Hard Target

DAY ONE

Uzi brought his fist up to his mouth as the yawn stretched his lips wide. Fatigue was not just announcing its arrival, it was propping up the pillows and begging him to find a bed. He needed a Turkish coffee — but at this time of night, in the middle of the countryside, that was not going to happen. He hugged his body tight as a shiver rippled through his shoulders.

He hadn’t wanted to call his old contact. There were issues such a meeting would bring up, things he didn’t want to discuss. But he needed information his former colleague might be able to provide; the man was dialed in, always was, and with a nine-day deadline, Uzi needed something to set him in the right direction, intel that could streamline his efforts and spark his investigation. If there was anyone who could do that, like jumper cables to a dead car battery, it was Nuri Peled.

Uzi sat beneath a grove of trees on a metal mesh bench in Pershing Park, an unexpected slice of suburbia two blocks from the White House. To his right and across the street stood the regal centenarian Willard InterContinental Hotel, the “crown jewel” of Pennsylvania Avenue. Uzi remembered reading that the term “lobbyist” had been coined in the Willard’s grand lobby and that writers Mark Twain and Walt Whitman had once chosen it as a place to gather and socialize.

The dense tree canopy filtered what little moonlight trickled down amidst the weary glow of streetlamps dotting the park’s multiple levels. Uzi checked his watch, then fought off another yawn. A welcome teeth-chattering breeze blew across his face and woke him a bit. He wished Peled would arrive soon.

Fifteen minutes past the hour, the stocky form of a man in a running suit sauntered up to the reflecting pond set into granite banks near the center of the park. Uzi nonchalantly gazed in the man’s direction, positively identified his friend, and then pulled himself off the bench, headed toward the large bronze statue of General James Pershing, the park’s namesake. Marbled charcoal granite walls surrounded the figure; historical World War I blurbs and battle tales etched the smooth rock face.

The patter from the pond’s fountain masked surrounding noises — so well that Peled was able to make a silent approach. Uzi turned and took in the man’s face. More lines creased the eyes and a few scraggly gray hairs sprouted beneath his knit cap, but otherwise Nuri Peled looked the same as the last time Uzi had seen him.

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” Peled said, his voice as rough as a nail file.

Uzi looked away. “I’m with the Bureau now.”

“We know.” Peled rocked back and forth on his heels. “How have you been? Since, well… since you left.”

“Fine. I’ve been fine.”

To this Peled looked at Uzi for the first time, his clear, appraising eyes doing a quick calculation. “You’re lying.”

“I need some info,” Uzi said. He glanced over his left shoulder and scanned the park’s crevices. He faced the statue again, the high walls behind it effectively shielding their mouths from anyone attempting to lip-read from a distance. The fountain noise would foil parabolic microphones and other high-tech listening tactics. “Intel,” Uzi said, “on hostiles back home.”

A short chuckle blurted from Peled’s throat. “That’s a bit open-ended, my friend. Can you be more specific?”

“Relative to the US, anything major being planned the past few months?”

“There’s always chatter.”

“I’m not interested in chatter. Reliable intel, Nuri. You know what happened tonight. You know what I’m asking.”

“I’m no longer with our former employer. A friendly ally, though. Not to worry.” Now it was Peled’s turn to check their surroundings. After a scouring look around, he turned back to Uzi and said, “Possibly some activity involving a radical Islamic group. A whisper on the wind that one of them has set up shop here. Haven’t been able to verify any of that yet.”

“This whisper. Related to the chopper bombing?”

“Can’t say. But if they are here, they’re quite good, very quiet. Unaffiliated with mosques or imams. Independent funding. At least, no known connections with traditional money sources.”

“Best guess.”

“Best guess is that I can’t guess yet. If you don’t mind some friendly advice, this one smells domestic. But that’s just my gut. Other than the whisper — which may or may not be related — I’m not seeing anything that puts a foreign terrorist anywhere near your case. But I just started poking around. If they’re here, I’ll find them. I’ll have to dig a little faster in light of tonight’s… events.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know me well enough to know I’m not doing it for you.”

Uzi nodded contritely. “Of course.”

“I miss working with you, Uzi.”

“Yeah, well, things don’t always turn out the way we expect them to, you know?”

Peled kicked at a pebble by his shoe, then said, “I’ll contact you if I find anything.”

Uzi stood there, considering the inadequacy of his own words, thinking how life can change from white to black in the tick of a second hand. He knew this meeting would refresh unpleasant memories, memories he could ill afford to sort through right now. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Directly in front of him stood General Pershing, hero of a war nearly a hundred years earlier. And now a different war in a different world, a war fought against an elusive enemy, without masses of troops or land, tanks or submarines. Brutal and deadly nonetheless.

Uzi turned to shake Peled’s hand, but the man was gone. Only the empty cement plaza stared back at him, the white noise rush of the pond’s fountain the lone sound of the sleeping city. A brisk breeze reminded him how tired he was. He turned and lifted heavy feet toward his car.

Long murky shadows stretched across the sidewalk like tendrils from a hideous monster. The dark night stank of death, of destruction and terror. Uzi moved amidst the darkness, through Jerusalem’s myriad alleys and hidden spots only he knew… scores of stray cats sensing his urgency and scurrying away as he approached.

His nerves were like rotten teeth, ready to crumble at the slightest hint of pressure.

The phone call from Nuri Peled had been short and laced with warning. “Go home, Uzi. Now.” Peled then hung up and Uzi took off on foot. Driving a car this close to home was too risky. The chances of being followed were great, the ability to lose your pursuer difficult.

Uzi moved anonymously through the bustling Ben Yehuda with speed and efficiency, weaving among the raucous youth, musicians, and tourists. He cut across the dark Independence Park and emerged on Agron, the urgency in Peled’s voice pushing him, driving him faster than was safe.

Go home, Uzi. Now.

What could possibly await him at home that would warrant Peled’s attention? Had he discovered a bug buried in a wall of his apartment? Papers hidden away in his floorboards? He had no hidden papers.

Dena… Had Dena discovered something and called Gideon? Had something startled her? With Uzi having gone dark — officially an “important business trip” to his wife, while in reality a covert mission in Syria and then Gaza — Dena knew the protocol: call the private security line, and whoever answered would alert Gideon. Gideon would then dispatch someone to look in on his wife and daughter. Dena, of course, did not know who Gideon was, or who manned the private line… only that she was to call it at the slightest hint of trouble.

Trouble. Had something happened to Dena and Maya? It was a possibility too painful to even consider. Besides, it was highly unlikely. “They’ve got the best security anyone could have,” Gideon Aksel had told Uzi when he signed on. “Your family will be safe. We live and die by procedure, my friend. Follow it to the letter and everything will be fine.” Uzi had branded the rules into his brain like a technogeek embeds an encryption algorithm on a computer chip. And until yesterday’s mission, he had always followed procedure. Always.

But now, as he turned the corner to his apartment building and took in the scene before him, his heart skipped and jumped and his stomach pumped his throat full of bile. Police cars — fire engine — ambulance. Living room window missing. No, not missing, blown out—

“Uzi!” Emerging from the front entrance of the building was Nuri Peled, his face as long and dark as the night’s shadows.

Uzi moved toward his friend, though he didn’t remember covering the distance. They stood toe to toe, Uzi searching his mentor’s face for information. Peled only looked up toward the stairs. Uzi turned and flew up the steps, floating, an apparition navigating the air currents as he headed toward his apartment. Through the open front door — no, it was blown off its hinges — he saw a large figure, its back to him.

Gideon Aksel turned. His stout body was rigid, the lines in his leathered face deep. Thick arms wrapped across his chest. He took in Uzi’s face, then turned back toward the kitchen.

Rubble lay scattered about the floor of Uzi’s small apartment. His home.

Gideon’s feet were firmly planted amongst the debris. But he was not looking into the kitchen. He was looking out the window at something below.

Intense fear exploded through Uzi’s body like a jolt of electricity.

Dena. Uzi shouted it this time. “Dena!”

He started down the hallway to his right, his legs moving slowly, as though trudging through knee-deep mud.

“Maya?” His mind started to come around, adding things up, taking in the scene. Police. Fire. Bombed out window and door. Nuri Peled at the front, Gideon Aksel inside his apartment.

But his brain wouldn’t put it together. Couldn’t put it together. His vision mentally fogged like a roadblock to comprehension. And then, in front of him, tucked away in his bed — his own bed, goddamn it! — the bodies of his wife and three year old daughter, bound at the ankles and wrists, blood all over. Blood. Blood in the bed, their throats slashed, eyes still open, staring at—

Staring at him.

He turned away. Through the window, a young woman slithered off in the shadows. The scene was too emotionally painful to process. He wanted to touch his wife and daughter, to kiss them, to whisper “Open your eyes, you’re dreaming—” But in that split second, the fog lifted. He knew. It struck him like a sharp blow to the throat. He needed another look, to be sure his optic nerves were telling the truth.

He forced himself to turn back toward their bodies. A glimpse and then his knees went weak and it all came flooding into him. Everything suddenly adding up, making frightening sense. A moan escaped his lips and he realized he was on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, intense sorrow shuddering up his spine as if death itself had made the journey.

No tears flowed.

Emptiness. Pain… anger.

The pressure of a gentle hand against his shoulder. In the background, voices.

Nuri Peled: I’m sorry, Uzi, I’m so sorry.

Gideon Aksel: It’s your own damn fault… Your own fault…

Air shot into his lungs, a sudden gasp of terror as he jolted awake in bed, perspiration oiling his skin slick and shiny. Uzi’s alarm was normally tuned to a smooth jazz station, but he must have hit the wrong button when setting it, because this morning the blaring buzzer — which would’ve awoken an entire battalion — jarred him from sleep.

And just as well. He needed something to shake him awake. To purge the pain from his memory, if only for a little while.

Uzi got out of bed, showered, and dressed for work. As he knotted his tie, he fought off the familiar, gnawing sense of sadness. He moved slowly, feeling as if he’d hardly slept. He had gotten home from his meeting with Nuri Peled at 4 AM, but couldn’t fall asleep till some time later. Then the nightmare. It wasn’t the first — and after six years of recurring dreams, he was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

He punched the Power button on the remote and saw the words “MSNBC News Special Report” fade from the TV, replaced by a full-screen view of President Jonathan Whitehall seated behind his Oval Office desk, hands folded, intense resolve hardening his brow.

“It’s with a heavy heart that I come before you this morning,” Whitehall began, “on the dawn of another chapter of terrorism that has struck our nation. In our war on terror, we’ve been relentless in our pursuit of those perpetrating these crimes against freedom and democracy. And we’ve seen a number of flawlessly executed successes. But as I’ve repeatedly stated, despite our best efforts to be vigilant, the likelihood existed that we’d not seen the last attack on American soil. That statement has unfortunately proven true.

“I must stress that we do not yet know the identities of those responsible for this latest assault. We must all show restraint while our various agencies conduct their investigations. But know one thing: as we’ve done in the past, we will find out who committed this horrific act of murder. And then we will bring them to justice—”

Uzi powered down the TV. He had heard the speech before — not word for word, but the sentiments, the tone, the rally-the-troops show of confidence that leaders worldwide had displayed so many times in the past. Bombs, death… terror. There never seemed to be a shortage of terror.

He shoved his Glock-22 .40 handgun into its holster in the small of his back, secured his knives, then grabbed his leather overcoat. As Marshall Shepard had not so gently ordered, he had an appointment with a psychologist. Though he would have loved to skip it — and use Douglas Knox’s nine-day deadline as an excuse — it would merely be prolonging the inevitable. He would keep his appointment, but make it a brief meet-and-greet. If there was one thing Uzi didn’t want to do, it was break a promise to Shepard.

The man had saved Uzi’s skin a number of times, and had single-handedly vouched for him when the Bureau was considering his application to the Academy. Uzi’s stint with Israel’s Shin Bet General Security Services gave the Bureau pause — as did any applicant’s prior work history with a foreign police force or intelligence group. But Shepard stressed the positives: Uzi’s exceptional investigative prowess, his knowledge of, and firsthand experience with, terrorism — as well as his fluency in Arabic. In the end, Shepard’s pitch made the difference. The Bureau desperately needed someone with Uzi’s skill set. And Uzi needed the job, not just to support himself financially, but for the diversion it provided from his personal issues.

Still, as he walked down the street to the doctor’s office, he could not get past the feeling that the therapy sessions were going to be a waste of time. Before leaving the house, Uzi called his office and asked Madeline, his secretary, to get him the lowdown on the shrink. His cell rang as he approached the front entrance of the building, an upscale ten-story office and residential mixed-use facility with a curved façade and open balconies to M Street below.

Madeline reported that Leonard Rudnick was short on stature but long on experience. He had worked as a consulting psychologist for the Bureau for seventeen years, and though in semi-retirement, his practice now consisted primarily of agents and support personnel.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Madeline told him. “There’s a special entrance for Bureau employees. A nondescript taupe door. You go in one door and leave a totally different way. For confidentiality.”

“Taupe?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“You think I can still cancel?”

“Uzi…” she whined.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

He hung up as he approached the elevator. Once again he had thoughts of ditching the appointment altogether. He did not like talking about himself or his feelings— two obstacles to successful therapy, based on what little he knew of the practice of psychology.

Uzi exited the elevator, then pushed through the door Madeline had mentioned. He took a seat in the small, cherry-paneled waiting area. His eyes wandered and his knee bounced. There weren’t many things that made him nervous, but facing someone to whom he was supposed to bare his soul was clearly one of them. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cellophane wrapped toothpick, and shoved the mint-flavored wood in his mouth.

A moment later, Leonard Rudnick emerged from his office, a smile broadening his thin face. As Madeline had said, Rudnick was short. By Uzi’s estimate, five-foot-two. With shoes on.

Rudnick took Uzi’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Leonard Rudnick. You’re Mark Klecko — the plumber, right?”

Uzi eyed him suspiciously. “No, I’m— Wait, you’re kidding, aren’t you?”

Rudnick clapped him on the back and led him into the room. “Of course I’m kidding. An experienced psychologist never guesses at his patient’s identity. I know you’re Mark Klecko.” Rudnick peered over his quarter reading glasses. “Sit, make yourself comfortable, Agent Uziel. I was just pulling your leg.”

Uzi settled himself into a firm upholstered chair opposite the seat Rudnick claimed. “Please — call me Uzi.”

“Do you happen to know my son Wayne, at the Behavioral Sciences Unit?” Rudnick asked as he crossed his legs.

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Different world, I guess. Wayne’s buried down in the bowels of the Academy, studying serial killers and other such upstanding citizens.” He slapped his thigh. “So — Uzi — let’s talk about why you’re here.”

“Because my boss said I had to come.”

Rudnick smiled. “I see you can make jokes, too.”

“I’m not joking.”

The grin faded from Rudnick’s face. “I see. Well, we’ve got some work to do, then.”

“That’s what my boss said.”

