his life. Someone he had come to respect as much as he had respected his own father.

He turned and ran into the hallway, where the piercing siren was incapacitatingly loud. He hit the fire door with his shoulder and entered the staircase, slipping twice as he turned landings.

Uzi wasn’t sure how much time he had left, but his gut told him it was no more than mere seconds. He counted down from ten as he ran the steps, taking two or three at a time, using the handrail to propel himself forward.

He rounded the second floor when he hit five seconds and kept on going, then reached the lobby at the moment he figured the bomb would go off. A dense crowd packed the area, moving slowly, clearly unaware the building was about to come down.

“Get out,” Uzi shouted, darting toward the glass doors. “Everyone out!”

He hit the sidewalk and ran into M Street just as the EOD van pulled up in front. Farther down the block, a fire engine was approaching, its siren wailing and lights flashing.

The fifth story windows blew out first, a massive explosion sending dust and glass and metal and cement cascading down toward the street below. People darted in all directions, car tires groaning to a stop as the debris rained onto the pavement.

Uzi joined the bomb squad technicians, who had taken cover beside and beneath their truck. Though he struggled to corral his thoughts, to push his sorrow aside, his oxygen-starved voice was nevertheless edged in pain. “I called it in. Device was on fifth floor. Might be another… a car bomb.”

The commander, back pressed against the glossy black truck, asked, “Where?”

“No idea.” Then it clicked. Oh, shit. He took off down the block, heading for the spot where he had left the BuCar.

“Wait!” the commander called after him.

As Uzi turned the corner, he was relieved to find the Crown Vic still there, a ticket flapping against its windshield. He fumbled for his key ring, got in the car, and drove off.

Though he tried to focus on where he was headed, his mind would not let go of Rudnick. The image of him bound to the chair, bravely facing death as Uzi backed out of the room, was too powerful to push aside. It would take time for him to absorb the impact of his loss. He would have an empty space in his life. Again. But now he knew how to get through these things.

Unfortunately for him, he had experience in such matters.

The Hay-Adams Hotel took its name from two of the district’s most distinguished residents, Secretary of State John Hay and historian Henry Adams. In the late 1800s, the men purchased adjoining lots across from Lafayette Park and the White House. They erected majestic homes that became a social epicenter for Washington’s elite, including Theodore Roosevelt, Mark Twain, and Henry James.

The Hay and Adams houses were razed in the 1920s in favor of a luxury hotel that, because of its grandeur, history, and location, became a preferred destination for heads of state and international business leaders. Short of being a guest of the president, it is the closest one can get to staying at the White House.

To retain a connection to its past, the wood paneling from the original Hay residence was used in the stately public meeting area, the John Hay Room — the grand social hall in which the International Conference on Global Terrorism was being held.

As Uzi approached Washington Circle, he pulled out his phone to call DeSantos. He now knew Leila and her companion — with help, no doubt, from her al-Humat cell — were in the Hay-Adams implementing the next phase of their plan. What Rudnick heard and mistook for a car bomb was not a vehicle’s axle, but an assassination attempt on Gideon Aksel, the Mossad director general.

The explosive device at Rudnick’s office was a diversion: resources would be mobilized to his building, and attention would be deflected away from the conference as the second bomb was about to explode — killing many of the world’s prominent leaders, counterterrorism experts, and intelligence chiefs.

Uzi now knew something else, as well: the phone call Leila and her accomplice had forced Rudnick to make was designed to lure him there so he would either arrive just as the bomb was going off, or shortly thereafter, so he could view the aftermath. An added, personal bonus for Leila. And very efficient.

As he started dialing DeSantos, his phone began ringing. It was Meadows.

“Just heard. No fun being almost blown to bits, is it?”

“I’m in a hurry, Tim. What’ve you got?”

“You know me, I can’t leave well enough alone, so I had a guy in my department do the fishing on the logs while I went back to those latents you gave me. I may’ve been a little drugged up, but I remember you had a hard time accepting that they weren’t Batula Hakim’s prints. And I really wanted to get those bastards who tried to kill me—”

“And what’d you find?” Uzi rounded the circle and came out of it on Pennsylvania Avenue. He glanced at the dashboard clock. One thirty-nine.

“An irregularity in the data storage file. The algorithm was altered—”

“Tim, I think we’ve got another bomb set to explode in twenty minutes—” Uzi swerved to avoid a bicyclist, then switched the phone to his left hand— “so get to the goddamn point!”

“Someone got into the digital file of Batula Hakim’s fingerprints and changed the algorithm. I found the code they used and estimated what it would do to the print’s pattern. After some reconstruction, I’d say it bears a much closer match to the ones we lifted off that mirror. Leila Harel appears to be Batula Hakim, just as you thought.”

Uzi was silent as the news hit him right between the eyes.

“You hear me? Uzi?”

“Still here. Good work, Tim. No, awesome work. Now check everyone, check all the digital files of everyone in the administration. Secret Service, White House staff, FBI, CIA—”

“Whoa, you know how many people you’re talking about?”

“Write a program to search for specific parameters.”

“I guess I can put something together.”

“Do it. Call me back if you find anything else.”

Uzi ended the call and turned onto H Street while struggling to punch in DeSantos’s phone number. As he pulled in front of a temporary barrier and security checkpoint blocking the street to through traffic, DeSantos answered.

“Santa — I’m two blocks away.” He got out of the car, showed the FBI agents his credentials, and took off in a sprint. “Leila and one of her buddies just killed my shrink. Another goddamn bomb. But he overheard them saying something was gonna happen to Aksel at two o’clock. Get him out of there, Santa, get ’em all out. There’s probably a bomb—”

“Whoa, hold on— Do we know for sure there’s a bomb?”

“I don’t have video of them planting the damn thing, if that’s what you mean,” Uzi said as he ran by three well-dressed businesspeople making their way toward the Hay-Adams.

“You wanna evac the hotel, cause a freakin’ stampede — and panic world leaders, without confirmed intel? Other than an overheard comment, we’ve got zip. NSA, CIA, FBI all say we’re clear. Maybe they’re planning to take a shot at him when he leaves the building. I’ll have SWAT sweep the rooftops again.”

As Uzi neared the hotel, he wondered just how much he could rely on what Rudnick had told him. He’d heard Aksel’s name, saw the device they were wiring to his foot, thought of the recent news reports, and made the assumption they were going to set off a car bomb.

Am I overreacting?

“Uzi, I’m asking you again. Are you absolutely sure there’s a bomb?”

“No.”

“Then get your ass over here and we’ll figure it out. If you press the fucking panic button and you’re wrong, Knox won’t be happy. And Aksel will never let you live it down.”

Uzi, bristling at DeSantos’s last comment — but knowing he was right — rounded the corner. “I’m almost there. Meet me out front.”

As he passed the free-standing brass Hay-Adams sign, he hit a human wall of dark-suited, ear-miked Secret Service agents. But there was no time to stop. He held up his credentials as he barreled past them, yelling, “FBI–Let me through!”

After hearing a shout of “Hey—” and expecting to be tackled from behind, he saw DeSantos a dozen feet ahead, approaching on the run.

“It’s okay, let him go, let him go!” DeSantos pulled Uzi inside. The lobby was crowded with overflow visitors attending the conference. “Let’s talk. I just spoke to Knox.”

Leila Harel — aka Leila al-Far, aka Batula Hakim — peered out the eighth floor window while a black ski-masked Alpha Zulu finished affixing the flexcuffs to their hostage’s wrists.

“Everything look okay?” he asked.

“All’s good,” Hakim said. A thin smile of smug satisfaction spread her lips. “Secret Service is clueless.” And then she gasped.

“What?”

“Son of a bitch.” Face flushed, she grabbed her assault rifle and started toward the door.

Zulu stood and caught her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uzi’s downstairs.”

“Impossible. Hassan said the bomb went off.”

“I know what I just saw. He’s in the hotel.” She yanked her arm from his grasp.

