Hard Target

DAY FOUR

Uzi walked into Leonard Rudnick’s office and sat down, his gelled hair still slick from a shower. Though talking about his feelings was outside Uzi’s comfort zone, doing it so early, when his defenses were still weak from cobwebs on the brain, bothered him even more. If his previous visit hadn’t gone so well, he might have thought twice about showing up.

Too much to do, too much to think ab—

“So,” Rudnick said. He reclined slightly, facing Uzi. “Any answers yet on the question I posed to you last time? About suicide — or, perhaps better phrased, your reason for living?”

Uzi sighed. “I haven’t had a whole lot of time for introspection. This case—”

“Then tell me,” Rudnick said. “How do you feel about loyalty?”

“Loyalty?” Uzi jutted his chin back. “In what context? I had a dog once, he was pretty loyal. We loved him. He protected us.”

“What does loyalty mean to you? At work.”

“You can’t have an organization like the Bureau without loyalty. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. That’s our motto.”

“Yes,” Rudnick said. “Rings a bell.” He smiled. Uzi did not.

“Look, doc, if you’ve got a point to this, I’d really appreciate if you could get to it. This talking in circles isn’t my way. I told you that when we first met.”

“So you did. Very well. You had an incident recently with Agent Osborn.”

Uzi’s eyes rolled ceilingward. “He blatantly violated procedure, and it could’ve had catastrophic consequences. And it wasn’t the first time. But instead of referring him for an OPR,” he said, referring to the Office of Professional Responsibility, “I brought it to the attention of my ASAC.”

“His actions endangered others?”

“They had a suspect holed up. Osborn was told to stand down, but when the guy bolted Osborn engaged him in a gunfight. Innocents were in the vicinity. Women and children.”

“Women and children.” Rudnick absorbed this, nodding slowly. “And how did reporting Agent Osborn sit with your colleagues?”

“I didn’t have his back. They made it real clear they weren’t too happy with me.”

Rudnick tilted his head, apparently waiting for Uzi to elaborate. He did not. So they both sat there, Rudnick looking at Uzi and Uzi doing his best to go along with Rudnick’s game plan without calling it a session and walking out.

Finally, Uzi spoke. “Look, doc. I really don’t have time for this—”

“How did their reaction make you feel?”

Uzi lifted a shoulder. “It is what it is. They don’t need to be my best buds, just my colleagues.”

“And if you were on a case where they had to watch your back…”

“I’d expect them to do their jobs best they can. Regardless of who’s in danger.”

“No emotion in the equation,” Rudnick said.

Uzi considered this a moment. Of course, Rudnick was right. “What’s your point?”

“You are very direct, Uzi.” Rudnick leaned forward onto the armrests of his chair, ran his tongue across his lips, and said, “My point is that we all have to coexist with people in life. It doesn’t matter if they’re coworkers, or friends, relatives, spouses… even the checker in the grocery store. We’re a race that thrives on human interactions. We have to make an effort to communicate with the people in our life, and to realize they have feelings just like you and me.”

“Doc, this guy didn’t follow orders. Do you understand what that means, what the significance of that is?” Uzi realized he was out of his seat and shouting. He sat back down and cleared his throat.

Rudnick stared at his patient. “Tell me.”

Uzi looked away. “When people don’t follow protocol, you can’t rely on them, you can’t predict outcomes. Things spiral out of control. People get killed. Innocent women and children get killed.” Uzi swiped at a tear that was losing its grip on his eyelid.

Rudnick sat there, locked on Uzi’s face, no doubt analyzing his little tirade. After a few moments of silence, he said, “Uzi, I think there’s more here to examine than just Agent Osborn’s actions on a maneuver in the field last week. What do you think, hmm?”

Uzi sniffled, took an uneven breath, his gaze buried in the carpet at his feet. “There’s nothing to examine. This case is taking all my energy, that’s all. I’m tapped out.”

“Tell me about the innocent women and children that get killed when procedures aren’t followed.” Rudnick’s voice was calm and melodic as usual, but there was an underlying force beneath its surface.

“Nothing. It was nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Rudnick sat there, said nothing.

The time ticked by, a million images and thoughts blurring through Uzi’s mind. How could he understand? How could I begin to explain? “Rules are made to be followed,” Uzi finally said. “There’s a reason for them. They’re tested in the field, modified when they don’t work.”

“Is that the official Bureau position, or your own personal feelings?”

“The Bureau likes order, protocol. They have a four-thousand-page procedural manual.”

“I get the impression that you take these… rules very seriously, perhaps more seriously than most. Was it always that way? With the Mossad?”

Uzi’s head snapped up. Instinctively, he glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening. Of course, they were alone. “The Mossad has nothing to do with this. Even if it did, I couldn’t discuss it with you.”

Rudnick’s brow crinkled. “Remember, Uzi, that whatever we discuss here is confidential. I couldn’t tell anyone even if I wanted to.”

Uzi’s mouth curled into a frown. “I respect your ethics. I just— I just can’t trust them with certain things.”

Rudnick’s face flushed. “I make that statement with a depth that goes beyond usual doctor-patient confidentiality — which should be enough by itself to allay your fears.”

“Tell you what, doc. You tell me a secret. Something about yourself that means a great deal. Something you wouldn’t want anyone else to know.”

“I don’t see—”

“If I know something about you, and you know something about me, we each have motivation to keep the secret. Standard fare in intelligence. Kind of like having someone by the balls.” Uzi forced a smile.

For the first time, Rudnick looked uncomfortable. He seemed to shrink into himself. His shoulders slumped, his head shifted forward, and his eyes appeared to lose their brilliance. He sat like that for a long moment, then started speaking without looking at Uzi. “Very well. But I cannot explain why this is something that carries great meaning to me. I must show you. May I?”

Uzi shrugged.

Rudnick slid back his sport coat sleeve, unbuttoned his shirt button, and extended his forearm in Uzi’s direction.

Uzi remained back in his chair, glancing at the doctor’s thin, age-spotted skin and scraggly gray arm hairs with modest interest. But when he saw what was there, he immediately leaned forward. “Is that—”

“A tattoo? Yes. A concentration camp number? Yes again. Buchenwald.”

Their gazes met. Uzi suddenly saw his doctor in a different light. “You’re a survivor?”

Rudnick grunted. “I guess that describes my entire life, not just my time as a Nazi prisoner.”

Uzi leaned back. “And this is a secret?”

“It’s deeply personal, Uzi. Something I can’t explain and wouldn’t want to, if given the opportunity. I lost my mother and father, my two sisters, and my aunt and uncle. Everyone dear to me was taken, right before my eyes. Every possession lost, every value destroyed.” He stared off at the wall behind his patient before continuing. “If I were as good a patient as I am a psychologist, I’d have gone for counseling decades ago. Let’s just say no one knows what you now know. Aside from my son and late wife, no one has seen this tattoo.” Rudnick pulled his sleeve down and fumbled with the button. “I showed you this as proof that I also would not do anything to jeopardize the security of the State of Israel.” Having refastened the button, he shrugged his sport coat back into position. “Though I have to tell you,” he said with a hint of amusement, “most people accept doctor-patient confidentiality as proof of my silence.”

“I’m not most people.”

“There’s another reason why I showed that to you, Uzi.” Rudnick leaned forward, resting his elbows on the chair arms. “Following orders blindly is not always desirable. If there’s one thing of value we learned from the Nazis, it’s that. I doubt Mr. Shepard would argue. I also happen to know for a fact that every FBI agent I’ve ever known or treated has bent the rules at one time or other. It’s the intent that matters.”

Uzi looked away. He did not like being cornered. “The situations are totally unrelated.”

“Unrelated, yes,” Rudnick said. “But the underlying concepts are the same.”

“You don’t understand, you can’t understand. You can’t possibly understand.”

“Try me.”

“No.”

“Try me, Uzi.”

“No, I… I can’t.”

“How long can you go on with this bottled up inside you? How long until your body, your mind can’t take it anymore?”

Uzi looked away; his face felt flushed. “You’ve held it in for decades. Why can’t I?”

“No,” Rudnick said. “I treated it. I knew how to deal with it and I did so. Even though seeking outside counsel would’ve been better, what I did worked for me. But we’re not here to talk about my treatment. We’re here for yours.” The doctor paused, then said, “Perhaps now is the time to return to that question I asked you, the one about your reason for living.”

Uzi shook his head slowly. “I’m going to leave if you don’t change the subject.”

“Just talk to me, Uzi. I promise you it’ll help—”

“It won’t help anything!” Uzi was on his feet again, hands grasping clumps of hair. He turned and began to pace. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Rudnick stood and blocked his patient’s path. He grabbed Uzi’s wrists and said, “I’m not doing anything. You’re doing it to yourself.” His volume had risen to match Uzi’s.

Uzi stood there, burnt-red emotion coloring his face, his knees shaking. “Don’t you see? If I’d followed orders, if I’d done as instructed and followed protocol, my wife and daughter would still be alive today!” He was a volcano erupting. He had reached critical mass and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The emotions flowed out of him, hot and painful lava overriding everything in its path.

Chest heaving, on his knees, weeping. At his side was Rudnick, the doctor’s hands wrapped around his patient’s head, steadying it against his small chest. “That’s it,” he said calmly as Uzi’s body shuddered. “Just let it out.”

Uzi blubbered like a child, the tears cascading down his cheeks.

“We can now begin our work,” Rudnick said. “And you can now begin to live the rest of your life.”

Uzi walked into his office, sunglasses blocking his bloodshot eyes. Hoshi was still bent over the laptop. Without saying a word, he moved behind his maple desk and sat down. Hoshi tapped away, apparently engrossed in her work.

“Tell me you went home last night,” Uzi said.

“I crashed on the couch. Woke up around five, went downstairs and did a half hour on the treadmill, then showered and went back to work.” She hit a few keys, then sat back and appeared to notice Uzi for the first time.

“You’re wearing sunglasses.”

“You’re so damned perceptive, Hoshi. That’s why I keep you around.”

“You look really cool, you know? But—”

“Don’t ask why I’m wearing them.”

Hoshi turned back to her screen. “You probably got into a brawl last night. Don’t want to admit you got clocked.”

Uzi did not answer. He turned to his screen and checked his email. “Did you find anything?”

Hoshi reached for her tea cup and took a sip.

Uzi looked over the sundry items Hoshi had laid out across his desk’s return — lipstick, lotion, hairbrush, cell phone, a pill case, an iPod — and that was just the top layer. “Just… make yourself at home.”

“Thanks. But the offer’s a little late. I already have.”

Uzi smirked. “No shit.”

Hoshi swiveled her foot out from beneath her buttocks and sat up straight. “I put together a document with everything we know about William Ellison.”

“Anything significant?”

“The doc is cleverly named ‘Ellison Profile.’ Take a look. Pretty boring, if you asked me. But,” she said, “you can get a lot of work done when no one’s around. It’s so quiet. No interruptions.” She took another sip of tea. “I’ve got people on my team doing some more digging, but I stepped back and looked at this Ellison murder. Sister’s ill, he’s obviously the caregiver, or at least the responsible party, and the pressure starts to build along with her medical costs. But she doesn’t have any health insurance. So what does he do?”