The doctor’s eyes brightened. “I like a patient with a sense of humor. Now, tell me, Uzi, how do you feel about your boss ordering you to come here?”

“Look, doc, I’m not into this touchy-feely, get-in-touch-with-your-emotions bullshit. I’m not that kind of guy, okay? I don’t like to talk about how I feel. Sometimes I don’t even like to think about how I feel.”

Rudnick nodded, but did not say anything. When Uzi’s gaze began to wander around the office, the doctor said, “Go on.”

“Go on with what?”

“Why do you think you don’t like to talk about yourself?”

Uzi shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t.”

Rudnick nestled his chin in the palm of his left hand, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. “Think about it a moment, okay? Think about why you don’t like to talk about yourself.”

Uzi began bouncing his knee. Rudnick’s gaze dropped to Uzi’s fidgeting leg, then came to rest on his patient’s eyes. “Extra energy,” Uzi said. “Used to drive my wife crazy.”

“Oh, so you’re married?”

Uzi looked away. “Yes.”

“But the information I received said—”

“She’s dead. I’m widowed.”

“I see.” Rudnick waited for elaboration. Uzi did not provide any. “So your wife, did she die of health-related causes, or was it an accident?”

Uzi stopped bouncing his knee. He did not want to get into this. “Neither. But if you don’t mind, doc, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I see.”

“That’s annoying, you know that?”

“What is?”

“The way you kind of look at me and say ‘I see.’ You don’t see anything. With all due respect, this is a complete waste of time. I don’t know why I agreed to come.” Uzi stood and turned toward the door.

“I believe your boss said you had to.” Rudnick’s voice was measured, matter-of-fact.

Uzi, facing the door with his back to Rudnick, sighed deeply. He put his hands on his hips. “I’m in the middle of an important investigation, so my time is a bit limited right now, Doctor.” He hesitated, then said what was on his mind. “Besides, I disagree with my boss’s assessment.”

“Well, since you have your orders, and I have mine, and they both involve talking to each other, I suggest we do what we’re supposed to do.”

Uzi turned to face the doctor. “How often do we have to meet?”

“Four times this week, then three times a week.”

“No offense, Doc, but I don’t have time for that. I’m running the Marine Two investigation.”

“Then you have a lot of people working for you. A little time here and there won’t hurt. I’m sure Mr. Shepard wouldn’t have… suggested you see me unless you really needed it. And I’m sure you could afford a little time out of your schedule. But how about this. Let’s strike a balance — take it one session at a time and see how we progress. Fair enough?”

“How am I doing so far?”

A smile crept across Rudnick’s lips. It seemed to round his entire face. “That depends. Do you like the truth, or do you want sugar-coated opinions?”

“I don’t like bullshit, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Rudnick said. “So here’s the straight scoop, Uzi. You’ve got some serious issues and your boss sent you here to explore them. I don’t have to tell you how you’re doing because you already know. What would help is if you’d realize that I’m not here to hurt you, but rather to help you. You tell me something, it stays with me. No one will ever know what we’ve talked about.

“I think you’ll find that once we pop the lid and start examining what’s bothering you, you’ll feel better — relieved, even. But you have to work with me, help me get to the roots buried beneath the surface. Can you help me do that?”

Uzi turned back to the door. “I’m not sure.” He placed a hand on the knob. “When do I need to be back?”

“Tomorrow. Same time, before your workday starts. Again, balance is important. I don’t want to take you away from your case.”

As far as that goes, we’re on the same page.

The Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, known as the WRNMMC — because it wouldn’t qualify as an official military institution without a government-mandated acronym — dated back to the War of 1812. At the time, the facility occupied a rented building adjacent to the Washington Navy Yard. During the next century, its name and location underwent numerous changes until it found a permanent home in 1938 on a 250-acre cabbage farm in Bethesda that would become, four decades later, one of the ten largest medical centers in the country.

The private ICU room was guarded round the clock by a bevy of Secret Service personnel. Doctors and nurses wore photo ID and had their thumbprints scanned each time they entered the room — or they weren’t allowed in. Extraordinary measures, even for the military hospital, but after one nearly successful attempt on the president-elect’s life, the Secret Service vowed it would also be the last.

Forty-nine-year-old Vance Nunn, slim without ever having seen the inside of a health club, sporting a thinning head of gray hair and facial jowls of a man ten years his senior, waited for the fingerprint identification system to, literally, give the green light. He pulled his surgical mask down, then tapped his foot impatiently, glancing to his left at the Secret Service agent assigned to him.

“Dick, this is ridiculous. Can’t you just tell them who I am?”

“Sorry sir. Must be a glitch in the program. I’ll make sure it’s repaired so you don’t have to go through this again next time.”

Nunn took that as his answer. Of course Dick couldn’t bypass procedures. After what had happened, everyone’s actions were being examined with renewed scrutiny. It was post-9/11 hysteria all over again. Though Secret Service agents routinely followed procedure to the letter, the slightest transgression during a time of heightened domestic threat could result in reassignment to the contingent guarding foreign nationals. Nunn would not ask Dick to jeopardize his job.

Nunn and Glendon Rusch had come up through the ranks together, first as senators in neighboring Virginia and Maryland, then as governors of their respective states. As freshmen lawmakers, they had promised each other during a late-night drinking binge at Nunn’s brownstone in Georgetown that if one of them ever ran for president, the other would be his running mate. Regardless of the political climate at the time, or who owed what favors to whom, they would somehow make their arrangement work. At least, that was the plan. But Nunn, of all people, knew that plans didn’t always take root the way you thought or hoped they would.

Quentin Larchmont, another of their longtime political allies and Rusch’s ever-present advisor, also figured into the equation — though in a subservient, or supportive, role, which played to his trusted friend’s strengths. Larchmont, who long ago had ambitions of his own, seemed content to ride their coattails, though Nunn figured there had to be some resentment buried deep within. No matter. Both Nunn and Larchmont were good soldiers and, until recently, things had gone as they had always figured they would.

A noise down the hall caught Nunn’s attention. A doctor wearing a large red ID tag entered the corridor. Nunn motioned for Dick to wait where he was, then moved to meet the doctor. He extended a hand and said, “Vance Nunn.”

“Josh Farber. For what it’s worth, congratulations on your victory, Mr. Nunn.”

Nunn gave an obligatory nod. “Dr. Farber,” he said, glancing around the corridor, “can I have a word with you?”

The doctor motioned to an empty room off the hall. As soon as they entered, Farber tilted his head in inquiry.

Nunn shifted the surgical gown he was instructed to wear and said, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Doctor, but I need to know how bad the vice president’s condition is.” He cleared his throat. “Specifically, whether or not he’s going to survive.”

Farber lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Nunn, you have to understand that I can’t discuss the vice president’s medical status with you. Doctor-patient confidentiality—”

“I understand that under normal circumstances, your patient’s condition is something you hold in the strictest confidence. But this situation is anything but normal. If he’s not going to make it, I need to know as soon as possible. There isn’t a lot of time before the new administration takes over, and a lot has to be done between now and then — not least of which is putting together a cabinet. If the president-elect is going to survive, there’ll be one set of people chosen. If not, I’m going to bring in my own people. Glen is a dear friend. Believe me, I’m not trying to pry into his private life or do anything to harm him. But I’ve got the welfare of three hundred million Americans to worry about.”

Farber sighed, then glanced around the darkened room. “Mr. Nunn, you’ve put me in a very difficult spot.”

“Why don’t you go ask him? He’ll tell you it’s okay to brief me on his condition.”

Farber nodded slowly. “Please give me a moment.”

The doctor disappeared into the hallway, and returned a few moments later. He set down his clipboard and leaned back against the wall, hands shoved into the deep pockets of his white coat. “Despite being in a crash-worthy seat, the vice president’s got a fractured right hand and two fractured legs. Left tibia and the right tibia and fibula. But they’re uncomplicated fractures and broken bones heal extremely well, so by comparison that’s of little concern.

“He’s got mostly first- and second-degree burns, which is the good news. The bad news is he’s also got some nasty third-degree burns as well. Full thickness burns, open and weeping.”

Nunn recoiled a bit at the image.

“The skin is the body’s largest organ,” Farber continued. “Normally, it sheds fluid all day to help maintain the body’s temperature. When the skin is burned, it’s even worse. The patient loses a great deal of fluid and sometimes we can’t replace it fast enough. Other times finding the right fluid balance is tricky. We’ve infused the vice president with electrolytes and are watching him for infection.”

Nunn rubbed at his chin. “Okay.”

“I don’t have to tell you his facial burns are going to be disfiguring. Fortunately, I think we’ll be able to manage these fairly well with plastics. The idea is to make him look as normal as possible. We’ve already taken steps. The best surgeon in the country is en route from Los Angeles. Per his orders, we’ve excised small pieces of skin from other parts of the vice president’s body and have them growing in tissue cultures. When they’re ready, they’ll be used for covering the wounds on his face. I won’t lie to you, Mr. Nunn. This will be a long process. Rehab alone could last six months, if not more.”

Nunn bowed his head. “Jesus.”

“In the acute phase, we’ll be debriding his wounds. Once the wounds are appropriately covered, we’ve got contractures to worry about, particularly where the injured skin crosses joints. Fortunately, there’s very little joint involvement. If you’re going to burn your hands, the best place to do it is on the palmar surface. If the backs of his hands had been burned, even gripping a pen would cause major pain — and take a year of therapy to accomplish.”

Nunn lowered himself down into a hardwood chair at the small table. “How—” He stopped himself, thought a moment, then said, “How can he govern like this?”

“If he can endure a grueling presidential campaign, he’s probably an extraordinary individual. In times like these extraordinary people do extraordinary things. But my concerns go beyond running the country. Between the psychological effects of the facial burns and the loss of his family, he’s going to require substantial counseling and a good support network.”

“Of course.”

“Medically, he’s fortunate, and I’ve tried to impart that fact to him.”

Nunn’s face crumpled into a one-sided squint. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“He’s sustained minor burn damage to portions of his esophagus and larynx, but if it’d hit the lungs his prognosis would’ve been far worse — pulmonary edema can be quite serious because he’d have to be on a ventilator. No, given what happened — the explosions, a freefalling helicopter, the fire… He was very lucky. That’s a tough concept when your family’s dead, you’re hooked up to tubes, we’re peeling away layers of skin, and you’re looking at permanent disfigurement. Fact is, this could’ve been much, much worse.”

Nunn nodded solemnly, then rose tentatively from his chair. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your candor.”

Farber pushed away from the wall, grabbed his clipboard, and extended a hand. “The vice president has given me permission to keep you updated, so feel free to contact me if you have any questions on treatment requirements or timelines, things of that nature.” Farber’s phone vibrated, and he checked the display. “I’ve got to take this.”

The doctor walked out, leaving Nunn alone. He stood there for a long moment, then headed toward Rusch’s room. He nodded at Dick, who was still waiting beside the secured door.

“We should be okay now, sir.”

“Then let’s give it another shot.” Nunn extended his finger, the device scanned his print and a few seconds later, the green light appeared.

“Door break, authorized entry,” Dick said into his sleeve. He pushed it open and stepped aside.

Nunn pulled the blue paper mask into place, and then walked into the room. A Secret Service agent stood at attention along the far wall, a hand pressing against the earbud that coiled down along his neck and disappeared beneath the navy suit coat that was barely visible under his gown.

But Nunn’s attention was drawn to the bed, where a heavily bandaged man lay. Only his eyes were visible — save for a nose hole and a slit where his swollen lips were coated with what appeared to be a thick layer of petroleum jelly.

“My god.” The words rolled from Nunn’s mouth without warning. He instantly wondered if the whirring machinery had drowned out his uncensored comment. Without lifting his gaze from Rusch, Nunn said, “Agent, can you give us a few moments?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Look,” Nunn said, trying to keep his voice level, “I’m the vice president-elect, I’m not going to harm my friend and running mate.”

“Yes, sir.” The agent’s demeanor remained impassive. “Sorry, sir.”

Nunn sucked his bottom lip. Apparently, he was again asking the Secret Service to break with procedure, and that wasn’t going to happen. He walked to Rusch’s bedside and placed a light hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Glen.”

Rusch slowly turned his head to face Nunn. “They tell me I’m lucky,” he said with great effort, his voice possessing all the smoothness of cracked cement.

Nunn leaned closer to hear. “Have you been briefed?”

Rusch’s eyes glossed over, and he turned away. “They’re dead.”

“My deepest condolences, Glen. There’s nothing I can possibly say other than I’m— I’m just so very sorry. I can’t believe they’re…” He choked back a sob. “That they’re gone.” He placed a hand atop his friend’s shoulder.

“I want these fuckers caught. I want to do unspeakable things to them.” Rusch turned to the Secret Service agent, who quickly averted his eyes. “But this can’t be a personal vendetta, Vance. We have to show the world that no one can do this without suffering the consequences. We have to do it right. Bring them to justice.”

Nunn glanced briefly at the hovering agent, then said, “I’ve spoken with Director Knox, and he assures me that everything that can be done will be done to find them.”

Rusch closed his eyes. After a long moment, he said, “Whatever the Bureau does, it’ll be so… insufficient. Nothing will bring back my family.”

Nunn felt it was best to let that comment float on the air for a moment before continuing.

“Quentin’s been fully briefed,” he finally said. “I assume he’s been by.”

Rusch didn’t reply.

“He and Jordan are researching our options. I’m sorry — I really don’t mean to talk business, but I just wanted you to know we’ve got things covered. Take whatever time you need. Heck, we’ve got two months to get our house in order.” He glanced again at the agent, then said, “Plenty of time.”

Rusch remained silent. He was staring off at the ceiling, or the wall… Nunn wasn’t sure which. But he knew what was on the president-elect’s mind. And though they had plenty of time, the truth was that there was still a great deal that needed to be done.

Nunn gave Rusch’s shoulder a gentle pat, then left the room.

Following his brief visit with Dr. Rudnick, Uzi met with the task force members assigned to the chopper crash investigation. They occupied the command post on WFO’s fourth floor, an expansive suite of six rooms constructed after 9/11 to bring all functions of a terror investigation into one centralized area. Its main room was equipped with five rows of ten state-of-the-art computer work stations and six forty-two-inch plasma screens, all overseen by the assistant director’s command office through a floor-to-ceiling window that dominated the rear of the room.

Beyond the sliding glass doors along the left wall, an ever-expanding group of JTTF support personnel had set up shop. In the past few hours, dozens of agents from the Secret Service, ICE, US Marshals Service, Military Intelligence, National Security Agency, and CIA had reported to their new posts.

Uzi ran through introductions and assignments, then split them into groups that reconvened at the crash sites, with the lead agents remaining behind to monitor the computers.

At first light, the NTSB team working through the night completed an aerial survey that identified three distinct debris fields, the first and most distant one containing a majority of the Stallion’s fuselage, the second containing portions of the Black Hawk’s tail rotor, and the third consisting of what was left of the vice president’s chopper.