“Let it go,” Zulu said. “Let him go.” He stole a look at his scorpion-themed watch. “They’re all dead in fifteen minutes anyway.” He drew his handgun and pointed it at their gagged hostage. “We need to set the timer and get out of here.”

“No!” She pushed his arm down and brought the submachine gun up to Zulu’s chest.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I want Uzi.” She nodded at their prisoner. “And he’s my ticket.”

The room phone began ringing as Zulu looked down at the floor, where four bullet-riddled bodies of the foreign dignitary’s security force lay on the carpet in their own pools of blood.

And beside them was the bound and gagged Gideon Aksel.

Uzi stood with DeSantos at the concierge’s desk, shaking his head. “I still think we need to get everyone out of here, regardless of what Knox says. If I’m wrong, it’s on me. But if I’m right, and we don’t do anything, a thousand people are gonna die.”

“It’s out of our hands, boychick. We don’t get paid the big bucks to make the big decisions.”

“Santa, think of the power sitting in that room fifty feet away. The heads of the US, British, and German counterterrorism agencies are in there — not to mention Aksel and fifteen other intelligence chiefs. If I was a terrorist choosing targets, I’d go for the most bang for the buck. Gideon and Earl Tasset. Whitehall would be symbolic, yeah. Morally degrading, embarrassing. But it’s not critical because Rusch and Nunn take over in a matter of weeks.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but—”

“Think of the impact it’d have if they bring this building down with Tasset and Gideon inside. It’s every terrorist group’s wet dream. Their two worst enemies, gone. Regardless of my personal feelings about Gideon, he’s a freakin’ legend — and he’s here,” Uzi said, pointing at the ground.

“Knox says there’s no way they got a bomb into this place. They’ve had scanners set up the past two weeks.”

“This cell has been operating here for how long? Do we know? Sleeper groups have been here fifteen years. Leila’s been here five. You don’t think they could’ve brought the explosives in three weeks ago? A month? Why not six months ago, when the conference was first announced?”

DeSantos sighed, checked his watch, and then rubbed his chin. “So you think Aksel and Tasset are the targets.”

“Knowing what I know now, yeah. One or both. That’s my bet. Them and as many of those counterterrorism officials in there as they can take with them. Think like a terrorist— To blow up a counterterrorism conference, and to do it across the street from the goddamn White House—”

DeSantos brought his sleeve to his mouth and spoke into his mike. “This is Santa. Where are Director Tasset and Director General Aksel? Over.”

DeSantos listened through his earpiece, then looked at Uzi with concern.

“Tasset’s with his detail,” DeSantos said. “But Aksel’s late coming down and he’s not answering his phone. Secret Service just went up to his suite to get him.”

Batula Hakim crossed the room and stood beside Gideon Aksel’s prone body. “Get him up.”

Alpha Zulu shifted his MP-5K compact submachine gun, then reached down and grabbed Aksel’s arm. “Get up, old man.”

Aksel, bound and gagged, could not respond other than providing resistance as Zulu struggled to pull the man to his knees, much like a tantruming toddler uses gravity in some super-secret high-tech manner to appear heavier than he is.

Frustrated, Zulu pointed the MP-5K at Aksel’s head. “Get up, goddamnit, or I’ll blow you away right now!”

Hakim threw out a protective hand. “No—”

“To hell with your personal vendetta,” Zulu said. “We have a mission to carry out and we’re running out of time.”

Hakim set her jaw and looked hard at him. “We’ve got fourteen minutes. And I deserve every one of them.”

Zulu stared back. But he knew that no amount of reasoning would change her mind. Damn bitch. If we didn’t need her and her group, we could’ve gotten rid of her a long time ago. “Fine. But if things go to hell, we take Aksel and leave. Whether or not you get Uzi. Am I clear?” He got a slight nod in response. “But we’re not going anywhere if we can’t get him into the elevator.”

Hakim stepped forward and viciously slammed the stock of her submachine gun into Aksel’s temple. “Get the fuck up!”

Aksel’s neck snapped to the side, and a trickle of blood appeared where the metal had ripped through the skin. He looked up at Hakim with bloodshot gray eyes that seemed to sizzle with anger. But the tough old bird shook off the pain and slowly got to his feet.

Zulu shoved him toward the door and was about to grab the knob when a series of firm knocks froze him in midstride. Zulu shoved the muzzle of his MP-5K into Aksel’s ribs.

“Director General,” called a voice behind the door. “Please open up. Agent Vickers, Secret Service.”

Zulu motioned Batula Hakim to a hidden spot off to his left, then dragged Aksel backwards a few feet to the middle of the room near where his dead bodyguards lay.

Hakim removed a suppressed Walther from the holster on her belt and unlocked the deadbolt.

“It’s open,” Zulu yelled from across the room. “Come in.”

The doorknob turned and two Secret Service agents walked in. In a fraction of a second, their gazes took in the scene — Aksel gagged and bleeding, his hands bound behind him — and four men lying on the floor in pools of blood. The agents reached for their weapons, but it was a fruitless maneuver.

Batula Hakim fired two headshots, and the men fell limp. She reached over, relocked the door, and walked across the room toward the phone.

DeSantos was waiting for Director Knox to respond to his request for a modification of their operational plan when the telephone rang. The concierge looked up and cupped the handset. “Agent Uziel? Is there an Agent Uziel here?”

Uzi and DeSantos shared a perplexed look, then Uzi reached over and took the phone.

“This is Uzi.”

“I take it you know who this is.”

Leila. Batula Hakim. The woman who murdered my family. “Yeah, I know who it is.” Uzi moved the phone so DeSantos could share the handset.

“I have something you want.”

A few days ago, that statement would have brimmed with raw sexual tension. But now it carried visceral emotion filled with vengeance. “Where and when?”

“In the basement by the kitchen. Come alone or I’ll kill another person you care about.”

The line went dead. Uzi eyed the fire alarm panel across the room, to the left of the main entry doors. It had worked with Rudnick’s building. It’d be a much more orderly way to evacuate the hotel than to announce there were terrorists about to detonate a bomb.

“Where did that call come from?” DeSantos asked.

The concierge looked at his panel. “Presidential Suite, eighth floor.”

DeSantos’s shoulders slumped. “Go to the basement. I’m going up to Aksel’s room.” He brought his secure sleeve mike up to his lips and spoke into it: “Hot Rod, Santa. Come down from the roof, meet Uzi in the basement. Hakim may be en route. Armed and dangerous. Potential hostage situation. Hodges, meet me on floor eight, Presidential Suite. Same parameters. Rest of you, take support positions. Over.”

“Tell Knox and get HRT and SWAT up to speed,” Uzi said as he backed away. He ran to the fire alarm, and pulled the switch. A blaring siren started wailing.

A nearby bellman pointed at Uzi. “Hey! What’re you doing?”

Uzi moved quickly toward him. “What’s the fastest way to the basement?”

The young man with slicked back hair was frozen by Uzi’s urgent tone. “The John Hay room,” he shouted, squinting against the siren’s blare. “Far left wall behind the divider.” He gestured across the lobby.

“Get everyone out,” Uzi said, backing away. “Emergency’s real.”

He ran past the bank of elevators, then turned right down the short wood-paneled corridor and pushed through the etched glass doors. The two hundred foreign dignitaries and press corps packed into the grand dining hall/conference room collided with one another as they rushed for the doors. Four Secret Service agents looked overwhelmed as they attempted to exact an orderly exit.

Uzi pulled the Smith & Wesson from his belt, but kept it beneath the flap of his jacket as he worked his way through the crowd of tables toward the far left wall. After slipping behind the tall folding room divider, he entered the stairwell that led to the basement. With his back to the wall and his weapon now out in front of him, he slowly descended the steps.

The long, white-tiled basement hallway fed into, and dead-ended at, the kitchen. A room service cart stood off to the right, opposite a black elevator door. Uzi craned his neck, trying to see around tall industrial plastic containers and boxes of Evian stacked six rows high.

