Hard Target

DAY THREE

Uzi pushed through the maple-framed glass doors to Leonard Rudnick’s building, ascended the paneled lobby’s steps, and then ran up the five flights to the doctor’s special entrance. He preferred taking the stairs whenever possible — not because he didn’t like elevators, but because his grandmother had ingrained in him the value of exercise. She religiously walked several flights daily to and from her fifth-story Brooklyn apartment, well into her nineties.

He took a few deep breaths to calm his lungs, then walked into the small waiting room, where he found Rudnick standing with the door open.

“Right on time,” the doctor said.

Uzi followed Rudnick into his office and sat down heavily in his chair. “Look, Doc, I don’t know if this is going to work. This case is taking all my time. Even meeting at seven AM… I need to keep my mind focused on the investigation—”

“Are you the only agent working this case?”

Uzi snorted. “We’re up to about five hundred. But I’m in charge of more than half of them, and there’re leads I’m following up myself.”

“I understand. That’s a tremendous amount of responsibility. Some thrive on it. But I want to know about you. Tell me what brought you to the FBI,” Rudnick said with a casual wave of a hand.

Uzi blinked, realizing the doctor had just gently, yet abruptly, changed the subject.

“Was it the prestige?” Rudnick asked.

Uzi sighed in concession. He pulled a protein bar from his leather jacket and tore it open. “Breakfast. Hope you don’t mind.”

Rudnick gestured for him to continue. “I understand your time is short. Eating and talking is fine. So, to my question.”

Uzi swallowed, then said, “I needed a job, and I wanted something that would fit with my professional background.” He took another bite from the bar.

“I see. But that could describe a lot of jobs.”

“The Bureau has a great retirement plan,” he said as he chewed.

Rudnick grinned, as did Uzi. But then the doctor’s face hardened as he leaned elbows onto knees and said, “I think it’s time we talked about what happened to your family.”

It was the most direct Rudnick had been, and in the instant the doctor finished his sentence, Uzi felt a surge of fear rattle his body. Had Rudnick been a boxer, he would’ve been dinged for hitting below the belt.

Uzi knew his body language had betrayed him. His eyes had widened, if only for a second, and then he had looked away. He swallowed hard. “If you know to ask,” Uzi said, “then you already know what happened.”

Rudnick remained stone-faced. “That’s not how this works, Uzi. What I know or don’t know is ultimately unimportant. But let me put you at ease. I was only told that you suffered a terrible family tragedy, and that as a result you moved back to the United States.”

Uzi nodded but did not speak. The two of them sat there in silence, Uzi’s gaze directed at the carpet, his mind sifting through tortured memories.

“It will help to talk about it.”

Uzi looked down at the protein bar, no longer felt like eating, and shoved it back in his pocket. “I don’t think I can.”

“I see,” Rudnick said. “How about I ask you a question I usually ask my patients who’ve gone through a ‘terrible family tragedy.’ He interlocked his fingers and leaned back. “Why haven’t you committed suicide?”

“What?”

“Your answer could prove valuable in shaping our treatment.”

Uzi’s eyes found the ceiling. He didn’t even know how to approach such a question.

“Have you ever considered it? Suicide?”

“The answer to your question, Doctor, is that I don’t know. I don’t know why I didn’t commit suicide.”

“Okay. Some people have an answer for me, and others, well, others discover the answer in the weeks that follow. So let’s start with something a bit easier. Were you born in Israel?”

Uzi began bouncing his right knee. “My father was. He met my mother on a visit to New York and ended up staying there. I was born in Queens but he moved us back to Israel after I turned three. When I was about ten, we started living in both places. My aunt, who lived in Brooklyn, had Cerebral Palsy, and my mom didn’t wanna be so far away from her.

“So we lived in New York during the school year and Israel during the summers. After doing my three years in the IDF, I ended up staying there. I got my degree from Braude College of Engineering.” He laughed. “Because of my performance with the defense forces, my first job offer actually came from the Shin Bet security service. It’s like our FBI. I was with them for three years before Intel offered me a full-time position working on the first NetBurst microarchitecture CPUs. They’d just opened Fab18, a new manufacturing facility in Israel and I had an ‘in’ through a friend, so it was perfect.” He stopped, reflected for a moment. “Around that time, my father had also gotten sick, so my mother had all she could handle.”

“And then what?”

“Spent almost five years with Intel as a design engineer. Five really good years. And then one day, things changed.”

Rudnick sat patiently. But Uzi did not elaborate. “What changed?” he finally asked.

Uzi pulled a cellophane wrapped toothpick from his pocket and tore it open. He stuck it in his mouth and played with it between his tongue and teeth. “I ran into someone from my childhood. This man was very special to me, kind of like a hero. Other kids had Batman, or Superman, but this guy was real.” Uzi rolled the toothpick around a bit, then said, “Ever hear of Rafi Eitan?”

“The man who ran the operation that captured Adolf Eichmann.”

Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. I didn’t think an American would know his name.”

Rudnick’s expression did not change. “The Nazis held special meaning for me. Why do you bring him up?”

“Rafi was a neighbor of mine. On summer afternoons he used to sit in front of his house and tell me and my friends about the time they kidnapped Eichmann and brought him back to Israel to stand trial. It was an incredibly daring operation, filled with intrigue and the sexiness of a good spy novel. Only this mission was real, and the peace it brought to the survivors ran deep. And it proved to the world that Israel’s intelligence agency was a player, capable of anything.” Uzi stared off for a moment. “I remember sitting there as a kid the first time he told the story. I was mesmerized. I knew then I wanted to be a Mossad agent.”

“But instead you went into technology.”

“My first year with the Shin Bet, I put in an application to the Mossad, figuring it was a sure thing. But I was rejected.”

“Do you know why?”

“They don’t tell you. You just never hear from them.”

Rudnick rose from his chair and took a water pitcher from his desk. He poured Uzi a glass. “How did that make you feel?”

“I thought I was good at what I did, and I had this burning desire to serve. I felt it was something I was born to do.” He took the drink from Rudnick.

“But how did it make you feel?” Rudnick locked eyes with Uzi.

Uzi shrugged. “Angry, I guess. Left out. Like someone was preventing me from doing something I really wanted to do. And that just made me more determined.” He gulped some water. “One day when I was with Intel, I went home to visit my mom and I found Rafi in his backyard welding scrap metal into these really cool sculptures. We talked for several hours, late into the night. He told me about missions he’d been on, what he’d been doing after he’d retired. But then he asked me why I never went to work for Mossad. I told him I’d been rejected.” Uzi paused for a moment. “What I tell you stays here, right?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality is the cornerstone of trust in a relationship like ours.”