The stench of burning brush, smoldering metal, and incinerated bodies hung on the thick, hovering mist.

DeSantos met Uzi as he climbed from his Chevy Tahoe, which Uzi parked at the perimeter of Crash Site C, the resting place of the VP’s helicopter. “We’ve got three areas to cover,” Uzi said.

“I’m dialed in. Been to the others already. And I’ve got some info for you.”

Uzi walked with DeSantos toward a concentration of technicians, who were still scouring the wreckage. The flame retarding foam had dissipated, having done its job of suffocating the fire and superheated residue. Without the sudsy film blanketing the site, the debris scene was like an ancient city freshly unearthed by archeologists: what now lay bare before the investigators provided a more complete picture of what had happened. String grids divided the site into sections, enabling the technicians to document the exact location where each piece of evidence was found before being removed to the lab for analysis.

“That chick you wanted me to check out,” DeSantos said. “Name’s Leila Harel. CIA, Counterintelligence.”

Uzi stopped walking. “The one with the body? CIA?”

“So I’m told. Her family’s from Iraq but they moved to Israel to escape persecution. She speaks Farsi and Arabic fluently—”

“Probably how she got recruited in the first place.”

“Exactly.” DeSantos dodged a technician approaching on the run and shifted right, out of the path of other oncoming workers. “First posting was in Jordan. She did well, and now she’s stateside.”

“What do you know about Earl Tasset? What’s he all about?”

“Real piece of work. Quiet, passive aggressive. People have a tendency to underestimate him, think he can be pushed around. But underneath it all, the guy’s a pit bull. He and Knox have squared off more than Tyson and Holyfield. Results were usually the same. Both came out bloodied, but Knox won. Tasset’s career CIA, worked his way up. Good strategist.”

“So what’s the friction with Knox about?”

“They’re sharks feeding off the same food chain, boychick. When there’s enough food— money for their budgets— neither cares how much each one eats. But when things tighten up, they start circling each other in the water, nibbling at each other’s blubber. Sometimes it gets bloody.”

Uzi snorted. “Nothing like uniting against a common enemy.”

“They’ll be okay. They know what they’re doing. And I can tell you they’re both committed to getting the job done.”

They stepped around a roped-off grid and passed a couple of technicians collecting a soil sample. “Knox gave me nine days to find out who’s responsible.”

“Nine days?” DeSantos stopped along the edge of the crime scene. “Doesn’t sound like Knox.”

Uzi took up a position to DeSantos’s right. “Meaning what?”

“Could’ve come from on high. Don’t get me wrong, Knox wants answers as fast as the next bureaucrat. But he’s been in the trenches with us. He knows you can’t just pick a date and say, ‘Time’s up. Give me the answer.’”

“That is basically what he said.”

“Gotta be a reason. Nine days… what’s happening in nine days? Not eight, not ten. Nine.”

Uzi thought a moment. “Beats me.” He pulled out his smartphone and tapped the screen a few times. He threw his head back. “How did I not see this? International Conference on Global Terrorism.”

“That changes things a bit. Does he think something’s going to happen during the conference?”

“Or,” Uzi said, “maybe he wants to use the big stage to make a high-profile announcement? Conference on terrorism, big terror attack on the US, bang — nine days later, the FBI catches the assholes.”

“It would make you Fibbies look awfully good.”

“And Knox,” Uzi said. “Let’s not forget politics. Frazier and Ali. Budgets and shark blubber.”

“Tyson and Holyfield, not Frazier—” DeSantos eyed him over the tops of his glasses. “You making fun of me?”

“Whatever the reason,” Uzi said, “it gives us less time. Conference starts at two.” He swiped his finger across the screen, then slid the phone back into his pocket. He walked in a circle, pacing, lost in thought.

“What’s with the pacing? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we don’t have a whole lot of time to solve this thing.” He stopped and stroked the stubble on his cheek. “Okay. We attack it on a few fronts. First we pay a visit to Quantico and interview the flight crew and maintenance personnel who worked on the choppers, then get with CIA and NSA to see if they picked up any chatter they didn’t process fast enough.”

DeSantos was nodding at each of Uzi’s suggestions, then added, “We also need to look into the backgrounds of the other people on the choppers. Just in case. It’s easy to get myopic, too focused on Rusch as the target. That’s the most obvious, but it could also be way off base.”

“Already on it. Two members of my task force are meeting right now with the Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service Presidential Protective Division. He’s putting together a list of agents and staff who were aboard both choppers. There were also some journalists on the Stallion.”

“Yeah, but journalists don’t make enemies.”

Uzi smirked.

“Okay, so they make enemies. But not the kind who’d go to the trouble of killing the VP just to knock off a White House press correspondent.” DeSantos’s gaze lingered somewhere behind Uzi. “Your curvaceous spook is approaching.”

Uzi was tempted to look, but thought better of it. “Give me a few minutes, then we can head over to the base.”

DeSantos grunted. “Go do your thing, boychick. I’ll do mine. When you’re ready, come get me.” He winked, then walked off.

Uzi nonchalantly turned, caught sight of Leila Harel, and headed in her direction. She was wearing terrain-appropriate boots, with black form-fitting tights stretched from her narrow waist down her long legs to her ankles. Clutching a clipboard against her chest, she knelt to examine something on the ground.

“What do you see?” Uzi asked. He was standing behind her and just off to her left.

Without turning, she said, “Charred dirt.” She lifted a handful and sifted it through her slender fingers.

He noted her manicured red nails, then said, “Charred dirt. Strange thing to find at a crash site, don’t you think?”

Still facing the ground, she said, “No.”

Uzi frowned. His attempt at humor passed right through her, like an apparition. “What agency are you with?”

She did not answer.

“If I had to guess, and that certainly seems to be the case, I’d say you look like CIA.” He rubbed his chin in mock thought. “Yeah, I’d say CIA.”

Leila tossed the rest of the dirt to the ground, then slowly uncoiled her legs and stood. “I thought you were here to investigate the wreck.” She turned her body, shoulders first, followed by her hips and legs. The form-fitting tights were complemented by a red turtleneck that clung to her full breasts.

Uzi felt his eyes wander down to admire the sweater before he abruptly brought them up to her face. Her comment about him investigating the wreck was mocking him, taking his stammering remark from last night and throwing it back in his face. But after the split second of embarrassment, he realized that she had remembered exactly what he had said.

“There are a lot of things here to investigate, it would seem,” he said with sudden confidence. As he held her gaze, he could see a slight wavering in her eyes. There was warmth buried inside, though she worked to keep it hidden. “So am I right, CIA?”

“You’re very persistent, Agent Uziel.”

And she remembered my name. “Call me Uzi.”

“Calling you by a nickname would imply a certain casualness to our relationship that we don’t have.”

Uzi shrugged. “Not really. No one uses my last name, not even people who hate my guts.”

Leila’s phone began to ring. She reached into her shoulder-slung purse, answered the call, then turned her back on him. After waiting a few moments, Uzi walked off to find DeSantos.

“That thing I was working on.” DeSantos held up his BlackBerry as Uzi approached. “Got something.”

Uzi waited a beat, but DeSantos did not elaborate. “You gonna keep it a secret?”

DeSantos glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. His gaze still off somewhere, he said, “Word is that ARM had a hand in this.”

Uzi chuckled. “ARM had a hand? Is that a joke?”

“No boychick, no joke. Reliable intel. American Revolution Militia.”

“My focus since — well, since 9/11—has been foreign. Bureau’s all about counterterrorism and counterintelligence. ARM’s domestic. I’m a little thin here. Help me out.”

DeSantos buttoned his wool overcoat while formulating his thoughts. “I pulled together some info this morning, so I’ve got the basics. They came together about thirty years ago. Dude named Jeremiah Flint started a chapter in West Virginia that grew slowly over time. Then Jeremiah was gunned down during a routine traffic stop in Arlington.”

“That must’ve gone over real well.”

“Better than you think. He became a martyr. The new guy who took over focused them, started running them as a business. We may have a copy of their charter on file. I’ll pull it. Basically, they’re like most militias: they don’t like the government. They think everything should be handled at a local level. They dispute just about anything that restricts them or takes their money: the Constitution, the IRS, the Federal Reserve, our court system. You know the deal.”

Indeed he did. Patriot groups like The Freemen, and disasters like Ruby Ridge and Waco were required reading at the Academy. “The JTTF keeps up on domestic threats, but we’ve had our eye on homegrown Islamic radicals. They travel in different universes than domestic militias.”

What Uzi kept to himself was that the man in charge of his task force’s domestic terrorism unit happened to be the agent he just put on report: Jake Osborn.

“What makes the American Revolution Militia different from all the other crazy groups out there?”

DeSantos smiled, then slipped both hands into his jacket pockets. “Top of the list, my man, is that none of the others is suspected of trying to assassinate the vice president of the United States.”

Leaving DeSantos’s red Corvette at the crash site and taking Uzi’s Tahoe, they drove to the ARM compound, a heavily wooded parcel set on gently undulating hills just east of Vienna, Virginia. While en route, DeSantos read Uzi a hastily prepared intelligence brief to give him a deeper sense of what — and who — they would be facing on their arrival. After finishing the three page summary, DeSantos suggested they arrive unannounced, even though he expected the guards to be on full alert because of the helicopters’ downing — particularly if they’d had a hand in their demise.

Uzi stopped the car in front of the eight-foot-tall masonry wall topped with sharp razor wire. “They mean business,” he said, eyeing the barricade.

DeSantos ripped open a Juicy Fruit pack and folded a stick into his mouth. “If they’re anything like my source described, we ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Uzi continued on to the main entrance, a fortified wrought-iron, motor-driven gate on wheels. A guard shack stood on a concrete slab off to the side. As the Tahoe’s tires crunched the gravel road near the gate, a man dressed in combat fatigues and thick Remington camo boots emerged from the shed with a submachine gun clutched between his hands. He took a position behind the gate, legs spread wide.

Uzi pulled his SUV up to the gate, then rolled down his window. He held open his credentials wallet, the ID and shield facing the paramilitary man. “We need to talk with Nelson Flint.”

“Got yourself a warrant?” The man’s voice was cigarette raspy, thick with a Southern accent.

Uzi frowned. “Do we need one?”

A click followed by a muted voice blurted from the man’s radio transceiver. He pulled the device from a leather harness on his belt and brought it to his face. He listened a few seconds before lowering it and slipping it back onto his belt. “Someone’ll be by to get you.”

Uzi and DeSantos got out of the Tahoe and leaned against the fender, the guard fingering his weapon and staring at them with contempt. DeSantos nudged Uzi’s forearm, then nodded at a small, round, black-and-gray device mounted above the guardhouse. “Surveillance camera,” he said by Uzi’s ear.

Uzi had already taken notice. “I count fourteen. And anticlimb sensors on the fencing, and ground-loop vehicle sensors in the pavement where we’re parked.” The chomp of rubber on gravel snared their attention. Along the curve just beyond a stand of mature pines, an olive green Humvee appeared amid a low-lying dust cloud.

DeSantos played with the Juicy Fruit between his front teeth. “Welcome wagon arrives.”

The SUV pulled to a stop alongside the guard shack, and, on the parasoldier’s signal, the pedestrian gate opened electronically. Uzi followed DeSantos through and they climbed into the Hummer’s backseat beside a man with close-cropped black hair. DeSantos slammed the door, and the driver, also sporting a Marine-regulation hairstyle, accelerated. The escorts remained quiet during the brief drive to the compound’s apparent headquarters, a rectangular two-story Civil War-era brick house with two large Ionic columns that swallowed the entrance.

The vehicle stopped beside the front porch. Uzi and DeSantos were ushered to the side of the structure, where two small wood steps rose to a separate entrance. They entered and moved through the kitchen into the dining room. Clearly used for meetings now, the worn oval table that dominated the space sat covered with neatly stacked file folders, five smartphones, and an equal number of laptops.

Each of the window panes on the far wall had the wavy and bubbled appearance of era-specific glass. Hanging on the eggshell walls were faux Wanted posters sporting the Federal Reserve Chairman’s face, a Nazi flag, and a framed reproduction of the Declaration of Independence.

“The fuck you people want?”

The deep, southern drawl came from the hallway behind them. Uzi spun and saw two men clad in combat fatigues, one fireplug short and squat, the other tall and lanky. As they approached, Uzi extended a hand. “Special Agent Aaron Uziel.” He indicated his partner. “Hector DeSantos.”

The squat man looked Uzi in the eye but did not offer his hand. Instead, he shook his head. “A kike and a spic. The fuck this country’s coming to.”

DeSantos tilted his head, appraising the two men. “You know, Uzi, they kind of remind me of Abbott and Costello.”

The thin one crossed his arms. “Don’t much care for your humor.”

“Sorry if I offended you,” DeSantos said. “We spics aren’t very polite.” He nudged Uzi with an elbow. “Stringbean here is Rodney McCourt. Half-pint’s Nelson Flint, heir to the throne after his father passed on.”

Flint’s chest puffed. “You mean was murdered.”

“Pull a gun on a law enforcement officer, bad shit happens,” DeSantos said.

Flint rooted a cigarette from his pocket, then stuck it between his lips. “Guvament’s been spying on us again, Rodney. Using their fancy satellites to intrude on the average citizen’s right to privacy.”

“That’s right, Mr. Flint,” Uzi said. “We know all about you. And you know a lot about us, too. Like why we’re here.”

“Haven’t the slightest,” Flint said with a straight face.

DeSantos smiled wryly. “I’m sure if you think about it, it’ll come to you. You’re a semi-intelligent person.”

“Six months ago,” Uzi said, “your man, Bryce Upshaw, told a reporter for the Washington Times that Vice President Glendon Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t re-examine his views on the right to bear arms. He’d be sorry. Those were his words, Mr. Flint, not mine.”

“And now the Veep’s helicopter is blown out of the sky,” DeSantos added. “We don’t think it was a coincidence.”

“Mr. Upshaw was not speaking for our organization.”

“Of course not,” DeSantos said. “That would cause some… trouble for you, wouldn’t it?”

Flint’s face shaded red. “Upshaw was a goddamn fool. He’s no longer part of our organization.”

Uzi and DeSantos shared a look. “Was he a fool because he said stupid things, or because he said things in public that were best left behind closed doors?” DeSantos glanced behind him at the entrance to the room. “These doors, in fact?”

Flint pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips, then pointed it at DeSantos as he spoke. “You two fuckers are here because I allow you to be here. Don’t push your luck. I give the word, my guards’ll haul your asses off our property.”

DeSantos took a step forward into Flint’s space. He looked down on the diminutive man and said, “You’re a coward, Flint. A small man with a small man’s brain. The only way you or your father could ever amount to something was for you to start your own organization where you could be the boss. Anywhere else you’d be sweeping floors or sorting garbage.”

Flint’s face flushed. “You son of a bitch—”

“You have something to do with those choppers going down,” DeSantos said. “And we’re going to prove it.”