“Takes some money on the side.”

“Right. So I figure, follow the money.” She took another drink from her mug. “I sifted through the paperwork we got from his apartment, but there’s nothing there. I’m now at the point where I have to get out the shovels.”

“You need some warrants.”

“Yup.”

“I’ll get you what you need.”

She logged off the laptop, then swiped her forearm across the desk to corral all her items into a pile that she then dumped into her purse. Starting for the door, she said, “This teamwork shoulder-to-shoulder thing works pretty well. We should do it more often.” She stopped in the doorway and drew his attention. “And I meant what I said. Those glasses are way cool.” She winked at him, then left.

Uzi emailed the information Hoshi had assembled on William Ellison to Karen Vail at the BAU. He didn’t know if it would help them refine their bomber profile, but he had nothing to lose.

As he picked up the phone to return the list of calls that had accumulated, Madeline informed him that Hector DeSantos was on the line.

“I need your help,” DeSantos said.

“I’m there,” Uzi said, relieved that their disagreement over Knox did not damage their friendship. “What do you need?”

“Pick me up in twenty,” DeSantos said. “We’re going fishing.”

As Uzi pulled out of the Pentagon parking lot, DeSantos told him they were returning to the ARM compound. Over the next ten minutes, the bare bones of an action plan began taking shape.

Uzi popped a toothpick into his mouth, tossing the wrapper into the small garbage pail he kept beside his seat. The mint flavor was strangely calming. “So you want to draw this guy out.”

“I’ve got this feeling he’s dirty. But they’re good, very careful. They bury things pretty deep. I figure if we take them off their game, show up unexpected, rattle them a bit, we might come away with something.”

Uzi winced. “Three words: Waco. Ruby Ridge. I’m not sure this is such a good idea. How aggressive are you planning to get?”

“I’m not going to incite a riot. I just want to turn up the heat on Flint, make him sweat. People who are under the gun tend to take action — and make mistakes. We plant the seed, then watch which way it grows.”

“See who they contact.”

“Exactly. Let them lay down breadcrumbs for us.”

Uzi glanced sideways at his partner. “What if this leads to Knox?”

“It won’t. That’s the reason I want to do this. To prove you wrong.”

“Except that there’s no way we’ll get in to bug the place.”

DeSantos waved a hand. “Who needs bugs? I’ve got buddies at Crypto City.”

“NSA?”

“They’ve got all sorts of cool eavesdropping satellites, shit like that.”

“And of course you have a court order.”

DeSantos winked at Uzi, then turned away and looked out his window.

They arrived at the American Revolution Militia compound expecting a confrontation. Uzi pulled his SUV up to their iron gate and honked with a heavy hand. The guard moved out from inside his booth, then grabbed the submachine gun slung around his right shoulder. With both hands grasping the weapon’s handles, he took a position in front of them, feet spread and eyes narrow.

DeSantos got out of the truck and slammed the door. “Tell Flint his Fed buddies, Agents Spic and Kike, are back.”

“I don’t take orders from you, asshole.”

DeSantos kept his voice restrained, yet firm. “Get Flint out here. Now. Or we’ll park our truck, pitch a tent, and set up camp.”

A filtered voice crackled over the man’s two-way radio. With his eyes locked on DeSantos, the guard shifted the gun to his right hand and keyed the mike with his left.

DeSantos looked over at Uzi, who was focused on the other men standing about thirty yards back, at the edge of a stand of redwoods, Kalashnikov rifles of their own at the ready.

Uzi got out of his car and stood with the door open. His discomfort with this fishing expedition had spiked into the red zone. It had been years since he had been in enemy territory, behind the lines, outside the confines of law and order. Yet at the moment, he stood on the very brink of anarchy. He thought of his discussion with Rudnick over following rules and obeying orders, and wondered how far DeSantos could bend those rules before they started breaking.

He wiped his brow with a sleeve, the movement being watched with scrutiny by the unfriendlies across the way.

“Santa—”

“We’re fine, Uzi. Just be cool.”

A moment later, a Hummer pulled into view and stopped in a cloud of loose dirt. Nelson Flint emerged, in dress uniform, followed by an underling who brought up the rear. Flint stepped up to the gate opposite DeSantos. He lit a cigarette nonchalantly, a man whose confidence was boosted by the firepower behind him.

Flint sucked hard on his Marlboro, then blew the smoke out the left side of his mouth. “Maybe you didn’t understand me last time. You boys ain’t welcome here. Unless you got yourselves a warrant. Got one of them bogus documents?”

DeSantos shrugged. “Well, we kind of made a wrong turn, and… here we are.”

“The fuck you want?” Flint asked.

DeSantos pulled a stick of Juicy Fruit from his pocket and folded it into his mouth. “I detect a little attitude there, Nellie.” He tossed the spent wrapper through the gate at Flint’s feet.

“That Juicy Fruit makes you look real tough, G-man.”

DeSantos took a step forward.

Uzi knew that taking issue with DeSantos’s deceased partner’s gum was the wrong tack, even though Flint could not possibly know the significance behind it. He cleared his throat. “Santa, tell the man what we came here to tell him.” The comment seemed to refocus DeSantos, but he still stood there, squinting at Flint, hatred floating on the air like teargas.

After a long moment, Uzi pressed ahead: “We know about your connections to the NFA.” He watched for Flint’s reaction. The man’s eyes quickly locked on Uzi. Direct hit.

“You don’t know shit, ’cause if you did, you wouldn’t be standing on the other side of the fence like fags. You’d be on my property, crawlin’ all over this place.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Flint. We’re not storm troopers. We don’t just bust in. There are rules we have to follow. But we do have some good stuff brewing. The background files we’re amassing on William Ellison and Russell Fargo are leading us right here. See, what you don’t comprehend is that we’ve got an army of agents trolling the supersecret databases the government keeps on everyone. They’re going through everything with a fine filter, and they’ve been sifting out little pieces to the puzzle. Pretty soon, before you know it, we’ll have enough to see the whole picture. That’s when we come busting in.”

“All talk, is all.” Flint turned and took a step toward his Hummer.

“We’re connecting the dots. We know about Skiles Rathbone and his connection to—”

“Uzi,” DeSantos shouted, “that’s enough. He’ll find out when the time is right.”

Uzi looked at DeSantos, then hesitated for a moment before acquiescing. Uzi stepped closer to the gate, only a few feet away and outside the earshot of the other armed men. “We’re after the bigger fish, Mr. Flint,” he said in a low voice. “Help us out now and you’ll get the deal. They’ll get fried. If you send us away and we find out the info ourselves, or if one of the others sings first, the deal’s off the table.”

Flint took a couple of steps toward the gate, then sucked a long drag on his Marlboro, appearing to consider the offer. But then he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it through the bars at Uzi, who swatted it away. “Fuck you, Fibber. Get away from my land.” He turned and got into his Hummer, the truck leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Uzi dropped DeSantos at the gate of the Pentagon, preferring to keep off its visitor logs until he could be sure how deep the potential Douglas Knox/National Firearms Alliance bond extended. With Knox’s roots well entrenched in super-secret spy groups, Uzi figured the director had to be aligned to some extent with NSA-types — officially or unofficially.

Leaving DeSantos to work that end of the investigation — it was, after all, DeSantos’s area of expertise — he broke away to meet with Karen Vail, who had left a voicemail five minutes earlier.

The profiling unit’s receptionist buzzed the security doors and Uzi proceeded down the maze of hallways to Vail’s office. He stepped in and saw Vail sitting at her desk, her elbow on the armrest and her chin nestled in her hand.

Uzi took a seat in the chair beside her wall of bookshelves and crossed a leg over his knee. “What’s wrong?”

“I think the branch is about to break.”

Before Uzi could ask for clarification, a man walked in with a scowl on his face. His attention was focused on Uzi.

“Agent Uziel. I’m Thomas Gifford. ASAC of the behavioral analysis units.”

Uzi sensed this visit was not going to be cordial, so he did not offer his hand to shake. “We’ve met,” Uzi said, leaving the comment ambiguous to retain an advantage. If he knew or remembered something Gifford didn’t, it would bother the man and give Uzi a sense of control.

“Agent Vail has been doing some work for you,” Gifford said.

“We’ve talked about a case, yeah. She was helping me understand a few things from a behavioral perspective. But I wouldn’t say it was for me. It’s for the Bureau. For the investigation into the veep’s assassination attempt.”

“There’s a protocol around here, Agent Uziel. The unit chief and I assign the cases. Agents don’t get to call their friends and have them do work for them. Understand?”

The word “protocol” sent a dart into Uzi’s heart. He of all people understood the importance of following procedures. He did not know how to respond.

“Frank,” Gifford called down the hall, into the adjacent office. “A minute.” He turned back to Uzi. “Frank Del Monaco is the agent assigned to this case.”

“With all due respect, sir, I did not mean to cause problems. Agent Vail was at the crash site. I have a relationship with her. I trust her abilities, and trust is an important issue with me.”

A heavyset man appeared in the doorway behind Gifford. Gifford nodded at Uzi’s comment but was clearly not swayed by his explanation. “It’s not her job to get touchy-feely with the law enforcement officers she serves. Our entire unit is trustworthy, with all the abilities Agent Vail has.” Gifford took a step into the cramped office and indicated Frank Del Monaco with a nod of his head. “This is Frank Del Monaco. Frank, this is Agent Uziel. He’s from WFO, head of JTTF, running the task force investigating the chopper incident.”

Del Monaco nodded at Uzi, but his eyes were narrow and his arms folded across his chest.

Gifford continued, “Because of all the work Agent Vail’s done behind my back, and because of the amount of time invested in this case, I’m going to allow her to remain on. She’ll work with Agent Del Monaco.”

“Aren’t they partners anyway?” Uzi asked.

“That didn’t sound like an apology,” Gifford said sternly.

Uzi dipped his chin. “I won’t muddy the protocol again, sir. I apologize and accept full responsibility for dragging her into this. In all fairness, she told me right up front I should be speaking with Agent Del Monaco.”

“Did that make you feel better, getting it off your chest?” Gifford glanced at Vail, who still had her chin buried in her hand, eyes examining the carpet. “I’ve dealt with Agent Vail how I’ve seen fit — in essence, you’ve boiled some water and stuck her hand in it. Maybe next time you’ll consider the consequences.”

Gifford was now twisting the dagger he’d thrown earlier. Uzi struggled to shrug off what Gifford was saying.

“It won’t happen again.”

“No, Agent Uziel, it won’t. I’ve spoken with ASAC Shepard and made sure of it. You guys come to us for help, we’ll give you everything we’ve got. Just don’t run over my toes again or this’ll be the last time you see the inside of my unit.” He pushed past Del Monaco and left the room.

Del Monaco frowned at Uzi, then followed Gifford’s exit.

Uzi exhaled, then rubbed his forehead. “Sorry.”

“My fault. When I told you ‘no,’ I should’ve meant it.”

“How bad?”

