Hard Target

DAY TWO

When Uzi walked into his office, he found that a new stack of message slips had accumulated on his desk. He spent nearly three hours returning calls when Madeline, his assistant, handed him another note.

“I thought you might want to see this one right away,” she said. “The results are back on some of the evidence from Congressman Harmon’s home.”

Uzi arrived at the lab twenty minutes later.

He sat on a stool beside the FBI lab technician, Keisha Beekert. Clad in a white lab coat, the prematurely gray Beekert nudged a pair of reading glasses higher onto the bridge of her nose, then indicated the counter in front of her where several castings of the assailant’s footprints rested.

“Do you see the problem?” she asked.

Not being an expert at reading plaster, he hesitated. As his eyes started their second pass over the castings, Beekert lifted one and cradled it in her hands.

“Here. What kind of shoe does this look like to you?”

Uzi tilted his head, appraising the large plaster chunk. “One belonging to Bigfoot?”

“I might accept that answer, because it would appear that your suspect is over eight feet tall judging by the size of his shoe.”

Uzi thought of a joke dealing with men and their shoe size, but didn’t want to get nailed with a sexual harassment suit. “What kind of shoe does it look like to you?” he asked instead.

“A Redfeather Women’s Performance 21 snowshoe.”

“A snowshoe,” Uzi said. “But there’s no snow on the ground.”

Beekert looked at him over the tops of her glasses, probably wondering if he was dense or stupid.

Uzi decided to put her concerns to rest. “So you’re saying the UNSUB used snowshoes to mask his shoe make and size. So we can’t track him that way.”

“Sharp guy you’re dealing with here.”

“Wait a minute. You said it was a women’s snowshoe.”

“So you’re pretty sharp yourself. Yes,” Beekert said, “that is what I said. According to the manufacturer, it’s got ‘an innovative V-tail tapered design with an Aircraft 6-series aluminum frame.’ Rated for up to 175 pounds. But judging by the depth of most of the imprints, I’d estimate this person to be north of 200 pounds. A rather hefty woman, I’d say.”

“A fact the manufacturer might be pleased to learn. They can expand their market.” He shrugged. “To heftier women.”

Beekert twisted her mouth in disappointment.

“Okay,” Uzi said, “I get your point. You’re saying that either this was a very large female assassin, or a slightly-larger-than-average male hit-man. The latter is more likely.”

“I wouldn’t want to draw conclusions for you. My job is merely to point out the facts.”

“And the fact is, this guy is good. Very good.”

“Wish I could’ve helped you more.”

Uzi pushed off the stool. “Me, too.”

Following a classified briefing at the Strategic Information and Operations Center, Uzi was leaving the Hoover Building’s garage when he saw Karen Vail’s red hair inside a Bureau-issue Dodge Stratus. She rolled down her window and pulled up alongside him.

“I’ve been doing some more thinking on the Marine Two downing.”

“Oh, yeah? I thought this was Frank Del Monaco’s case.”

“You want my help or not?”

Uzi smiled. “Go on.”

“Can’t talk right now. Gotta drop off some papers. Meet me at the coffee house across the road from my office. Gargoyles. Give me about an hour.”

“I’ll be there.”

Karen Vail walked into Gargoyles ninety minutes later. Uzi was seated at a table watching the door and waiting for her, an empty cup of espresso in front of him. He had been returning calls, mowing through his message slips and emails when he saw Vail by the door. He set his phone on the table and leaned back in his seat.

“You didn’t tell me there were a couple of gun-related homicides connected to this case,” she said before her buttocks had hit the chair.

Uzi squirmed a bit. “Until we get some more evidence, I can’t say they’re—”

“My gut says they’re related. You seem to trust my gut, so what that’s worth, I’m not exactly sure. Any case, to your bomber. I think I can give you some general parameters. But we’re clear this is unofficial. I don’t even want you giving me shit if it turns out I’m wrong.”

“No shit.” He wiggled his fingers. “Spill.”