Close quarters and impaired line of sight. Great.

About the only positive was that the fire alarm was not nearly as loud down here.

He turned right into the main area of the kitchen. Aside from adobe tile flooring, stainless steel dominated the room. Ovens, cook stoves, refrigerators, and deep sinks brimmed with the matte-finish metal. Sizzling steaks sat on the broiler to his left. With the fire alarm ringing, the cooks had shut off the burners and evacuated. Uzi pushed forward into the adjacent room, where a walk-in freezer swallowed the far wall. Clear.

He lowered his Smith & Wesson and took in the lay of the land: this portion of the basement consisted mostly of the kitchen — which itself was a dead end. Though there was only one way in or out, an elevator and two feeder staircases spilled into the corridor twenty yards away, near where he’d entered.

A rumble in that direction grabbed his attention. Stepping out of the elevator was a ski-masked man with a compact assault rifle, followed by a bloody, handcuffed Gideon Aksel.

And Batula Hakim.

Uzi swung his S&W toward Hakim’s head. Their eyes met and he saw something in them he had never seen before. Deep-seated contempt. His probably said the same.

“Should I call you Leila Harel or Batula Hakim?”

“You’re a fool, not to know the woman who killed your beloved wife and daughter.” She spit the words, her tone full of disdain. “To make love to me, to dishonor your wife like that.”

Uzi’s glance fell to Aksel’s eyes. They said nothing, if not agreement with Hakim’s statement. Uzi did not bother defending himself, did not bother explaining that she looked vastly different from the grainy intelligence photo he had seen of her so many years ago. He stole a look at her masked conspirator— the man was letting the scene play out and presented no immediate threat. Uzi turned back to Hakim. “Your problem’s with me. Let him go.”

“You! The man who killed my brother—

you think you can order me around?” She pressed her submachine gun against Aksel’s temple. “Would it hurt you to see his brains blown out, Uzi? Would it?”

“I didn’t kill your brother, Hakim. Your own man killed him. His bullet ricocheted. I was pinned down and couldn’t get off a shot.”

“Liar.”

“Ask the Director General. He saw my report. If I’d killed Ahmed, there’d be no reason to say I didn’t. I fucked up the op. If I’d said I killed Ahmed, I would’ve looked a whole lot better.”

“He already told me what happened. Haven’t you, Gideon?” She looked at Aksel and smiled out of the left side of her mouth, then turned back to Uzi. “Years ago he told me what happened.”

Uzi’s brow furrowed. Why is she calling him by his first name? Why would he have told her anything? “What are you talking about?” He looked to Gideon for confirmation. But the man averted his eyes.

With her free hand, Hakim yanked on the knot holding Aksel’s gag in place, then tossed the rag to the ground. “Tell him, Gideon. Tell him who I worked for.”

Aksel kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.

“I worked for Mossad,” Hakim said. “Just like you. Just like Ahmed. Yes, my brother was on Mossad’s payroll the whole time he lived in Egypt. Both of us recruited by your friend here. A fact that remains hidden from everyone at Mossad even to this day. When you were sent to kill my brother, it was because Gideon discovered Ahmed was a double agent who’d given him bogus information. Ahmed was playing him. And it cost two agents their lives.

“Mossad was still in trouble after several high profile fuck-ups, and Gideon Aksel — brought in to ‘save the day’—was going to take the heat if the new prime minister found out his grand master had been duped.” Hakim looked at Aksel, drew back, and spit in his face. “My brother would never betray his allegiance to the Palestinian people.”

The director general leaned away in disgust.

No. She’s lying. “Gideon?”

Aksel still would not look at him.

Uzi faced Hakim. “You killed an innocent woman… a sweet little girl.” He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his composure. “You’re a woman, how could you have done that?”

“Their lives were unimportant. You killed my brother. It was my right to take revenge, to give you the same pain you gave me. Relentless emotional pain, tortured forever.”

Uzi felt tears filling his eyes but fought back the emotion. “I told you, I didn’t kill your brother!”

“Deny it all you want. But I saw the mission reports. Gideon showed me the classified file. He told me he was sorry for what had happened and wanted to set the record straight, that you were acting on your own.”

Uzi looked at Gideon. “That’s bullshit. Our mission was to take out Ahmed and his cell before they could bomb the Knesset. About the only thing I’m guilty of is not following orders. I couldn’t believe Ahmed would do such a thing. I liked him, I wanted to give him a chance to explain.” Uzi stopped himself, realizing that his assumption as to why Maya and Dena had been murdered was incorrect. It wasn’t the terrorist who escaped who lied about the ricochet killing Ahmed. It was Gideon. He told Hakim I shot her brother.

“Why, Gideon? Do you realize what you did?”

Aksel looked up at Uzi with war-weary eyes. “It was a price that had to be paid, Uzi. It took me two years to clean up Mossad’s reputation and restore its credibility; even countries we’re supposedly at peace with give terrorists safe harbor, weapons, and money to attack us. You know that. An effective Mossad is essential to Israel’s survival.” He sighed, looked down, and then lifted his chin. “We made a mistake. I made a mistake. Recruiting Hakim and her brother… It was a fatal error. My fatal error. The only one I’ve ever made.”

“You needed a scapegoat,” Uzi said. “So you pinned it on me, falsified the mission reports.”

“I never intended for her to kill your family, Uzi. I never meant for that to happen. For that, I am sorry. But what I did, I did for the survival of our country.” He turned to face Hakim, the barrel of her gun jabbing him in the bloodied portion of his temple. “Uzi didn’t kill your brother.”

“He’s a Jew,” Hakim spat. “A Zionist. That makes him guilty. Whether he killed Ahmed or not, it doesn’t matter. He deserves what I did to him. And you deserve what I’m going to do to you.”

Uzi’s arms were still extending the gun out in front of him. “You got your revenge, Hakim. But this is a different time, a different place. This is where it ends. Drop your weapon.”

Troy Rodman leaned against the wall, his physique, black tunic, and assault gear leaving the ignorant bystander no doubt that he was some sort of Special Forces operative. Headset firmly atop his shaven scalp and the boom mike an inch from his lips, he stood outside the basement stairwell listening to the goings on thirty feet away and around the bend.

It had taken him longer than he would’ve liked to make it down from the roof after DeSantos’s call, as he had to take one floor at a time, checking for gunmen or booby traps — making sure he got to the scene in one piece. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if he arrived riddled with bullet holes and an extra pound of lead in his body.

He wished he had a fiber optic camera that snaked ninety degrees to his right so he could see the position of the hallway occupants. But he wasn’t equipped for battle. He was on-site support, and his orders were to travel light — which meant stripped down gear. Enough for barebones recon and assisting SWAT, if necessary.

But SWAT, HRT, and Secret Service were occupied: they had less than ten minutes to find the explosives, evacuate the building, and look after the safety of the roomful of dignitaries. And that meant Rodman was on his own.

He fished through his pouch and pulled out a small dental mirror — the low-tech equivalent of a fiber optic camera — and knelt down low. He moved the device into position, taking care not to catch light and cause a flare — because that’s when the shooting would start. And as much as he loved his MP-5 submachine gun, there were too many people around to start letting the lead fly.

But what he saw in the reflection was not good. The director general sandwiched between two well-armed mercenaries, with Uzi at one end of the corridor and himself at the other, in each other’s line of fire.

Rodman withdrew the mirror and remained quiet, listening to the conversation, waiting for his window of opportunity to open. Because if all went south, it didn’t really matter who was in the way, since rounds would be zipping about in all directions. The odds of anyone coming out alive were not high.

He checked his MP-5, brought it into position, and focused on what Uzi was saying: “… This is where it ends. Drop your weapon.”

“Drop my weapon?” Hakim asked. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Uzi. I don’t surrender. To anyone, let alone to you.”

Alpha Zulu checked his pocket watch. “We’re running out of time,” he said firmly to Hakim. He glanced over his shoulder toward the stairwell that led to the hotel’s side exit. “We’ve gotta go. Now.” He grabbed Aksel’s arm and pulled him backwards.