Vail shrugged. “Nothing I won’t get over. Gifford needs me. We’ve had our rows in the past, much worse than this one, and we’ve gotten past it. I’m dealing with it. Besides, I’m dating his son. That kind of limits the blows.” Vail cringed. “So to speak.”

“I think I’ll leave that one alone.” Uzi sat forward in the chair. “Anything you can tell me on the stuff I sent over?”

Vail rested her elbows on her desk. “Lots. I pulled in a guy from ATF. Turk Roland. He’s with ABIS, their Arson and Bombing Investigative Services subunit.”

“He as good as you?”

“If we’re talking bombs, he and Art Rooney are the best. Rooney’s out on medical. We call Roland the Turkmeister.”

“The Turkmeister?”

“He just co-authored a new study for the NCAVC,” she said, referring to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. “I read through it, learned a lot.”

“So maybe getting you into trouble was a good thing.”

“Let’s not go there.” She pulled a file from a stack beside her computer and splayed it open. “Here’s the deal. As much research as there is on serial killers, there’s very little on bombers. That’s why this new study was so important. Basically, bombers are classified by motive. There’re several categories, from experimentation to vandalism, excitement, revenge, diversion, political-ideological, and criminal enterprise. Let’s focus on the last two, since my impression is that whoever’s done this is operating in a group and has gone through significant effort to blow up the veep’s choppers. The planning alone rules out a lot of our potential suspect pool.”

“Cool. Then what does that leave us with?”

“Assuming we’re not dealing with some Middle Eastern terrorist sect, bombers in general tend to be white males, averaging five-ten, a hundred eighty-five pounds. Your UNSUB will likely have one or more body tattoos. He might have some form of disfigurement because of accidents while building or testing his bombs. So look for facial scarring or missing fingers.”

“So we’re looking for an average white guy with tattoos and missing fingers. Shouldn’t be too hard to find. Reminds me of this play I once saw about a one-eyed woman from Guadalajara with a wooden leg.”

Vail tilted her head. “Are you mocking me?”

Uzi leaned forward in his seat and rested his forearms on his knees. “Yes. I’m making fun of you, but this is good stuff. Go on.”

“I take my work very seriously.”

“Me too. Go on.”

Vail eyed him for a moment, then continued. “He’ll live in a middle-class neighborhood. He’ll be heterosexual. You’ve got about a fifty-fifty chance that he’s married. If he is, he’ll have one to three kids.”

Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “You’re shitting me.”

“Here’s the kicker. Unlike serial killers, these guys tend to come from fairly stable home environments. Your UNSUB’s parents earned a decent living, and both parents were probably present through his childhood. In fact, he likely had a warm relationship with both of them, though it was a bit better with the mother—”

Uzi began lifting papers and file folders, as if searching for something.

Vail stopped talking and watched Uzi rifle through her desk. “Uh, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m looking for your crystal ball.”

She turned away. “Look, Uzi, you’ve been through this process before. You know what a profile consists of.”

“He’ll have one to three kids? He had a warm relationship with his mother, but less so than his father? Come on. I mean, how accurate do you think this is?”

“I can only tell you what the research shows. Like I said, we know much more about serial killers. And this isn’t my area of expertise. But after talking with Turk, I have confidence that this info is in the ballpark. Besides, this is only meant as a way to narrow the field a bit, not hand you the name and address of your offender.”

Uzi sighed. “Okay. What else?”

“Your UNSUB will have a good relationship with his kids, and probably with his wife, too, but that’s not as certain. He’ll be bright, and educated through high school — maybe even some college. But socially he’ll be an underachieving loner.”

“What about religion?”

“Most likely Protestant. Possibly Baptist. Not fervent, but it does matter to him.”

“I was just kidding.”

“Actually, I thought it was an excellent question.”

“Oh yeah? Then I was serious.” He winked, then asked, “What about military service?”

“Are you joking now or serious?”

He dipped his chin and eyed her from an angle. Squinting, he said, “Serious.”

“Then it’s another good question. There doesn’t seem to be a hugely significant association with military service, though a fair percentage, maybe thirty percent of known bombers, did serve. Army and Marines. But I think a better way of looking at it is that these people do tend toward a fascination with explosive devices, ordnance, ammunition, and so on. Whether your UNSUB officially recognized these interests in an organized military fashion might not be the case. But I would look first at the military and use it as a comparative database.”

“Organized military fashion. So he might’ve gotten his kicks elsewhere, like with a militia?”

“Yes.”

“And the ‘underachieving loner’—socially — that would also fit with a militia.”

“Could,” she corrected. “Could fit. Remember, these are guidelines, not absolutes.” She paused, glanced at her notes, then rocked her head back. “All that said, here’s something that’ll sound the radar. Bombing is the assassination method of choice for militia groups.”

Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Is that right?”

“If you look back thirty years,” she said, consulting her notes, “they’ve typically used bombs to get even with their enemies. Pipe bombs, fertilizer bombs, even artillery. But C-4 would be relatively new for them. At this point, I should tell you that profiling them might be a tad bit harder because you’re dealing with group behaviors.”

“Does this throw your profile out the window?”

“Not necessarily. And we could still be talking about an individual here.”

“Then let’s go on. Will he be employed?”

“Yes. Chances are good he’s in a decent financial position. First of all, he used C-4. He had to have gotten it from somewhere. Unless he stole it — which ATF would know about — it’d require money and contacts — which again could suggest an organized group. Groups provide the ability to pool resources and influence. And the comfort to draw up and execute such an aggressive plan.”

While Uzi considered what she had said, Vail glanced again at her notes.

“Here’s something that may be of immediate help. It’s likely your guy did time as a juvenile. Probably even multiple felonies, which might help narrow things. As an adult, he’s probably had three felony arrests.”

“So he’s a guy who’d been in our system.”

“Yeah, but there’s a caveat here. If he is with a group, the bomb maker is the one who’s been in the system. The top dogs might not show up in our database. But—”

“We’ll get the guy with the dirty fingernails to roll on his bosses.”

“Look for bombing/explosive and burglary/robbery offenses. If he did do time, that’ll likely be the deal.”

“Are these guys like serial killers— Will any power rape type of thing show on their sheets?”

She shook her head. “Even though there’s often a sexual component to some bombers’ motives, rape or sexual assault isn’t their vice.”

“Okay,” Uzi said. “Let’s step back a second. I think we can assume this bomber is part of a group, and this group has political/ideological motives, or is interested in revenge. Agreed?”

Vail shifted in her seat. “The branch is creaking.”

“William Ellison was a bright guy. Could he have been our bomber?”

“He certainly had access, and he had intimate knowledge of the mechanical aspects of the helicopter, more than enough to take the thing down. But is he the guy who built the bomb? Maybe. Not necessarily. From the info you faxed me, Ellison fits certain aspects of the profile. But he also falls outside it in a lot of ways. Big thing is that he didn’t have a criminal history. He was single, didn’t appear to be in a significant relationship, and his childhood was not exactly what you’d call stable or warm and fuzzy. There was a note in there about his father, who skipped when little William was two.”

“I saw it.”

“And given his high-end job at the Marine base, I assume he wasn’t missing any fingers.”

“No disfiguring marks, either,” Uzi said. “And he didn’t have any overt government inclinations or he would’ve failed the Yankee White background check. It’s pretty intense.” He thought a moment, then said, “Can we assume that Ellison was the one who placed it?”

“Best not to deal in assumptions. Logic is better. So let’s look at it logically based on your scenario. Bottom line, the day after the chopper is taken down, Ellison’s erased. Professional job from what I saw in the file. Nothing personal in the crime scene. Just a surgical hit. Very clean.”

“Which suggests and supports the group theory.”

“Forgetting their reliance on bombs to eliminate their enemies, I’d agree. Go with what you’ve got and deal with the facts: Ellison worked on the choppers, the choppers exploded, then Ellison is eliminated. Logic suggests it was done to cover their tracks. Who’s pulling the strings?”

“ARM?”

Vail sighed, leaned back in her chair. “Prime suspect. But you need proof. A smoking gun.”

“More like discarded C-4.”

Vail closed her file. “I think you’ve got enough to run with.”

“Maybe.” Uzi reached over and closed the door and lowered his voice. He was about to take a risk, but he trusted Vail and believed that whatever he told her would remain between them. “I’ve got another theory. Douglas Knox, the NFA and ARM.”

Vail’s eyebrows rose. Her eyes darted from side to side as she processed what Uzi was suggesting. “Conspiracy?”

Uzi shrugged.

“For what reason? I mean, that’s big stuff, Uzi.”

“Glendon Rusch’s pro-gun-control policy.” He briefly recapped his meeting with Bishop, then sat back and waited for her response.

She twisted her lips in thought. “Well, as conspiracy theories go, it’s intriguing. Up there with Oliver Stone’s JFK theory. But we’re not talking Hollywood here. You have to actually prove it.”

“I’m not stupid. I know it’ll be next to impossible. These people know how to cover their asses. And Knox has deep contacts just about everywhere you look.”

“Have you floated something by the AG?”

Uzi had not thought of going straight to Winston Coulter. He was, after all, head of the Department of Justice, and the DOJ was the FBI’s parent, so to speak. If Coulter authorized an investigation, Knox’s displeasure — and resulting heat — would fall on Coulter, not on Uzi. And with Uzi’s new reputation for blowing the whistle, hiding behind the AG’s shield was fine with him.

“Think I should?”

“I don’t know. Probably best to wait till you’ve got something more… explosive.” She squinted. “Sorry — couldn’t resist.”

“What do you think of my theory?”

“Honestly?”

Uzi made a face. “No, lie to me.”

“Fine,” Vail said. “It scores pretty high on my bullshit radar.” She leaned forward. “I’m not saying it’s not what’s going on here, but a few accusations and numbers thrown around by a guy who may be a paranoid conspiracy nut himself… I’d need more than that to even consider it. I dealt with Knox once, and he was firm but fair, and at the end of the day, supportive. I don’t know him near well enough to draw up anything even resembling a behavioral profile, but going just on gut instinct, I can’t see him being part of a conspiracy to assassinate the president-elect.”

Uzi twisted his lips in disappointment, but knew she was right. His proof was as thin as his theory was compelling. But that was just it: it was a theory. He needed evidence — and until he got some, he was nowhere.

Uzi’s cell was ringing. He set his iPad onto the dashboard, having finished dictating his thoughts on the salient parts of Vail’s profile. While trying to keep his left hand on the wheel and one eye on the interstate, he fished through his overcoat, which was folded beside him. By the time he rooted out the phone, the caller had left a voicemail: it was Madeline telling him to report immediately to the attorney general’s office.

He returned Madeline’s call, hoping she could provide some background on the meeting. She could not. Uzi left a message for Shepard, then exited the interstate and arrived at the Department of Justice several minutes later. He checked in with Winston Coulter’s personal assistant, then turned to take a seat. But before he was able to sit, the woman told him the attorney general was ready to see him.

Uzi hesitated a moment, trying to figure out the reason for the meeting. Not only was it called at the last minute, but Winston Coulter was notorious for making people wait, a trait Uzi figured was part of the power game a lot of Washington bureaucrats played. Yet Uzi had been ushered in the moment he arrived.