“Okay, here’s what I think.” She looked at his empty cup, then stood up. “I need some coffee first.”

She led the way to the counter, Uzi following, feeling like a kid who couldn’t wait to open his birthday present. “Come on now, don’t keep me in suspense—”

“Can I get you anything, Agent Vail?” the man behind the counter asked.

Uzi raised his right brow. “Guess you come here a lot.”

“Shut up,” Vail said to Uzi. She looked at the counterman. “The usual. And my friend will have some coffee grinds.”

“Black,” Uzi said. “Lots of sugar.” He looked at Vail. “’Cause I’m so sweet.”

Vail rolled her eyes.

“Another espresso, please,” he said. The man moved off to prepare their drinks.

Vail leaned her buttocks against the counter and faced Uzi. “So here’s what I think. That big chopper, the Super Stallion? What a name, typical macho male thing.”

“Karen—”

“Okay. First thing you have to understand about bombings is that victimology is critical: who is the victim — or more specifically, who’s the target? Remember the Centennial Park bombing? The big problem was trying to figure out who the guy was trying to kill. It was a directional bomb, we could tell that much, but there were a lot of potential targets in the vicinity: several different corporate tents, families, a security guard— We didn’t know what his intent was, so we couldn’t accurately assess what this offender was all about.

“In your case, is it the US government this guy is pissed at? Or the Marines? Or was it meant to embarrass the manufacturer of the helicopters? Once we know who the target was, we can begin the process of trying to answer why. Why this target, why now, why here? Why did he place the bomb on the helicopter? There was a specific reason for that. Why not just put a bomb under the target’s car — he’d probably have easier access and less risk. All depends on who the target was.

“You also have to ask why he hit these helicopters and not others. Was he trying to draw attention by using a high-profile event?” She stopped and waited for him to respond. He said nothing. “You hear what I’m saying? Go down the wrong road, you’ll be way off base.”

The counterman placed the two drinks on a tray and slid it over to the register. Uzi handed the man a ten. While waiting for his change, he said, “Okay, disclaimers are out of the way. I know you’re sticking your ass out here. Just tell me what you can.”

Vail sighed. “They’re more than disclaimers. There are some critical pieces of information we don’t have.”

“Understood.” He took the change from the man and led the way to their table. He sat and sipped his coffee, waiting for her to continue.

Vail tipped her mug back and took a sip. “The Stallion was blown out of the sky. A cleverly disguised device, placed strategically at the only weak point this machine has, takes the thing right down. That can mean the UNSUB was really pissed at one or more of the inhabitants and wanted to pulverize them. But since there was another chopper involved that didn’t need to be taken down, I don’t think the Stallion was the target. The type of strike on the Stallion leads me to believe they wanted it out of the way, that it wasn’t important. It’s there for protection, right? Wipe out the guard and you can have your way with your weaker target. Serial killers work the same way.

“Which brings me to the Black Hawk. According to the file, the tail rotor was taken out first. I asked around, and I was told that a really good pilot can fly a chopper with just the main rotor. And the people who fly the Executive Fleet are really good. So assuming the bomber knew that — and I think he must have, otherwise why bother with the tail rotor, he could’ve taken the thing down like he did the Stallion — there was something at play here.”

“Whoever did this,” Uzi said, “wanted his target to experience fear before he died.”

Vail raised the cup toward her lips. “Very good. Did your analytical logic skills come from your engineering background or the Bureau’s renowned training?”

“Neither. I’m just naturally brilliant.”

Vail choked on her sip of coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.” She dabbed her mouth with a tissue. “Seriously, though. I think you should focus on the inhabitants of the Black Hawk. Find out who Glendon Rusch is, what he stands for. Not just what the media reports, but behind the scenes. Talk to congressmen, find out who hated whom.”

“You feel this could’ve been an inside job?”