Uzi nodded slowly. He didn’t know if he should continue, but his instincts told him he could trust Rudnick. Besides, the doctor would have no reason to betray him. “A few days later,” Uzi said, “I got a call from Gideon Aksel, the director general himself, asking me to come to his office for a meeting.” He took another drink. “Rafi had vouched for me. And when Rafi Eitan vouches for you, they listen. I resigned from Intel the next day.” Uzi set the glass down, then stole a glance at the wall clock. “Look, Doc — I really don’t have time for this. Fifteen minutes is all I can give you today.”

Rudnick’s shoulders slumped. “I feel like we’re making some good progress here. How ’bout you give me another fifteen, hmm?”

Uzi rose from the chair, unwilling to verbally concede that talking about the past had felt good. “Too much going on.” He gave Rudnick a pat on the shoulder, then turned and walked out.

The encrypted cell phone had already rung five times. Echo Charlie knew he wouldn’t be dumped into voicemail, so there was no disadvantage in letting it ring.

Charlie leaned his car seat back and waited. He rolled down his window, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms was absent from the winter air, replaced by barren branches and musty bay odors blowing off the Chesapeake. No matter. He did not need flowers and breathtaking landscapes. Power and influence were more intoxicating than Mother Nature — and vastly more significant than sensory input, which only diverted his focus.

“It’s me,” Charlie said when the phone was finally answered. He rolled up his window and dropped his head down, in case someone was trying to read his lips.

Alpha Zulu said, “Go ahead.”

“We need our G-man monitored more closely. Controlled. Need be, he might have to be dealt with quickly.”

“We can handle your G-man. We know things.”

Charlie checked his scorpion-engraved pocket watch, always aware of the length of the call. Though it theoretically could not be traced, he was not taking any chances that the CIA or NSA had developed new ways of unscrambling the transmission and eavesdropping on his conversation. Technology changed so fast it was best not to take the risk.

“Our package is ready to be dropped off,” Alpha Zulu said. “It’s packed neatly and waiting to be delivered.”

“Deliver and install. And make sure it works before you leave the job site.”

“Our associate will see to it. I’ll contact you after the job’s complete.”

Charlie ended the call, then stared out at the choppy Chesapeake water. There was no substitute for power.

None at all.

Alpha Zulu sat beside Oscar Delta in the doctor’s parking lot of the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, eyes slowly moving in a grid pattern, left to right, from the farthest areas to the closest. Observing, watching.

Finally, keeping his gaze on the landscape before him, he said, “We’re good. Go.”

Oscar Delta shifted his weight in the bucket seat and pulled out his cell phone, then tapped out a message:

Delta pulled on his baseball cap, and then slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Ten minutes later, he popped open his door and walked to the visitor’s parking lot, where a black Hyundai Dynasty was waiting. After a final glance around the vicinity, he slid behind the steering wheel and moved the car onto the hospital complex. His orders were to park the vehicle in a specific location and then move to an area where he would be capable of observing the aftereffects.

He locked the doors and peeled off his thin leather gloves while hiking the planned two hundred steps toward his perch. Once in position, he sent a text to Zulu:

Uzi pulled out of the FBI Washington Field Office parking garage, having just completed a briefing with most of the task force agents. Despite the pressure he was under, he felt refreshed and energized. Moreover, he had a sharper awareness of the things around him, as if he’d just gotten over a cold and could smell the pot of fresh-brewed coffee.

He hadn’t felt that way in years — six years, in fact. As he turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, he realized that it had to do with his session with Rudnick. He now understood, intellectually at least, that the more he tried to contain his feelings, the more elusive their underlying meaning became.

Could talking about your problems be so liberating that it permeates your attitude toward everything? He was instantly grateful for Shepard’s insistence that he start treatment, though he was still cautiously optimistic the effect would last. And he had no idea if he would even be able to keep his next appointment. Or the one after that.

Uzi parked his car near the National Mall and walked along Madison Drive, eyes roaming the area for DeSantos. He located him a moment later, sitting on a park bench thumbing through an edition of the Post and chewing a piece of gum.

“Got any more?” Uzi asked, settling down next to him.

DeSantos folded the paper in quarters, pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit, and offered it to his partner. “I haven’t been able to find anything linking Harmon, Fargo, and Ellison, or any of them to Rusch. About the only thing they had in common was their NFA membership.” DeSantos looked off at the Washington Monument in the near distance.

“National Firearms Alliance?” Uzi asked. “That’s interesting.”

“No, it’s not. I was just throwing that out because I didn’t have anything else to say.”

“Serious? They were all NFA members?”

“Them and seven million others.” DeSantos blew on his hands. “It’s not a crime. They do some good.”

“They do more harm.”

“Not worth the debate, my friend.” DeSantos tucked the folded Post beneath his arm, then stood. “Point is, it’s not a big deal that they’re all members.”

Uzi rose and followed in step as they crunched down the fine gravel path, heading west toward the monument.

“I’ll bet my salary that every single person associated with ARM is an NFA member.”

“So what? I bet they belong to the NRA, too.” DeSantos shook his head. “You’re trying to create a link where there isn’t any.”

“Far-right militias and NFA are in bed with each other. That fact can’t be ignored.”

“First,” DeSantos said, “I’d verify that little assumption before calling it a fact. But fine, don’t ignore it. Look into it. I just don’t think there’s anything there.”

“Rusch is pro-gun control because of what happened to his sister. Killed by an illegal thirty-eight special. Robbery attempt—”

DeSantos held up a hand, then stopped walking. “She wasn’t killed by a gun, Uzi. She was killed by the asshole who pulled the trigger.”

“That’s a classic NFA argument.”

“Look, boychick. All I’m saying is that if a guy takes a hammer to his best friend, we don’t talk about banning hammers. We prosecute the guy who swung it.”

“And all I’m saying is that Rusch is not NFA’s best friend.” He waited to read DeSantos’s blank face. When DeSantos didn’t react, Uzi continued. “Motive. They had a reason to eliminate him.”

“Now you’re way out in left field.”

“No, go with me on this.” Uzi thought for a second, allowing the theory to form. “Let’s say the NFA was concerned about Rusch’s gun-control agenda. The only way to prevent a disaster — from their point of view — is to get rid of him. They find an ally in ARM and launch their plan.”

“Too much of a leap for me. This isn’t a goddamn spy movie, Uzi. And this isn’t the Middle East. Don’t forget we work for the US government. Like it or not— and I usually don’t— there are legal and political checks and balances. There needs to be proof of a connection, a solid case. Not some hare-brained theory about the NFA and right-wing militias plotting to kill the next president of the United States.”

“This from the guy who’s been on more black ops than the government will admit to? You know what’s out there, what’s possible. Even with 9/11, America’s only gotten a taste of the twisted minds these terrorists have. You and I… We’ve seen it up close.” Uzi paused, looked away. “And personal.”

DeSantos’s moment of pause told Uzi that his partner agreed with him.