Given the peculiarity of the situation, Uzi’s interest was piqued, to say the least. But maybe this visit, whatever its purpose and no matter how unprecedented, would give him the opportunity to discuss the restrictive order Knox had placed on them in accessing the NICS database.

Uzi walked into the spacious office, where a portly Winston Coulter sat behind his desk chattering on the phone. He did not acknowledge Uzi’s presence, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Uzi immediately realized that standing in someone’s office while he ignored you was infinitely more intimidating than waiting by yourself in a comfortable anteroom.

Uzi stood there a moment, then began to peruse the wall hangings. Certificates, law degrees and decrees, the usual photo ops with politicians. The office, though personalized, contained all the trappings and decorations Uzi had seen a hundred times.

“No, he’s here now,” Coulter said. “I’ll take care of it. Thanks for the heads up, Victor.” Coulter slammed down the phone and met Uzi’s gaze. “Agent, seems we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

Uzi stepped closer to the large maple desk, but did not sit. “With what, sir?”

“I just got off the phone with Victor Ripclaw. You know who Victor Ripclaw is, Agent?”

“Name rings a bell, but I can’t—”

“Victor Ripclaw is the managing partner with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw. You’ve heard of that law firm, haven’t you?”

“One of the largest on the east coast.” And one with enough clout to be able to pick up the phone and get through to the attorney general of the United States.

“Exactly right, Agent. You know why Mr. Ripclaw called me?”

“Sir, with all due respect, if we could get to the point—”

“His client is Nelson Flint. Is that blunt enough for you?”

Uzi closed his mouth. That was a revelation of significance. “Nelson Flint’s with Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw? Doesn’t that strike you as odd, sir?”

“Whether it strikes me as odd or not, Agent Uziel, is irrelevant. Mr. Ripclaw is quite upset over your two visits to Mr. Flint’s place of business.”

“It’s a right-wing militia compound, sir. I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘a place of business.’”

“You didn’t call it a place of business. I did. And the point, Agent Uziel, is that you should not have been there unless you had a warrant.”

“With all due respect, sir, the first time we were there they gave us access voluntarily. The second time we never set foot on their property. Regardless of what their Madison Avenue lawyer claimed, we didn’t need a warrant. We just went there to ask questions during the normal course of our investigation.”

“With your guns drawn?”

“We did not draw our weapons, sir.”

“That’s not what I was told.”

“I don’t know who—”

“Listen here, Agent Uziel, I do not want another Ruby Ridge or Waco on our hands. Now that’s pretty clear, isn’t it? You get my point, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. We were aware of the risks—”

“And yet you went anyway.”

Uzi sighed. “I’m sorry if we upset them, sir.” Actually, he wasn’t — but he sensed a bit of contrition was called for.

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Coulter tossed his pen onto the desk. “Agent, Mr. Ripclaw did us all a favor by calling my office instead of filing harassment charges and sending a copy of his complaint to the Post. The Bureau’s had enough black eyes the past several years. We don’t need any more. What you do reflects on me, and I don’t want to have to answer for it, do you understand?”

Uzi looked away. “Very clearly, sir.”

“Good. Now—” The buzz of Coulter’s phone gave Uzi a second to think. Coulter lifted it, listened for a moment, then said, “Send them in.”

Marshall Shepard and Douglas Knox walked through the door. Uzi felt the heat rising beneath his collar, and he immediately wished he’d removed his leather overcoat before entering Coulter’s office.

Coulter exchanged a glance with Knox and Shepard. “Agent Uziel and I have been having a little chat. Weren’t we, Agent?” Coulter paused, looked hard at Uzi.

“Yes sir, a little chat.”

“I got a call from Hayes Patino Sinclair Ripclaw,” Coulter continued. “Seems Agent Uziel and his partner have been harassing Nelson Flint and his colleagues. Went to Mr. Flint’s place with their firearms drawn.”

Shepard and Knox simultaneously looked at Uzi. They were not wearing their happy faces.

“The managing partner gave us a heads-up before filing charges.”

“Uzi,” Shepard said, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

When one of the most influential attorneys in the country lit a fuse, the resulting fallout often consumed those in close proximity. Like a neutron bomb, it left the office standing but destroyed the people inside it. Uzi hoped Shepard could escape the damage. Still, he should’ve seen it coming: taking the heat for the actions of people under your command came with the territory. Shepard was guilty by rank and proximity.

Coulter held up a hand to silence Uzi. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” Uzi said, “but how about our side of the story? Since when does the FBI kowtow to an attorney whose client slithers into his office crying harassment?”

Coulter stood from his seat. “Since I became attorney general. And since I decided to clean up our image. And since it’s my decision to make.”

“Sir, the second time we were there, we never stepped foot on their land. We stayed outside the fence and—”

“And nothing,” Coulter said. “Victor Ripclaw isn’t a hack. He’s a powerful and influential lawyer, and I don’t want him on my back. We’ve got enough important work to do in this office without fending off lawsuits from attorneys who know how to bury my people in paperwork. But most of all, Agent Uziel, he gives scum like Nelson Flint credibility. If he’s Flint’s mouthpiece, we’ve got problems. He knows how to play the strings of public opinion. And I don’t want to see anything in the papers about trampling citizens’ constitutional rights.” He turned to Shepard. “Did you know anything about this?”

Shepard’s gaze was still locked on Uzi. “No, sir.”

“Why the hell not?”

Uzi turned away. He could feel the perspiration beading down from his sideburns.

Shepard took the smart way out, treating Coulter’s question as if it were rhetorical. Like a suspect in handcuffs, he remained silent to prevent further damage.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Coulter continued: “Do us all a big favor, Douglas. Rein in your people. Make sure they stay away from Nelson Flint unless I authorize it.”

Uzi knew this was an extraordinary measure; the attorney general did not usually micromanage FBI affairs. In fact, any directive from Coulter would normally flow directly to Knox, who would then deal with Shepard and/or Uzi.

“Agent Uziel, we’re through here.”

So much for getting an opportunity to ask the attorney general about overriding Knox’s blocking of the NICS database. Any inquiry regarding Knox’s political interference in the investigation would have to come from someone else.

As Uzi turned to leave, he caught the frowns of Shepard and Knox. He felt he should apologize, but what could he say — especially in front of Coulter? Instead, he put his head down and moved between the two men, parting the sea of anger and walking clear out of the room without looking back.

“I heard all about your meeting,” DeSantos said as he and Uzi strolled along Pennsylvania Avenue.

Ninety minutes after leaving the Department of Justice, Uzi received a call from DeSantos telling him they needed to meet. Now, walking along the district’s main drag, the air was crisp and their breath sent vapor trails snaking behind them.

“Sorry you had to face it alone.”

Uzi waved a hand. “It’s over. I’ll get past it. Hopefully my boss will.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

A taxi roared by them, the wind ruffling the bottom of Uzi’s overcoat. He looked at DeSantos, his partner’s last comment taking a moment to register. “What do you mean?”

“Some shit going on behind the scenes. This is DC, boychick. You know how it goes. What you see ain’t what you get.”

The meat of rush hour had passed, the mass of people pouring out of government buildings slowing to a trickle. Uzi dodged a couple of women in business suits scurrying to hail a cab. “So what’s the rest of the iceberg look like?”

“Knox wants you to keep investigating ARM.”

Uzi stopped and watched as DeSantos took another few steps before realizing his partner was not keeping up with him.

He came back to Uzi and shrugged. “C’mon,” DeSantos said. “We need to keep moving.” He glanced around, then nudged Uzi with a shoulder. They turned and began walking.

Uzi waited a moment for DeSantos to elaborate. He knew Knox was the preeminent spy master, operating behind closed doors in ways no one else would dare dream, but he never expected to be part of his inner circle. Nor did he want to be. He needed rules and structure.

“Knox asked me to deliver a message,” DeSantos finally said. “But he needs to know you’re on board.”

“On board with what?”

“He wants you to continue looking into ARM, but Coulter and Shepard can’t know.”

Uzi knew what this meant: he was, indeed, being invited in. Perhaps not to the inner circle, but he was being asked to dip his feet in the water. Get them wet, feel the temperature. Then make a decision as to whether to go in all the way. Or not. “Santa, the attorney general is the FBI’s ‘boss.’ I may not like the guy, but he specifically told me to back off Flint. If I keep poking around…”

“Knox will insulate you.”

“Knox answers to Coulter. How’s he going to insulate me?”

“Technically, he answers to Coulter, but he’s… Don’t worry about it.”

Uzi looked up at the sky, as if it held answers. “I don’t get it. First your buddy Knox plays political games by blocking us from getting into the NICS database — something that could help our investigation. Now he wants us to ignore the AG’s direct order and go after ARM.”

“Don’t try to make sense of Douglas Knox’s actions. I can tell you that if he’s blocking you from something, there’s gotta be a reason. Other than politics, would be my guess.”

“We need the access. I was hoping to convince Coulter to override Knox’s order, but I never got the chance.”

“What do you need gun records for?”

Uzi explained the link between Wheeler and Ellison. “And Vasquez probably knew about it, but kept his mouth shut. Any idea why? Does Knox have some secret relationship with Vasquez or someone else in the Marines? Maybe one Marine killing another would be bad PR, so this way, he prevents us from getting at the truth.”

DeSantos slowly perused the surrounding street, chewing on what Uzi had just told him.

“This guy could be a key to our case, Santa, but without gun records we don’t have shit. We need them to get a warrant. I wanna put this guy in the box and sweat him out.”

“He’s a Marine. Be a waste of time. But I’ll talk with Vasquez and see what he knows.” DeSantos was silent as they crossed 6th Street NW. Finally, he said, “Doesn’t matter what’s going on behind the scenes. Knox still wants us looking into ARM. Just you and me. We’ll keep Shepard out of the loop.”

Uzi hesitated, then shook his head. “Shepard’s my friend. I don’t like keeping stuff from him. He’s stuck his neck out for me a lot of times, especially when I needed a job—”

“Exactly. You’re helping him here, not hurting him. Deniability. The less he knows, the better. He can’t get into any serious shit if he doesn’t know about it.”

Uzi wanted to say that if this insulated Shepard from “serious shit,” it implied that Uzi would be stepping into the smelly stuff himself. Ultimately, Knox would make a choice: him or Shepard. And the lower ranks always took the heat first. But he chose a different tack. “That’s not what happened today. Coulter made a point of implying that even if Shepard hadn’t known what we were doing with ARM, he should have.”

DeSantos waved a hand. “Just a show of power. Nothing will come of it. Trust me.”

“Santa, I’ve got enough to handle running this investigation without pushing the envelope any more than I already have. It’s not like Shepard asking me not to do something. He’d get pissed, let off some steam, and everything would be okay. But Coulter is the boss of all the bosses. Despite what you think, if Coulter wants my ass, there’s nothing Douglas Knox is going to be able to do to save it.”

DeSantos’s pace had quickened. “You can make a lot of mistakes in life, Uzi. But the biggest one any of us can make is underestimating Douglas Knox.”