“It was an inside job, Uzi. First of all, that was a pretty sophisticated bomb, molded to fit the exterior surface. The labs on the explosive will be super important. We don’t have an intact device, so the next best thing is reconstructing the bomb by the stuff blown off in the periphery. They do a photospectral analysis of the pieces and chemical residues to determine the type of material it was made from. If the preliminary theory is right, and it’s C-4 or Semtex, you’re dealing with limited availability. They could’ve stolen it from the Army or imported it from overseas. Either route involves extensive preparation and resources, indicating a more sophisticated offender.”

“Everything points to C-4.”

“Good. What you’ve given me so far indicates substantial planning and forethought. Whoever did this didn’t download a recipe off the Internet and cook up a fertilizer bomb in his kitchen, then leave it in a backpack by a park bench. C-4 planted on helicopters that transport the president and vice president of the United States means a sophisticated operator.

“But more important than that,” Vail continued, “the main question has to be, How could someone plant bombs on US Marine helicopters used for transporting the executive staff? It’s a question of access. The logical conclusion is that one of the mechanics had to have been involved.”

Uzi sipped his espresso. “We reached the same conclusion.”

“Which provides a link, circumstantial of course, but a link nonetheless, to your murdered Quantico mechanic.”

“See, I knew you were smarter than everyone else said you were.”

Vail grinned. “I won’t let you bait me. Charm works better, anyway.”

“I didn’t think someone who stares at dead bodies all the time could be so beautiful.”

Vail nodded slowly. “That’s a good start. I’ll take more.”

“Later. Let’s go on. What else can you tell me?”

Vail drank from her cup, and then set it down. “Bombers like this are often loners. Maybe this mechanic hated the government.” She held up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, he worked for the government, and he was considered the best of the best, or else he wouldn’t have gotten this assignment. I agree, but I can’t tell you how many times we’ve discovered that members of our Armed forces harbored deep-seated anger toward the country and everything it stands for. Think Timothy McVeigh. And he’s not the only one — not by a long shot. Nidal Hasan’s a slightly different example, but an example nonetheless.”

“So this guy was a closet anarchist.”

“Something like that.”

“We’re looking at ARM. You know anything about them?”

“Just that Nelson Flint is a bloodsucking good-for-nothing parasite who should be behind bars.”

“I hate it when you hold back,” Uzi said. “Someone on my task force thinks they’re involved.”

Vail cocked her head. “Here’s the thing with that. Typically bombers don’t work in groups. When hate-mongers get together, it’s usually to talk about their complaints, kind of like group therapy, a misery-loves-company type thing. Makes them feel powerful. But they don’t usually gather to act on their gripes. That said, there are notable exceptions, especially in recent history. Militia groups, for one. A recent example is that Hutaree ‘Christian warrior’ militia, which planned to use homemade bombs against federal agents.”

Uzi sipped some more espresso. “I don’t want to miss something important. Before I sell myself on the militia angle, tell me about bombers in general.”

“Some guidelines?”

“Yeah. Like the loner thing. What else — Do they fit into some kind of generalized behavioral mindset?”

“To know the artist, study his art, remember? Bombing is passive-aggressive; the scum suckers who engage in this type of behavior are nonconfrontational. They set the bomb and go away. Poisoners and snipers are the same way. No direct contact with their victims. So when you generalize about who would do something like this, you think of someone who feels they were slighted by their company. So they go into a store and poison the food: others get sick. It’s all done to embarrass the manufacturer.”

“Can you be a little more specific? About our bomber.”

Vail lifted the coffee to her lips. “So you want me fully out on the limb, huh? If the branch breaks—”

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

Vail put her mug down and thought a moment. “White male, forty-five to fifty, probably living on his own, but he has some support system, a person or persons he can confide in. Contrary to what I said a moment ago about loners, I think your guy’s part of a group, an organized militia. He’s neat, clean, very disciplined. Good attention to detail.

