“You’ve gotta be kidding. A bunch of your people are already dead or in custody — and you can add Bryce Upshaw to that list. There’s nothing to send you back into.”
Larchmont ground his molars. “I need a doctor. I’ve told you all I know—”
“What about the people who died — Fargo, Ellison, Harmon, Bishop—”
“Sleepers.” Larchmont wiped at his perspiring cheek with a shoulder. “All except Bishop. Planted long ago. People whose personal beliefs led them to ARM or NFA. They were recruited and followed strict orders to keep their views quiet so they wouldn’t compromise the plan. Ellison should’ve been the hardest one to get, but he actually came to us. This whole thing was on the table years ago in one form or another. Grant, it was all his idea.”
“After he started Southern Ranks.”
“Before that. But then about three years ago, al-Humat came into the picture. I don’t know how, but whatever it was, Grant handled everything with them. They gave us the financial backing to make it happen and the plan was put in motion. Once Glen had his ‘gun-control epiphany,’ we realized we had to move. The parts were already in place.”
“Why were the sleepers killed if they did what was asked of them?”
“They became liabilities, once-valuable assets who’d outlived their usefulness.”
For the first time in their exchange, Uzi felt the cool malevolence emanating from the man.
Car doors slammed outside. Larchmont’s head turned. He heard them too.
He looked back at Uzi, then lifted his bound hands. “Let me go. Quickly.” His head whipped back toward the warehouse door, expecting it to burst open.
“Give me your hands.” Uzi took the S&W and pressed it against Larchmont’s palm and fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“You tried to grab the gun from me. It went off. Between that and what you told me, I think it’s called shooting yourself in the foot.”
Uzi popped open his door.
“No,” Larchmont yelled. “You said you’d let me go, that was our deal!”
Uzi shook his head in disgust, then headed out of the warehouse.
A black Suburban was parked behind Uzi’s BuCar. DeSantos and Douglas Knox were headed in Uzi’s direction when a Crown Vic pulled up behind the government metal. Marshall Shepard unfolded his large frame, then joined the cadre of men in front of the warehouse’s rollup door.
“Quentin Larchmont is in there,” Uzi said, “and he’s been very talkative.”
“That right?” Knox asked. He eyed Uzi suspiciously. “What exactly did he have to say?”
Uzi summarized the facts of the wide-reaching plan ARM, NFA, and al-Humat had launched. The three men listened intently. When Uzi finished, they remained silent, each absorbing the ramifications and reviewing their options and obligations before making their thoughts known.
Shepard put a hand on his forehead and appeared to be rubbing away the wrinkles. “Holy Jesus. Rusch ain’t Rusch. Man, oh man.”
The FBI director, lost in his own thoughts, began pacing. He pulled out his cell and, once out of earshot, began talking. Shepard fished out his own phone and started punching numbers.
DeSantos stood there looking at Uzi but did not say anything.
“What?” Uzi asked.
“Nothing.”
“That look wasn’t ‘nothing.’ What are you thinking?”
“I’m proud of you, boychick. You did good. You did better than good. This was huge.” He extended a fist. “You can work with me any day.”
Uzi touched his partner’s fist with his own. “You know, I had doubts about you. I wasn’t sure whose side you were on. I wasn’t sure whose side Knox or Coulter were on.”
“And what did I tell you? That Knox was clean. Right?”
Uzi nodded. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Hey, you were doing your job. Shit got confusing. You did the best you could. It all worked out in the end.”
Uzi thought of Leonard Rudnick, then shook his head. “Not everything. My doc. He and I got pretty close. He was in that building on M Street. I couldn’t get him out in time. He deserved a lot better.”
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.” He regarded his partner’s face, then asked, “You okay?”
“Numb. It’ll hit me one day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.” Uzi craned his neck skyward where gray nimbostratus clouds had descended over the district; the acrid air suggested an electrical storm was brewing. “What did Nuri leave in that DLB? Do we know yet?”
“A flash card with digital images. They’re still analyzing it, but on my way over here I was told there were bank statements, wire transfers, and financial records from a Saudi businessman with ties to a Swiss financier who’s in our database as a suspected AQ banker. Best guess is some of al-Humat’s funds were supplied by the Saudi and an unknown donor. I’m betting Iran will turn up in the mix, too. The funds were sent through the Swiss banker to an intermediary — some trust on the Isle of Man — before being shipped out to a Virginian charity that’s a front controlled by Lewiston Grant. Nuri did his usual thorough job.”
A sardonic smirk twisted Uzi’s lips. “They still think he committed suicide?”
DeSantos waved him off. “ME found subtle petechial hemorrhages, teeth impressions—”
“Suffocation.” Uzi nodded slowly. “They’ll also find a needle mark and trace pharmaceuticals in his tissues. You don’t stuff a pillow in the face of a guy like that without some help.”
“I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“And at the bottom they’ll find Batula Hakim.” He looked off at the nearby buildings. “Leila.”
They stood in silence a moment before DeSantos slapped Uzi’s shoulder with the back of a hand. “Hey, how about you stay with Maggie and me tonight.”
“No funny stuff, right? Ménage à trois…”
“Man, what do you think we are, sex fiends?” He shook his head. “We’d never do that on the first night a guest stays over.” He winked. “You can tell us about your doc, maybe that’ll help.”
“You know,” Uzi said, gazing off in the distance, “when I lost my wife and daughter, I lost a part of me, too. I withdrew from life. I didn’t go out, I lost touch with my friends. The doc gave me a lot to think about.” His eyes found DeSantos’s. “So did confronting Hakim.”
“There’s something you should know on that.” DeSantos checked over his shoulder to see where Douglas Knox was standing. “Aksel told me what happened in the hallway, things that were said. There’s stuff you don’t know. I confirmed it with Knox on the way over. Because of my relationship with him, he leveled with me.”
DeSantos looked at his feet, then met Uzi’s eyes. “Knox was in on the operation that recruited Hakim and her brother into Mossad. The CIA office in Cairo was working with the LEGATT,” he said, referring to the FBI’s Legal Attaché. “Remember the bombing against the US Embassy in Argentina?”
“In 2002.”
DeSantos nodded. “US intelligence got wind of intel that al-Humat was responsible, but they didn’t have proof. So Knox and Tasset proposed a joint op with Mossad. Aksel was skeptical, but they sold him on it. He was new on the job, so maybe he wanted to start things off right with his US counterparts. The key was turning Hakim and Ahmed into double agents. But when Aksel got wind that Ahmed was two-timing Mossad and was planning a huge hit on the Knesset, he was furious and told Knox and Tasset he was pulling the plug on the embassy op, that his first obligation was to protect his country from a devastating attack.
“Problem was, Tasset refused to fold up the tent. He thought he could still make it work — until Muhammad bin Zayed escaped after his shot ricocheted and killed Ahmed. If it got out that Ahmed was on Mossad’s payroll, the prime minister would’ve demanded full disclosure. It would’ve been a disaster for Mossad. But Tasset freaked because he was afraid Aksel would leak the US role to deflect attention off Mossad. Aksel said he was more worried about finding bin Zayed in case there was a backup plan for the attack on the Knesset.