“Still,” DeSantos finally said, “we don’t have enough to go on.”

Uzi chomped on the gum, his thoughts churning in unison. “So we need to dig some more. Find those connections.”

“No,” DeSantos said, poking at Uzi’s leather jacket with an index finger. “You need to find those connections. I’ve got some other things I’m looking into.”

Uzi started to object when his smartphone began ringing. He listened for a second, then caught DeSantos’s eyes with his own. “Let’s go,” he said, jogging toward his Tahoe.

“What’s going on?”

Uzi chirped his remote and the doors unlocked. “Tell you on the way.”

Uzi put his magnetic light on the roof and drove like an Israeli, zipping through traffic and arriving at the National Military Medical Center in under fifteen minutes. He had been told that Glendon Rusch remembered something about the explosion and thought it might help their investigation.

As they approached, the fifteen-story tower of Building One rose like the guardian of the hospital complex, appearing like it did on any other dreary Maryland day.

Uzi turned his credentials wallet inside out and slipped the end into his coat’s breast pocket so his Bureau ID was visible. Because of his olive complexion, slight accent and casual dress, he did not want to be profiled incorrectly by the military police. On high alert with heightened tensions, the scene could get ugly very fast.

They cleared security and hurried through the lobby — but before they could make it to the elevators, the ground shook. In the next split second, Uzi wasn’t sure what he felt first — the concussive force against his chest, the rumble of the floor, or the sensation of being weightless and flying backward through the air.

The ear-shattering burst thumped his tympanic membrane like a punch to the nose: numbness at first, followed by the sequelae of pain and muffled hearing.

He gathered himself up from the floor, fine soot and shit coating his tongue and face — and looked around for his partner. “Santa,” he shouted. He thought he shouted it — the strain on his throat felt like it — though he was not sure. “Santa!”

He got to his feet and saw DeSantos a few yards to his left, slowly getting up.

“You okay?”

DeSantos staggered, then caught himself. “I’ve just been knocked into a wall by a fucking bomb. No, I’m not okay. You?”

“I’m in one piece and I can kinda sort hear. All things considered, I feel great.”

The wall behind them was partially missing, smoky daylight filtering through. Off in the distance, multiple car alarms wailed, followed seconds later by sirens. They stumbled through the rubble and emerged in the parking lot, where chunks of displaced asphalt littered the road. Piles of pulverized tempered glass covered the ground as if a dump truck had spilled a load of sparkling diamonds.

“Jesus,” DeSantos said as they walked, leaning against one another for support.

“What do you want to bet the target was Rusch?”

“Better he’s the target than the victim.”

A physician in a white lab coat came rushing toward them. “You two okay?”

Uzi waved him off. “Fine. Shaken, not stirred.”

DeSantos play-slapped his shoulder. “Shaken, not stirred? If I didn’t know you better, I’d think the explosion caused some brain damage.”

Uzi smirked. “Let’s go check on Rusch.”

Slowly, as their balance was still lacking, they took the stairs — which were littered with concrete fragments and glass shards. The fire door was twisted, but they were able to pry it open enough to squeeze through.

As they headed down the hall, Uzi’s phone rang. “Phone works.”

“That’s a good sign,” DeSantos said.

“Except that it’s my boss. That’s not a good sign.” He brought the handset to his ear.

“Uzi,” Shepard said, “get over to the military hospital, get over there right now.”

Uzi thumbed the volume switch and maxed it out. “Let me guess. There’s been another explosion.”

“You already know?” Shepard asked. “Who called you?”

“DeSantos and I were onsite. Pretty fucking intense. Almost took us out— Too close for my taste. We’re on our way to Rusch’s room.”

“A team will be there in five minutes. Keep me posted.”

“DeSantos and I are fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.” Uzi disconnected the call and shoved the Nokia into his pocket.

The two Secret Service agents guarding the door pulled their handguns as Uzi and DeSantos approached. “Get down. Get down now!”

Uzi glanced at his credentials case — but it was no longer attached to his jacket. “We’re on the job,” Uzi said, raising his hands above his head. “FBI. JTTF. SSA Uziel and DeSantos, DOD.” I hope these guys know their government acronyms.

“Creds?” the agent said, voice strong and urgent. Still amped up.

“Musta been knocked off during the explosion.”

“Got mine,” DeSantos said. He held up his right hand and said, “Gonna reach into my jacket pocket. Slowly, okay?” He pulled it out and tossed it to the man’s feet.

The agent examined it a moment, then pressed an index finger to his ear and read the information to the guy on the radio. A long moment later, he waved them through.

They took folded paper gowns and masks from an adjacent stainless steel cart, put them on, and pushed through the door.

Glendon Rusch was lying in bed, a phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, Mr. President. Thank you for the call. I appreciate that. I will.”

The agent by his side took the handset and hung it up.

Rusch turned his head toward Uzi and DeSantos.

“Hector DeSantos. DOD.” He started to extend a hand, then withdrew it, no doubt realizing that Rusch’s upper limbs were completely bandaged.

“Are you okay?” Uzi asked.

“I’m not sure how to answer that.”

Uzi had forgotten how raspy Rusch’s voice was. Between that and his muffled hearing, he had to concentrate to make out what the man was saying.

“If you mean the explosion, I’m fine. My window’s bulletproof glass. Woke me from a nightmare is all. Any casualties?”

“Don’t know yet, sir. We came to check on you first.”

“I’ve got several agents who are glued to my side. I don’t need another two on my case.”

Actually, you’ve got about five hundred on your case. “You asked to see me. Something you remembered about the helicopter.”

“Remembered?” Rusch asked. “What on earth are you talking about? I already told you everything I know.”

Uzi pulled his phone and checked the call history. It appeared to be a Bureau number, from the Washington Field Office.

“I’m sorry we bothered you,” Uzi said. He gave DeSantos a jerk of his head and they left Rusch’s room.

“What the hell was that about?” DeSantos asked.

“First thoughts… We were lured here.”

“Yeah, no shit. You think this — this attack was about us?”

After dumping their gowns and masks, Uzi led the way back down the littered staircase to the ground floor, all the while working it through his head. “I still think Rusch was the target — but whoever’s behind this wanted us to either witness it firsthand, or—”

“They figured they could take out three for the price of one.”

Uzi found his creds amongst the dusty rubble in the lobby, then force-yawned a couple of times. “I think my hearing’s coming back.”

“We were lucky. Close enough to have a blast but not too close to have gotten blasted into a million pieces.”

“If it was about us,” Uzi said, “who’d have motive? Only one I can think of.”

“ARM,” DeSantos said. “They either followed us here, or—”

“Made the phone call that brought us here.”

DeSantos shook his head. “I don’t know. What’s the number in your call history?”

“Someone from inside WFO. But caller IDs can be cloned if you know what you’re doing,” Uzi said as they stepped out into the parking lot.