“Like I said, bombers tend to shy away from face-to-face confrontation, which is why they use a bomb instead of a knife or gun. But I don’t think that’s the case here. Just the opposite. I don’t think it’s about avoiding a confrontation; he thought — right or wrong — that this was simply the best way for him to accomplish his goal. He’s above-average intelligence. Drives an older SUV or a pickup. Dark or muted color so he doesn’t attract attention.” She took another sip. “I feel like I’m so far out on the limb that the tree is about to tip over. Satisfied?”

Uzi took a swig from his cup, lost in thought. Finally, he looked up. “Yeah, yeah. Great. I appreciate it.” His smartphone vibrated. He rummaged through his jacket pocket, pulled out the Nokia, and answered it. He listened a second, then said, “I’m on it. Text me the address. Be there ASAP.” He stood up and planted a kiss on Vail’s forehead. “Gotta run. I may call you again on this.”

“Frank Del Monaco. Call him. It’s his case, remember?”

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll be in touch.” He turned and ran out of the café.

Uzi arrived at the Capitol Athletic Club twenty-five minutes later. Five of his task force members were there, along with DeSantos, who Uzi had called from his car while en route.

“Santa,” Uzi said, bumping his colleague’s fist with his own. “What’s the deal?”

“Dead lobbyist. Russell Fargo. Midlevel partner with McKutcheon Winchester. That’s all I know.”

Uzi turned and caught the attention of Agent Hoshi Koh, who was leaning over the dead man’s body in the ten-by-ten steam room. In a brief email he had dashed off to her earlier in the day, Uzi put Hoshi in charge of the group investigating the Ellison murder.

He squeezed his way into the room. A scent he had never before experienced — the coppery bitterness of blood mixed with eucalyptus oil — made his nostrils flare.

“You want to know what I think?” Hoshi asked.

“First I want to know why we were called. How is this guy related to our investigation?’

“He may not be. But Metro PD’s reporting all murders to Shepard. JTTF is now the big deal. Suspicious stuff comes to us, just in case. Didn’t he tell you?”

“Guess he left that part out. I’m only in charge. No reason for me to know the details.” Uzi glanced around the room, noticed the blood-smeared tile. “So this guy was seated over there,” he said, nodding at the far wall. “Gets clipped in the chest, then in the head, or vice versa, falls face first and lands here.”

“Seems reasonable to me,” Hoshi said.

DeSantos walked into the room and glanced around. Uzi introduced him to Hoshi and played out the murder in his mind while DeSantos and Hoshi exchanged pleasantries.

“Okay,” Uzi said. “Now I’d like to know what you think.”

Hoshi turned toward the reclining corpse, then tilted her head to the side as if she were appraising a sculpture. “I think this guy pissed somebody off.”

Uzi stood there, waiting for more. He looked at DeSantos, who shrugged. “That’s all you think?” Uzi asked.

“I think about my ex-husband when I’m horny, but I don’t think you need that detail.”

“You’re right.”

A thirty-something man in a grey Sears suit walked into the locker room, scribbling a note on his pad.

DeSantos indicated the guy with a slight nod. “Metro dick who caught the case. Name’s Zambrano.”

Uzi followed his partner out of the steam room and extended a hand. “Aaron Uzi.” Uzi’s credentials case, folded outward and protruding from his pocket, screamed FBI in bold letters.

Zambrano looked up and shook his hand. “Yeah. Good to meet you.”

“We’ll make sure you get copied on all our reports,” Uzi said. “You’ll do the same?”

“Hey, turf wars have their place. This isn’t one of ’em.”

Uzi squinted, sizing this guy up. Turf wars have their place? He handed the detective a blue, gold-embossed FBI business card. “We’ll touch base with you before we take off.”

“Yeah. Good,” Zambrano said, then buried his face in his notepad as he moved off toward the steam room.

Uzi shared a look of bewilderment with DeSantos, then took his partner aside. “You get the lowdown on this Fargo dude?”

“As soon as I get back to my office, I’ll know what flavor ice cream he liked.”