Flint grabbed DeSantos by the collar and pushed him back against the wall. “Get the fuck off my land!”

Before Flint could react, DeSantos swiped the man’s hands to the side and spun him around. Rodney moved toward them, but Uzi stepped to the right and blocked his path.

DeSantos pushed Flint’s face against one of the windows as he snapped handcuffs on his wrists. “You’ve got a hard-on for the government? Fine. That’s your right. But don’t assault a federal officer. That’s just stupid, even for you.”

Flint struggled, his nose grotesquely deformed by the glass. Mucus sucked in and out of his right nostril as a tear ran down his cheek. “You’re… on my property… asshole.”

DeSantos pulled up on Flint’s handcuffs and the man cried out in pain.

“Santa,” Uzi whispered into his ear, “turn down the volume. Let him go.”

DeSantos hesitated a second, then fished out a long black key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. “If we find anything connecting you to that chopper blast, we’ll be back with an arrest warrant. Then we’ll be chatting on my property, asshole.”

Uzi eyed the tall man behind him. “We’ll be seeing you two again.”

Telling the Humvee driver to go to hell, they hoofed it back to Uzi’s SUV, taking the opportunity to survey the compound. A well-armed guard trailed at a distance, his purpose to offer assistance should his visitors encounter difficulty finding the way back to their car. Actually, he was almost assuredly tasked with ensuring they didn’t take any unwelcome detours — or photos — while traversing the ARM property.

Uzi thought of the intelligence DeSantos had shared with him: it suggested an as-yet undisclosed figure was involved with ARM, someone with the business sense and management skills that Nelson Flint didn’t possess. After this brief meeting, Uzi agreed with the assessment: Flint was a figurehead. There had to be a string puller lurking behind the scenes.

Uzi flicked a glance over his right shoulder at their tail, and figured the man was out of earshot. “Our Nelson Flint wasn’t very forthcoming.”

“Didn’t expect him to be. Idea was to piss on their land, stake out our territory for our next visit. Maybe we’ll stop by again in a few days.”

“Something tells me he won’t let us in again.”

A grin broadened DeSantos’s face. “He won’t have to.”

“I don’t wanna know what you have in mind.” Uzi breathed in deeply. “Nice chunk of land they’ve got here. Smell the pine?”

DeSantos unwrapped another stick of gum and sniffed it. “I like this smell better.”

“You gotta be kidding. Juicy Fruit?”

“Brian used to chew it all day. Every day. Can’t get it out of my head. It’s all I’ve got left.”

“It’s hard losing a partner. On the job?”

DeSantos nodded. “Took a bullet. A black op we were running for Knox.” DeSantos shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his wool overcoat. His eyes roamed the trees and building façades. “CCTV cameras on the redwoods every thirty feet.”

Uzi had been checking as well. “Standard resolution color, infrared motion sensors. Wired. Pretty basic stuff.”

They walked a few more feet in silence before DeSantos continued. “Brian died the same day his wife gave birth to a baby girl. My goddaughter.”

Uzi thought back to the gum and DeSantos’s comment. “You took it hard.”

It was a moment before DeSantos answered. “Still am.”

Uzi and DeSantos drove in silence to Quantico Marine Base, a trip Uzi was accustomed to making because the FBI Academy was located on the eastern portion of the same campus. The Marine Corps’s history on this site was well rooted, dating back to its establishment in 1917 following America’s entry into World War I. Quantico became one of the largest shipyards in the country.

Uzi pulled in line behind a dozen or so cars and waited to gain admittance to the base. A brick gateway stretched across both lanes of traffic, emblazoned with large block letters:

“Never came through the main gate before,” Uzi said. He eyed the stiff military formality of the checkpoint, then the granite-based commemorative statue of soldiers raising the American flag at Iwo Jima, just off to the right. “Definitely more… Marine-like than the FBI side of the base.” He looked at DeSantos, whose gaze was off somewhere in the distance. “Ever been here?”

“A few years ago. Did some training with the top dog, Major Vasquez. The AMO, Aircraft Maintenance Officer. He’s responsible for all the upkeep done on the executive helicopter fleet.”

Uzi pulled up to the guard post, where they were greeted by a lance corporal dressed in a crisp, fresh uniform. They showed him their credentials, explained why they were there, and waited while the Marine made a call to obtain authorization.

A moment later, the man handed back their cred cases and admitted them onto the base.

The Marine Corps Air Facility, thirty miles and a stone’s throw by helicopter from downtown DC, resides in a densely wooded Virginian paradise with its own marina off the Chesapeake, a private golf course, riding stable, recreation areas, sports leagues, youth centers, and school system.

As they drove along the main drag, Fuller Road, Uzi noticed what appeared to be residential apartments peeking through the trees about thirty yards to his left. “Base housing?”

“Nope. See that creek?” DeSantos asked, nodding at a shallow grass-covered bank with water tumbling through. “That’s the boundary of the base. Twenty feet beyond that is Triangle, Virginia. Civilian neighborhood.”

“No secured wall along the perimeter?”

“Hard to imagine, huh?”

“So,” Uzi said, “anyone could walk right onto the base. Not even a chain-link fence to climb.”

“The town of Quantico is civilian, too. Located a couple miles down the road. I guess you could just tell the guard at the main gate you were going into town and they’d have to let you in.”

“Yeah, right.”

DeSantos shrugged. “They probably figure you gotta be crazy to try something on a military base with a thousand armed Marines walking the grounds.”

Uzi thought of the suicide bombers he’d encountered, the mass destruction of 9/11, the planned attack on Fort Dix. Problem was, these people are crazy. “How much further to HMX?”

“Couple minutes.”

In addition to serving as the training facility for a plethora of Marine units, Quantico’s least publicly known function was to house and operate Marine Helicopter Squadron One, the only operational fleet on the base. Officially coded HMX-1, the squadron’s primary purpose was to provide helicopter transport for the president and vice president, as well as for cabinet members and foreign dignitaries as authorized by the Director of the White House Military Office. HMX-1 was where the ill-fated Marine Two and Marine Three flights had originated on election night, having pre-positioned earlier in the day closer to Washington.

As Uzi and DeSantos approached the air facility, encircled by nasty razor-wire-topped chain-link fencing, they came upon another security checkpoint. After again providing their credentials for verification, they waited while the sergeant-of-the-guard phoned Major Warren Vasquez to obtain permission for them to access the Cage Hangar.

Vasquez apparently gave the sergeant whatever authorization he required, because the gate opened and the guard returned their IDs. Uzi proceeded down a circular drive along the two-lane road, then parked his SUV across from the large brick barracks building, where both of them got out. “Even if someone got onto the base,” DeSantos said, “getting into HMX is a different story.”

They headed toward the Cage’s entrance, where they were met by more guards. The corporal examined their credentials yet again, then informed them that Major Vasquez was en route.

As the guard pulled his two-way radio from a clip on his shoulder, a large, glistening bottle green and white helicopter approached in the distance. It hovered fifty yards away, the wind from the beating blades ruffling Uzi’s hair and kicking up a windstorm of dust that cascaded outward from the ground beneath the chopper. Uzi held up a hand to shield his face and watched as the bird touched down on a red circular plank of wood set out on a grassy field that simulated the landing area on the White House lawn.

“That’s a VH-3D,” DeSantos said above the grind of the engines. “Presidential transport.”

“I’ve seen photos.” And pieces. “Beautiful bird.”

DeSantos nodded. “They’ve got a dozen of them, all identical. Uh, they had a dozen.”

Uzi covered his ears to lessen the whining thump of the rotors. “Damn noisy, though.”

“Only on the outside. Sound dampers around the engines bring it down to less than seventy decibels inside. No louder than a car.”

A man in dress blues with graying temples and a leathery, pocked face pulled in front of them. His formal demeanor evaporated when he caught sight of DeSantos. He climbed out of his SUV and grinned broadly.

“Santa. How’ve you been?” He threw his hand out and the two vigorously shook.

“I’m still breathing, so all’s good. You?”

His grin sagged. “Doing well till yesterday.”

“That’s why we’re here. Aaron Uzi, FBI.” Uzi extended a hand and received a more subdued, official greeting. “We need to talk with you about the pilots who handled both birds that went down, the VH-3D and Super Stallion, as well as the maintenance personnel who’ve worked on them.”

“I’ve got the information in my office.” Vasquez turned to the Marine behind him. “Corporal of the Guard, provide these two gents with visitor badges.”

After Uzi and DeSantos signed in, they were handed their red clip-on placards and escorted through the turnstile by Major Vasquez.

“HMX-1 is divided into two areas,” Vasquez said as they walked. “A green side and a white side. Green is where new personnel are screened and observed when they’re first assigned here. After they clear the background check, which can take a year, year and a half, they’re transferred to The Cage — the white side — which operates and maintains the Executive Detachment. That’s the fleet that transports the president and vice president, their wives, and high-ranking support staff.”

“The Cage?” Uzi asked.

“It was once surrounded by a tall security fence,” Vasquez said. “Looked like a cage. Now it’s a modern looking metal hangar connecting those two red-brick buildings you saw outside that go back, I don’t know, maybe fifty years. All together, the 150,000-square-foot building is where we store the dozen helicopters, support offices for Crew Chiefs, Flight Line Division Chiefs, and the AMO — Aircraft Maintenance Officer.”

“Nice setup,” Uzi said.

“Started out in ’47 as an experimental Marine unit to test and evaluate military helicopters. Wasn’t long before it became an important part of presidential transport after Eisenhower used a chopper for an emergency trip from Rhode Island to DC. He was hooked — very convenient and very fast. Bang, we started using helicopters to ferry around the executive staff.”

“What’s the ‘X’ stand for?” Uzi asked.

“Experimental. All new birds and their modified systems were tested and evaluated right here. Now we do it at Pax River, NavAir HQ over in Lexington Park.”

As they entered the large hangar, Vasquez motioned with a sweeping wave of his hand. “Welcome to The Cage. Ever been inside here, Agent Uzi?”

“No, sir. Fascinating place, though.” He craned his neck around the cavernous structure, which currently housed about ten aircraft.

“You got H-3’s, like the one that went down,” Vasquez said as he pointed to the far wall. “Some of the threes are still in service since the Kennedy administration. It’s a tribute to our vigilant maintenance program that they’ve lasted so long.”

Unless someone blows it up.

“Then you’ve got the newer members of the fleet, the VH-60s. We put them into commission around eighty-eight. These things are the real deal.”

“Black Hawks,” Uzi said. “I’ve flown them. Great bird.”

“Yes they are,” Vasquez said with a slight nod. “These may be a bit different than the breed you know. State of the art. Not as comfortable and roomy as the H-3, but we can fold these things up and pack ’em into the back of a C-5 and take them overseas. They’re a crucial part of our emergency relocation service because of their versatility. We can mobilize them damn near immediately. Since you know the basic Black Hawk design, you know they’re battle-hardened. Ours can take a hit from a twenty-millimeter shell and still keep flying.”

Just then, the whine of a craft’s rotors filled the hangar. Uzi and DeSantos glanced out the open doors and saw a VH-60 powering up. The noise began building as Vasquez placed his hands against their backs and ushered them to an office along the periphery of the Cage’s interior.

Vasquez shut the door, muting the noise. Models of fighter jets and helicopters adorned his large desk, with framed commendations and photos of Vasquez mugging with three presidents, including a glossy 8-by-10 with Jonathan Whitehall, on the wall behind him.

“Gentlemen, please.” He motioned to two chairs in front of his desk. “I’ve got some materials I can share with you. Documents prepared for our internal investigation.”

DeSantos settled into his seat. “We’ll need a list of all the mechanics and maintenance personnel who have clearance to be near those choppers.”

“Got it right here. Just about to go out to the safety board. I can run a copy for you.” He pressed a button on his desk phone and a lance corporal entered the room. “Two copies of each document,” he said, holding the file out to the young man.

“What can you tell us about the pilots?” Uzi asked.

Vasquez’s shoulders squared up. “The men assigned to HMX-1 are some of the best we have to offer, Agent Uzi. They go through rigid training in evasive maneuvers, zero-visibility and close-formation flying. We’re like the post office. Neither rain nor snow nor sleet will keep us from our jobs. The president or veep need to go somewhere, we go. No questions asked.” He looked down at his desk, hesitated, then continued. “As to the men who went down with their choppers, I can tell you each of them was an extremely competent, highly decorated pilot. No problems with any of them.”

“Then let’s talk about others who had access to the birds,” Uzi said. “Crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. You looked over the list. Any cause for concern?”

“Same story goes. Best of the best. Crew chiefs and other maintenance personnel are selected for assignment to HMX-1 based on exceptional performance and integrity while assigned to squadrons of the Fleet Marine Force. Their competence is beyond reproach.”

“I wasn’t asking about their competence, sir. I was questioning their patriotism.”

Vasquez and Uzi shared a long stare. Uzi knew that questioning a Marine’s commitment to his country was tantamount to the worst insult one could muster.

DeSantos cleared his throat. “I don’t think Uzi means any disrespect, Warren. We have reason to believe an explosive device was planted aboard the craft. Most likely here.”

Vasquez’s brow crumpled and his mouth slipped open. “What?”

“It’s all preliminary, and of course confidential. But I think you realize there are tough questions that have to be asked. No one wants to be asking them, least of all us.”

Vasquez’s face softened. “I know that.” His gaze drifted off to somewhere on his desk. He sighed deeply. “Damn.” He reached for the phone, punched an extension, chewed his lip until someone answered. “Top, I need some info. Get your keester over here ASAP.” He shook his head. “Then drop everything. Just get over here.”

As he hung up the phone, Uzi said, “Let me ask the question I asked before. Given that new information, does anything about these men stand out? Anything at all?”

Vasquez thought for a moment. “Nothing. One thing I didn’t mention earlier. These guys go through a Yankee White. Know what that is? Hector?”

“Very thorough background check for personnel who have regular contact with the president and veep. Includes an SSBI — Single Scope Background Investigation. Bottom line — they’re looking for unquestioned loyalty to the United States.”

“All well and good,” Uzi said. “But we’ve got a set of facts that don’t jibe.”

Vazquez squinted. “Bombs. You sure?”

“It’s preliminary,” Uzi said. “Lab’s working it up now. The debris was scattered over a large area, and the techs don’t like to jump to conclusions. Especially in a case like this. Obvious question is, How could a bomb be planted on one of those choppers? It’d have to be done here, right?”

Vasquez shifted uneasily in his chair. “I don’t see where else. But you need to understand something. These birds are treated like fine gems. They’re polished inside and out. We have rigid procedures for anything and everything done to them.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you don’t.”

“We have built-in redundancies and checks and balances every step of the way. So after a mechanic completes his work, he signs a form indicating exactly what was done and how long it took. An inspector then checks his work to make sure it meets our highest standards. He signs a form stating he’s checked it. Then a Collateral Duty Inspector gives it his once-over and a Quality of Work Inspector signs off on it.”

