He pulled out his Puma and moved carefully, as the building had not been secured while he was gone. After deciding it was safe, he searched the bodies of Larchmont’s dead guards. He found another S&W, a spare magazine and… a cell phone.
As he neared the Suburban, he called Meadows. While it rang, Uzi looked in on Larchmont, whose eyes were wide with fear, no doubt wondering why Uzi had returned — holding a gun — and with no one else in sight.
Meadows answered. “Damn it, Uzi, I hit the climax of my amazing discovery, something that could get me the Presidential Medal of Freedom, and I find out I’m talking to a dead line.”
“Battery went out on me. I told you, you talk too much.”
“Okay, then I’ll get to the point. Are you sitting?”
“Tim—”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve checked it five times. The altered digital file belongs to none other than Glendon Rusch.”
Uzi squinted in disbelief. “What?”
“Yessir, that’s right. Our president-elect is not who he appears to be. Now you know why I wanted to tell you in person.”
Uzi looked at Larchmont through the glass. He thanked Meadows and told him to keep at it in case there were other surprises. He then walked around to the passenger door and climbed inside. Larchmont turned his restrained body toward Uzi. His dark eyes were puffy, his face ashen.
Uzi held up the handgun. “I’m going to remove your gag and we’re gonna have a chat. You cooperate and I’ll let you go. It’ll all be our little secret. You fuck with me, and I’ll have to kill you. And I’m not shitting you, Mr. Larchmont. I used to kill people for a living.”
Uzi detected a hint of fear glaze over the man’s eyes, then removed the tie and pulled the sock out of the man’s mouth. Larchmont smacked his lips repeatedly.
“Leaves it a bit dry, doesn’t it?” Uzi grinned knowingly. “Okay now. Here’s the deal. I tell you what I know, and then you tell me what you know. Honesty is the only correct answer. For each incorrect answer, I will put a bullet in your leg. Those are the rules. Pretty simple, really.”
Uzi maintained eye contact, waited a beat for Larchmont to read the intensity in his face, and then continued. “The man lying in the hospital pretending to be Glendon Rusch is not Glendon Rusch. Who is he really?”
Larchmont looked away. “I–I don’t know.”
Uzi lowered the handgun and shot Larchmont in the right foot. The blast inside the closed SUV was deafening.
“Ahh! Oh my god, you fucking son of a bitch—”
Uzi grabbed Larchmont’s hair with his left hand and yanked back. “I explained the rules to you,” he said with restrained fury. “Don’t lie to me again. Now, who’s in Glendon Rusch’s hospital bed?”
“Bryce Upshaw.”
Uzi released his grip. “The ARM member who told the Post that Rusch would be sorry if he didn’t change his position on gun control?”
Larchmont nodded. “He was picked from their membership. They went through over ten thousand applications. ARM started collecting vital stats on their members — height, weight, skin color, blood type. He had them email photos of their faces from all angles.”
“Militia members are super paranoid. Why would they agree to that?”
“They were told it was for security, to prevent government informants from infiltrating their compound.” He grimaced and looked down at his foot. “Didn’t work, though, did it?”
Another piece to the puzzle. “They found out about Agent Adams.”
“You were supposed to take the rap for his death. They changed the digitized ballistics profile on your gun, the one that’s stored in the Academy’s database.”
“Who did? They’d have to be on the inside, have access to secure government servers.”
“I don’t know.”
Uzi moved the gun toward Larchmont’s right leg.
“I swear, I don’t know their name!”
Larchmont maintained eye contact, leading Uzi to believe he was telling the truth. “What did Grant do with all this info he collected on the membership?”
“He ran the photos through a sophisticated 3D facial recognition program, then used medical prosthetic Computer-Aided Design software they adapted to evaluate facial configuration. They found someone with fairly close bone structure to Glendon Rusch. With some plastic surgery and a few months’ work with a personal trainer to reshape his body and a half-inch heel lift, Bryce Upshaw was almost a dead ringer. Even his blood type matched.”
That’s why Upshaw disappeared six months ago, after making his statement to the Post.
“They started training him. He watched tapes of Rusch, practiced copying his mannerisms, intonations. I tutored him on his political career and family life. Everything. His upbringing, his closest friends, bitter enemies, gambling losses, women he dated before he got married. The one he had an affair with ten years ago.”
“So Glendon Rusch died on that chopper.”
“His body was switched immediately after impact. His real body — what was left of it — was cremated.”
Uzi nodded slowly. It explained a lot. The extensive burns, for one. “Upshaw was willing to burn his face, hands, and throat, go through intense pain, multiple surgeries, live life disfigured—”
“All to be president of the United States. The most powerful man in the world. To further a cause he believed in with all his heart. Yes, he was.”
“And Winston Coulter? Director Knox?”
“What about them?”
“What were their roles?”
Larchmont squinted but maintained eye contact. “They don’t have anything to do with it.”
This was important. Uzi had to know the truth. He shoved the gun against Larchmont’s thigh. “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t shoot! I’m telling you the truth. I swear. They’re not involved.”
“And President Whitehall?”
“Not involved.”
Uzi withdrew the gun. “And who made the changes in the IAFIS database?”
“All I know is we’ve got someone at CJIS in Clarksburg. I don’t know who.”
Uzi thought about this. It made sense that the fingerprint repository at the Criminal Justice Information Services Division was involved. “But why? Why go through all this trouble?”
Larchmont winced, looked again at his foot. “It’s throbbing. I need to get to an emergency room, get some painkillers.”
Uzi knew a gunshot wound to the foot was painful. But he had used this method of interrogation in the past, and in his experience, with all the adrenaline in Larchmont’s system, it would be awhile before he’d feel the injury’s full effects.
“We don’t have a lot of time. Not if you want me to let you go before my buddies start arriving. And they won’t be so anxious to cut you any deals. Now answer my question. Why go through all this trouble?”
Larchmont’s face crunched into a pained expression. He looked into his lap. “Power and money. What else is there in Washington, Agent Uziel? It all comes down to power and money.”
“Spare me the philosophical discussion.”
“It’s important, goddamn it!” Larchmont appeared to have been infused with energy, either from guilt over what he’d done or from frustration over the realization that his grand plan was now in shambles. “Without understanding why it was done…” He grunted. “Glen had this epiphany after his sister was killed. He thought he could solve all the country’s problems by getting guns out of the population’s hands. It’s a stupid thought, let alone one that’s totally wrong.”
“I already figured this part out,” Uzi said. “You and the NFA and ARM were stuck with Rusch and his newfound conscience. You wished he would just disappear. So you did the next best thing. You replaced him with someone you had total control over. Someone who would steer the policy of the federal government towards a loose interpretation of the Second Amendment, one that doesn’t restrict an individual’s right to own firearms.”