“I’d be more interested in whether he’s got any links to ARM, Ellison, Harmon, Rusch, or anyone else on that copter. And Rusch’s wife. We need to look into Macy Rusch. Maybe she was getting some action on the side.”

“Jilted lover blows up the VP and a bunch of Marines? Not even the Enquirer would run something like that.”

Uzi shrugged. “It’s another ‘i’ to dot.” Then the sight of Leila Harel entering the locker room snagged his attention.

Uzi slapped DeSantos on the chest, then headed toward Leila. He covered the distance between them in three long strides.

“Hello again.”

“Agent Uzi,” she said offhandedly, glancing around his body at the grouping of Metro PD cops, FBI agents and crime-scene techs. “What a surprise.”

“Just what I was thinking,” he said, leaning slightly to his left to block her gaze.

Her lips twisted. “Excuse me,” she said, then grabbed his arm and attempted to move him aside.

Whoa. Her touch shuddered through him. Just like the first time he’d met Dena — she brushed against his shoulder as she squeezed by him. And it changed his life forever.

“I can tell you everything you want to know,” Uzi said. “How about a late dinner?” He glanced at the wall clock. “Eight-thirty, Founding Farmers. I’ve got a couple people working the case you should coordinate with.”

Leila’s gaze shifted to Uzi’s face.

Is that the first time she actually looked into my eyes?

“What?” she asked.

“Dinner. Eight-thirty. Founding Farmers.”

She stared at his face for a long moment, then nodded and pushed past him.

Uzi stood there and watched Leila walk away. He wished they’d be meeting alone, but perhaps it was better this way: less guilt.

Located a few blocks from the White House and adjacent to the International Monetary Fund in the heart of DC, Founding Farmers sat at the heart of the nation’s circulatory system.

But the restaurant didn’t merely specialize in power lunches and dinners; it featured fresh foods from the country’s family farms, ranches, and fisheries.

Uzi passed through the polished stainless steel storefront and into the wood-inspired environs: raw butcher-block style tables and paneled walls and floors, with billowy, cloud-shaped light fixtures hanging from the second-story ceiling.

He sat at the bar, leather overcoat neatly folded and draped over his left forearm, watching Paul, the mâitre d, handle the guests as they entered. It was clear who’d been there before and who hadn’t by their facial expressions upon glimpsing the interior’s striking décor.

Leila entered and her head swiveled in all directions, taking in the colorful surroundings. Uzi slid off the barstool and greeted her.

“Our table’s upstairs. Follow me.” He led her by the elbow up the staircase, where small ceramic birds hung from the high ceiling.

He thought of telling Leila that she looked lovely — hot is the word he would’ve used, because it was true — but he knew that would be the wrong way to frame the evening. Correct or not, he believed it. Wearing a form-fitting red dress and a simple yet elegant pearl necklace topped off by a black cashmere cape loosely draped about her bare shoulders, she looked as good as that first time he had seen her at the crash site. Two-inch heels and long, slender thighs made it appear as if her legs went on forever, and brought her closer to Uzi’s six-foot-two.

Uzi led her to their table in front of a large window that overlooked 20th Avenue NW. Karen Vail was seated with her back to them. When she felt Uzi’s tap on her back, she rose and gave Leila a quick once-over. She squinted confusion, glanced at Uzi, and asked Leila, “You always wear your finest dress to a business meeting? Or did I miss the memo?”

Leila unfurled her cape and said, “This isn’t my finest dress. But thank you for the compliment.”

Vail crumpled her brow again. “Right.”

Uzi cleared his throat, unsure what to make of their verbal sparring. Where the hell’s Santa? “Leila Harel, meet Karen Vail. Karen’s with the BAU.”

Leila nodded acknowledgment. “Are you on the task force?”

“Hell yeah,” Uzi said. “Karen’s the best profiler we’ve got.”

Vail stifled a laugh. “I am very good — but not the best. And I’m not on the task force. I’m just filling in for a colleague. As a favor.”