Vasquez interlaced his fingers and rested them on the desk in front of him. “Then the crew chief acts like a mother hen, inspecting the aircraft and signing it off as fit for flight. The pilots then come out and take another look at it.”

“You’re assuming that the person who planted the bomb sabotaged the part he was assigned to repair or replace,” Uzi said.

“He could’ve been assigned to replace a battery,” DeSantos said, “then placed the explosive beneath the rotor assembly. No one would see it, and none of the follow-up inspections would catch it. The inspectors would merely see the new battery and sign off on it.”

Vasquez was silent as he studied his desk.

“Is that possible, Major?” Uzi asked.

Vasquez looked up at Uzi. “Yes.” Before he could elaborate, his phone buzzed. He listened, straightened, then said, “Send him in.”

The door opened and revealed a man his late forties with a red grease rag in his left hand. “This is Master Sergeant Cole Conrad,” Vasquez said. “We call him ‘Top.’ He’s the Cage’s Flight Line division chief. Participated in Desert Shield and Desert Storm with a Super Stallion squadron. Top here can tell you anything there is to know about these beasts.” Vasquez indicated his guests with a nod of his head. “This is FBI Special Agent Uzi and Hector DeSantos, DOD.”

“Master Sergeant,” Uzi started, “I’m going to give you a hypothetical, and I want you to treat it with strict confidence. It’s only a hypothetical, and if what I’m about to tell you is taken as the truth, a whole lot of shit’ll be stirred up. We clear on that?”

“Very clear, sir.”

“If I told you a bomb took down Marine Two and Three, what would you say about that?”

Conrad shifted his feet. “You asking me if it’s possible?”

“Let’s start with that,” DeSantos said.

Conrad shrugged. “Yes, sir. Very possible.”

Uzi glanced at DeSantos, then said to Conrad, “Possible because a bomb could take one of these things down?” Uzi asked. “Or possible because someone could gain access to the fleet?”

“The former, sir.”

“Even the Super Stallion?”

“Even the 53s. Yes, sir.”

“How would you do it?”

Conrad chafed his hands against the red grease rag. He looked over to Vasquez before answering. After getting a permissive nod, the master sergeant said, “A standard military M112 demolition block — that’s only a pound and a quarter of C-4—placed on the rotor hub would cause her to drop like a rock, with no hope of recovery.”

Recovery, Uzi knew, was another term for “autorotation,” a way of regaining control of the craft with the tail rotor gone.

Conrad continued: “Assuming I had access to the explosive material, it’d be a relatively simple deal. In fact, I could take the Stallion down with only half a pound, really.”

“Where would you put it?”

“Well, the pilot or crew chief always does a walk-around before the flight. So I’d want my explosive to be well concealed.” He shoved his grease rag through a belt loop, then shrugged. “If the pilot’s good, and we’ve got only the best here, he could set the bird down even without a tail rotor, so I’d probably put the explosive on the main rotor hub.”

“Ever hear of the Jesus Nut?” Uzi asked.

Conrad smirked, then snorted. “‘Course.” His smile faded. “This bird isn’t named the Super Stallion for nothing. It’s the largest, most powerful and technologically advanced helicopter in the world. Its only weakness is the Jesus Nut. Every mechanic worth his salt knows that.”

“So if a block of C-4 was placed near the Jesus Nut, no one would see it on their walk-around?”

Conrad nodded knowingly. “The thing about C-4 is that it can be molded into just about anything. If I was doing it, I’d shape and paint it to look like part of the rotor head assembly.”

“How would you detonate it?” DeSantos asked.

After a moment’s thought, Conrad said, “Radio detonator or timer. I’d choose a discrete radio channel and detonate it where and when I’d want to.” He threw a nervous, sideways glance at Vasquez, then added, “Hypothetically, of course.”

Uzi and DeSantos were quiet.

Conrad again looked to Vasquez, then back to Uzi. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“Anyone on your staff show any strange tendencies?” Uzi asked.

“Sir?”

“An affinity for molding C-4,” DeSantos said. “Or sympathy for right-wing groups. Or anyone who’s made derogatory comments about Glendon Rusch. That type of thing.”

Conrad angled his eyes ceilingward for a moment, then said, “No one, sir.”

DeSantos crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it’s a tough question, Master Sergeant. I’d be asking you to rat on a colleague, which is something Marines just don’t do. I understand that. But we need an honest answer.”

The “rat on a colleague” remark made Uzi flash on his own situation with Osborn. Like a pinprick to a fingertip, the comment caused some pain.

“Yes, sir. If I think of anything, I’ll let Major Vasquez know.”

“Thanks, Top,” Vasquez said. The Master Sergeant nodded, then left.

Uzi sat there in the silence thinking how it easy it would’ve been to blow up those choppers— something he wouldn’t have thought possible fifteen minutes ago. But there were still too many unanswered questions that required leaps of logic to bridge all the gaps.

“How about work attendance?” DeSantos asked. “Drug problems, disciplinary actions?”

“Impeccable records. All of them. I wish I had a smoking gun, a problem Marine who’d been reprimanded, but you wouldn’t find that here. There’s really nothing I can think of. I assume you’ll want to interview each of them?”

DeSantos nodded.

The major lifted the phone and selected the extension for the Maintenance Material Control Officer. “It’s Vasquez. Assemble the maintenance personnel in The Cage in fifteen minutes.” Vasquez listened for a second, then asked, “How late?… Yeah, I’ll hold.” He cupped the phone and took the copies from his assistant, who had just entered the major’s office. He handed the papers to DeSantos and said, “All personnel on Alpha shift will be available for questioning. One of the men is reporting in late—” He turned back to the handset. “Are you sure?” Vasquez chewed his bottom lip. “Fine. Thank you, Gunner.”

“Problem?” DeSantos asked.

“One of the men was due in late, but hasn’t shown yet.”

“Is that unusual?” Uzi asked.

“He’s an hour and a half overdue. Yes, that’s unusual, Agent Uzi. Very unusual.”

Uzi and DeSantos shared an uneasy look. “Tell you what, Warren,” DeSantos said. “Why don’t we postpone our interviews with the flight crew. Uzi and I will check out your missing man.”

“It’s probably nothing.” Vasquez stood, then shook his head. “Shit.”

Uzi ended his call as they approached the Tahoe. “My people already did some legwork for us. They’ve assembled a spreadsheet with backgrounds on all the flight crew, including the crew chiefs and maintenance personnel. They’re sending it through right now.”

“Sending it through to where?”

Uzi held out his phone. “To this.”

“Your phone?”

“This is no ordinary smartphone. I’ve rooted it — hacked it, modified it. Made it… smarter.” Uzi winked. “Just a bit. I mean, just a byte.”

DeSantos looked at him. “Is that some kind of computer joke?”

“It was supposed to be.” They got into the SUV and Uzi fired up the engine. He navigated his phone’s screens, then handed it to DeSantos. “Page down through the spreadsheet.”

“Is this thing secure?” DeSantos asked, taking the device.

Uzi chuckled. “I’m using Serpent-Twofish-AES encryption, which is three ciphers in a cascade—”

“Uzi. Uzi — I don’t know what that shit means.” He quickly raised a hand. “And I don’t wanna know. Brian was a technogeek. He thought a good time was finding a way to hack into government and corporate computer systems. I never had the head for any of that crap.”

“I spent five years working on chip design for Intel. I led the team that designed and built the Pentium 4.”

DeSantos winced. “Why do I attract people like you?”

“Other way around. People like us are attracted to know-nothings like you. Makes us feel superior. Besides, I’m not a total techie. My motorcycle’s a thirty-year-old dinosaur. Suzuki 450. Air cooled engine. Sat in my parents’ garage for a dozen years till I moved back to the States, dug it out, and gave it mouth to mouth.” He flashed on the rides in the hot New York summers— frigid wind rippling his shirt, intense acceleration as he twisted the throttle, the engine roaring with power. When he had told Dena he missed his motorcycle, she forbid him from buying one in Israel because it was too dangerous. If she only knew what I really did for a living.

“Wife bought me a Harley last year for my fortieth.”

Uzi eyed his partner. “Nice gift.”

“That’s what home equity lines are for. Guess I should be thankful we’re not underwater,” he said absentmindedly as he sifted through the names on Uzi’s phone. “This shit’s gonna take a while to go through.”

“Start with our missing Marine.”

“Corporal William Ellison.” DeSantos continued scrolling through the document until he found the entry. “Got it. Lives on base, a lettered apartment on John Quick Road. Couple miles from here.”

He gave Uzi directions, then started reading the backgrounder on Ellison.

Uzi departed the Air Facility, then turned onto Barnett Avenue. “Anything pop out?”

“Guy’s a model soldier, like Warren said.” His eyes flicked right and left through the summary. “Could be a dead end.”

Uzi accelerated. “We’ll find out real soon.”

Uzi turned onto John Quick Road and drove up to the 2000 block, then pulled in front of Corporal Ellison’s residence. The three-story, six-family base-issue apartment building, with its thirties-style architecture and red-brick masonry, reminded Uzi of the school he attended in New York.

Two anonymous-gray aluminum gang mailboxes rose from the sidewalk like sentries guarding the entrance. Concrete-and-wood park benches stood astride the front walkway.

A patrol car sat parked at the curb, its radio crackling with dispatch chatter. Uzi craned his neck to look at the cruiser through the passenger window. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

“Marines wouldn’t let the FBI get the jump on their investigation,” DeSantos said. “Despite my relationship with Warren.” He handed Uzi back his phone, then got out and followed his partner to the front door. “How much of a lead you figure they got on us?”

“If they were on patrol and passing by, five or ten minutes.”

Uzi led the way across the threshold, holding out his credentials case as he encountered the first military police officer stationed in the entryway.

“FBI. Aaron—”

“I know who you are, sir.” The MP was a couple of inches shorter than Uzi, but his crisp uniform and formal demeanor gave him an air of control. “They’ll be done in a few minutes.”

Uzi said, “We’ll just head on in and look around. I’m sure Major Vasquez wouldn’t mind.”

“Ellison here?” DeSantos asked.

The MP, his jaw tight, answered with a terse, “No.”

DeSantos shouldered past the officer, followed by Uzi. After passing through the hallway, Uzi and DeSantos split up, each taking opposite ends of the rectangular apartment. Five minutes later, Uzi entered the family room and caught DeSantos’s eye. They walked out of the apartment building together and stopped behind the Tahoe. Uzi glanced over his shoulder to make sure the base police were not within earshot. “Anything?”

“Nothing,” DeSantos said. “You?”

“There was a message. On his answering machine.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I lowered the volume. If this turns into something, I wanted to make sure this time we got the jump on our ‘buddies.’ With nine days to get to the bottom of this, we can’t afford to waste time with turf battles.”

Uzi glanced back at the apartment again before continuing. “It was a female voice.” He pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped at the screen several times with a finger and said, “He’s got a younger sister, lives off-base. Could’ve been her. She was reminding him of her doctor’s appointment at eight. She also wanted him to pick up some groceries on the way to work.”

DeSantos squinted. “Groceries? Strange favor to ask a brother, don’t you think? Especially when he lives on base and she doesn’t. Not exactly ‘on the way.’”

“Maybe she’s laid up and he’s helping her out. Hence the doctor’s appointment.”

“Time stamp on the message?”

“Nope. Old microcassette deal. Rewind the tape to the beginning and record over the messages. It was right at the beginning, so it’s recent. He’s missing this morning, so maybe she left it last night.”

DeSantos indicated the apartment with a nod of his head. “You got anything else you want to look at in there?”

“I’d rather go check in with the sister.”

“Let’s do it. Before our friends get the same idea.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Uzi tapped his pocket, where the tape was safely buried. “For the moment, this is our lead.”

Katherine Ellison lived in Dumfries, Virginia, a small, backward-leaning town fifteen miles from her brother’s apartment. Her house was a dilapidated clapboard, with weeds and gravel in place of a lawn, and weathered siding that was once blue but had long lost most of its pigment. Still, the surrounding land was wooded and green, pleasant and quiet.

Uzi pulled against the curb, blocking the short driveway where a red Dodge Ram was parked. “Does the corporal own a pickup?”

“In fact, he does.”

Uzi’s eyebrows rose, an understated movement intended to punctuate the fact that Ellison was there and that something had to be amiss. “He hasn’t called into work.”

DeSantos thought for a second, then said, “Sister’s ill and he took her to the hospital.”

“His pickup is blocking the driveway.”

DeSantos’s eyes darted around as he sought another explanation. “They took her car, which was parked at the curb. Or an ambulance came and took both of them to the hospital. Or—”

“When you hear hoof beats,” Uzi said, “think horses, not zebras.” It was an old medical school saw his father had drummed into him: when presented with the unknown, first consider the most obvious explanation before turning to the obscure ones.

DeSantos reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his Desert Eagle. Uzi was doing the same with his Glock. “Ready?”

Uzi nodded, then quietly popped his car door. Crouching low, they hurried up the broken concrete walkway, hands on their weapons and eyes scanning the windows for movement. As they stepped onto the wood porch, a floorboard creaked loudly under their weight. Uzi winced.

They took positions on either side of the door. DeSantos pointed at the doorbell. Uzi shrugged. At this point, if a nefarious sort was inside, he’d probably know they were there. Uzi nodded for DeSantos to continue. He pushed the button and a tinny, high-pitched bell sounded.

A moment later, Uzi balled a fist and rapped on the flaking wood door. Nothing.

“Is that blood on the doorframe?” DeSantos asked.

“Where?”

“There.” DeSantos indicated generally with a dip of his nose.

Uzi didn’t see anything, then understood.

“Someone’s life could be in danger,” DeSantos said. “We’d better go in.”

As Uzi opened his mouth to object, DeSantos kicked in the door.

Uzi swung into position, Glock held in front of him, knees bent, eyes darting around the interior. He slid in, followed by DeSantos. Pistols leading the way, they began clearing rooms.

It didn’t take long for Uzi to find what they were looking for. “Santa! In here.”

DeSantos appeared seconds later. His shoulders slumped in resignation as his eyes found the uniformed Marine lying faceup on the threadbare carpet. “Shit.”

“Corporal Ellison, I presume.”

DeSantos moved the man’s arm with the tip of his Desert Eagle, and the nametag, now visible, confirmed Uzi’s assumption. “Large caliber weapon.” He got down on a knee to examine the gunshot wounds in the forehead and chest. “A forty-five with hollow point rounds, I’d guess.”

“Shooter was standing about fifteen, twenty feet away. Over there,” Uzi said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Groceries are on the counter. Bag’s from the base commissary.”

“I love it when everything fits together.”

“Sister?”

“Let’s go see.”

They walked together down the hallway, on alert with guns still drawn, though Uzi figured the killer was long gone. They entered the first room on the right.

“Oh, Jesus,” DeSantos said.

In the bed sat a radiation-bald Katherine Ellison, a bullet hole in her forehead, the dark stare of death draped across her face.