The swirling red lights of emergency and law enforcement vehicles whipped across the remaining first-floor windows of Building 10. Uniformed workers rushed about, some gathering toolkits to begin documenting the scene, others already on hands and knees collecting evidence.

It was a sight Uzi was all too familiar with, having lived through the bloody, suicide-bomb-laden Palestinian uprisings in Israel. The scene brought back memories.

“You okay?” DeSantos asked. “You don’t look too good.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look all pale and clammy—”

“Really — I’m fine.”

They moved further into the carnage, taking care not to disturb the scene. Uzi knelt beside the first forensic technician they passed. “Any thoughts?”

The man glanced down at Uzi’s creds. “My experience with scenes like this, given the blast pattern, says a car bomb.”

A loud whistle came from an area closest to the building. “Over here.”

Uzi and DeSantos followed a contingent of agents to the area of interest. A twisted and hollowed-out black Hyundai sedan rested against the hospital’s façade.

Uzi contorted his torso to peer into the warped metal hulk. “This the source?”

“Looks like it,” the technician said. “But for the moment, that’s only a working theory. We’re just getting started here.”

“Anyone bite it?” DeSantos asked.

“Two on the first floor, I think. And someone in the lobby.”

Uzi gestured at the car. “Car bomb means you put the explosive where, trunk?”

The technician shrugged. “Could be multiple places, depending on what you want to accomplish. For this, trunk would be a good place to start.” They moved toward the back of the vehicle. He peered in and examined the damage to the surrounding metal, which sported sharp and angry flanges that curled outward. “If I had to guess, C-4. Packed right here, supplemented with some other type of explosive.” He swiveled, took in the immediate area. “Took out part of the street, some windows and part of the building, but…”

“But what?” Uzi asked.

“If their target was the vice president, either they didn’t know where he was, or they just plain used the wrong explosive.”

“Good point,” DeSantos said. “If they used AMFO— ammonium nitrate-fuel oil mixture— the ingredients are easy to get and it’d give them a large explosion capable of causing vertical damage to a building.”

“That’s what McVeigh used,” Uzi said.

“More importantly, C-4 is high order and does a good job of blowing things around. AMFO’s low order and brings things down.”

Uzi took another look at the extent of the damage. “So if Rusch was the target, they used the wrong tool for the job. Unless we were the job.”

“Could also be that this was related to Rusch and they used the C-4 because that’s what they had available and it’s what they’re familiar with. They may not be sophisticated bomb makers.”

“Or the people responsible are in big trouble because they didn’t get the job done the first time when they took down Marine Two.” The voice came from behind them.

Uzi turned. It was Leila.

“Leila. This is Hector DeSantos. Hector, Leila Harel.”

“Hector.” Leila tilted her head back. “You’re the wingman.”

“The— What?”

“Nothing,” Uzi said, shaking his head at Leila, fighting back a smile.

“I’ve gotta go check on… something,” DeSantos said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Meet up with me at the car.”

Uzi settled his gaze on the bombed-out vehicle twenty feet away. “I had a good time last night.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Uzi faced her. “Did you?”

She let a thin smile spread her lips. “Yes.”

“Good.” Uzi squared his shoulders. “What are you doing for lunch?”

“Today?”

Uzi consulted his watch. “As in right now.”

Leila looked around, as if thinking of a reason to decline. “I just got here. I haven’t had time to evaluate the crime scene.”

“I can brief you over lunch.”

“How about we do dinner tomorrow night, and then I can stay here and look around, and I won’t feel like I’ve shirked my responsibilities.”

“I admire your work ethic. Dinner it is. Any place in particular?”

“There’s a Mediterranean place I know off Constitution in Fairfax. Amir’s. Not as fancy as that farmer’s place, but it’s my type of food.”

Uzi was so focused on the beauty of her face that he was hardly listening to what she was saying. “Okay. When and where?”

Leila’s eyes narrowed. “That place I was just talking about. Amir’s. In Fairfax.”

“Right.”

She smiled knowingly. “Say tomorrow, seven PM.”

“Okay. ‘Tomorrow, seven PM.’” He grinned. They both laughed.

“See you then.”

As he watched her stride away, DeSantos’s approaching voice grabbed his attention. “Are we all squared away? Did you exchange any information with her, or just lots of hormones?”

“Hormones,” Uzi said. “No info.” They turned and headed for his car. “We’re having dinner tomorrow. Some Mediterranean place in Fairfax.”

“Amir’s,” DeSantos said. “Great food. You’ll like it.”

Uzi pulled out his keys and winked at his partner. “I’m not going there for the food.”

The chilled evening descended quickly. While Uzi spent the afternoon hours going through emailed reports his task force agents had submitted, the hours melted into a clearing sunset. He was making steady progress when his phone line began blinking. He’d turned off the ringer hours earlier and his secretary had already gone home. He picked up the receiver, but no one was there.

Uzi set it down and turned his attention to another intra-office email. Ten minutes later, a message from Agent Hoshi Koh caught his eye: “I might have something. Call me ASAP.”

Uzi lifted the handset, but before he could dial, Hoshi was standing in his doorway, her hand poised to knock.

“I was just about to call you,” he said as he set the phone back in its cradle.

“I tried your line twice, and then your cell. But you didn’t answer.”

“I turned off the ringers. What’s up?”

Hoshi took a seat on his guest chair and reclined. “You really wanna know?”

Uzi tilted his head. “Hoshi, it’s late, I’m tired, and my brain is about to close up shop for the night. So if you’ve got something, speak up or hold it till tomorrow.”

“I thought you saved the grouch for everyone else and your charming side for me.”

“Sorry. I really am exhausted.” Uzi leaned back in his large leather office chair and rubbed his right eye with the knuckle of his fist. “So… you found something?”

“Yeah, a guy who used to work with Ellison until a month ago, when he was transferred to Pax River, a different branch of HMX. Lieutenant Brad Wheeler. From what I’ve been able to gather, Wheeler hated Ellison’s guts. They had more than one knock-down drag-out off base. Had something to do with Wheeler’s transfer.”

“Wonder why Vasquez didn’t tell us about that.” He noted Hoshi’s crumpled brow. “The Aircraft Maintenance Officer at HMX. He had every chance to tell us about Wheeler’s beef— Shit, he probably had a hand in the transfer.”

“You want me to follow up?”

“I’ll have Hector do it. He and Vasquez go back aways.” Uzi thought a moment. “His sheet?”

“Clean.”

“Figured. Wouldn’t be at HMX if he had any marks. But you like this guy for Ellison.”

“He’s got to be looked at.”

“I agree. So where’s the problem?”

Hoshi shifted in her seat. “A buddy of Ellison’s at Quantico told us Wheeler recently purchased a forty-five.”