“And what can you offer us as a profiler? This seems a bit out of your league.”

Before Vail could fire off a barb in reply, a waiter greeted them.

“Clarence,” Uzi said. “Good to see you.” And just in the nick of time.

“Been a while,” the middle-aged man said. They made small talk for a moment, then Clarence conveyed their specials, which featured roasted chicken salad with Trixie’s mayonnaise, dried blueberries, Bibb lettuce, and golden beets. “I’ll be back to take your order in a bit. No rush.”

“We’re waiting for one more, actually,” Uzi said.

By the time Clarence walked off, Vail had clearly decided to let Leila’s comment pass, and instead provided her with a professional, though concise, overview of the information she had discussed with Uzi.

“You people are known for serial killers,” Leila said. “Just how is this going to help us find the bomber?”

“We people,” Vail said between clenched teeth, “handle a variety of cases, from threat assessment to serial killers, rapists, arsonists, child abductors, and, yes, even those pillars of society, bombers.”

Uzi inched forward uncomfortably in his chair. “Having an accurate profile will help us narrow down our suspect pool and tell us where to focus our investigation.”

Leila hiked her brow. “No offense, but I don’t see it. We don’t even have the devices. They’re in a million pieces scattered across how may square miles?”

“That definitely makes it more difficult,” Vail said, “but not impossible. It just means we need to be more creative.”

“Creative?” Leila turned to Uzi. “We need facts, not guesswork. Because if our guesses are wrong—”

“That’s not what Karen meant.”

“Uzi,” Vail said, “I’m capable of speaking for myself. And yes, I meant creative. We don’t always have the necessary forensics to identify our offender. So we have to use our heads to find the information other ways.” Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She pulled it from her belt, glanced at the screen, and then rose from her chair. “Gotta run. But thanks — it’s been lovely. I’m sure dinner would’ve been better than the company.” She forced a smile and gathered up her black sweater.

Uzi rose awkwardly from his chair. “Wait— You really have to go?”

“A case I was tricked into taking, for lack of a better term. Some football player. He was bludgeoned and his dick was cut off. We’ve got another vic.”

Uzi winced. “Couldn’t you have left out the part about the severed penis?”

“I can brief Hector on my own,” Vail said, then turned to Leila. “Nice meeting you. Let’s not do it again real soon.”

Vail walked off toward the staircase.

Uzi sat down hard in his seat. “She’s working this case as a favor to me, Leila. You didn’t have to antagonize her.”

Leila pursed her moist, glossed lips. “Sorry if I wasn’t more accepting of her… theories. I just think it’s going to be of limited value. I hope she didn’t take it personally.”

Uzi snorted. “Don’t worry about it. Karen doesn’t get mad. She gets even.”

Clarence returned with a wine list in hand. “May I suggest something, or would you like to take a look for yourself?”

“Just a glass for me,” Uzi said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do after dinner.”

Clarence raised a brow and glanced at Leila. “Indeed.”

“No,” Uzi said with a grin. “Real work, Clarence.”

“I’m sure it will be, Mr. Uzi. But we have your favorite Cabernet — Galil Mountain, from the Golan.”

Uzi twisted his mouth into a mock frown. “You’re like the serpent, Clarence. Tempting me.” He gestured toward Leila. “Okay by you?”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

As Clarence headed off, Uzi’s Nokia buzzed. He checked the screen and groaned. “Gotta be kidding.”

“Problem?” Leila asked.

“Hector cancelled. Has to put out a fire.”

“Hector?”

Uzi placed his phone on the table. “The other task force member who was joining us.”

“So, Agent Uzi,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows and tilting her head. “It’s down to you and me.”

“Please, just call me ‘Uzi.’”

“Do you always pick up women at crash sites… Uzi?”

Uzi glanced from side to side. “Did I miss something?”

“I’m with the CIA. I’m trained to smell a setup better than most dogs sniff bombs.”