“Police! Don’t move!”

In one motion, Zulu turned and opened fire in the direction of the voice. He hit the man, but he wasn’t sure where, because the cop — or whatever he was — was firing too, and Zulu hit the ground hard, his Kevlar vest absorbing most of the rounds.

The corridor was an echoing mass of confusion, scattering bodies, and cacophonous submachine gun clatter. Zulu saw the gunman go down and slide back behind the corner — which was fortunate, because Zulu’s magazine was empty. He tried reaching the spare in his pocket, but stinging pain in his left arm and leg prevented him from retrieving it.

He craned his neck, hoping to see Hakim — but heard the elevator doors closing, and he figured she had left him there to die. The firing had ceased, but he had to get out of there. More Feds would be arriving any second.

He rolled onto his injured side and began crawling along the tile floor, hoping to reach the exit, where he could make it to the street. After that, he wasn’t sure where he would go. But he needed to go somewhere, because even if the cops didn’t come running, remaining where he was meant instant death.

In less than five minutes.

Uzi saw Rodman’s head a split second before his body appeared in the corridor, followed by the MP-5 muzzle and Rodman’s resonant voice. And then the ski-masked man’s submachine gun fire muted everything around him.

Uzi’s first instinct was to grab Aksel and get him to the ground. But an errant round had struck Aksel somewhere, and the hefty man dropped to the ground on his own. Uzi crawled forward and tried to shield the director general’s body, but a row of rounds struck the tile directly in front of him and drove Uzi back. He fired at the moving target — the ski-masked terrorist — and scored several direct hits to the body.

But as Uzi swung his S&W toward Hakim, she ducked behind closing elevator doors. He got to his feet and saw her colleague crawling toward the stairwell. Uzi kicked away the assault rifle, sending it clattering across the slick floor. He shoved the barrel of his handgun against the back of the man’s head. “Give me a reason to send you where you sent my friend.”

Uzi made his point, because his prisoner did not even twitch a muscle. Uzi rooted out a self-locking flexcuff, then yanked his prisoner’s hands behind his back. As he ratcheted the restraint down tight, the man jerked back in pain, and a silver pocket watch fell out of his pocket. Uzi shoved it back into the man’s pants, and then moved past Aksel’s prone body. The director general was still alive — Uzi felt it more than knew it — but he had to get to Hakim. He couldn’t let her get away.

“Rodman,” Uzi called out. “You okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Fine.” Uzi glanced up at the elevator. The indicator light above the doors showed it heading toward the fourth floor. “Coming around. Hold your fire.”

Uzi moved toward the staircase. Rodman was leaning against the wall, an MP-5 clasped in his left hand, tracking Uzi as he appeared around the bend. Uzi immediately noted a blood-soaked tourniquet twisted about the operative’s thigh.

“Go get her,” Rodman said.

“Get Aksel out of here, bomb’s going off in—”

“Goddamn it, Uzi— Go get her!”

Uzi turned and sprinted up the stairs.

Uzi was making exceptional time, but tired as he hit the sixth-floor landing. He slipped on the slick gunmetal gray slate steps and thought about stopping and going back down and getting out of the building before it exploded. Hakim had nowhere to go but up — yet he had no way of knowing if she’d gotten out on one of the floors or if she’d taken the elevator to the roof.

Doubting he would be able to find her before the building came down, he questioned the wisdom of continuing. But his promise to Rudnick smacked him across the face. He had to go on.

His instincts told him Hakim would avoid the lobby because there would be armed agents there on the lookout for her. If she had gotten off at one of the floors, there was no way out of the hotel. But if she made it to the roof, she might be able to cross to the adjacent building.

Knowing Hakim, alternate escape routes would have been plotted out ahead of time.

Gotta be the roof.

Grabbing the black wrought iron staircase railing for leverage, he rounded the eighth floor landing and headed up toward the metal fire door.

Sweat blanketing his torso and face, his breathing labored, he burst forward onto the rooftop. The cold wind burned his dry throat.

Weapon out in front of him, he stepped onto the long, rectangular patio, which extended thirty feet ahead to his right and was bounded by the same iron railing that ran the length of the staircase.

Ahead of him: 16th Street, Lafayette Park, the White House. The Explosives Ordinance Disposal truck was no doubt parked below on 16th, alongside scores of Metro PD and Federal Protective Service cruisers.

She wouldn’t be at this end of the building — no fire escapes or adjacent buildings.

Uzi jogged right, past a doorway that led to the elevator, then slowed and swept his weapon from side to side, expecting the building to start shaking and collapsing beneath his feet.

Movement— Off to his right. Hakim — by the edge, facing away from him, on a graveled area of the roof. He swiveled his S&W toward her — and realized he had no idea how many rounds he’d fired in the basement. Were there any left in the magazine? Was there even one left in the chamber? So much commotion, so many bullets flying, it was all a jumble. As he inched toward her, he had to accept that he had no way of knowing what he had left — without ejecting the clip, which he was not about to do.

Hakim must have heard the crunch of his heel against the hard surface, because she spun, settling the red laser targeting beam of her assault rifle dead square on Uzi’s chest. Between them stood only a two-foot-high wrought-iron fence.

“So it’s come down to this,” she said with the confidence of someone who knew she was in complete control.

“You’ve killed three people that were very dear to me, Hakim. As well as countless others.”

“Countless? I know exactly how many I’ve killed in my lifetime.”

“That can’t go unpunished.”

“An eye for an eye, Uzi?”

He shook his head slowly. “You’re going to stand trial for your crimes.” He realized that with the laser burning a hole where his heart lay, and wearing no Kevlar vest, he was talking tough without the power to back it up. And with the building due to explode, she wouldn’t waste any more time with him. She wasn’t going to chance the possibility that he would — again — survive the blast.

Her right arm moved suddenly — and Uzi dove and rolled, and came up firing. But his round struck a vertical bar of the intervening fence.

Uzi squeezed the trigger again — and dry-fired an empty chamber.

Fuck.

He tossed the spent S&W aside.

Hakim squared her shoulders and smiled. She brought the rifle up to her face slowly, savoring the kill. The red beam once again settled on his chest.

Uzi turned and ran a zigzag route away from her while pulling his Tanto from its sheath. Like a driving rainstorm, bullets pricked the cement all around him. But in one motion, he spun and whipped the Tanto through the thick DC air.

It found its mark in her chest, slicing through breast and muscle below the fourth rib. Her body went rigid and she dropped the assault rifle. Her eyes bugged out. And the breath seeped from her lung.

Struggling for air, Hakim stumbled backwards, her hands feeling the front of her chest for the handle of the knife. Her left heel hit the low cement curb and she fell over the edge, disappearing from view.

Uzi sprinted for the adjacent rooftop. He hit full speed and leaped over the edge of the hotel, bicycling through the air across the twelve-foot gap before landing hard one story below, atop the United States Chamber of Commerce. Pain shot through his ankles and knees. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, then found the staircase that led to the street.

A moment later, Uzi headed up H Street, running toward the barrier where he had left his car. Behind him, the Hay-Adams was still standing, a glance at his watch telling him it was a few minutes past two. Either EOD had defused the bomb or his timing had been off. Or there hadn’t been a bomb at all.

He pulled his cell and noticed that the battery had been jarred loose. He reseated it and powered up the phone. He tried reaching DeSantos — and got through.

“Hakim’s history,” Uzi said. “She went packing and had an awful trip.”

“I noticed. She’s sprawled out about ten feet away from me. You want your knife back?”

“Evidence now. Make sure it gets bagged and tagged.”

“Hell with that. I think you deserve to keep it. Another tchotchke to put on your bookshelf, next to the canteen with the bullet hole.”

Uzi didn’t know how to respond to that. “How’s Rodman?”