“Same caliber used on Ellison and his sister.”

“Could be coincidence and mean nothing, but—”

“Anyone talk to this guy?”

“I did. Alibi is weak. Says he was in bed, sick. I checked with Pax River, and he did call in sick. But no doctor’s visit before or after. No script, but a bunch of over-the-counter meds. Showed me a credit card receipt from CVS the day before the murder. I spoke with the store, and the receipt was for meds. But buying cold medicine and calling in sick doesn’t mean jack.” She received a nod from Uzi. “Other than that, I didn’t get much from him. Too damn disciplined.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a Marine.” Uzi rocked a bit in his chair, thinking. Then: “Gun records?”

Hoshi folded her arms across her chest and smiled wanly. “I knew you’d get to that sooner or later. In this case, later.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“The director won’t allow us to access the NICS,” she said, referring to the National Instant Criminal Background Check System, the federal audit log utilized by gun dealers to conduct background checks on gun purchasers. “So the gun records might tell us a nice story, except that I can’t get at them.”

Uzi squinted. “That makes no sense. We need those records. What’s his problem?”

“You really want to know?”

Uzi rose from his chair and stretched. “Hoshi, do you realize that every time I ask for your opinion, you answer me with a question?”

“Do I?” She caught herself and laughed. “Sorry.” She glanced over her right shoulder, then lowered her voice. “I’ve had my eye on Knox for a long time. I just don’t trust the guy. I’ve always felt he’s had his hands in the NFA’s coffers.”

At the mention of the National Firearms Alliance, Uzi’s ears perked up. “Like how?”

“To the tune of four-hundred thousand for his last senatorial reelection bid before he became director.”

Uzi whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“That’s a lot of influence,” Hoshi said.

Uzi’s eyes were roaming the room, but he was seeing nothing. He was thinking, putting this latest puzzle piece together with the others he’d inherited in the Rusch investigation. “Okay,” he finally said. “So I need to get with Shepard on this, see if he can chat up the attorney general, get him to talk some sense into our esteemed director. I mean, we’re all on the same side, right?” He shook his head. “Kind of strange for the head of the top law enforcement agency in the world to prevent his own agents from doing their jobs.”

“I just came from Shepard’s. He’s still here, if you want to talk to him.”

“Let’s do that.” He moved out from behind his desk and strolled through the doorway. “Anything come up on Gene Harmon?”

“How so?”

“Being chair of the House Select Committee on Intelligence, I figure the guy could’ve rattled a cage or two. See if he was involved in any unusually sensitive or controversial decisions the past couple of years.”

“May be tough to get that kind of info. Closed-door congressional stuff.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” He received a reluctant nod from Hoshi, then continued: “Put some people on his life. Known acquaintances, relatives, friends — especially ambassadors, foreign heads of state, that sort of thing.”

“Already being done.”

“And follow up on this Wheeler dude. Talk to his buddies, see what else we can dig up on the guy.”

“Speaking of digging up…” She handed him a message slip with a name and phone number scrawled across it. “A source of mine, works for a group that keeps tabs on gun-control issues. Gun Violence Center. He’s got some info for you.”

“You already spoke to him?”

“Let’s just say I’ve got an open line to him. He usually knows what’s going to happen before it does. Must have good intuition.”

“Or good sources. Is he legit?”

“Thoroughly vetted. Totally clean. Graduated from UC Berkeley with a law degree, went to work for a huge firm in San Francisco but hated it. Became a PI specializing in cases that had a legal slant. Did that for eleven years, then moved east a decade ago.”

“Moved east? Why?”

“Found his calling in certain political issues. Figured best place to be is here.”

“You’re comfortable with him?”

“Don’t take my word for it. Talk to him, decide for yourself.”

Uzi shoved the message slip into his pocket as he entered Marshall Shepard’s office.

Shepard was on the phone, his elbows resting on the desk and his face buried in his large hands. Uzi and Hoshi took seats in front of him and waited.

“Yeah, do that,” Shepard said. “Keep me informed.” He pulled off the headset, then slammed it down on his desk. “Christ. That guy drives me up a wall. Up a freakin’ wall.” His face seemed to take in the presence of Hoshi — and the significance of her visit. “She told you,” Shepard said to Uzi.

“What do you make of it?”

“Just got back from a briefing with the director. I was going to fill you in.”

“Now’s a good time.”

Shepard looked at Hoshi. “What did you tell him?”

Hoshi’s cheeks flushed, and Uzi realized he should have come alone.

“Just what we discussed, sir.”

“If Koh here told you what she knows,” Shepard said, “you probably know most of it. Director is placing some restrictions on our investigation.”

Uzi found a toothpick on Shepard’s desk. He pulled it from the wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. “You talk as if it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not, Uzi, it’s not. There are bigger issues for us to deal with.”

“He’s our chief, but he’s handcuffing us. We need those gun records.”

“We’ve had roadblocks in investigations before. We’ll find other ways of getting the info.”

Uzi shared a look with Hoshi, whose face remained neutral. She was clearly uncomfortable with Uzi’s challenging Shepard.

“Hoshi,” Uzi said, “why don’t you go finish that background sheet on Wheeler?”

Hoshi checked her watch, then glanced up at Shepard for his approval.

“Go,” he said with the flick of a large hand.

She gathered herself and left the room.

As the door clicked shut, Uzi turned back to Shepard. “She’s afraid of you, you know.”

Shepard twisted his lips. “Most of my agents are. Except you. Why is that?”

“Because I know your secret. You’ve got a heart as big as your head.” Shepard growled. Uzi got the impression that if his boss had been a Rottweiler, he’d have bared his teeth. “Back to Knox. Who else was in on this meeting?”

Shepard looked away. “The attorney general.”

“That must’ve been fun. Cats and dogs.” Uzi chuckled. “Did Coulter lay into him?”

“The Attorney General didn’t have much of anything to say. He asked a few questions for clarification, but that was it.” Shepard lifted a shoulder. “Maybe this whole NICS thing is Coulter’s idea to begin with.”

“You think?”

“Who the hell knows. They’re both very conservative, Uzi. Strict interpretation of the Second Amendment.”

Uzi held the tip of his nose and leaned forward.

“What’s wrong?”

“Second Amendment or not, something stinks, Shep. And it’s bad, whatever it is.”

Shepard held up a big paw. “Let it stink. You just stay away from it. It’s the fucking director, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got enough problems — and enough on your plate.”

Uzi could feel Shepard’s eyes glaring at him. But he was lost in thought.

“Uzi, did you hear me? Did you hear what I said? Leave it alone.”

Uzi rose from his chair and headed out.

“Where are you going?” Shepard barked.

Uzi stepped through the door, not bothering to stop as he called out over his shoulder, “To clear some room on my plate.”