“No setup, Leila. This was supposed to be a working dinner. I’d no idea Karen would catch a case and that Hector would cancel. But to answer your question about picking up women at crash sites, it’s been at least a couple of years since I’ve done that.” He smiled, then moved back to allow the busboy to place a plate of bread on the table. “Homemade cornbread with honey butter. Try some. It’s to die for.”

“Look at the facts,” Leila said, ignoring Uzi’s comment. “Here we are, just you and me, having dinner at a trendy restaurant. A romantic atmosphere. With wine on the way.”

“Actually, the wine is served,” Clarence said, turning the bottle to display the label for Uzi’s inspection. Uzi indicated that Clarence should show it instead to Leila, and the server complied.

Leila, whose gaze was still locked on Uzi, diverted her eyes to the wine and nodded.

Clarence produced a polished chrome corkscrew, and with three twists and a pull, the Cabernet was breathing. He poured a small amount into Leila’s glass and waited while she swirled it, then watched as she took a satisfying sniff before swishing a mouthful across her palate.

She glanced up at Clarence and said, “Very earthy. And a hint of dark chocolate. Excellent.”

Uzi raised an eyebrow.

“I have an affinity for Cabs.”

Clarence poured the two glasses, set the bottle down, and melted into the background.

Uzi reached for his glass and took a sip. He knew the vintage well and Leila was right about the flavors. Like Leila, Dena’s palate could differentiate between coveted and lesser desirable vintages. The parallels between the women hijacked his thoughts for a brief moment and he saw Dena sitting across from him, the neckline of her red dress plunging a bit lower than Leila’s, displaying a tantalizing hint of cleavage.

Uzi set down his glass. “Where did you acquire your taste for wine?” he asked.

Leila took another sip and let her eyes roam the room.

After a prolonged silence, Uzi said, “You don’t like personal questions.”

“Not really, no.”

“Then we’ll keep it to business for now. CIA. Counterintelligence?”

She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “I’m looking into the crash. Like you.”

“But you can’t discuss it.”

“I’m limited in what I can say. I’m sure you understand.”

“The idea’s to pool information, Leila. If there was a takeaway lesson from 9/11, that’s it right there.” She had no response, so he continued. “Guess that means we’re back to personal stuff. Are you married?”

“Not anymore.”

Uzi grabbed a piece of cornbread and placed it on his plate. He pulled off a corner and asked, “But you were. Divorced or widowed?”

“Divorced.”

“Children?”

“No.”

Uzi nodded, wishing the one-word responses would morph into more thoughtful answers. It was beginning to feel like an interrogation. “Siblings?”

“One brother.” She pointed to the small plate by Uzi’s elbow. “How’s the bread?”

“Good,” he said. “It’s always good.”

They spent the next hour sparring and discussing elements of the crash, Uzi supplying some of the facts they had amassed and hoping for an in-kind exchange from Leila. But she did not offer up the detailed intel he felt the CIA should have developed by now. To be fair, however, neither had those members of his task force who were with the Agency.

They eventually settled onto the more neutral ground of complaining about bureaucracy and sharing stories of the battle scars each had endured during the rise to their current positions. Underlying the evening, however, was the sense that the attraction Uzi felt was mutual — at one point he caught her reflection in a mirror watching his butt when he got up to use the restroom.

After arguing over who should pay the bill — they ended up splitting it — Uzi rose from his chair. “Can we do this again?” he asked as he helped place the cape onto her shapely shoulders.

“The work part or the part where your friends cancel and it’s just you and me?”

“The part where my friends cancel.”

She pursed her lips, a slight smile tickling the corners of her mouth. Looking out at the lights on 20th Avenue beyond the window, she said, “I think so.”

Less than an enthusiastic response, but for now he would accept it. “Great. I’ll call you.”

He pulled out his Nokia and entered her number into his contacts list. Then he watched her walk out into the chilled DC night.

“She’s quite beautiful,” Clarence said behind Uzi’s shoulder.

Uzi did not bother to turn around. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”