“Medic thinks he’ll need surgery on his leg, but he’s a tough fucker. Speaking of which, he got Aksel out. Old guy’s pretty banged up. Nasty GSWs to the hip and arm, but he’ll make it.”

“What about the bomb?”

“There were two. The dogs sniffed ’em out. EOD defused them with six seconds to spare.”

Uzi closed his eyes. Six seconds.

“Where are you? Knox is gonna want to debrief you.”

“Headed back to my car. Debrief will have to wait. What about an ID on our masked avenger? Hakim’s accomplice?”

“Guy’s a freaking looney tune. Refuses to say anything, other than name, rank, and serial number. Says he’s some kind of ‘sovereign citizen,’ exempt from federal and state laws.”

“Classic militia claim.”

“Get this,” DeSantos said with a chuckle. “Guy claimed his name is General Grant.”

Uzi stopped in midstride. “General Grant?”

“That mean something to you?”

“Maybe nothing,” Uzi said as he approached his car. “Maybe everything.”

Before hanging up, Uzi told DeSantos to bring Knox to the warehouse where he had left Quentin Larchmont ninety minutes earlier. On the drive over, Uzi continued ruminating. He had secured vital pieces to the puzzle, but key parts were still missing.

Lewiston Grant in bed with Batula Hakim— How did that fit in with Quentin Larchmont and the NFA? With Knox? Was the Skiles Rathbone-Douglas Knox connection a dead end, or was it suddenly thrust to the forefront in view of the discovery of Larchmont’s involvement? If someone that high in the administration could be a conspirator, why not the attorney general and FBI director? Then there was Secret Service Agent Benedict, one of Whitehall’s security detail, a highly prestigious post—

Uzi forced himself to slow down; jumping to conclusions and accepting such a far-reaching conspiracy theory that involved the two highest law enforcement figures in the United States — and possibly even the president — might blind him to what was really going on. He needed to keep an open mind, to put things in play and see where they led.

And right now, with Knox and DeSantos on the way over to where Larchmont was being held, he would have two key figures in one place. He called his office and asked Madeline to have Shepard meet them at the warehouse immediately. He still held out hope that, should Knox be wrapped up in this, Shepard would be the one to stand witness and support him in what needed to be done.

He hung up — and Tim Meadows immediately called through.

“Uzi, I heard about the hotel. This ain’t your day, is it?”

“Hard to say, Tim. I’m still alive, I may be close to breaking this thing wide open — and I killed the terrorist who murdered my family.”

“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but…”

“Bad news?”

“I found something else. I really think you should come by. We shouldn’t talk about this over an unsecured line.”

Never a fan of delayed gratification, Uzi said, “You got something important, now would be a really good time to tell me.”

Meadows hesitated a moment, then continued: “I did that check you asked me to do, on the digital files of all the federal—”

“Still kinda short on time, Tim. Get to the point.” Uzi pulled into the alley adjacent to the warehouse. The crimson blood spatter, though dry now, was still visible on the charcoal asphalt.

“My worm found some irregularities in another file,” Meadows said. “And this is where it gets hairy—”

Uzi pulled to a stop and waited for Meadows to continue. When he didn’t, Uzi asked, “Where what gets hairy? Tim?”

He checked the handset, then tossed it aside in disgust. The battery had finally died. He sat there for a second, wondering what digital file had been altered. Realizing that Knox and Shepard would be arriving soon, he got out of the car and headed into the warehouse.

He pulled out his Puma and moved carefully, as the building had not been secured while he was gone. After deciding it was safe, he searched the bodies of Larchmont’s dead guards. He found another S&W, a spare magazine and… a cell phone.

As he neared the Suburban, he called Meadows. While it rang, Uzi looked in on Larchmont, whose eyes were wide with fear, no doubt wondering why Uzi had returned — holding a gun — and with no one else in sight.

Meadows answered. “Damn it, Uzi, I hit the climax of my amazing discovery, something that could get me the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and I find out I’m talking to a dead line.”

“Battery went out on me. I told you, you talk too much.”

“Okay, then I’ll get to the point. Are you sitting?”

“Tim—”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve checked it five times. The altered digital file belongs to none other than Glendon Rusch.”

Uzi squinted in disbelief. “What?”

“Yessir, that’s right. Our president-elect is not who he appears to be. Now you know why I wanted to tell you in person.”

Uzi looked at Larchmont through the glass. He thanked Meadows and told him to keep at it in case there were other surprises. He then walked around to the passenger door and climbed inside. Larchmont turned his restrained body toward Uzi. His dark eyes were puffy, his face ashen.

Uzi held up the handgun. “I’m going to remove your gag and we’re gonna have a chat. You cooperate and I’ll let you go. It’ll all be our little secret. You fuck with me, and I’ll have to kill you. And I’m not shitting you, Mr. Larchmont. I used to kill people for a living.”

Uzi detected a hint of fear glaze over the man’s eyes, then removed the tie and pulled the sock out of the man’s mouth. Larchmont smacked his lips repeatedly.

“Leaves it a bit dry, doesn’t it?” Uzi grinned knowingly. “Okay now. Here’s the deal. I tell you what I know, and then you tell me what you know. Honesty is the only correct answer. For each incorrect answer, I will put a bullet in your leg. Those are the rules. Pretty simple, really.”

Uzi maintained eye contact, waited a beat for Larchmont to read the intensity in his face, and then continued. “The man lying in the hospital pretending to be Glendon Rusch is not Glendon Rusch. Who is he really?”

Larchmont looked away. “I–I don’t know.”

Uzi lowered the handgun and shot Larchmont in the right foot. The blast inside the closed SUV was deafening.

“Ahh! Oh my god, you fucking son of a bitch—”

Uzi grabbed Larchmont’s hair with his left hand and yanked back. “I explained the rules to you,” he said with restrained fury. “Don’t lie to me again. Now, who’s in Glendon Rusch’s hospital bed?”

“Bryce Upshaw.”

Uzi released his grip. “The ARM member who told the Post that Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t change his position on gun control?”

Larchmont nodded. “He was picked from their membership. They went through over ten thousand applications. ARM started collecting vital stats on their members — height, weight, skin color, blood type. He had them email photos of their faces from all angles.”

“Militia members are super paranoid. Why would they agree to that?”

“They were told it was for security, to prevent government informants from infiltrating their compound.” He grimaced and looked down at his foot. “Didn’t work, though, did it?”

Another piece to the puzzle. “They found out about Agent Adams.”

“You were supposed to take the rap for his death. They changed the digitized ballistics profile on your gun, the one that’s stored in the Academy’s database.”

“Who did? They’d have to be on the inside, have access to secure government servers.”

“I don’t know.”

Uzi moved the gun toward Larchmont’s right leg.

“I swear, I don’t know their name!”

Larchmont maintained eye contact, leading Uzi to believe he was telling the truth. “What did Grant do with all this info he collected on the membership?”

“He ran the photos through a sophisticated 3D facial recognition program, then used medical prosthetic Computer-Aided Design software they adapted to evaluate facial configuration. They found someone with fairly close bone structure to Glendon Rusch. With some plastic surgery and a few months’ work with a personal trainer to reshape his body and a half-inch heel lift, Bryce Upshaw was almost a dead ringer. Even his blood type matched.”

That’s why Upshaw disappeared six months ago, after making his statement to the Post.

“They started training him. He watched tapes of Rusch, practiced copying his mannerisms, intonations. I tutored him on his political career and family life. Everything. His upbringing, his closest friends, bitter enemies, gambling losses, women he dated before he got married. The one he had an affair with ten years ago.”

“So Glendon Rusch died on that chopper.”

“His body was switched immediately after impact. His real body — what was left of it — was cremated.”

Uzi nodded slowly. It explained a lot. The extensive burns, for one. “Upshaw was willing to burn his face, hands, and throat, go through intense pain, multiple surgeries, live life disfigured—”

“All to be president of the United States. The most powerful man in the world. To further a cause he believed in with all his heart. Yes, he was.”

“And Winston Coulter? Director Knox?”

“What about them?”