After finishing with Shepard, Uzi grabbed his jacket and walked two blocks from the office toward that once ubiquitous, yet now rare, convenience: a pay phone. He pulled out the message slip Hoshi had given him and stood there, deciding if he wanted to call — and if he did, what he would say.

Figuring he had little to lose, he punched in the cell number for Hoshi’s contact, Tad Bishop. The phone rang three times, but as Uzi entertained thoughts of hanging up—

“Bishop.”

Uzi dipped his chin. Good tradecraft. Always. “Mr. Bishop, I was given your name by a friend. She told me you’ve got a good handle on the gun lobby.”

“A bit of an understatement, but I won’t hold that against you.”

“Good, because I’ve got some questions for you.”

“Not over the phone.”

“Fine,” Uzi said. “Meet me in the park behind Bureau of Printing and Engraving, off Wallenberg Drive. Go to the fireplug along Wallenberg and wait there.”

“It’ll take me about twenty minutes,” Bishop said.

“I’ll be the tall, dark, handsome guy in the leather overcoat.”

“And I’ll be the bald guy who’s been thinking of dieting but can’t seem to find the time.”

Uzi stood in the plaza of the United States Holocaust Museum, down the block from the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. Finally, forty minutes after they had first spoken, a rotund man ambled up to the traffic light stanchion.

“You’re late,” Uzi said.

“I had to check you out. It took longer than I thought.”

Uzi looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“You didn’t think I’d just show up to meet someone who calls me and says, ‘Meet me in a park to discuss the gun lobby’ without doing a little due diligence.”

Uzi pursed his lips. “Fair enough.”

He lowered his voice. “I’ll cut right to the chase. You want to know about the director, right? We’re coming out with a report on Douglas Knox tomorrow. I’ll make sure you get a copy, or if you want, you can download it from our website.”

“But that doesn’t tell the whole story,” Uzi said.

Bishop turned and crossed Raoul Wallenberg Place, Uzi at his side. “I don’t know if we’ll ever know the whole story. But no, some things were left out of the report. I believe in what we do, but I know there are limits to the buttons we push. We want to stay alive, so there are certain lines we don’t cross. If there’s something that falls outside those lines, I tell Agent Koh and let her deal with it.”

Uzi felt the moist dirt of the park grass giving a bit beneath his loafers. He stepped back onto the sidewalk and continued a few more paces in silence. “Consider me an extension of Agent Koh. I’ll make sure any information you give me can’t be traced back to you.” When he got no objection, Uzi continued. “Let’s start with some easy questions. Is Knox a member of the NFA?”

“Yes.”

Uzi nodded. He figured as much. “How do you feel about that?”

“Over the years, congressmen have served on the NFA’s board of directors. That’s bad enough. But the director of the FBI? He should be squeaky clean. No ties to any group, organization, or corporation that could color his judgment on the issues he has to face while doing his job.”

“How’s NFA different from the NRA? I’m sure plenty of conservative politicians are NRA members.”

“Different animal,” Bishop said. He stopped walking and faced Uzi. “They’ve also got lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and the NRA respects that line. But the NFA’s a different story. Twenty years ago, when they were more concerned with the rights of hunters, it wasn’t a big deal. But since then, the NFA’s morphed into a political animal, a huge lobby group with substantial resources and a slab of new turf. They became the foot soldiers of the far right. The sales force, so to speak.”

“I’m going to remain neutral on the merits of the NFA’s beliefs and intentions,” Uzi said. “I don’t want my personal views to affect our discussion one way or the other. But tell me more about the NFA’s leadership base. What motivates these people?”

Though Bishop was a good six inches shorter than Uzi, when the man looked up at him and their eyes met, even in the darkness Uzi could sense the fire that brewed there.

“What I hear you asking is how aggressive they’d get, right?” Uzi gave a slight nod, and Bishop continued. “These people want to win. They’re respected members of the community, every one of them. Their backgrounds are clean, at least as far as law enforcement is concerned. Some have ties to fringe groups but their association is unofficial, carefully protected.”

“But you know about them, these connections.”

“I know about them, but I don’t know the specifics. And don’t ask me how I know.”

Uzi glanced around the park, always on guard, always exercising caution. He lowered his voice. “I assume you had a defection from within their ranks.”

“You understand the situation well,” Bishop said.

“So you don’t know who these ‘fringe groups’ are.”

“No.” Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “And I’m better off not knowing.”

“I hear you,” Uzi said. “How about some perspective, then. How does all this tie in to President-elect Rusch?”

“It’s a miracle Rusch made it this far.”

“What do you mean by ‘made it’?”

“That he won the election. Rusch is a problem. When his sister was killed three years ago, he went through an epiphany. He suddenly realized what we’d been preaching for the past fifteen years. That guns kill.” Bishop wiped at his nose with a gloved hand. The temperature had dipped to the high thirties, and standing around was making it feel several degrees colder.

Bishop turned and started walking again, headed toward Independence Avenue. Uzi followed. “Rusch was a major challenge to the party. He was VP in a conservative administration that successfully defended against another 9/11. The economy was humming along and there was a steady growth in employment. They’d held the White House for eight years, but Whitehall was a goner on term limits. With his approval rating still in the seventies, they knew they had a strong shot at another four years — and Rusch was their ticket. But he had to be corralled. The main power brokers in the party sat him down and explained it all to him. They told him they needed him to be a team player or his career in politics would be over.”

“But Rusch came out against the gun lobby.”

“Big time. He played ball, rallied the party behind him. But the peace didn’t last long. He didn’t intend to make it a campaign issue, but a reporter with the New York Times asked the question during one of Rusch’s rallies in October. Remember?”

“Typical campaign chatter, that’s all that stuff ever is. I usually ignore it. Anyone can spin or promise anything to get elected — and the media plays right into it. Character is what counts.”

“The reporter asked Rusch where he stood on gun control. He couldn’t lie, because he knew the issue would come back to bite him in the ass later. So he danced around it. But during the last debate Gibson pressed him on it and Rusch officially came out against the gun lobby. At that point, a week before the election, there was nothing the party could do. He was their candidate.” Bishop sniffled, rubbed his hands together. “The media made a big thing of it, of course, but it was nothing compared to what went on behind the scenes.”

“And you know this, how?”

“Don’t ask me that. But if it makes you feel any better, my sources are solid. And I always verify what they tell me. The last thing I want is to start rumors or say anything I’d have to go back on later. It would destroy my credibility. And in this business, credibility is everything.”

“Go on,” Uzi said. They had crossed Independence and were headed toward the brilliantly lit Washington Monument.

“What no one knew is that the National Firearms Alliance got involved. They’d given three million dollars to the Republicans over the past several years, and that bought them a lot of influence. Like I said before, the NFA became a clandestine leader of the conservative right wing. They pushed Rusch to the edge but couldn’t get him to budge.