While DeSantos briefed Vasquez by phone, Uzi called the field office and informed Marshall Shepard of what they had found at Katherine Ellison’s house. The FBI forensics unit was dispatched immediately and arrived in twenty-five minutes. One of the task force members accompanied the lab techs, allowing Uzi and DeSantos to return to Corporal Ellison’s apartment.

Upon their arrival, they began a methodical search of the Marine’s residence. While DeSantos rifled through old papers and files, Uzi mentally walked through the facts of the case. Someone wanted Ellison and his sister dead. The questions were obvious: who and why? And more significantly, was there a connection to the downing of Marine Two?

Uzi sat down at a cabinet housing the corporal’s computer and started poking at the keyboard.

A few minutes later, DeSantos gestured at the monitor. “Find anything with ARM letterhead?”

Uzi managed a laugh. “I have a feeling we’re not gonna find any smoking guns in this case.”

“No, guess not.” DeSantos tossed the file onto the bed behind him. “Just smoking helicopter ruins.”

“We should bring his PC over to the lab, have CART go through it,” Uzi said, referring to the Bureau’s Computer Analysis Response Team. “There’s all sorts of shit that gets buried on hard drives that people don’t know about. They think because they delete something, it vanishes into thin air.”

DeSantos nodded. “Brian once said the data’s still there, but the computer can’t find it.”

“Your partner was right,” Uzi said. “A computer’s hard drive is like an index system. When you delete a file, it stays on the hard drive but its entry in the index is removed. The supersmart computer thinks it’s gone, but good old low-brow human intelligence can find it.”

DeSantos leaned back. “You admit that?”

“Hey, what’s fair is fair.” He nodded at the PC. “Can we take what we need, or do we have to clear it with Vasquez?”

“You have to clear it.” The voice came from behind them, down the hall. Warren Vasquez appeared a second later. “Just submit an inventory of what you’re taking,” he said to Uzi. “And don’t forget to copy me on every report you people generate.”

“Of course,” Uzi said. “We’re all on the same side.”

“Let’s hope so,” Vasquez said.

Uzi’s head tilted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring Uzi’s comment, Vasquez tossed a glance at DeSantos. “I assume that answering machine tape will show up on the inventory, right?”

Uzi could feel a slight sweat break out across his back. “Of course.”

Vasquez’s eye twitched slightly. “Good,” he said, then walked out.

Fifteen minutes later, Uzi ended a phone call, then found DeSantos in the garage. “Anything?”

“He was a gear-head, apparently.” DeSantos swiveled his body, nodding at the mess of objects strewn before him. Car magazines, specialized tools, cases of synthetic oil.”

“You’re on your own for a while.” He held up his phone. “Shepard just called. I was summoned to the White House—”

“Agent Uziel?” A suited man entered the garage and displayed his Secret Service credentials. “Please come with me.”

“As I was saying,” Uzi said to DeSantos as he backed away toward his escort. “The president wants a dialogue with me.”

DeSantos cocked his head in bemusement. “A dialogue with the president? How quaint.”

Uzi tossed DeSantos his keys. “Catch up with you later. Don’t scratch the paint.”

President Jonathan Whitehall stood on the sloping, manicured patch of grass behind the Oval Office, a puffy goose down vest snapped around his torso and a titanium putter clutched in his leather-wrapped hands. Several balls were arranged in a row in front of him. He was lining up a shot, seemingly oblivious to Uzi’s presence.

Not wanting to disturb the president’s concentration, Uzi stood off to the side, waiting for Whitehall to acknowledge him. He had been escorted to the Southwest Gate, then handed off to another set of agents who ushered him to the tip of the grass, turned, and left him there.

“How long are you just going to stand there, son?” Whitehall’s voice had the southern drawl Uzi had become accustomed to hearing the past eight years.

Uzi felt like he should have been awed by the man’s presence, or at least be a bit nervous because of the setting. He was on the president’s turf — literally — and totally unprepared for this meeting. Had he known in advance, he would’ve worn a suit. Then again, maybe not.

Marshall Shepard’s warning did not give him much to go on. All he was told was that the president wanted to see him. Innocuous enough. But Uzi had learned years ago that casual chats with powerful leaders could sometimes evolve into something much more significant… if not downright dangerous.

He stood with his hands shoved deep into his leather overcoat’s pockets, legs spread wide, conveying relaxed confidence. “Didn’t want to disrupt your shot, sir.” Courtesy first and always.

“Nonsense,” Whitehall said, his eyes still focused on the putter. “Is this the way you’re running your investigation? Afraid to assert yourself?”

“There are very few things I’m afraid of, Mr. President.”

Whitehall looked up and found Uzi’s gaze. Uzi did not look away. Whitehall conceded the silent battle and straightened. Keeping the putter in his left hand, he walked the ten feet separating the two men. Though Whitehall had lost half an inch sometime between sixty and seventy, it did not make much difference: his physical stature was not where his strength lay.

Whitehall had the reputation of being a hard-hitting negotiator, a staunch conservative who held to strict Republican values, a politician who always played fairly — a rarity in Washington. Tough, but fair. A man many liked to hate, but admired. His brutally direct nature had gotten him into trouble, while earning trust and respect among foreign leaders. He once told the Chinese premier his tie was god-awful ugly, and smiled while doing it.

Uzi had never met Whitehall, but he had read enough of the man to know he was the sort of no-nonsense, straight-shooting leader for whom Uzi preferred to work.

He seemed to study Uzi’s face with a thorough once-over glance, as if he were inspecting a soldier in boot camp. “This… incident with the vice president — my vice president — can’t go unpunished. I want every fucking terrorist associated with this bombing strung up by his balls. If someone knew about it and didn’t do anything to stop it, I want him held responsible, too. I want their wives hauled in. Their barbers, car mechanics. Nothing overlooked. Am I making myself clear?”

“I assure you, Mr. President, we’re doing everything possible to get these cowards. We’ll find them.” Uzi’s eyes darted around the periphery. “Sir, it’s not my place to pass judgment, but are you sure it’s a good idea to be out in the open like this? Since we don’t know who’s responsible—”

“You’re right, son. It’s not your place. I’ve been in meetings round the clock. I needed to clear my mind, get some fresh air. I’ve got a contingent of Secret Service agents who won’t let me take a piss without following me into the goddamn bathroom. After Marine Two went down they shoved me into the PEOC and didn’t let me out for five hours. I won’t be held prisoner like that again. The president of the United States can’t be hiding, cowering away in some protected safe room. It’s degrading.”

Although he had never been there, Uzi knew that the PEOC was the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, located below the East Wing. An elaborate bunker, it was designed to withstand all types of non-nuclear attacks while allowing the president to remain in communication with other government facilities.

Whitehall lifted his putter and pointed it at Uzi. “The leader of the greatest country in the world has to lead by example.” The movement of the putter in front of Uzi’s face provided the emphasis. “If 9/11 taught us anything, it was that we’ve got to get on with our lives, show the terrorists they haven’t won. And this is how we go on living.” He craned his head toward the clearing sky. “By taking a few minutes off to clear the mind and hit some balls on a damn fine afternoon.” Whitehall seemed to be lost in thought for a moment as he stared at the moving clouds. “Damn fine afternoon, wouldn’t you say, son?”

“Mr. President, you asked me here for a reason—”

“Focus on what you’re paid to do. See the big picture. In case Mr. Shepard didn’t make it abundantly clear, we’re hosting the International Conference on Global Terrorism in eight days. I don’t have to tell you the embarrassment this incident has caused us. We can’t even deal with terrorism in our goddamn backyard, and we’re supposed to be heading up the effort to contain it on a global basis.” He shook his head. “Bastards.”

Shepard had not, in fact, mentioned it. But as he and DeSantos had surmised, Knox’s deadline was dictated by the conference. Uzi had been briefed three months ago on the security measures being implemented, but Homeland Security and the Secret Service were firmly in charge, and his unit was not involved in either the planning or execution, so it had slipped to the far reaches of his mind. Whitehall had a point… and perhaps the attempt on the vice president was not personal, as he had been thinking. Maybe it was meant to send a message.

Whitehall moved back to the line of balls. He spread his legs, swung the putter and popped the ball so hard it flew into the air and landed well beyond its intended target.

Uzi stood there, wondering if Whitehall was done talking to him. He wasn’t going to wait much longer. Standing there was a sign of weakness. He counted to three, then said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” As he started to walk off, Whitehall called after him.

“There’s something else you should know.”

Uzi turned and waited for the president to meet his gaze.

“The conference is a cover. It’s a working meeting, don’t get me wrong. But there are bigger issues at stake. Time-sensitive issues, political issues. Things that mean a great deal to me.”

Uzi cocked his head and quickly moved closer to the president. The nearest Secret Service agent, blending innocuously into a row of bushes a few yards away, slowly inched forward, clearly taking notice of Uzi’s movement.

When they reached whisper distance, Whitehall continued. “High-level peace talks between the Israelis and Palestinians. Unofficially sanctioned, totally clandestine. Special negotiators from each side are coming to town to nail down a blueprint for peace. ’Bout fucking time. I don’t intend to let this slip through my hands in the waning days of my presidency. No one, no one knows about this but me, the secretary of state, my Secret Service detail, and now you. And it has to stay that way, you understand me, son?”

Uzi suddenly found himself rigid, at attention, his head tilted slightly back, a posture assumed when being addressed by a drill sergeant. “Yes, sir.”

“Both my national security advisor and Director Tasset tell me there’re some Mideast extremist groups high up on our list of suspects.”

Uzi fought to absorb this news without reaction. Tasset had said nothing to him at the crash site about foreign extremist involvement. And the CIA rep on his JTTF had not yet made that assertion. Perhaps it was merely a knee-jerk reaction to a bold terror event of such striking scale. With their focus now on ARM, he wondered if he should brief the president on the turn the investigation had taken. He decided to keep his mouth shut until he was more certain of his facts.

“Some of these groups have had ties to certain factions within the Palestinian leadership for years,” Whitehall continued. “Hamas, for one. That’s no surprise to you, I’m sure. But if they’re responsible for the assassination attempt, I need to know that before I sit down at the table with these people. Because instead of brokering a landmark peace deal, I’ll be telling them they have six hours to get their people to safety because we’ll be bombing their fucking government buildings into a pile of rubble.”

Whitehall let Uzi chew on that a bit while the crimson drained from his cheeks. He rolled his shoulders, then said, “So you know where I stand on this, son, I do not want this investigation to show Palestinian involvement. I want this peace deal. It’s good for the Middle East and it’s good for the long-term stability of world markets. It further isolates Iran, and it brings some calm to a region plagued by decades of violence. And it’s good for America.” He paused, looked out at the roses a dozen feet away. “And, it’s good for me. If I can come away with a comprehensive peace deal, accomplish something no president’s been able to accomplish, well, then, that would be a mighty pretty feather in my fishing cap.”

Uzi squinted against the bright sky. Was Whitehall telling him not to do or say anything that might implicate the Palestinians, even if he later found that they were involved? Or was he conveying his hope that they were innocent — but that they’d suffer severe consequences if they had done the deed?

“Make no mistake,” Whitehall said. “Whoever they are, the bastards who did this are going to pay, Agent Uziel. Whether it’s in the courts, at the wrong end of a volley of Tomahawks, or in some back alley, they will pay for ruining my last days in office.”

After nearly fifty years in politics, it appeared that Jonathan Whitehall’s public and private personas had merged, shaped by political rhetoric and sound bites. Uzi felt like he needed a translator to cut through the chaff, to be clear what this man was truly asking him to do.

“My last two months will be a hallmark of my administration,” Whitehall continued. “It’s not always how you perform, it’s how you leave the stage that people remember. I want to be remembered as a strong leader who led the people through a difficult time, who brought us out better than when we went in. Above all, it’s imperative we show these terrorists that no one fucks with the United States of America and gets away with it. Getting bin Laden was a really good deal. But it’s old news. This— This latest attack is now the story of the day, maybe of the decade. Each day these terrorists escape justice is an insult. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Uzi definitely did not. At the same time, this was the president. He felt intense pressure to appear confident, competent, and up to the task. But he wasn’t sure what that “task” actually was. He had to risk asking for clarification. “Sir, what exactly would you like me to do?”

Whitehall jammed his putter into the turf. “I want justice, goddamn it!” The president looked hard at Uzi. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t care how you get it. Do things by the book, but if you have these fuckers by the balls, don’t let ’em disappear into thin air while you jerk around with a judge trying to get a warrant, goddamnit. Just get the job done.” His eyes coursed Uzi’s face again, as if searching for something. “If you can’t do that, tell me now and I’ll find someone else who can.”

Was the president directing him to shoot a suspect in cold blood if the “need” arose? Due process right there on the street? Uzi had taken orders like this in the past, but they were always backed by hard evidence and the corroborating proof of reliable intelligence.

A stiff wind smacked Uzi in the face. He looked at the president a few feet away and realized the man was awaiting his response. It appeared Whitehall was ordering him to be judge and jury. Uzi wondered if he was, indeed, up to the task. His commanding officer was giving him his marching orders, and he was expected to comply. In the past, there was only one time when Uzi had questioned his superior, and it ended in disaster.

Still, Whitehall’s demeanor gave him pause. Whatever Uzi did, he had to be damn sure he was right. There was a lot in play, a great deal at stake. Uzi nodded slowly. “You can count on me, sir.” Then he turned and walked away, unsure of the methods by which he would act. But the president’s admonition continued to bounce around his thoughts like a superball on speed.

Just get the job done.

Alpha Zulu had the constitution of a retired Navy SEAL. Yet though he moved with the slyness of a wild cougar, he prided himself more on his chameleonic ability to reinvent his appearance and demeanor to suit his environment. But an innate sense of timing was his most valuable asset.

He was the ideal person for this job, even if his business partners had not known the depth of his talents when they first initiated contact.

Alpha Zulu had a real name, of course, but almost no one knew it. He had several aliases, including bogus credit cards he used once a month, checking accounts, and studio apartments in seedier parts of town with utility hookups set on automatic debit from the bank to give the appearance of regular activity. Whatever he couldn’t do himself, he had a small group of confidants he could count on to legitimize his illusion. It was all about credibility and the ability to blend in — into society, into a crowd, into everyday life, without anyone noticing him.

And in spite of all the post-9/11 security hype, he still functioned with impunity. No one in law enforcement knew who he was or what he was up to. He literally operated off the radar.

Zulu parked his run-of-the-mill Ford Escort on Tracy Road in Kalorama Heights, three blocks from the home of Republican Congressman Gene Harmon. Harmon held a powerful position in the United States government: head of the House Select Committee on Intelligence. Harmon was privy to secrets a mere handful in the government knew, and when a covert mission was undertaken, he was one of only eight individuals who were informed of the action before it was launched.