“What were their roles?”

Larchmont squinted but maintained eye contact. “They don’t have anything to do with it.”

This was important. Uzi had to know the truth. He shoved the gun against Larchmont’s thigh. “I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t shoot! I’m telling you the truth. I swear. They’re not involved.”

“And President Whitehall?”

“Not involved.”

Uzi withdrew the gun. “And who made the changes in the IAFIS database?”

“All I know is we’ve got someone at CJIS in Clarksburg. I don’t know who.”

Uzi thought about this. It made sense that the fingerprint repository at the Criminal Justice Information Services Division was involved. “But why? Why go through all this trouble?”

Larchmont winced, looked again at his foot. “It’s throbbing. I need to get to an emergency room, get some painkillers.”

Uzi knew a gunshot wound to the foot was painful. But he had used this method of interrogation in the past, and in his experience, with all the adrenaline in Larchmont’s system, it would be awhile before he’d feel the injury’s full effects.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Not if you want me to let you go before my buddies start arriving. And they won’t be so anxious to cut you any deals. Now answer my question. Why go through all this trouble?”

Larchmont’s face crunched into a pained expression. He looked into his lap. “Power and money. What else is there in Washington, Agent Uziel? It all comes down to power and money.”

“Spare me the philosophical discussion.”

“It’s important, goddamn it!” Larchmont appeared to have been infused with energy, either from guilt over what he’d done or from frustration over the realization that his grand plan was now in shambles. “Without understanding why it was done…” He grunted. “Glen had this epiphany after his sister was killed. He thought he could solve all the country’s problems by getting guns out of the population’s hands. It’s a stupid thought, let alone one that’s totally wrong.”

“I already figured this part out,” Uzi said. “You and the NFA and ARM were stuck with Rusch and his newfound conscience. You wished he would just disappear. So you did the next best thing. You replaced him with someone you had total control over. Someone who would steer the policy of the federal government towards a loose interpretation of the Second Amendment, one that doesn’t restrict an individual’s right to own firearms.”

Larchmont shifted his weight, then winced. “There’s more to it than that.”

“I’m sure there is. Groups like these usually can’t work together. Egos, philosophical differences, get in the way.”

Larchmont snorted. “Power and money, remember? So much to gain, too much to lose by bickering with each other. Especially with our other partner.”

Uzi thought for a moment. Who’s that other partner? An influential intermediary? Or someone with leverage who could keep them together in spite of themselves— An outsider? Someone with leverage. An outsider. “Al-Humat.”

Larchmont nodded. “They funneled twenty-five million dollars to the NFA. And Russian and Chinese assault weapons, rocket-propelled grenade launchers, shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles, and enough Semtex and C-4 to bring down two World Trade Centers.” Perspiration had pimpled Larchmont’s face, his complexion looking a bit pasty. “Please,” he said. “My foot—”

“What’s al-Humat’s stake in all this?”

He blew some air through his lips. The pain was beginning to worsen. Uzi knew his time was growing short. He shoved his S&W into Larchmont’s groin. “Quickly!”

“Power and money, goddamnit! Look at who their partner is, who’s bankrolling them — al-Qaeda — and what their long-term strategy is. Control over our Mideast policy, for starters. They wanted us out of their affairs, our military bases off Arab soil — Turkey, Saudi Arabia, United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait— The Pentagon’s one of the world’s largest land owners. We’ve got over seven hundred bases in a hundred fifty-six countries.” He wiped his moist cheek against his right shoulder. “They intend to close down as many of them as they can.”

“To reduce our global influence. Shift the balance of power.” Uzi tilted his head. “But even controlling the presidency, I can’t see them running roughshod over the Pentagon and getting anything like that through Congress.”

“I told them they had some unrealistic goals. But they didn’t want to hear it and we needed them as partners. Still — it’s not as far-fetched as you think. We’d save a trillion dollars over ten years by closing the bases and selling off the land. Our debt load’s at unsustainable levels, and the people want more entitlement programs and fewer taxes. It doesn’t add up. To the average American, this would be an easy, painless fix. But I certainly had no interest in letting them eviscerate us. I figured I’d do my best to make sure we got everything we needed, and they didn’t get everything they needed.”

“Remind me to pin a medal on your chest. And al-Humat’s part?”

“What do you think? Internally, they want to wrest control from Hamas. But in the US, their goals are to facilitate the destruction of Israel.”

“And they really think they can turn the US against its only democratic ally in the Middle East?”

“Their plan’s obtuse, insidious. They’d advocate for expanding the basic needs of their young country — the construction of an airport in Palestine. That would be followed by the demand for basic defensive military capability. I don’t have to tell you that’s a nonstarter for Israel.”

And Uzi knew why. The country’s geography made it virtually impossible for Israel to defend itself against a Palestinian air attack before massive casualties would be realized.

“The Palestinians would file an application before the UN Security Council,” Larchmont continued. “And without the US to block it, they’d start a covert program to import offensive weapons through the Gaza-Egypt network of tunnels. It’s not always easy to draw the line between offensive and defensive weapons. And with al-Qaeda their new partner in crime, the chances of pulling this off are pretty damn good.”

Uzi’s jaw muscles tightened — as did his grip on the S&W. “I get the power part. What about the money?”

Larchmont smirked, as if Uzi should know the answer. “Oil. Does that surprise you? Tie up our alternative fuels industry in red tape, slow it down, divert funding, hamstring it. Put moratoriums on domestic offshore oil drilling and shale gas fracking. Reverse the huge influx in Canadian and Mexican petroleum imports.

“Bottom line, they want America back on a steady diet of Persian Gulf oil. OPEC’s bean counters hired some big-time consulting firm, commissioned a top secret report. America’s shifting energy policy alone will cost them nine billion a year in lost oil revenue. Not even the explosive demand from China and India will make up that kind of money. If the US is able to move off oil, China will follow. It’d be the end of the only leverage the Arabs hold over the world. Their economies would collapse. They’re a one-product region.”

“But a president’s hampered by the whims of Congress. These issues don’t get decided by unilateral presidential decrees.”

Larchmont stifled a sardonic laugh. “I’ve been in politics two decades, Agent Uziel. Never underestimate a popular president’s persuasive powers — and the power of the presidency on foreign policy matters. At times he needs congressional approval, absolutely. But it always comes down to the commander in chief. There are lots of ways he can influence decisions, directly and indirectly. And with sympathies high for a man who survived a terrorist attack that killed his family, he’ll start out with a tremendous bank account of compassion — and a very high approval rating. If Congress fights him too hard, they’ll look like bullies.”

Uzi couldn’t dispute that.

“And they have plans to cultivate senators and congressmen who share their views. It won’t be in your face like the Tea Party— It’ll be done insidiously, bankrolling candidates who either buy into their scheme or who are downright co-conspirators. But,” Larchmont said, “I think their biggest play is something they’ve kept to themselves. Provoke us into invading a Muslim country, make us look like the bad guys, the infidels forcing democracy down their throats, trying to destroy their religion—”

“And then, after multiple terror attacks against US assets, they draw us into wars all over the place, draining our money and manpower, bringing our economy to the brink of default by financing several wars on multiple fronts. I’m well aware of Saif al-Adel’s treatise.”

Larchmont winced and leaned forward to get a look at his foot. “It worked with the Soviet Union, and almost worked on us, with Iraq and Afghanistan. With their own commander in chief pulling the strings, reacting — or overreacting—to large-scale terror attacks here and abroad against our allies, their end game’s to bring America to her knees once and for all. If you think a debt load of $15 trillion is bad, you haven’t seen anything. And if China smells blood and calls their debt due, we’ll be royally fucked.”

Uzi squinted. “But China’s interests are best served by America paying off its obligations and continuing to buy its products.”

“China’s a rising superpower. They know it’s only a short time before they supplant the US. Their goal is to bring us down slowly — a soft landing, a slow decline. They’re after our technology and resources, weapons expertise and military systems. That’s why they’ve launched repeated cyberattacks on our government and corporations—”

“Best clandestine war ever.”