“Problem was, the NFA needed the right-wing as much as the right wing needed them. And in the end, both were powerless to stop Rusch. If he lost, the conservatives were out of power. If he won, they were scared shitless that he’d team with congressional Democrats to pass strict new gun laws. And with three Supreme Court judges about to retire or kick the bucket, you can bet Rusch’s appointees will see things the way he does. The long debate over interpretation of the Second Amendment would be settled. Rusch would see to that.”

Bishop let his theory hang in the thick air as his shoes crunched against the walkway.

Uzi felt his heartbeat kick up a notch, his body suffusing with euphoric anticipation. It was an emotion he hadn’t felt in several years — and even then, he’d only experienced it a handful of times — the sudden realization that he had stumbled onto something far larger than the original mission he’d been assigned. He tried to keep his voice even and restrained. “So you’re saying it’d be in their best interest if Glendon Rusch wasn’t in the picture.” He had chosen his words carefully, making it seem like a casual remark rather than a suggestion of motive for assassinating the man who had been elected the next president of the United States.

Bishop glanced sideways at Uzi. “They don’t pay me enough to draw such conclusions.”

They pay me enough. Uzi shook Bishop’s hand, and then headed off into the darkness.

Uzi went back to his office, too wired to go home. Forget about eating or sleeping. If there was validity to what Bishop had said, he knew the best place to be was at his desk, tapping away on his keyboard.

He exited the elevator, held his ID card in front of the sensor, and the electronic lock clunked loudly. After pushing through the thick glass doors, he made his way down the hall. A hint of movement by Hoshi’s cubicle brought him to her desk.

“I didn’t mean you should finish that report tonight,” Uzi said.

She looked up, her eyes glazed from concentration. “I had nothing better to do. Might as well work.”

“A beautiful woman like you has nothing to do? Impossible.”

The skin flushed beneath her high cheekbones. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You need something, don’t you.”

Though the sentiment behind his comment was genuine, he did, in fact, need her assistance. “You feel like going on a mission with me?”

She leaned back in her chair. “What kind of mission?”

He raised his eyebrows, then indicated that she should follow him. They walked over to his office and sat down beside his computer. “I met with your pal Bishop. He made some rather interesting assertions. I figured I’d dig a little, see what I could uncover. Other than the guys in cybercrime, you’re the only other person here who knows her way around a computer network.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Uzi pulled a laptop from behind his desk, taking care not to mess the papers that were arranged in their bins according to due date and level of complexity. He plugged it into an outlet and booted up. “You take the laptop and I’ll be on my terminal. Let’s see what we can find out.”

Hoshi’s eyes narrowed. “Find out about what?”

Uzi summarized Bishop’s information, then pointed to his laptop. “You take the executive leadership of the NFA and I’ll take our esteemed director. Let’s start there. See where it leads us.”

Hoshi swiveled her chair to face the screen and went to work.

Two hours later, Uzi rose from his seat and stretched toward the ceiling. “I’m hungry. You?”

Hoshi fought off a yawn. “I could use some coffee.” She looked at Uzi’s LCD monitor and inched closer. “What’s that?”

Uzi turned to find a blinking red cursor beside a short paragraph of text. “Hmm. Interesting.” He re-read the few sentences, then leaned back to consider what he’d seen. “I ran a little program I wrote last year. It takes a set of facts, like people’s names and other identifying info — SSNs, drivers license numbers, whatever you’ve got — and compares it to other people in a given database, using the parameters you set for the search.”

Hoshi squinted at him. “You wrote a program that could do all that?”

Uzi shrugged. “In my spare time.” He realized what that might say about his lack of a social life, but he was more interested in the information he had just discovered. “So I gave it certain names to compare. I wanted it to tell me if it found any crossover relationships. And here we go,” he said, pointing to the screen. “It found one between Douglas Knox and Skiles Rathbone, president of the NFA. They grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same high school and college, and graduated the same year.”

“Yeah, and that means what? Guilty by association? Guilty of what?”

Another blinking light grabbed Uzi’s attention before he could answer. He looked at the screen, read the information, and grabbed for his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Hoshi asked.

“A partner in crime.” He moved the handset to his mouth as the line connected. “Hey. We need to talk.”

Hector DeSantos hesitated. “Like some time tomorrow, or first thing in the morning—”

“Like now. It’s important. But not over the phone.”

DeSantos groaned. “Fine. Come by my place. But I’ve got company.” He gave Uzi directions and hung up.

“Get yourself a coffee, then keep on that,” he said, waving a finger at his laptop. “Play with my program some more, see what you find.”

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Find me connections. Anything linking our two dead bodies, Rusch and Marine Two, the NFA, Knox, Coulter… and throw ARM into the mix for good measure.”

Hoshi bit her lip.

“Think of this as just any old investigation. Forget the names for a minute, who these people are. We have a responsibility to look into anyone and everyone. If you thought I was involved, I’d expect you to be pulling my sheets. Understand?”

“Whether or not I understand isn’t the issue. The director and attorney general — you think they’d understand if they found out what we were doing?”

Uzi looked away. “Call my cell if you find anything. Save everything into an encrypted file and email it to me. I’ll look at it later.”

Hoshi’s pleading eyes made Uzi feel guilty for a moment. But he knew he was doing the right thing — an investigation was an investigation, regardless of the players involved. When a trail was laid down, it was his responsibility to follow that trail, no matter where it might lead.

He kept telling himself that as he made his way to the parking garage.

Uzi nosed his Tahoe up to the brick security booth at Hector DeSantos’s Beekman Place condominium in Adams Morgan. The immaculately groomed, trendy townhouse complex looked like an architect’s attempt to bring small-town neighborhood sensibilities to the nation’s capital. But its rural community flavor was primarily a function of aesthetics; Uzi surmised these units figured prominently on each homeowner’s statement of net worth.

Uzi gained access to the development from a pudgy guard wearing a faux tin badge pinned to a polyester white shirt frayed around the collar. After the black iron gate pivoted open, Uzi drove into the private street and parked in a guest slot beside a row of young oaks.

As he got out of the car, the tone of his Nokia bleated from his pocket. He answered it as he made his way down the brick sidewalk that ran the length of the attached townhouses.

“Hey, it’s your buddy — Danny Carlson.”

Uzi instantly dug the name from his memory. Danny Carlson was Nuri Peled’s cover. “Danny, my man, what’s the word?”

“I’m not finding anything. I’ve been digging — under beds and rocks, in drawers and closets, you know the deal. Turning up all sorts of stuff, but nothing that’d help you.”

Uzi stopped at the base of a small staircase and leaned against the wrought-iron railing. “I’m not surprised. It’s looking domestic.”

“What did I tell you?” Peled said.

“Yeah, well, at least we got a chance to see each other again. I’m sorry I lost touch. I kind of shut down. Just so I could go on. You know?”