Zulu moved in the shadow of early nightfall, timing it so that even the occasional streetlight did not awaken while he was in the middle of his maneuver. Carrying a small device that fit inside the housing of a standard cell phone, he stepped briskly past the columned entryway of the sprawling, four-story, five-thousand-square-foot brick-and-slate Victorian mansion.

He turned right into the sunken driveway, knelt to tie his shoe, and set down the rigged phone. He continued down Tracy Road another two blocks, then crossed the street and headed back toward the Harmon residence. His destination was a narrow easement between two well-maintained three-story homes, one of which had a realtor’s sign sunk in the postage stamp lawn. While well-hidden, this location provided an unimpeded view of the congressman’s garage.

Zulu removed two pointed snowshoes from his compact backpack and fastened them to his Timberlands. Walking with them provided a challenge, but it was a necessary precaution. He settled himself behind the black iron gate and blended into the fauna that filled the space: ivy and well-pruned privet hedges. He repositioned the ski mask, then pulled a pocket watch from his fanny pack.

This was no ordinary watch, however. It was custom-crafted in Switzerland, the mecca of time-constipated artisans whose creation of accurate timepieces approached sexual ecstasy. Commissioned by Zulu’s group three years ago, the pocket watches were fashioned from Italian sterling silver, engraved with curls and whorls in a pattern that emphasized its classic — indeed timeless — style.

In the center of the lid was a gold-inlaid scorpion, its powerful oversize claws, jointed tail, and venomous stinger manifest evidence of its menacing lethality. Zulu related to the arachnid; he owned several species from around the world and bonded with them as some do dogs. His shared kinship and common modus operandi made the scorpion a logical choice for the group’s unofficial crest.

Thirty-five minutes passed. Zulu, dressed in black neoprene pants and top, was doing his best to fend off the chilled temperature. Though it was no colder than forty degrees, remaining still and squatting in bushes stagnated the blood and numbed his extremities.

After Zulu rose to flex and extend his feet — contracting the calf muscles helped the circulation in his legs — Congressman Gene Harmon’s garage door rolled up. The midnight blue BMW crawled forward, up the driveway’s gentle incline. Zulu brought a pair of compact night-vision binoculars to his eyes, positively identified the congressman through the windshield, and prepared to trigger the device, waiting for the right moment. Timing, as always, was key.

He squeezed the button and a split second later, his task was complete.

After retrieving his car, Uzi headed off to interview Glendon Rusch at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. After arriving, he was directed to Building 10, where he took the stairs to the ICU. After clearing the security protocols at the door to Glendon Rusch’s room, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. He’d seen injured soldiers before, men whose faces were obliterated by mortar rounds, women and children whose flesh and body parts were strewn a block away by a suicide bomber’s explosives. But no matter how many times he’d done it, facing a terror victim was never easy.

Uzi had been told the president-elect’s ability to talk would be dictated by his level of sedation and pain tolerance. He didn’t expect the interview to last long or provide a magic bullet lead, but he had to make the attempt.

After gowning, Uzi settled the mask over his face and pushed through the door. He took in the scene with one quick glance: blinking and quietly thumping machines monitored Rusch’s vitals and infused his ravaged body with fluids. He let the door swing closed behind him, then nodded at the Secret Service agent and took a few steps to Glendon Rusch’s bedside, a move that drew the patient’s attention. He slowly turned his head and his gaze found Uzi’s. Though Uzi could not see his face, he thought he read pain in his gray, medication-hazed eyes. Not physical pain, however. Emotional pain.

Uzi squared his shoulders and said, “Special Agent Aaron Uziel. FBI.”

Rusch blinked, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words tumbled from Uzi’s lips, but hurt the instant they left his mouth. He hadn’t considered what he would say to the man when he first saw him. Only the investigative questions he needed to ask had populated his thoughts. But he immediately felt the inadequacy of his impersonal condolence. Uzi had once been on the receiving end, and in his fragile state, it irritated him with each successive utterance, like a repeatedly chafed wound. He hoped his delivery was sincere, somehow stained with his own pain.

“What can I do for you, Agent?” Rusch’s voice seemed labored, coarse, and fatigued.

“Mr. Vice President, as hard as this may be for you, I need to talk to you about what happened. In the helicopter.” Uzi was unsure how he should refer to Rusch. Mr. Vice President? Mr. President-elect? He chose the safest one, figuring that at the moment Rusch had more problems to deal with than caring about what title an FBI agent used when addressing him.

Rusch nodded ever so slightly. Uzi took that as a signal to continue.

“Sir, we know that explosives took down both choppers—”

“Then you already know… as much as I do.”

Uzi hesitated. “Is there anything you can add? Can you tell me what happened in the cabin?”

“I lost my wife and daughter.” Each word was undercut by anguish. “Nothing else matters.”

Uzi knew firsthand this man’s pain. He searched for the right words. “There’s nothing we can do to change that, sir, but we want to catch the people who did this. Bring them to justice.”

After a moment’s silence, Rusch said, “I don’t remember much. I heard the explosion — or felt it, I guess. The escort was first. And then… us. Next thing I know, a medic’s bent over me.” His eyes shuttered closed. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“Do you have any idea of who might’ve wanted you dead?”

Rusch focused his gaze again on Uzi. “You’re assuming I was the target.”

“At the moment, we’re looking at everything, everyone. But you always start by giving the most obvious the most emphasis. Someone went through an awful lot of trouble and risk to pull this off. Given that, you’re the obvious target.”

Rusch looked away. “As a prosecutor, I went up against teamsters, mobsters… violent criminals. As governor I signed the death penalty into law.” He took a drowsy breath, smacked his petroleum-glossed lips. “I was a bastard of a VP, fought people… on several volatile issues. Point is… the list of who’d want me dead is… is too long to even keep track of.”

Uzi hoped Rusch would say more, but he merely shut his eyes. Uzi took the hint. He pulled a business card from his pocket and set it on the cabinet beside Rusch’s bed. “Call me if you think of anything. Thank you for your time, sir.” He turned and headed for the door.

“One thing,” Rusch said, his pain-weary voice barely audible over the whirring medical equipment. “Catch the people responsible, Agent Uziel. Don’t do it for me. Do it for my wife and daughter. For this great country of ours.”

Uzi dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then left.

Uzi stood a dozen feet from the charred and exploded remains of Congressman Gene Harmon’s BMW. He leaned against the moss-covered distressed-brick wall, sucking on a toothpick as the crime scene techs combed the ruins.

He had barely made it out of Glendon Rusch’s room when his cell phone rang.

“Better get your ass over to Kalorama Road,” Shepard said.

“What’s on Kalorama Road?”

“Not what, Uzi, who. Congressman Gene Harmon. Or what’s left of him.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit. Big time shit. Director’s out of his freakin’ mind—”

“I’m on my way.” After Shepard gave him the address, Uzi headed for the exclusive neighborhood where congressional representatives, ambassadors, and other foreign dignitaries resided. He made good time, but now that he was at the scene, he realized there was nothing for him to do but watch. And think.

He felt helpless. Though his better sense told him Gene Harmon was only the latest target of their anonymous assassin — or group of assassins — he needed to find the connection… that one strand of evidence that established a relationship between Rusch, Ellison, and Harmon. Then he could begin focusing on motive. And once he had motive, it would only be a matter of time before he fingered the Unknown Subject, or UNSUB.

At least in theory. In practice, nothing was easy. Nothing was merely “a matter of time.” Often it was hard work, intuitive insight, and a lot of luck thrown into a pot and allowed to simmer. How long? Who the hell knew. Sometimes years.

He didn’t have years. He had a little over a week.

Uzi pushed away from the brick wall. One of the technicians, a tall, thick woman with latex gloves stretched over pudgy fingers, held a piece of flat black plastic a few inches in length.

“What’s that?” Uzi asked.

She held it higher, as if getting a better look at it would give him the answer. He shrugged.

“It’s part of the injection mold of a cellular phone.”

Uzi suddenly became aware of DeSantos beside him. He glanced at his partner, then turned back to the technician. “So it’s an injection mold. The congressman had a cell phone. Who doesn’t?”

She held a flashlight against the material and parallel powder burn striations became evident. “Most people don’t have cell phones bearing evidence of an incendiary device. C-4 residue, I’d guess. But that’s preliminary.”

Uzi looked at DeSantos. “That might be our link.”

“Remote device, detonated by a simple call,” DeSantos said. “Leave the phone somewhere, in this case the driveway, and when your target drives over it, you make your call.”

Uzi sucked some more on his toothpick, then said, “So that means our UNSUB was somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for the right time.”

DeSantos nodded, then turned to assess the street. “There’s a lot of tree cover. It’s a short block. Even with NVGs, he’d need a clear view.”

“Well, let’s get started. Short block or not, this is gonna take a while.”

It did not take as long as Uzi had thought. Within the hour, a Metro PD cop found prints in the moist dirt across the street from the congressman’s house, in a narrow easement between two adjacent homes. The crime scene techs were on it immediately and made plaster castings.

If this was, in fact, where the killer knelt an hour or so prior, it was potentially the break for which Uzi had been hoping. At least they could estimate the suspect’s height, weight, and gender, and possibly even determine where he bought his shoes. From such tiny bits of information, major leads were often born.

But for all he knew, the castings were merely an expensive reproduction of the gardener’s work boots. His better sense told him otherwise. For now, he would have to wait — and hope.

Quentin Larchmont stood just outside the impromptu press room at Glendon Rusch’s transition headquarters — formerly the suite of offices used to direct his campaign— a short distance from the White House.

Larchmont, a low-level cabinet member in the Whitehall administration’s first term, was poised to elevate his game — and political profile — under Rusch’s presidency.

Starting now. The widely anticipated chief-of-staff title would distinguish him as a driving force in Rusch’s administration, but there was no better way for him to shape his political personality than by appearing on national television, talking to the People when they were emotionally vulnerable. In the past, leaders were born by giving rousing speeches at critical moments, by rising above the fray and showing the stuff of which they were made. This was his chance to indelibly imprint his image in the photographic silver of public consciousness.

Normally the task would have fallen to Rusch’s communications director or senior campaign advisor — but both perished in the crash. Someone on the president-elect’s team had to go before the cameras to speak for Glendon Rusch, to reassure the public their newly elected leader was alive and well. Or, rather, that he was alive. The task fell to Larchmont.

He was not complaining.

Heart thumping, his breath a bit short, he closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and found his emotional balance. He entered the room and somewhere in the back of his mind became aware of the droning buzz of press-room chatter as he strode to the podium. The noise hushed as if a judge had rapped a gavel. This wasn’t the Quentin Larchmont of his days as the translucent deputy commerce secretary. And it wasn’t the campaign trail anymore. This was the Big Show.

He looked up and took in the three dozen reporters and foreign press correspondents in front of him and the campaign workers who had gathered behind them. Cameras clicked. He found the handful of television cameras in the back, then let his eyes wander the room.

“Good evening,” he began. “It was my hope that President Rusch would be addressing all of you at a time of great joy and triumph, at the dawn of a new era, highlighting the strengths and beauty of the democratic institution: candidates campaign and debate, and then the American people cast their votes to choose who it is they want to lead them, who it is they want to set policy, who it is they trust with our well-being and the well-being of our families.

“But the underpinnings of this system of democracy, the bricks and mortar, if you will, is our right to vote. It is a right, a freedom that exists because hundreds of thousands of Americans spilled their blood defending the rights given us by visionaries, forefathers who walked this very land well over two hundred years ago. But as we’ve seen in the more immediate past, threats to our freedoms are all around us, poised to challenge our great democracy.

“Response to challenge is what separates greatness from irrelevance. We are a country of greatness made up of people who face adversity and meet those challenges head-on. Witness the events of the past two days. An attempt on our president-elect’s life. The slaughter of more than a dozen innocent people. And now, the cold-blooded murder of Congressman Gene Harmon, a dedicated member of Congress. In our own way, we each grieve alongside their families, saddened by their loss.” He paused, looked at his notes, then glanced up at the press corps.

“But in the wake of such challenges, we persevere and grow stronger. Because Marine Two and its escort went down on the eve of a great awakening. The American people are resilient, and they have spoken, loud and clear: Glendon Rusch was elected to lead the greatest country in the free world, and despite these unexpected obstacles, the United States remains a nation built on unshakable principles. No one — not terrorists nor ruthless dictators — can take that away. Nor can they weaken our resolve.

“I tell you now, as I told you several weeks ago: Glendon Rusch will be your next president. When I’d said it back in September it was a prediction, a display of our strength of conviction to win the White House. Today I say it as a declaration that despite the efforts of a criminal mind — or minds — President-elect Rusch lives. He will be your next president.” Cameras clicked again, in unison, as if on cue.

Larchmont shifted his weight slowly, carefully. “I want to reaffirm your belief in this extraordinary man. And to those people who did not vote for him, you are now witness to the stuff of which Glendon Rusch is made. What happened several thousand feet above the Virginia countryside is testament to his mettle. Two people survived the destruction of both helicopters, but only Glendon Rusch lived to talk about it. Some may say it’s luck. But Glendon Rusch survived because that’s just the sort of man Glendon Rusch is. He’s a warrior, a survivor.

“He’s a soldier fighting for what he believes is right. Whether that be in a free-falling helicopter or ordering our troops into battle against a terrorist regime, President Rusch will fight to uphold the principles I spoke of a moment ago, the ones that make our United States of America the greatest nation on Earth.”

Larchmont bowed his head, counted to three for effect, then looked directly into the television cameras. “I promise you that we will persevere. We will catch those responsible.

“But this country is not just about retribution. We will continue to lead the world, to aid the sick, to help poor nations meet their food and healthcare needs, to assist those less fortunate.

“To do that we need a seasoned leader, one with vision, convictions, and perseverance. I assure you now our new president will be fit to govern. The transition will proceed. Not as smoothly as we’d anticipated, of course. Challenges stand in our way. But remember: our response to challenge defines us as a people. I assure you the United States of America will emerge stronger.”

Larchmont looked out at the cameras. “Thank you all for your prayers. God bless.”

Uzi made his way to the front of the large room, where Quentin Larchmont was shaking hands with a number of supporters who were clearly moved by his speech. Uzi flashed his credentials at the Secret Service agent, and the man permitted him into the hallway with Larchmont. “Sir, I’m Agent Uzi. FBI.”

Larchmont gave Uzi a quick once-over, then turned away. “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, and we’re several blocks away.”

“As I told your assistant, I’m in charge of the task force responsible for finding the terrorists who did this, sir. She said you’d be able to talk with me for a few moments. If you’ve got more pressing matters, let me know when might be more convenient for your schedule.” Uzi folded his arms. He was pissing on the ground in front of Larchmont, letting him know they were standing on his territory.

Larchmont’s jaw muscles tightened. “I’ve got very little of value to offer you, Agent Uzi.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Larchmont, it’s best if I determine that.”

Larchmont’s face flushed, but he kept his cool and gestured to the corridor ahead of them. “Walk and talk?” He started down the hall, two Secret Service agents bringing up the rear.