Uzi felt DeSantos’s gaze bearing down on him. He didn’t want Shepard hurt again, and if this went sour in any way, the fall guys would be himself and Shepard, he was sure of it. Still, if the FBI director wanted this done and ordered him into secrecy, who was he to object — or disobey?

“There’s something else you should think about. This order Knox imposed, preventing you from accessing the NICS. I think you’re poking around the wrong neighborhood.”

“Don’t try to defend Knox.”

“Hear me out,” DeSantos said, holding up a hand. “A good chunk of the guns bought by militia members come from gun shows. You know why?” DeSantos didn’t wait for Uzi’s response. “Because there’s a loophole in the Brady Law. The law says you can’t sell a gun to someone without a background check, without paperwork being filled out. But see, the interesting thing is that the law doesn’t apply to hobbyists.” Uzi started to say something, but DeSantos continued. “And you know who sells guns at gun shows?”

“Hobbyists,” Uzi said.

“No, professional gun dealers. They only say they’re hobbyists so they can avoid the law.”

“Okay, so the law sucks—”

“You know who created that loophole? A simple clause quietly added to the bill at the eleventh hour.” DeSantos smiled. “Winston Coulter. Senator Winston Coulter.”

Uzi sucked on his bottom lip. “That’s interesting.”

“Thought you’d think so.”

They stopped walking at the intersection of Pennsylvania and 10th Street.

“So Knox isn’t the bad guy. He always has reasons for what he does. You hear what I’m saying? Do what he says. There’s a bigger picture here, I’m sure of it. You need to trust him.”

Uzi sighed. He looked out at the red taillights of the cars in front of him. “It just doesn’t feel right. And I don’t want to be responsible for ending a friend’s career.”

The light changed and the pedestrians started to cross the street. DeSantos leaned close to Uzi and said, “Knox knows about your time with the Mossad.”

Uzi’s brow crumpled. He stopped in the middle of the street. “You told him?”

DeSantos held up his hands. “I didn’t tell him anything. He told me.”

“But how—”

“The real question is, ‘How’d you get into the Bureau in the first place?’”

Uzi turned and they continued walking across the street. He understood DeSantos’s point: the FBI would not have approved Uzi’s application if they knew he had worked for a foreign intelligence service. Avoiding DeSantos’s gaze, he said, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

DeSantos stopped walking and grabbed Uzi’s arm. “Bullshit. They do ask.”

Uzi shrugged off his hand. “Okay, they asked. I didn’t tell. I needed the job. Right or wrong, I didn’t disclose it, and no foreign intelligence service discloses the identities of its operatives.” Uzi looked away. He felt awful about having deceived the Bureau — and even worse about having to admit it now to his friend.

“Knox knew you lied on your app. He said I should tell you it’s a federal offense. He also wanted you to know your secret is safe with him. But he wants you to do this in return.”

Uzi looked out at the oncoming headlights and thought he knew how a deer felt. “What choice do I have?”

DeSantos took him by the crook of his elbow and led him toward the sidewalk. “I guess if you wanted to throw away your career and do prison time, you could say no.”

Uzi nodded. He figured as much. Before he could launch into a complaint about being blackmailed, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and saw that the call was from a blocked number. “Uzi.”

There was a second of silence before the caller spoke. “This is the person who met with you last night. Your colleague’s friend.”

Uzi recognized the voice as Tad Bishop’s. “What can I do for you?”

DeSantos moved closer, clearly tuned into the fact that the call was related to their case. He leaned close to Uzi, who tilted the Nokia so both could hear.

“I need to meet with you. Now. Wolf Trap Park, do you know where it is?”

“It’ll take me a bit to get there.”

DeSantos motioned with an index finger to indicate that he was going to come along.

“There’ll be two of us coming.”

“Agent Koh?”

“No, but it’s someone you can trust.” Uzi knew this was not going to be an easy sell, but he had to give it his best shot. Perhaps meeting Bishop would help convince DeSantos there was merit to his claims about Knox.

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Bishop said.

“I understand. But he can help us. He’s my partner, and I trust him.”

Bishop was silent for a moment, then said, “Fine. Thirty minutes?”

“Maybe forty. We’ll do our best.” Bishop gave Uzi the exact location of where they were to meet. Uzi ended the call and turned back in the direction from where they came. “Looks like I’m gonna be late to my dinner with Leila.” He pulled out his phone to text her about the delay.

“This that Bishop guy? The paranoid schizophrenic?”

Uzi frowned at DeSantos. “Let’s go see what the problem is. He seemed uptight.”

“He’s paranoid. Being uptight goes with the territory.”

The drive to Fairfax, Virginia, took them longer than Uzi thought it would. But they drove around, surveilling the area like all Special Operational Forces did. Looking for routes to E & E — evade and escape — should it be necessary. Assessing risk, evaluating the terrain.

Satisfied as to the meeting place, they parked and waited. A car pulled up behind them, half a block away. Its headlights flashed twice; Uzi looked at DeSantos, who was stifling a laugh.

“Go on, flash your brake lights,” DeSantos said.

“What’s so funny?”

“This guy thinks he’s one of us.”

Uzi popped open the door and got out, then headed into the park with DeSantos a few paces behind him. Bishop waited while the two of them walked down the path, then stopped and faced one another as if engaged in conversation.

“Now what?” DeSantos asked.

“He likes to make sure the area’s secure before he’ll come over here.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.”

DeSantos turned and looked at Bishop’s car.

“Don’t stare,” Uzi said. “It’ll just make him nervous.”

“And you said this guy wasn’t paranoid?”

“I’m saying I understand his situation. He digs into volatile issues. There’s a lot of money at stake, a lot of power. He pisses off a lot of people in Washington.”

DeSantos shrugged. “So do I.”

Bishop’s car door opened and he emerged from the darkness wearing a wool hat with ear muffs pulled down over his head and a black trench coat with a turned-up collar.

As he crunched a path across the grass toward Uzi and DeSantos, DeSantos turned away. “Oh, man. This guy’s a piece of work.”

“Keep an open mind, will you? Just listen to what he has to say.”

“Fine. But only if I can keep myself from laughing—”

“Gentlemen,” Bishop said.

Uzi gestured at his partner. “This is Hector DeSantos, Department of Defense.”

“Department of—”

“Relax, Mr. Bishop. He’s on my task force. And I’ve known him a long time. What’s on your mind?”

Bishop glanced around and spoke to the air around him. “I’m being followed, I think my phone’s being tapped, and I’ve had a number of hang-ups today.”

“How do you know you’re being followed?” DeSantos asked.

“Mr. DeSantos, would you know if you’re being followed?”

“I’ve had extensive training—”

“I used to be a private investigator,” Bishop said. “I know what I know, sir. And I’m being followed.”

“Right now?”

“I know how to deal with it. I’m clean at the moment, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. They may have some sort of tracking device on my car somewhere.”

DeSantos threw Uzi a sideways glance. Uzi knew DeSantos was stifling a laugh.

“And the phone tap?” Uzi asked.

“I took apart the handset, but didn’t find anything. They must be tapping in at the switch box. There’s clicking on the line, and it… it just sounds different, is all. I can tell.”

DeSantos nodded slowly, his gaze taking in Bishop from head to toe. Sizing him up.

“Mr. Bishop,” Uzi said, “I can arrange for someone to look into it. Hoshi can do it. Do you want me to call her?”

Bishop nodded.

As Uzi pulled out his phone, Bishop turned his head to check over his shoulder. He swayed a bit, but DeSantos reached out to steady him.

“I’m okay,” Bishop said. He pulled his arm from DeSantos’s grip. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m a little light-headed is all.”

Uzi eyed Bishop with concern, then dialed Hoshi. “Is that all you had to tell me?” he asked as he pressed Send.

“No.” Bishop’s eyes danced around the park. “It’s about our AG.”

His smartphone beeped in rapid succession. Uzi ended the call, looked at the flashing red light, then brought an index finger up to his mouth. He pressed a button to silence the beeping, then held the device near Bishop’s body. “Number’s busy. I think we should do this tomorrow, anyway. Schedule a time when we can meet with Hoshi in person.” The flashing light became steady. Uzi nodded, then slipped the device into his pocket. “That okay with you, Mr. Bishop?” Uzi nodded animatedly, then again pressed an index finger to his lips.

Bishop’s eyes were wide. He clearly understood what was going on. “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. Hopefully I can get some sleep tonight, then my head will be a little clearer.”

“Tomorrow night,” Uzi said as he helped remove Bishop’s jacket, “Nine o’clock. Same place. I’ll bring Hoshi with me.” He held the jacket by the collar and said, “Take care.” He carefully set the jacket on the ground and motioned for Bishop to follow him down the path.

When the three of them had walked thirty feet, Uzi removed his phone again and ran it over Bishop’s body. The red lights remained off.

Bishop whispered, “Listening devices?”

“Probably sewn into your jacket,” Uzi said.

“We don’t know that,” DeSantos said. He turned to Bishop. “Do you have any electronic devices in your pocket? An iPod, smartphone, GPS—”

“Santa, I’m sure. I programmed this myself. The only thing that would make it react like that is a device that puts out a very specific low-voltage wireless signature.”

DeSantos sighed deeply. “I still don’t buy it. There could be other explanations. But we’ll take the jacket with us, Mr. Bishop, have the lab analyze it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I appreciate it.”

“I bet,” DeSantos muttered.

Uzi gestured at Bishop with his chin. “You were saying. Winston Coulter.”

“Shh,” Bishop spat. “No names.

DeSantos elbowed Uzi. “What’s the matter with you? Directional microphones.” He faced Bishop. “Right?”

Bishop nodded. “Can’t be too careful with these people.”

DeSantos shook his head. “Okay, enough. I’ve had just about all the bullshit I can han—”

Uzi grabbed DeSantos’s right forearm. “Santa. Take it easy.” His voice was calm, but firm. “Chill out, let’s hear what he has to say. I think he’s on the level, and I think his… paranoia is legit. Go with me on this.”

DeSantos rolled his eyes, then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat. “Go ahead. I’m listening. The AG….”

Bishop twisted his body and glanced back toward his car. “He’s in this thing as deep as the… the man we talked about last night.”

“The Director,” DeSantos said.

Bishop glared at him.

DeSantos shrugged both shoulders, keeping his hands buried in his pockets. “What. No names.”

Bishop pulled his eyes from DeSantos and settled again on Uzi. “The man’s also a member of the organization.”

“The organization.”

“Yeah,” DeSantos said. “The organization of paranoid sociopaths.” He grunted. “I tried, Uzi, but I can’t listen to any more of this.” He turned to walk away.

Uzi reached for his shoulder, but the subsonic whiz piercing the air stopped them both as they instinctively whirled to locate the direction of the signature noise.

Before Uzi found the source of the sound, Tad Bishop crumpled forward into his arms — a large bloody hole where his left eyeball used to be.

“JESUS!”

Like a defensive lineman, DeSantos wrapped his arms around Uzi’s waist and toppled the big man, who was supporting the weight of Tad Bishop’s dead hulk.