“I do, my friend. And I’m sorry I let you lose touch. That was my mistake. Let’s not let that happen again. Agreed?”

A smile spread Uzi’s lips. “Yeah. Agreed.”

“It was good seeing you again, Uzi. Anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

Uzi ended the call, then continued up the steps to DeSantos’s townhouse. Before he could knock, the front door opened and his partner invited him into the tiled entryway. A burst of laughter escaped from the adjacent kitchen area.

“Sorry to bust in on you so late. This could be important.”

DeSantos waved a hand and did his best to deflect Uzi’s concern. “What’s up?”

“Oh, you’re right!” A woman in tight jeans emerged from the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand. “He is a stud.”

She moved into the entryway and eyed Uzi from a few feet away, her body angled perpendicular to his, her head following the path of her eyes: from his feet up to his face.

“This is Maggie,” DeSantos said. Uzi expected him to show a hint of embarrassment, but then remembered who he was dealing with, and the DeSantos’s “open” relationship.

Uzi extended a hand. “Glad to meet you, Maggie.”

She took his hand, squeezed it, and giggled. Her eyes widened slightly.

“And this is Trish and her daughter, Presley. My goddaughter,” DeSantos said, squaring his shoulders with pride. The toddler was draped atop her mother’s chest, arms dangling loosely over Trish’s shoulders.

Uzi nodded to them; the sight of the two-year-old girl, lying sleepily against her parent, triggered thoughts of Maya. He shuddered inside. “I’m… I’m really sorry to barge in like this.”

“Nonsense,” Trish said. “We were just getting ready to go. Pres was asleep on the couch, and I’ve gotta get her into bed before she wakes up for good.”

As Trish kissed Maggie good-bye, DeSantos gently stroked the girl’s hair. The munchkin hunched her shoulders as if being tickled, then turned slowly and saw DeSantos. Her eyes squinted as a smile broadened her face. She reached out and gave her godfather a big hug and kiss.

Uzi grinned at the sight of his tough partner melting under the little girl’s touch. He knew the feeling, but the memories were too painful, and he forced them aside.

“I’m going to walk them out,” Maggie said.

The door closed and DeSantos motioned Uzi down the hall. “So you found something.”

They entered the kitchen, a large square with stainless steel appliances, a temperature-controlled wine cabinet, and honey-stained wood floor. Maggie obviously liked peppers, as the red chilies adorned the frilly curtains, wallpaper, placemats — even the magnets on the refrigerator.

Uzi pulled out his smartphone. “Is your place clean?”

“Don’t bother. I check it every day. We’re fine.”

Uzi hesitated, but acquiesced and put the handset away. “Yes, I found something. Maybe.” He took a seat at the butcher block table and reclined in the chair, his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his overcoat. “I met with a guy tonight who thinks that Knox is in bed with the NFA.”

DeSantos rolled his eyes. “Not this again.”

“Hear me out. This guy says the NFA has become the strong-arm of the far right. They’ve given huge bucks to cover their interests in the White House. Everything was cool till Rusch’s sister was murdered. Then he went on this crusade, switched policy, and came out against the gun lobby.” He shrugged. “Maybe the NFA was furious and came up with a solution to their problem.”

“And killing the vice president was their solution?”

“I’m thinking that if he lost the election, they wouldn’t have set off the device. But as soon as they called the race, Rusch was a liability that had to be eliminated. Vance Nunn is a staunch conservative and he’s never spoken out against the gun lobby. Easy choice. They decided to take their chances with Nunn.”

DeSantos was quiet as he processed what Uzi had told him, no doubt running it through his bullshit filter. Finally, he asked, “And what do you think this has to do with Knox?”

“Knox is a member of the NFA. He went to school with Skiles Rathbone, NFA’s top dog. Best I can tell, they grew up together.”

“Well, that does it for me. Let’s get an arrest warrant for the fucking FBI director because he went to the wrong school and grew up in the wrong town.” DeSantos stood up. “Christ, Uzi, you sound like some whacked-out conspiracy nut. This guy you talked with. I bet he’s one, too.”

“Bishop’s a straight shooter. I felt him out. He was careful of what he said and refused to jump to conclusions without proof. He seemed responsible, not some nut bent on making a point at all costs.” He paused a second, as if suddenly convincing himself of his feelings about the man.

“Uzi. You’ve been in law enforcement a long time. You know the unwritten rule. Never trust an informant.”

“Because they’re usually criminals who’d lie or cheat to save their own asses. But this guy isn’t a criminal. His sheet’s clean. Well educated, upstanding citizen—”

“Who might have a hidden agenda of his own.”

Uzi shook his head. “I believe him.”

“What, that these guys were from the same neighborhood?”

“No, that info I got on my own.”

The front door opened and Maggie walked in. “Brrr. It’s cold out there.” Arms banded across her chest, she shivered her way into the kitchen, looked at Uzi and DeSantos and seemed to sense the tension in the air. She backed out slowly. “Cold in here, too. I’m going to bed.”

DeSantos did not look at her. He was still staring at Uzi. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Uzi knew the comment was directed more at him than at Maggie.

She disappeared. DeSantos slid the kitchen door closed.

“Uzi, I’ve known Douglas Knox for fifteen years. I’ve worked under him both officially and unofficially. I gotta tell you, if you’re suggesting a link between Knox and the attempted assassination of Glendon Rusch…” His voice tailed off. “You’re wasting your time. Knox doesn’t always play by the rules. No doubt about that. He’s personally signed off on black ops that no one else knows about, or wants to know about, or will ever find out about. You know the score.”

Uzi nodded.

“But everything Knox has done has been for the benefit of his country. Never for personal interests. Assassinating the veep is… That’s sacred, know what I mean? You don’t cross that line.”

“I can’t just ignore what I’ve found.” Uzi rubbed at his temples. “There’s not much to go on, I know. Just some sketchy stuff. But it set off my radar. I need to dig a little more, just to be sure. If he’s clean, no harm. If not…” Uzi shrugged. “Let’s see where it leads us.”

“There’s no ‘us’ in this. You go down this path, you do it alone. I can’t— I won’t investigate Douglas Knox.”

Uzi stood. “I hear you. I’d probably do the same if the situation were reversed.” He held out his fist and DeSantos reluctantly tipped it with his own. Uzi turned toward the door.

“Just be careful. Knox has a… circle of guys who look out for him.”

Uzi stopped and turned back to DeSantos. “OPSIG,” Uzi said, referring to the covert Operations Support Intelligence Group, the band of special ops players housed in the Pentagon’s supersecret basement. It was a group that did not exist on paper, with members who worked for a bogus corporation and carried false identification. Hector DeSantos’s group.

DeSantos looked away. “Close the door on the way out,” he said.

Uzi hesitated, then turned and left.