“I believe their goal is to eventually ‘own’ the United States… force us into defaulting on our debt, leaving us vulnerable to just about everything.” Larchmont leaned back and closed his eyes. “I was a partner in this, but that partnership only goes so far. I can be that inside source that keeps them in check.” He turned to Uzi. “Make me a deal, send me back in there to give you a window into—”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. A bunch of your people are already dead or in custody — and you can add Bryce Upshaw to that list. There’s nothing to send you back into.”

Larchmont ground his molars. “I need a doctor. I’ve told you all I know—”

“What about the people who died — Fargo, Ellison, Harmon, Bishop—”

“Sleepers.” Larchmont wiped at his perspiring cheek with a shoulder. “All except Bishop. Planted long ago. People whose personal beliefs led them to ARM or NFA. They were recruited and followed strict orders to keep their views quiet so they wouldn’t compromise the plan. Ellison should’ve been the hardest one to get, but he actually came to us. This whole thing was on the table years ago in one form or another. Grant, it was all his idea.”

“After he started Southern Ranks.”

“Before that. But then about three years ago, al-Humat came into the picture. I don’t know how, but whatever it was, Grant handled everything with them. They gave us the financial backing to make it happen and the plan was put in motion. Once Glen had his ‘gun-control epiphany,’ we realized we had to move. The parts were already in place.”

“Why were the sleepers killed if they did what was asked of them?”

“They became liabilities, once-valuable assets who’d outlived their usefulness.”

For the first time in their exchange, Uzi felt the cool malevolence emanating from the man.

Car doors slammed outside. Larchmont’s head turned. He heard them too.

He looked back at Uzi, then lifted his bound hands. “Let me go. Quickly.” His head whipped back toward the warehouse door, expecting it to burst open.

“Give me your hands.” Uzi took the S&W and pressed it against Larchmont’s palm and fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“You tried to grab the gun from me. It went off. Between that and what you told me, I think it’s called shooting yourself in the foot.”

Uzi popped open his door.

“No,” Larchmont yelled. “You said you’d let me go, that was our deal!”

Uzi shook his head in disgust, then headed out of the warehouse.

A black Suburban was parked behind Uzi’s BuCar. DeSantos and Douglas Knox were headed in Uzi’s direction when a Crown Vic pulled up behind the government metal. Marshall Shepard unfolded his large frame, then joined the cadre of men in front of the warehouse’s rollup door.

“Quentin Larchmont is in there,” Uzi said, “and he’s been very talkative.”

“That right?” Knox asked. He eyed Uzi suspiciously. “What exactly did he have to say?”

Uzi summarized the facts of the wide-reaching plan ARM, NFA, and al-Humat had launched. The three men listened intently. When Uzi finished, they remained silent, each absorbing the ramifications and reviewing their options and obligations before making their thoughts known.

Shepard put a hand on his forehead and appeared to be rubbing away the wrinkles. “Holy Jesus. Rusch ain’t Rusch. Man, oh man.”

The FBI director, lost in his own thoughts, began pacing. He pulled out his cell and, once out of earshot, began talking. Shepard fished out his own phone and started punching numbers.

DeSantos stood there looking at Uzi but did not say anything.

“What?” Uzi asked.

“Nothing.”

“That look wasn’t ‘nothing.’ What are you thinking?”

“I’m proud of you, boychick. You did good. You did better than good. This was huge.” He extended a fist. “You can work with me any day.”

Uzi touched his partner’s fist with his own. “You know, I had doubts about you. I wasn’t sure whose side you were on. I wasn’t sure whose side Knox or Coulter were on.”

“And what did I tell you? That Knox was clean. Right?”

Uzi nodded. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Hey, you were doing your job. Shit got confusing. You did the best you could. It all worked out in the end.”

Uzi thought of Leonard Rudnick, then shook his head. “Not everything. My doc. He and I got pretty close. He was in that building on M Street. I couldn’t get him out in time. He deserved a lot better.”

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.” He regarded his partner’s face, then asked, “You okay?”

“Numb. It’ll hit me one day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.” Uzi craned his neck skyward where gray nimbostratus clouds had descended over the district; the acrid air suggested an electrical storm was brewing. “What did Nuri leave in that DLB? Do we know yet?”

“A flash card with digital images. They’re still analyzing it, but on my way over here I was told there were bank statements, wire transfers, and financial records from a Saudi businessman with ties to a Swiss financier who’s in our database as a suspected AQ banker. Best guess is some of al-Humat’s funds were supplied by the Saudi and an unknown donor. I’m betting Iran will turn up in the mix, too. The funds were sent through the Swiss banker to an intermediary — some trust on the Isle of Man — before being shipped out to a Virginian charity that’s a front controlled by Lewiston Grant. Nuri did his usual thorough job.”

A sardonic smirk twisted Uzi’s lips. “They still think he committed suicide?”

DeSantos waved him off. “ME found subtle petechial hemorrhages, teeth impressions—”

“Suffocation.” Uzi nodded slowly. “They’ll also find a needle mark and trace pharmaceuticals in his tissues. You don’t stuff a pillow in the face of a guy like that without some help.”

“I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“And at the bottom they’ll find Batula Hakim.” He looked off at the nearby buildings. “Leila.”

They stood in silence a moment before DeSantos slapped Uzi’s shoulder with the back of a hand. “Hey, how about you stay with Maggie and me tonight.”

“No funny stuff, right? Ménage à trois…”

“Man, what do you think we are, sex fiends?” He shook his head. “We’d never do that on the first night a guest stays over.” He winked. “You can tell us about your doc, maybe that’ll help.”

“You know,” Uzi said, gazing off in the distance, “when I lost my wife and daughter, I lost a part of me, too. I withdrew from life. I didn’t go out, I lost touch with my friends. The doc gave me a lot to think about.” His eyes found DeSantos’s. “So did confronting Hakim.”

“There’s something you should know on that.” DeSantos checked over his shoulder to see where Douglas Knox was standing. “Aksel told me what happened in the hallway, things that were said. There’s stuff you don’t know. I confirmed it with Knox on the way over. Because of my relationship with him, he leveled with me.”

DeSantos looked at his feet, then met Uzi’s eyes. “Knox was in on the operation that recruited Hakim and her brother into Mossad. The CIA office in Cairo was working with the LEGATT,” he said, referring to the FBI’s Legal Attaché. “Remember the bombing against the US Embassy in Argentina?”

“In 2002.”

DeSantos nodded. “US intelligence got wind of intel that al-Humat was responsible, but they didn’t have proof. So Knox and Tasset proposed a joint op with Mossad. Aksel was skeptical, but they sold him on it. He was new on the job, so maybe he wanted to start things off right with his US counterparts. The key was turning Hakim and Ahmed into double agents. But when Aksel got wind that Ahmed was two-timing Mossad and was planning a huge hit on the Knesset, he was furious and told Knox and Tasset he was pulling the plug on the embassy op, that his first obligation was to protect his country from a devastating attack.

“Problem was, Tasset refused to fold up the tent. He thought he could still make it work — until Muhammad bin Zayed escaped after his shot ricocheted and killed Ahmed. If it got out that Ahmed was on Mossad’s payroll, the prime minister would’ve demanded full disclosure. It would’ve been a disaster for Mossad. But Tasset freaked because he was afraid Aksel would leak the US role to deflect attention off Mossad. Aksel said he was more worried about finding bin Zayed in case there was a backup plan for the attack on the Knesset.

“But Tasset didn’t believe that an accidental ricochet killed Ahmed. He thought Zayed found out that Ahmed was working with Mossad, and he killed him for being a traitor.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“But Tasset didn’t know that. He freaked. He knew it could’ve meant the end of his power trip as director. So he pressured Aksel for deniability. He told him to create a lie to protect the CIA.”

“And I was that lie. A scapegoat.”