After hitting the ground, Uzi and DeSantos crawled along the cold, dirt-littered asphalt path, attempting to make themselves more difficult targets.

“There!” Uzi said, indicating a large pine directly ahead of them. They pulled themselves up slightly against the wide tree’s trunk. Both of them had their weapons in hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” DeSantos asked.

“Other than the fact that a sniper took a shot at us? That our CI is lying there dead with a freaking bullet in his brain?”

“Yeah, other than all that shit.”

“Despite what you think about the guy, he obviously had good reason to be paranoid.”

“Fine. Want me to apologize to him?”

Uzi looked at Bishop’s prone body, a shimmer of moonlight reflecting off the man’s puddled blood. “Just a guess. I don’t think he’s in a position to accept it.”

“Where do you think the shooter is?”

Uzi did not dare peer around the tree. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the landscape behind him. “Up on the ridge maybe. Hard to say. He could be five hundred yards away.”

“Or more if he’s properly equipped.”

Uzi replayed the subsonic whiz in his mind. It seemed to be multidirectional, which only meant one thing. “Based on the sound, I’d say it’s safe to make that assumption. Fitted with a suppressor, is my guess, to disperse the sound.”

“So we can’t key in on his location and return fire.”

“We’re dealing with a pro here.”

DeSantos’s eyes roamed the immediate vicinity. “Think he’s gone?”

“Only if he was after Bishop. If he was after you or me, we’d better get the hell out of here. These toys against his cannon aren’t much of a match.”

DeSantos suggested they split up and run jagged routes back to the Tahoe. Uzi agreed.

They dropped to a knee, nodded at each other, and took off. Sprinting in opposite directions, they circled around toward Uzi’s car. As soon as they got in, Uzi started the engine and peeled away from the curb.

He shoved the Nokia against his ear, said, “Call Shep,” then waited as the device initiated his voice command.

Two rings later, Shepard answered. “Uzi—”

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, we’ve got a problem.” Uzi turned the corner, doubling back to where he estimated the sniper had been located.

“Another one?”

“I’m serious, Shep. DeSantos and I were just shot at. Sniper fire. Whoever it is, he’s a pro.”

“What?”

“He took out our CI. We had to leave the body, but we’re staying close by.”

“Where the hell are you?”

Uzi gave him their location.

“There,” DeSantos said, pointing. “Park us over there, behind that building.”

“We need a team out here,” Uzi said, “see if we can find the shooter’s roost.”

“I’ll alert HRT and get forensics on it. Meantime, you guys stay safe.”

Uzi ended the call and pulled behind a building that gave them some cover, maneuvering the SUV in a way to afford them a view of the park. “He’s sending Hostage Rescue and an Evidence Response Team.”

“Fucker’ll be long gone by the time they get here,” DeSantos said. “We’ve gotta go after him now.” He peered out into the darkness. “Where do you think his nest is?”

Uzi reached beneath his seat and pulled out a small black case. He opened it and removed a monocular night vision lens.

“You keep that in your car?”

“Like my American Express card. I don’t leave home without it.” He brought the device up to his face, then scanned the park, his eyes first finding Bishop’s car as a reference. He then shifted his gaze fifty yards into the park and located the man’s body. He dropped the lens from his eye and played back the seconds before the shot. He looked to the right, then back to the path where they had been walking. The only direction the shot could have come from was across the park, over a small ridge where a couple of houses were located. “There.” He pointed, but DeSantos had already keyed in on the same place.

DeSantos reached up, disabled the dome light, then popped open his door. “Let’s go.”

They scampered in the moonlit darkness, keeping beside the tall brush that shouldered the road. They turned a corner and came up on the other side of the houses.

Uzi took a moment to assess the angle of the shot that killed Bishop, then narrowed the possibilities to one of the homes. “Second story gives him a damn good view of the area where we were standing. Or the roof. But he’s a pro, not like he’s gonna be sticking around waiting for us to break down the door and haul his ass away.”

“Unless we’re the target, in which case he is waiting for us to come through the front door.”

“Good point,” Uzi said. “May as well wait for HRT.”

“Fuck it. He just tried to kill us. I’m goddamn pissed. Let’s go in. If he is still there—”

“Hang on a sec.” Uzi brought the night vision lens back to his face. They were now about thirty yards from the two-story gray Victorian. “It’s a business, not a residence. Providian Arts Council.” He shoved the monocle in his pocket. “I’ll go first, take a position along the right side.”

DeSantos agreed, and Uzi took off, running a zigzag pattern across the lawn of the nearest house until he could take cover behind a brick column that contained a built-in mailbox. He signaled DeSantos, who followed the same path.

“You want the back door?” DeSantos asked.

“Shit yeah.” Uzi strapped the night vision device to his right eye and rolled left, his Glock leading the way.

He arrived at the back door and tried the knob. Locked. He pulled a small pad from his pocket and peeled away three pieces of self-adhering film from its wax backing, then placed them beside one another on the door’s window. He then took the butt of his handgun and slammed it against the glass. It cracked with a crunch, rather than an ear-shattering smash. He carefully peeled away the tape containing the broken window fragments, then inserted his right hand and felt for the deadbolt. With a quick turn, he had the door open.

Inside the house, moving slowly. Darkness. The grainy viewfinder of the night vision eyepiece illuminated the kitchen’s interior in monochrome hues of green. Uzi stepped lightly, hoping a creaky floorboard would not give him away. He assumed DeSantos was likewise making his way toward the stairs. They would meet there, then proceed up.

He caught sight of his partner slinking through the living room and gave him a hand signal. Uzi ascended the staircase, DeSantos followed, and they fanned out, Uzi going left and clearing the rooms toward the front of the building. DeSantos went right.

A few moments later, Uzi came upon the room that provided the view of the park the shooter would have needed. He waited in the hall until DeSantos appeared, then flashed him a thumbs up sign. Uzi knelt low, turned the knob. With DeSantos at his side, he flung open the door.

Quiet. No movement, save for a ripple of air blowing through an open window. Uzi scanned the interior with his night vision eyepiece, then proceeded in.

Newspapers and magazines, a standard oak office desk, and metal file cabinets cluttered the area. Uzi cleared the room, then turned his attention to a walnut hutch against the wall adjacent to the window. He opened the drawers and sifted through the contents. A mailing label on one of the magazines contained the name of the subscriber, as well as what appeared to be the building’s address. The name meant nothing to him.

He looked back to DeSantos, who had taken a position where he could keep an eye on Uzi’s progress while he covered the door.

He knelt down in front of the window and scanned the ground. Nothing. He lowered his hand and felt around, sliding it beneath the hutch and the desk he had searched. His hand hit something that rolled away. He lay down on his right side, pulled out his smartphone, and activated the flashlight app.

Against the wall lay the object he had been hoping to find. He removed a pen from his inside jacket pocket and snared the metal item. He got to his feet and held it up to show DeSantos.

His partner backed into the room, maintaining his view of the doorway, then glanced down at the brass casing perched atop Uzi’s pen. “Smoking gun?” he whispered.

“More like the empty metal cartridge of the smoking bullet.”

DeSantos nodded toward the window, where, in the distance, a large black truck was pulling to a stop behind Bishop’s parked car. “Cavalry’s arrived. Let’s go fill them in.”

Law enforcement personnel swarmed the area. Outside the boundaries of the yellow police tape, news crews and reporters jockeyed for position as close to Tad Bishop’s body as they could get. Keeping to accepted convention, the police established two distinct crime scenes: the first where Bishop was killed, and the second where the sniper was hunkered down. Either way, definitive answers were a long time coming.

A core contingent from Uzi’s task force had been notified, and as they arrived he attempted to connect the dots for them — without leading them to Knox or Coulter. But with a couple dozen agents sniffing around, chances were decent they would eventually stumble onto the Knox connection, lessening the blow Shepard would endure when the dust settled.

But even if they didn’t identify the connection, all was not lost. Knox had something on Uzi; it couldn’t hurt for Uzi to have something on Knox as well. It might just keep everyone honest.

Hoshi arrived in the second wave of cars that descended on the scene. She approached the area cautiously. At first Uzi thought it was because she was using her analytic skills to appraise the logistics of what had gone down. But when she reached him, he realized her face was white and her eyes moist.

“Hoshi, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know why I feel this way. It’s not like I knew the guy well. He was a source, someone who fed me info. Half the time I just let him ramble on about how the NFA was controlling our government. After a while, I think I became numb to all of it. I stopped listening.” She looked out over the body bag the coroner was zipping twenty feet away. “And now this.”

“Hold it,” Uzi said. “You did the right thing putting me in touch with him. Bishop was on to something, and whether or not he told us, he was already on their radar. Someone didn’t want his nose where he was sticking it.”

“Maybe I could’ve prevented it. Warned him somehow. Protected him.”

Uzi took her by the shoulder and led her away from the body. “The guy used to be a PI. He knew there were dangers in what he was doing. He was naturally paranoid. He knew something was up but he felt he had to keep digging.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen to me. He felt he had to do this. He didn’t do it for Hoshi Koh. He did it for Tad Bishop. He had his reasons.”

She bobbed her head. “I guess.”

“‘Guess’ all you want. You know I’m right.” He stopped walking, dropped his arm from her shoulder, and faced her. “It’s tough to lose someone like this. I know, it’s happened to me. But the kind of work we do… These are the risks we face.”

Uzi caught sight of DeSantos talking to Douglas Knox, who had arrived at the scene. In the distance, it appeared as if his partner was filling in the director on what had gone down. Uzi excused himself and started toward them, but a hand hooked on his forearm and stopped him in midstride. It was Leila.

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Nice greeting. Did they teach you that at the Academy, or am I seeing one of your undesirable sides?”

“Abruptness? One of my undesirable sides. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m on M2TF. Didn’t Shepard tell you?”

Shepard’s name sent a pang of guilt through him.

The moment was approaching when he’d have to lie to his friend about Knox’s personal directive to continue the ARM investigation. Friendships didn’t come easy to him, but when he did find one, he held onto it dearly. Until this blew over, at which point he’d level with Shepard, he would avoid him whenever possible.

“I haven’t seen him much. I’ve been a little busy.” Uzi shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to have you on board.” And I’ll get to see more of you this way. How could I complain about that? “You got my text, I take it.”

“If I hadn’t, I’d think you stood me up and I wouldn’t be so civil.”

“True.” Uzi caught a glimpse of one of his agents approaching with a member of the forensic crew. “So welcome, officially, to the team. Do you know what your role is here?”

“ADIC Yates and ASAC Shepard assigned me to you, as the liaison between M2TF and JTTF.” She raised her eyebrows seductively. “And I always know my role, Uzi.” She turned and walked off, leaving him to gaze at her rear as she moved down the path.

“Uzi.”

He turned to see one of his task force agents approaching with a forensic tech at her side. “Well, well, well. Tim I-never-met-a-steak-I-didn’t-like Meadows,” Uzi said, extending a hand and flashing a broad smile. “How you doing?”

“You two know each other?” the agent asked.

“Best high-tech guru we’ve got in CART,” Uzi said. “’Course I know him.” He turned to Meadows. “What are you doing out and about? I didn’t think you ever left your lair.”