“What did you think of my little speech?”

“Good show. Plenty of well-crafted sound bites.”

Larchmont stopped walking and faced Uzi. His face was taut, his jaw jutting forward. “This incident could weaken the president-elect’s image, damage his ability to lead. Others might see it as an opportunity to step on the United States when she’s down. So I had to spin it. Right now I see myself as a kind of Secret Service agent: protecting the political life of the president at all costs. Need be, I’d gladly take a bullet and kill my career if it meant saving the president’s. Now, what’s on your mind?”

Uzi glanced at the Secret Service agents to gauge their response to Larchmont’s comment. They remained stoic.

“As the president-elect’s protector,” Uzi said, “perhaps you can shed some light on who might want to kill him.”

Larchmont chuckled. “A loaded question. No one specifically, if that’s what you mean. Glendon Rusch is a very popular man. You saw what he did at the polls—”

“‘No one specifically’?” Uzi asked. “Does that mean you know of someone in general?”

A smile broke Larchmont’s leathery face. “That’s very good. Sitting on my every word. Kind of like the press. Never thought of that before. The FBI and the press both scour your words for hidden meaning.”

“There’s always hidden meaning with politicians, since they generally say a lot about nothing. Safer that way.”

Larchmont’s smile faded. “There are all sorts of nuts out there, no shortage of religious fanatics or rogue leaders. Look at Iran — which tried to assassinate an ambassador here in DC — or North Korea, or — hell, even Russia’s taken to killing officials and journalists they consider to be a threat. You want someone specific? No idea who’d want to kill Glendon Rusch. That better, Agent? Direct enough for you?” He shook his head, then resumed his stride toward the lobby.

Choosing not to follow Larchmont, Uzi stood at the edge of the hall with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “So you’re at a loss to explain what happened,” he called across the lobby. “No political motives, personal vendettas, nothing like that.”

Larchmont’s shoulders fell submissively. He turned slowly and said, “Explaining what happened is your job. Instead of bothering me, why don’t you go do something useful?”

Larchmont, now a few feet from the office building’s front door, motioned to one of the Secret Service agents. “Joseph, we’d better get going. My meeting.” The agent spoke into a microphone embedded in his sleeve. “Pluto is ready to move.”

Having walked to within a few yards of Larchmont, Uzi said, “We may need to talk again.”

Larchmont gave Uzi a disgusted once-over. “On top of everything that’s happened, we’ve got a cabinet to assemble. If anything significant comes up, you know where to find me.”

Uzi arrived at the Aquia Commerce Center with a mind full of questions. He parked and took the elevator up to the second floor and informed the receptionist seated behind the bulletproof glass he was there to see a profiler with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

Moments later, the large wood door cracked open, Supervisory Special Agent Karen Vail’s lightly freckled face bunching a bit with a broad grin. She stepped forward and greeted him with a warm hug. “Let’s head back to my crypt, talk there.”

Vail led the way down various hallways and stopped at her office, a ten-by-ten room filled with files and reports, topic-related textbooks packed onto bookshelves, and FBI binders containing research articles on serial killers and rapists, sexual sadism and psychopathy. Dominating the shelf was an oversize manual of Bureau operational guidelines.

In the far corner of the room, a human skeleton stood beside a framed photo of a teenager and a tall man standing in front of the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial.

Uzi leaned back and appraised the office. “You really need an interior decorator. A bit morose in here, don’t you think?”

“I tangle with serial killers and walk knee deep in their victims’ blood and guts. Morose is my middle name.” She settled into her desk chair. An LCD screen above her left shoulder displayed photos of a crime scene. “So how’ve you been?”

Uzi shrugged. “Been busy, which is good. Well, I guess in a sense having lots to do when you head up the terrorism task force is bad. But for my sanity, staying busy helps. You?”

“My life’s been… very eventful the past several months. I complain, but no one seems to give a shit.”

“I called, you know, after… the thing with Dead Eyes.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I— There was a lot of healing, mentally and physically. I tried to take a vacation in Napa, and that, well, let’s just say I’m still healing from that. Mentally and physically.” She grinned. “And don’t ask me about my time on Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz, huh? Sounds positively arresting.”

“You have no idea. But the good news is that I met someone.”

“An inmate?”

“No, dipshit. A LEO,” she said, referring to a law enforcement officer. “Vienna dick who was on my Dead Eyes task force. He’s now a DEA agent.” She craned her neck back and indicated the framed wall photo.

Uzi sat down in the office chair in front of Vail’s desk. “He looks very… hunky.”

Vail smiled, a bit mischievously. “Something tells me you’re not here about Robby.”

“The chopper. I need some answers. And the identity of our UNSUB, too, if you can swing it.”

Vail grabbed an envelope off her desk and held it up to her forehead. “He’s forty-nine years old, works for the government, and his name is—”

“Okay, okay,” Uzi said, holding out a hand. “I guess I deserved that.”

“You know what I can and can’t do.”

“Karen, I thought you could do everything.” He grinned broadly.

“Like I told you at the crash site, it’s Frank Del Monaco’s case. I was just covering. You want me to call him?” She reached for the phone.

“No,” Uzi said. He leaned to his left and shut the door. “I’d rather work with you.”

Vail watched the door click closed, then said, “Frank and I have had our differences, but I think he can do up a decent profile on this.”

“I don’t know Frank Del Monaco. I know Karen Vail. Check that. I trust Karen Vail.”

“Frank and I are technically assigned to the West Coast. Normally, he and I wouldn’t come within ten yards of this.”

“Then I feel even more lucky to be sitting in your office discussing this case.”

Vail shook her head. “You realize if I help you, it’ll piss off Frank big time. Not that I mind doing that. That’s not the problem. It’s my unit chief and ASAC—”

“Off the record then. Between us, that’s all.”

Vail tossed the envelope back onto her desk and sighed. “This is going to come back to bite me in the ass, but what the hell. I’ve been bitten there before. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the bombers you profile.”

“That’s a pretty open-ended question, Uzi. You just want some generalities?”

“Let’s start with that, then we’ll see.”

Vail pushed her chair back a bit and leaned her elbows on her desk. “Douglas used to say that to know the artist, you had to study his art. How a bomb is made tells us a lot about the maker, or the artist, if you will. Just like there are differences in serial killers and how they handle their victims, bomb makers treat their bombs differently — and it all has to do with their personality. Did they spend a lot of time constructing the bomb, or is it haphazard and thrown together?

“If we have multiple bombs to examine, we can derive a signature from them. That means we can tie the devices to the same person, because he would’ve put his own artistic touches into the bomb when making it. The more unusual the construction, the more we can narrow it down to a particular individual. On its most basic level, there’s something we call ritual behavior, which refers to the things the UNSUB does that are unnecessary for the successful commission of his crime. So if the unknown subject’s objective is to kill someone when the bomb explodes, then using an exotic type of welding style is totally unnecessary. That becomes part of his ritualized behavior across multiple crimes.”

“Okay,” Uzi said. “Let me stop you there. I doubt we’ll get much from the bombs this guy used because we don’t have an intact device to examine. Looks like they all used C-4, but in different ways. Let’s assume for a second the same guy made them. How about the maker? Can you tell me anything about this guy?”

“My guess is that’s what Frank is working on.”

“No, you. Can you tell me anything about this guy?”

“Uzi, we’re all trained to profile offender behavior. Frank’s been on the case since he got back in town. I turned all my stuff over to him. He can answer your questions better than I could.”

Uzi leaned forward. “Karen, not all profilers have the same skill sets and abilities. Some have book knowledge and training, and some are intuitive. It just comes to them. I’ve seen you work, I know that you’re intuitive. Plus, I don’t trust people easily. You, I trust.”

Vail leaned back in her chair and rocked a bit. “If I help you, I’m going to get in trouble. How’s that for an intuitive prediction?”

“Here’s what we’ve got so far, which isn’t much.” He handed her a manila envelope. “Just give me what you can, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

“I have a hard time saying no to you, Uzi. Why is that?”

Uzi stood, then grabbed the door knob. “Hey, you’re the psych expert. But if I had to guess, I’d have to say it’s my striking good looks.”

Uzi walked into Marshall Shepard’s office ten minutes late. He pulled a fresh toothpick from Shepard’s private stash in his top left desk drawer, and stuck the mint-spiced piece of wood between his lips.

“Do you always go rummaging around your ASAC’s desk without his knowledge?”

The voice came out of nowhere. It was authoritarian and stern, but not excessively loud. Uzi nearly dropped the toothpick from his mouth. In that instant, he flashed on his childhood, when he was caught with a Playboy magazine he’d found in his father’s drawer.

Standing in the doorway was FBI Director Douglas Knox.

Uzi cleared his throat, gained his wits, and tried to act as if the daylights had not just been plucked from his skin. “ASAC Shepard keeps toothpicks—”

“I’m not interested,” Knox said, then entered the room and moved behind Shepard’s desk. With a quick flick of his wrists, he fanned aside his suit coat and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets. “Good that you’re here. I need to bring you up to speed on what I’ve set in motion the past couple of hours. I’ve assigned a total of three hundred agents to this case. Four squads—”

“And I’ve also tasked each member of the JTTF with naming additional agents from their own agencies,” Uzi said.

“Very good.” Knox began pacing behind Shepard’s desk. “I’ve asked Assistant Director Yates to put together an interagency unit — the Marine Two Task Force — or M2TF, to support the efforts of JTTF. Hector’s a logical choice to sit on it, and he’ll report directly to me and the secretary of defense. Within the hour, the Rapid Deployment Logistics Unit will have found a place to hunker down. It’ll be staffed with another two hundred agents from NSA, CIA, DOD, Secret Service, and Homeland Security. It’ll run concurrent with your investigation and report directly to ADIC Yates.”

Knox stopped talking, but continued pacing behind the desk. “Homeland Security is monitoring everything. I have a standing phone appointment with Secretary Braun twice daily to keep us both up to speed. Until we know more, we’re treating this as an act of terrorism. It could also turn out to be personal revenge, or even a politically motivated assassination. The term ‘terrorist’ has become a colloquialism for anyone with radical ideas and I don’t want it thrown around unnecessarily. Not until we have some proof.”

“Our operating definition of a terrorist has been someone who kills or intimidates innocent people,” Uzi said. “And if the target was in fact Glendon Rusch, they took a whole bunch of other people with him in their attempt. That fits the definition close enough for me.”

Knox stopped and turned on his heel, facing Uzi. “Was the target president-elect Rusch?”

“I don’t know yet, sir. It’s a starting point. When you hear hoof beats—”

“Think horses. I’m familiar with the saying. You keep chasing the horses, Agent Uziel, but I don’t want the zebras or bulls getting out of the pen either till we’re sure they’re not involved.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How does all this tie in with Congressman Harmon’s murder?”

Uzi shrugged. The congressman’s body was barely cold. Did Knox really expect him to have answers? “No compelling, direct evidence the two are related. Yet.”

Knox resumed his pacing. “Then indirect.”

Uzi thought of mentioning the possible C-4 connection, but until he got more info from the lab, he decided to keep it to himself. Instead, he said, “We’ve got some things in motion. But my gut tells me they’re related.”

“Your gut? That’s all we’ve got?”

“At the moment.” Uzi shifted his weight. “I can’t manufacture evidence—”

Knox’s head snapped up. He stopped moving, his cold eyes penetrating Uzi’s, as if he were trying to bore right through his skull and peer into his brain. “I’m not suggesting you do, Agent. Just get me answers. The right answers.”

Get me the right answers? What the hell does that mean? Was it a plea for Uzi to bring him the correct suspect, or the correct suspect for Knox’s needs? He flashed back on his conversation with the president, the ambiguous innuendoes leaving him at a loss to fully understand what he was saying. Or am I reading too much into it? Heeding his boss’s prior advice, Uzi merely nodded at Knox, then added, “Of course, sir.”

“Director Knox,” Shepard said, lumbering into the room. “Started without me. Good. I was talking with the lab—”

“Yes. Fine. I was just informing Agent Uziel here about the expansion of his task force.”

Shepard gave Uzi a serious look, as he would any other field agent who was not his personal friend. Turning back to Knox, he said, “Just so you know, Mr. Director, Command Post is now staffed and operational. Revised plan calls for JTTF to hit three-hundred—”

“ADIC Yates has kept me fully briefed,” Knox said with a wave of his hand. “But let me make something perfectly clear, Mr. Shepard: the number of bodies we’ve got assigned to this case doesn’t matter if we don’t break it. And soon. I don’t want a failed investigation on my watch.”

Shepard answered without hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

Uzi shuffled the toothpick in his mouth but did not say anything. He was busy observing the interplay between Knox and Shepard.

“You have a problem with this?” Knox was focused on Uzi, his gaze deep and stern.

“Not at all. It all makes perfect sense.”

Knox squinted a bit, no doubt trying to read the body language and attitude that underscored Uzi’s comment. He turned back to Shepard. “I’d like an update by oh-nine hundred.”

Shepard sat down heavily into his seat. “I hope to have something substantive to report by then.”

“Make sure you do.” Knox turned and left the room, failing to make eye contact with Uzi on the way out.

“He doesn’t like me,” Uzi said after the door had clicked shut.

“Douglas Knox doesn’t like most people in the Bureau. I should say, he doesn’t trust most people in the Bureau. I think it’s been the same wherever he’s been. It’s his way of keeping his distance. Part of the power trip.”

“How come you’re not into that scene?”

Shepard reached into his drawer to pull out a toothpick. “You been in my desk again?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I am into the power trip scene. That’s why I’m an Assistant Special Agent in Charge. In Charge, get it? That’s all about power, my friend. And within a couple years I plan to drop the ‘assistant’ from my title. Difference between me and the director is that I don’t believe in stabbing people in the back to get where you want to go.”

“You believe in a frontal assault.”

“Exactly, exactly right.” Shepard shoved the toothpick into his mouth. “So you think you can handle this, three hundred guys under your watch, some of ’em who hate your guts?”

“First of all, they’re not all male, and second of all, yeah. I can handle it. The task force is designed to compartmentalize everything.”

“It’s also designed to have everything and everyone funneled to you. You will be interfacing with a lot of these people. You will.”

“Not a problem,” Uzi said.

“Don’t let me down,” Shepard said. “Just don’t let me down.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me where we stand.”

“Working on a number of things. A buddy of mine from the Pentagon is poking around with me. Hector DeSantos.”

“I know.”

Uzi hesitated — Shepard clearly had his sources — then said, “Hector’s sharp. We make a good team.”

“Don’t forget you’ve got two hundred ninety-nine other team members.”

Uzi reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of message slips. “They won’t let me forget. Can I go now? I’ve got some calls to return.” He stood up and started for the door.

“I heard you kept your appointment with the shrink.”

Uzi turned, his hand on the knob. “I made you a promise. I keep my word.”

Shepard let a smile creep across his lips. The toothpick poked through. “I know you do.”