DeSantos nodded. “Aksel refused. But Tasset bluffed, told him that if Mossad wanted full CIA cooperation and intel going forward, he’d better play ball.”

Uzi sighed deeply. “And because of that, my family was killed. I guess I owe Earl Tasset something. A punch in the face.”

“Or something a little more permanent.”

Uzi bit his lip. His eyes scanned the men standing out of earshot. “Someday. Right now, I just want to decompress. Reflect. Heal.”

Shepard stuffed his phone in a pocket and rejoined Uzi and DeSantos. “Tasset’s on his way. Not happy he wasn’t invited to the party.”

Uzi snorted. Tough shit.

Shepard squinted confusion, but said, “I’ve got agents on their way over to deal with Larchmont.”

“Tell them he’ll need a medic,” Uzi said. “He accidentally shot himself in the foot.”

Shepard looked at Uzi with a sideways glance. “Oh, yeah?”

“Bummer when that happens,” DeSantos said.

Uzi shrugged. “Struggle for the gun.”

“Right,” Shepard said, appraising Uzi. “You and me, my friend. We’ve got some things to discuss. About following procedure. Following procedure is vital to a field agent’s duties—”

“Shep? Shut up.”

Shepard started to back away. “I’ll catch up with you at the office. And before you ask, answer’s ‘no.’ You don’t have the rest of the day off.”

Douglas Knox walked up to them, his BlackBerry extended toward Uzi. “The president would like a word with you.”

DeSantos raised his eyebrows. Uzi smiled, enjoying the moment of self-importance as he took the phone.

“Mr. President, this is Uzi.”

“Agent Uziel, my man of the hour. I want to congratulate you, son. I had faith in you that very first day we met. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. For your country.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be glad to know that at this very moment, two Secret Service agents are taking Bryce Upshaw into custody. And according to the insightful Constitution of this great country, the Twenty-fifth Amendment outlines an orderly succession to Vice President-elect Nunn. Thank goodness for amendments. I doubt the Founding Fathers could’ve envisioned such a scenario as we’re faced with today.”

“No, sir, I doubt they could have.”

“I’d like you to be my guest for lunch. Does tomorrow work for you?”

“My schedule’s suddenly clear, Mr. President. Thank you, sir.”

Uzi handed the phone back to the director.

Knox nodded at Uzi. It was a short, subdued dip of the chin, an expression Uzi took as a look of admiration. Though he felt he might be reading more into it than intended, he didn’t think so. He interpreted it as an acknowledgment of respect the director didn’t dole out very often.

But Knox’s next comment removed all doubt. “Welcome to the fold,” he said.

Uzi wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be one of Knox’s chosen few. Despite being clean in this instance, Uzi still wasn’t sure about the man. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the offer. “Thank you, sir.”

Knox gave DeSantos a “follow me” tilt of the head, then moved off toward his car.

Uzi shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I’ll meet you at your place in a couple of hours.”

As DeSantos walked off, Uzi felt something in his right rear pocket and pulled it out. It was the claim check for the beer he had brewed with Leila. New Beginnings. He crumpled the ticket into a tight ball. He was turning a new leaf — a new beginning, indeed — and the first thing he was going to do was bring that chapter of his life to a close.

With all that had happened today, he felt he was finally able to do that. He flashed on something Rudnick had told him: Don’t let yesterday’s pain become tomorrow’s sorrow. It’s healthy to move on. Not to learn how to forget, but to learn how to remember. Though it made sense at the time, Uzi didn’t fully comprehend what the doctor was trying to tell him.

Now he understood.

The crisp winter wind wound through the barren trees along the periphery of the Capitol building. Heavy snow had fallen throughout the day yesterday, well into the late evening hours, snarling traffic and nearly shutting down the district. Inaugural event planners sat on their phones, ensuring vendors made their planned deliveries, while others worked their cells trying to arrange alternate routes of transportation for VIPs and invited guests.

The Secret Service poured over their blueprints and diagrams, grumbling about crowd control for two million people amid mounds of snow that had yet to be adequately cleared — wish-list cover for prospective gunmen.

Although thought was given to postponing the presidential Inauguration or changing its venue, it was an idea that garnered little support. If ever there was a time for America to show its resiliency and strength, it was now. Today. During the succession and transfer of power laid out by the Constitution. In accordance with our laws and customs. When and where it’s supposed to happen. Pomp. Circumstance. Politics and power. All on display.

If God decided to blanket the land in white, so be it. Perhaps it was a purveyor of good things — of purity — to come.

And perhaps not.

Television cameras, their cables snaking along the winter-pale grass, rolled as black-robed, white-haired Chief Justice Wendell Harris faced President-elect Vance Nunn.

Uzi had an unbelievably close seat, slightly off to the side and just over Nunn’s right shoulder, dressed in a pinstripe suit, beside Hector DeSantos, Douglas Knox, and outgoing president Jonathan Whitehall. Whitehall gently nudged Uzi’s elbow and leaned in close. Uzi bowed his head.

“You should be quite proud right about now, Agent Uziel. Of anyone else standing here today, you are almost single-handedly responsible for this.”

Uzi suppressed a smile, then turned to face the podium where President-elect Nunn and his wife, Doris, stood, their coats fluttering in the wind like the proud American flag atop the Capitol. Uzi did, in fact, feel good about the role he had played. But for the past few weeks, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed something. An insidiously creeping feeling — a mosquito bite that wouldn’t go away. Itching, scratching, red and swollen — always there, sometimes intolerable.

He’d been over things several times, and when he had continued to come up empty, finally confessed his unease to DeSantos. DeSantos chortled and punched him in the shoulder. Told him to relax, the job was done and everything ended happily ever after.

There were moments when Uzi was able to let it go, to revel in the knowledge he had done his job and done it well. Then there were the moments when it gnawed at him so much he had to go for a run. Or lift weights. Or shoot a few hundred rounds at the range.

He huddled with Tim Meadows and they dug some more, crawling through various hacked databases, an unofficial journey through official files, hoping to find other digital irregularities. Other than Rusch’s altered electronic medical records file — doctored to contain data belonging to Bryce Upshaw — they found nothing. The identity of the CJIS technician, whose digital wizardry played a crucial role, remained a mystery.

Finally, having reached the conclusion he had done everything in his power, Uzi began to relax. He immersed himself in a new case with Hoshi, and that seemed to help.

But now, standing on the West Portico of the United States Capitol building, amidst the ceremony and splash of the official political event being watched the world over, that sense of disquiet crept back under his skin. The mosquito bite rose again.

“This is the part I lived for,” Whitehall said by his ear. “Franklin Roosevelt was a fortunate man, yes sir. Term limits ought to be abolished, I’ve said it many times. I could’ve gone for a third term, you know. Seventy percent approval rating right up to the end.”

Uzi forced a thin grin, his mind once again running through the details of the case. Searching for that one thing he might have missed.

As Uzi mused unproductively, Vance Nunn stood opposite the judge, his right hand held high and his left resting on the good book. “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution….”

Having repeated the oath, Nunn firmly shook the hand of the Chief Justice, then turned to give Doris a kiss and hug.

Uzi sighed heavily and for some reason — perhaps it was Rudnick’s comment about the need to “move on”—his apprehension caught the next gust and blew away, into the angry gray skies. It was over now, the final period at the end of a long chapter. It wasn’t such a bad day after all, he realized. Democracy was being served — which was, of course, the purpose behind the oath he himself had taken: to uphold the laws of the greatest country on the face of the Earth.

A twenty-one-gun salute marked the change of command as the national anthem roared through the high-powered, stadium-style speakers. Vance Nunn appeared to fight back tears, then saluted the crowd. With Doris at his side, he turned regally to the large walnut podium to deliver his inaugural address. As the masses settled down and took their seats, the teleprompter operator queued up the speech. Nunn dug a hand into his overcoat, rooted out a palm-sized object, and glanced down at it. It was a pocket watch.

A sterling silver pocket watch with a gold-inlaid scorpion.