“Very funny, Uzi. I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Oh, wait a minute. You never had one. This must be something new you’re trying out.”

“I’ll leave you two to talk shop,” the agent said, then moved back toward the secondary crime scene.

“Seriously. This isn’t somewhere I’d expect to find you.”

“I got a call from Shepard,” Meadows said. “He needed a favor.”

“I don’t see any motherboards or hard drives out here.”

“You think that’s all I can do?”

“I guess I know better than to assume that.”

“I told Shepard it’d cost him a meal at Angelo & Maxie’s. He said to talk to you about it.”

“If your info’s any good, you got a deal.”

“If my info’s any good?”

Uzi clapped him on the back. “Glad you’re here. We need all the help we can get.”

“I’ve already got some stuff. You want to hear it?”

Uzi crossed his arms over his chest. “No, Tim. Keep it to yourself.”

“There’s that biting humor again. I’m beginning to think it borders on sarcasm.”

“No borders about it.”

“Did someone say sarcasm?” The voice emanated from their left, in a patch of darkness. Stepping forward into a spot of light was Karen Vail.

“Well, there you go,” Meadows said. “The very embodiment of sarcasm.”

“Glad to see you here,” Uzi said.

Vail shrugged. “You know how it is. No desire to have a life, always at the Bureau’s service.” She sang, ‘You just call out my name and I’ll be there, yes I will….’”

“James Taylor,” Meadows said.

Vail looked over her shoulder. “Where?”

Uzi rolled his eyes, then nodded at the plastic evidence bag hanging from Meadows’s left hand. “What’ve you got?”

“Oh. This. Yeah, this is that empty brass casing you found… 7.62 round, I’d say. Exactly what type of round, I don’t know yet. There are a lot of similar 7.62 cartridges. When I get back to the lab, I’ll throw it under the microscope. I should be able to tell you which type of rifle was used.”

“Our guess,” Uzi said, “is that the guy used a suppressor. The sound was kind of dispersed—”

“Very good. Yes,” Meadows said. “A suppressor will scatter the crack of the shot. The cartridge travels faster than sound and makes a fairly loud sonic boom. In a sniper situation, using a suppressor doesn’t mask the sound, especially on a round as big as this one is. What it does do is change the sound signature enough that the target is unable to determine which direction the shot came from, so he can’t return fire.”

“We already knew that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Vail said.

“You know serial killer shit,” Meadows said. “None of us expect you to know about high-powered sniper rifles.”

Vail tilted her head. “‘Serial killer shit’? You think that’s all I’m good for?”

“Tim.” Uzi shook his head. “Tim, my man. You just stepped into some seriously rank horse poop.”

Meadows looked from Vail to Uzi and back to Vail. “That is what I said, but it’s not what I meant. I mean, we all have our specialties. And you’re so good at what you do that I don’t look at you as having such a broad knowledge base dealing with the kind of minutiae I wade through.”

“I accept your lame apology,” Vail said. “Mostly because you’re a tough guy to stay angry with.”

Meadows shifted his feet. “Do you? Know a lot about rifle calibers and the science of suppressor technology?”

“Hell no,” Vail said. “I know serial killer shit. Other things, too. But not that kind of picayune stuff. Especially suppression technology.”

“Suppressor,” Meadows said with a frown.

“Speaking of suppressors,” Uzi said. “Can a device like the one our shooter used affect the accuracy of a shot?”

“Unlike our Renaissance-ish FBI profiler,” Meadows said, “you ask good questions. Have I ever told you that?”

“Couple a dozen times.”

Meadows zipped the jacket up to his neck, then began walking. “That’s debatable. My sense is that it depends a lot on the particular weapon matched with a specific suppressor. Good match, less chance it’ll divert the shot. But it definitely shouldn’t affect accuracy to the point where a trained sniper would miss completely.”

Uzi’s head snapped up. “How’d you know that’s what I was asking?”

“’Cause I’m smart and I know how you guys think.”

Uzi frowned. “Here’s the deal. Three guys are standing around talking and one of them gets popped from three, four hundred yards away. So was the guy actually aiming for me or my partner and missed? At four hundred yards, an inch or two is only significant to the guy who gets nailed and the guy who lives to tell about it.”

“As good as I am, as we all are — Karen excluded — I don’t think I can answer that one. As much as I want to ease your mind.”

Uzi stopped walking, and Meadows and Vail did likewise. “It’s more than just easing my mind. It’s a matter of pointing us in the right direction. This investigation takes on a different flavor if I’m the target — or my partner — instead of Tad Bishop.”

“Understood,” Meadows said. “I’ll do my best to answer whatever questions you’ve got.”

“I have an opinion on this,” Vail said.

“You mean a guess?” Meadows quipped.

“Uh, no, Tim. An informed opinion. If this is the work of a pro — and that seems to be the case here — a pro would match his equipment well, wouldn’t he? The best suppressor to the best rifle, just like he measures dew point, humidity, wind conditions, and so on to make sure that when he pulls the trigger, he stands a damn good chance of hitting his intended target. Not the guy standing next to him.”

“Well, well,” Meadows said. “The distinguished lady from the BAU does know a thing about snipers.”

“Yeah,” Vail said. “Or two.”

Uzi pulled a toothpick from its plastic wrapper and stuck it in his mouth as he looked off, surveying his colleagues swarming the area. “Deductions are great. But I want as definitive an answer as possible.”

Meadows pulled another evidence bag from his pocket. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Let me know as soon as you figure it out.”

“I know, you need it yesterday.”

Uzi held out a hand. “Hey, did I say that?”

“No, but I’m so used to hearing—”

“This one I need day before yesterday.”

Meadows stared deadpan at Uzi. “It’s almost nine o’clock. I was off three hours ago.”

“And now you’re back on.”

“You suck, you know that?”

Uzi nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”

“McCormick and Schmick’s. That’s where I want to go.”

Uzi winced. “That hurts, Tim.”

“A little pain is healthy, didn’t you tell me that once?”

Uzi jutted his chin back. “I never said that.”

“Well, someone did.”

“I did,” Vail said. “When I kicked you in the balls for insulting my new haircut.”

“You never kicked me,” Meadows said.

“You’re lucky. I really wanted to.”

Uzi pointed at the Ziploc-enclosed brass casing. “I want the answer, Tim. Fast. Even if it means working through the night.”

Meadows groaned.

“The way I see it,” Vail said, “sometimes you just gotta bite the bullet.”

Ninety minutes later, most of the task force members had secured what they needed and left. The forensic crew thinned as well, most of the evidence collection having been accomplished in the first hour at both crime scenes. They focused on the assassin’s perch, hoping to find an errant identifying mark in or around the house. With a handful of technicians remaining to finish combing the grounds, Uzi found Leila hovering around Bishop’s vehicle.

“Find anything?”

“Nothing useful. Just the usual stuff we all keep in our cars. No tracking devices. Most importantly, no smoking guns.”

Uzi cringed. “That was bad.”

Leila grinned. “I thought it was quite clever.”

He grabbed a peek at his watch. “So much for dinner at Amir’s. How about something that’s still open?”

“According to Shepard, you’re the boss. If you say it’s time to quit, we quit.”

“One thing you’ll learn about me, Leila, is that I never quit. But all good intelligence officers know that when you’re facing uncertain or unstable situations, and you get a chance to eat, you take it — because you never know when you’ll get another.”

“Very good. I didn’t realize you were ever in intelligence.”

“Actually,” Uzi said with a chuckle, “intelligence is something I’ve never been accused of.” He motioned toward the street, then led the way to his car.

Uzi helped Leila pull her chair up to the small, square table in the rear of Georgetown’s Thunder Burger & Bar. Despite the hour, the place was abuzz with talk and laughter. Uzi sat down heavily, then leaned back as the waitress set two cocktail napkins on their table. Uzi picked up the menu — which was surprisingly diverse — and offered it to Leila. “Hungry?”

“Very. But it’s late. I’ll just have a Caesar salad.”

A rush of grief washed over Uzi. Dena made the best Caesar dressing he had ever tasted: just the right amount of garlic and anchovies. It was so good he would lick out the Cuisinart bowl while they were cleaning up the kitchen. Dena could whip up something sumptuous from scratch, with whatever ingredients she had in the apartment.

Uzi couldn’t cook a can of soup, let alone figure out what all the different mixing bowls and oven settings were for. His mother never taught him the ways of the kitchen, but to be fair, he’d had no desire to learn. He was too interested in playing football, a tag game known as Ringalevio, or riding his bicycle.

“You there?”

Uzi focused his gaze on Leila. “What?”

“You were spacing out on me.”

“Sorry.” He turned his attention to the menu. “I’ve never been able to eat Caesar salad in restaurants.” He glanced up and noticed the confused look on Leila’s face. “My wife made the best Caesar in the world. Ordering it in a restaurant would always be second rate. Or worse.”

“You’re married?” Her question carried the tone of an inquiry, not an accusation.

Uzi buried his face again in the menu. “Used to be.”

“Oh.” After a moment, she said, “Nasty divorce?”

His eyes shot up. “No, no. Nothing like that. She was… murdered.”

Leila’s face remained impassive. “Murdered.”

“Murdered.”

“How long ago?”

“Six years.”

She seemed to examine his face a moment, then said, “It still carries a lot of pain for you.”

Uzi didn’t respond. If only she knew.

“That’s a long time to suffer.”

Uzi closed the menu. “It’ll be with me the rest of my life. That kind of pain never heals.”

The waitress turned from the adjacent table and asked if they were ready to order.

“Caesar salad for the attractive young woman, and the falafel sliders for me.” He looked at Leila. “Bottle of—”

“How about a Pinot Noir?” she asked.

“We’ve got an ’09 Acrobat from Willamette Valley,” the waitress said. “Cherry and blackberry, firm tannins, with a silky mouthfeel. One of my favorites and reasonably priced.”

“Sold,” Uzi said.

The woman collected the menus and headed off.

Uzi dipped his chin. “Dena liked Pinot.”

Leila smiled. “She had good taste.”

“Yeah, she did.” Uzi lowered his eyes. All this talk about Dena— After his session with Rudnick, the old can had been opened and he was now sloshing around amongst the worms. Too many emotions to deal with now. He had a job to do, and walking around with a heavy heart and drudging up old feelings of guilt were affecting his focus. Maybe he should talk to Shepard, ask for a temporary reprieve on his counseling sessions. If he could make the case that it was impacting his performance in running the task force, he might allow him to forego treatment for a while. Then again, could he face Shepard after conspiring with Knox?

“You’re doing it again.”

Uzi shook his head. A beautiful woman is talking to me and I’m zoning out on her. “Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind. This investigation, other things…”

“I lost a loved one, too,” she said. “My only brother.”

Uzi looked at her, and instantly saw the pain in her eyes. Why was she telling him this? To make him feel better — as if that would help his pain?

“Murdered, too.”

Uzi tilted his head. “Really.”

She nodded. “In Gaza.”

The waitress appeared with the bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses. She placed them on the table and seconds later had twisted the cork from the wine. She poured an inch and waited for Leila to taste it and nod her acceptance. Leila did and the two glasses were filled.

Uzi took a sip and let it float over his tongue. Memories of Dena again. Sitting in Venice on their fifth anniversary, sipping Chianti and watching the water taxis depart for Murano. They had taken one themselves, wandered the glass galleries and finally bought a bud vase that still sat on his dresser today, filled with a desiccated red rose. A constant reminder of their trip together. A constant reminder of her. Dena got pregnant with Maya on that trip—

He realized he had been staring at the table. “Spacing again, sorry.”

Leila was refilling her glass with more wine. “I’m beginning to think I’m poor company.”

Uzi forced a smile. “If anything, I’m the poor company here.”

She set down the bottle and swirled her glass. “You’ve hardly touched your wine.”

“Brings back memories.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drank.

“You’re thinking about your wife.”

Uzi’s eyes drifted down again. “And my daughter. She was killed too.”

Leila leaned forward. “Same time?”

Uzi nodded.

Leila reached out and touched Uzi’s right hand, which was resting on the table near his glass. The contact made him flinch.

“I understand the pain,” she said.

Uzi gently pulled his hand away and lifted the glass for another sip. “Did your brother live in Gaza?”

“Live there?” Leila snickered. “He was part of an IDF patrol.”

“How did you deal with his death? If you don’t mind me asking.’

Leila sucked in some air and blew it out slowly. “Anger, anger, and more anger. Some grief thrown into the mix somewhere along the line. Guilt, then more anger. The usual, I guess.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Remember back in 2001 when Hamas killed a bunch of IDF soldiers? He was one of them.” She studied her wine. “Terrorist sons of bitches.”

Uzi tightened his grip on the glass. “I wish they could feel the pain they cause. I wish on them what I’ve had to live with the past six years.”

“They’ll get theirs,” Leila said. “Sooner or later.” She nodded, apparently lost in thought herself. She took a long drink of Pinot.

“When did you leave Israel?”

“Shortly after. I needed a change of scenery.”

I totally understand. “Is that when you went to Jordan?”

Leila’s brow lifted. “How do you—”

“You CIA spooks aren’t the only ones with good intel.” He grinned.

“First I went through training at The Farm. Then, yeah, they placed me in Jordan.”

The waitress approached the table and set down their two dishes.

“I think I need this,” she said. “The wine, empty stomach…” She threw her hands out to her sides, swayed in her seat, forced a smile.

They finished their food, Uzi paid the tab over her objections, and they headed out to his Tahoe.

As he left the parking lot, he asked, “Back to the crime scene to pick up your car?”

“No, I got a ride there. Take me home.”

They arrived at Leila’s Hamilton House apartment building on New Hampshire Avenue NW a few minutes before midnight. A doorman stood just inside the lobby, unsure if he should approach the car. Leila waved and he nodded back, understanding that she did not need his assistance.

Uzi pushed the gear shift into park and crooked his neck to gaze up at the nine-story, block-long monstrosity that looked more like a hotel than an apartment building. “Nice place.”

“I’ve lived in caves, tents, and the desert. Compared to that, this is the lap of luxury. But really, home is what you make it.”

Uzi knew she was right. He looked at her large brown eyes and felt something in his chest. He struggled to define the sensation. Warmth? “Your eyes are so beautiful.” He saw the pleased look on her face before he realized what he had said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Do I look like I feel uncomfortable?”

Uzi turned away. “No. I think it’s me who’s uncomfortable.”

She pointed to the ignition. “Shut the engine.”

He craned his neck to look out at the No Parking placards at the curb. “I can’t park here.”

Leila tilted her head. “Alec and Jiri are my buddies. They’d do anything for me. Don’t worry about your car. Give Alec the keys. He’ll move it if there’s a problem.”

Uzi looked from Leila to the windshield, but still had not turned off the engine.

“Go on. Shut it off and come up with me.”

This was moving faster than he’d intended. Faster than he was prepared for. He had clearly indicated his attraction and the desire to get to know her better off the clock. She picked up on those signals — but now Uzi was unsure if this is what he really wanted. He was a healthy male and Leila was a beautiful woman; of course he wanted this. But am I ready for it?

“Problem?”

“I… I’m not sure I should come up.”

“You don’t like good company? Do you think I’m inviting you up for sex?”

“No, I–I don’t know. No.”

“No, you don’t like good company?”

Uzi blew some air through his lips. He wasn’t used to being so flustered around anyone— let alone an attractive woman. “It’s not that.”

“Then let’s go.” She reached over, turned the key and removed it. She clutched the fob in her hand and popped open her door. She swung her feet out and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You coming?”

Leila’s apartment was an orderly one bedroom, generously appointed with a large living room and an equally small kitchenette. The parquet wood floor was well maintained, with an earth-toned Indian area rug providing warmth and muted color. Two loveseats sat around a glass coffee table, where a hand-carved matchbox rested alongside a couple of porcelain candlestick holders.

Uzi picked one up and examined it. “I recognize the artist. From the Old City?” he asked, referring to that section of Jerusalem.

Leila smiled. “For Shabbat. Hard to break old habits.”

“I lost interest after Dena’s death. Lost my faith, I guess.”

“You’ve always got to have faith, Uzi. No matter what happens, you need to believe in your cause. When things hit bottom, that’s the time to turn inward and renew your faith, not lose it.”

Uzi took a few steps into the hallway. A few carefully placed framed photos hung on the far wall, sporting images of people he didn’t know — but places with which he was intimately familiar: a younger Leila hiking in the Golan Heights, a few street shots from the artist colony, Tzvat, and Leila in a bikini on the beach in Tel Aviv.

“You still wear your star.” Leila motioned to the Star of David necklace peeking through his shirt collar. It was an unusual piece consisting of two separate gold triangles, one pointing up and one pointing down that, when they overlaid each other, formed a six-pointed star.

He touched the necklace. Most of the time he forgot he still wore it. Nevertheless, it had special meaning to him. “My wife gave it to me.”

“It’s very cool, very modern. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Do you know where the star comes from?”

Leila pursed her lips. “Never gave it much thought.”

“The triangles represent the Greek letter ‘D,’ or delta, for David. Archeologists say the layout of the two Ds was meant more as a design than a star or religious symbol. It was King David’s logo, which he wore on his shield whenever he went into battle.”

She seemed to study his face a moment, then took his hand. “Come,” she said, pulling him back across the room to the coffee table. She picked up the small carved wood box and removed a match. “It’s way after sundown, but it’s still Saturday.” She glanced at the wall clock, which had ticked past midnight. “Well, sort of. Let’s light the Havdalah candle, anyway,” she said, referring to the ceremonial prayer that signified the end of the Sabbath. She made her way to an armoire tucked into the corner of the room.

Uzi bit his lip. He felt terribly uncomfortable but found himself moving the few steps toward her.

Leila reached into the walnut cabinet and removed a silver tray that held a long, tri-braided candle and a brass spice box. With the match, she set the wick alight and began chanting the blessing.

She nudged Uzi with an elbow and he joined in. The melody, the pungent scent of fresh sulfur, and the flaring candle warmth on his face transported him back to the rare Friday and Saturday nights when he was home to share the beginning and ending of the Sabbath with Dena — and then, after she was born, with Maya, holding the little girl in his arms, teaching her how to recite the prayers.

The memories pained him like a hot poker in the pit of his stomach.

Leila lifted the candle and placed it upside down into the silver cup, extinguishing it.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked, hoping to avoid more probing questions.

“About six months.” She walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Prager Tawny port from the cupboard. “I used to live in Georgetown, but I wanted to get into the city. Into the heart of things.” She pulled the cork and poured a couple of glasses.

Uzi took one and sipped it. “Mmm. This is very good.”

Leila took her glass over to the loveseat and settled gently into the cushion. “When did you move to the states?”

“A couple of months after.” That’s how he thought of his life: before death and after death. Two different lives — one enriched, the other hollow.

“What did you do in Israel?”

Uzi sat down beside her and set his glass on the coffee table. He was inclined to tell her the truth — but couldn’t bring himself to fight through the oath he had taken with Mossad so many years ago. He had caused Rudnick some pain for access to such info. For now, he took the safe road. “I was a design engineer for Intel. I spent a few months at the development center in Haifa, then moved to their fab in Kiryat Gat.” Technically, it was the truth — which was fine by him, because he didn’t want to base a relationship on a lie. Then again, he wondered how much she could find out by digging through the CIA database.

“Fab?”

“Manufacturing plant. I led the team that turned out the Pentium 4 chips.”

“That sounds very… serious. Long hours. No time for fun.”

Uzi shrugged. “It was intense, yeah. But we found time to mountain bike in the hills outside Tiberias. It’s beautiful there.” His thoughts drifted to Dena.

“I used to go rock climbing with my brother. In the ruins by the cliffs of Arbel.”

“I went climbing there, too. We used to bring a lunch, hike around a while, do some climbing, then hike back.” He laughed. “We had some great times.” His smile faded.

Both of them remained quiet. She placed a hand on his arm. “You’ve got a right to be happy, Uzi. It’s not like you have to be miserable for the rest of your life.”

“I know. I know you’re right. But it’s not that easy.”

“You just have to decide that life goes on and know that you’ve suffered enough.”

“Now you sound like my shrink.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the type to go for counseling.”

“Shepard’s idea. More like an order.”

Leila leaned forward to place her drink on the table, then slumped back on the couch. Her shoulder rested inches from his. “I talk a good game, I know. But I don’t always put my own advice to work. When my brother died, it took a while for it to sink in. I was numb for so long. Numb to the pain… but not the anger. All I wanted to do was get even. I still do.”

Uzi wanted to tell her he felt the same way, but was afraid he would break down. It was too difficult to discuss what he’d gone through in the days after the murders. He realized she had gone quiet. He craned his neck a bit to see her face and saw a shiny streak coursing down her cheek. “You okay?”

“Tell me about this shrink you’re seeing.”

“I really like the old guy. I’ve only had a few sessions with him, but I feel very close to him. He’s a good man. And maybe a little too good at what he does.”

She sniffled. “Is he helping?”

“He’s dredging up all sorts of things. I’m telling him stuff I never thought I’d tell anyone.” He looked off at the wall of photos. “Is that good? I’m not sure.”

She brought her knees up onto the couch and reclined onto Uzi’s thigh. His hand instinctively rolled off the back of the couch and came to rest on her left shoulder. “Sometimes I wake up crying. In the middle of the night.”

“Me too.”

He began stroking her hair, thinking of the times when Dena would lay across his lap and he would gently run his fingers across her scalp, around her ears. She would fall asleep and he would follow. They would remain like that until he would awaken hours later, the two of them sprawled out on the couch in each other’s arms.

He closed his eyes and was instantly back in Haifa, the warm wind rippling his T-shirt, enjoying his time off between missions. Remembering the last time they’d gone there, only days before Dena and Maya were killed. They had picked flowers and he’d snapped some photos of Maya, photos he never looked at. Photos that were still on the SD card in his camera. Memories too painful to remember.

He shut his eyes and, moments later, fell asleep.