“But Tasset didn’t believe that an accidental ricochet killed Ahmed. He thought Zayed found out that Ahmed was working with Mossad, and he killed him for being a traitor.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“But Tasset didn’t know that. He freaked. He knew it could’ve meant the end of his power trip as director. So he pressured Aksel for deniability. He told him to create a lie to protect the CIA.”
“And I was that lie. A scapegoat.”
DeSantos nodded. “Aksel refused. But Tasset bluffed, told him that if Mossad wanted full CIA cooperation and intel going forward, he’d better play ball.”
Uzi sighed deeply. “And because of that, my family was killed. I guess I owe Earl Tasset something. A punch in the face.”
“Or something a little more permanent.”
Uzi bit his lip. His eyes scanned the men standing out of earshot. “Someday. Right now, I just want to decompress. Reflect. Heal.”
Shepard stuffed his phone in a pocket and rejoined Uzi and DeSantos. “Tasset’s on his way. Not happy he wasn’t invited to the party.”
Uzi snorted. Tough shit.
Shepard squinted confusion, but said, “I’ve got agents on their way over to deal with Larchmont.”
“Tell them he’ll need a medic,” Uzi said. “He accidentally shot himself in the foot.”
Shepard looked at Uzi with a sideways glance. “Oh, yeah?”
“Bummer when that happens,” DeSantos said.
Uzi shrugged. “Struggle for the gun.”
“Right,” Shepard said, appraising Uzi. “You and me, my friend. We’ve got some things to discuss. About following procedure. Following procedure is vital to a field agent’s duties—”
“Shep? Shut up.”
Shepard started to back away. “I’ll catch up with you at the office. And before you ask, answer’s ‘no.’ You don’t have the rest of the day off.”
Douglas Knox walked up to them, his BlackBerry extended toward Uzi. “The president would like a word with you.”
DeSantos raised his eyebrows. Uzi smiled, enjoying the moment of self-importance as he took the phone.
“Mr. President, this is Uzi.”
“Agent Uziel, my man of the hour. I want to congratulate you, son. I had faith in you that very first day we met. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. For your country.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be glad to know that at this very moment, two Secret Service agents are taking Bryce Upshaw into custody. And according to the insightful Constitution of this great country, the Twenty-fifth Amendment outlines an orderly succession to Vice President-elect Nunn. Thank goodness for amendments. I doubt the Founding Fathers could’ve envisioned such a scenario as we’re faced with today.”
“No, sir, I doubt they could have.”
“I’d like you to be my guest for lunch. Does tomorrow work for you?”
“My schedule’s suddenly clear, Mr. President. Thank you, sir.”
Uzi handed the phone back to the director.
Knox nodded at Uzi. It was a short, subdued dip of the chin, an expression Uzi took as a look of admiration. Though he felt he might be reading more into it than intended, he didn’t think so. He interpreted it as an acknowledgment of respect the director didn’t dole out very often.
But Knox’s next comment removed all doubt. “Welcome to the fold,” he said.
Uzi wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be one of Knox’s chosen few. Despite being clean in this instance, Uzi still wasn’t sure about the man. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the offer. “Thank you, sir.”
Knox gave DeSantos a “follow me” tilt of the head, then moved off toward his car.
Uzi shoved his hands into his back pockets. “I’ll meet you at your place in a couple of hours.”
As DeSantos walked off, Uzi felt something in his right rear pocket and pulled it out. It was the claim check for the beer he had brewed with Leila. New Beginnings. He crumpled the ticket into a tight ball. He was turning a new leaf — a new beginning, indeed — and the first thing he was going to do was bring that chapter of his life to a close.
With all that had happened today, he felt he was finally able to do that. He flashed on something Rudnick had told him: Don’t let yesterday’s pain become tomorrow’s sorrow. It’s healthy to move on. Not to learn how to forget, but to learn how to remember. Though it made sense at the time, Uzi didn’t fully comprehend what the doctor was trying to tell him.
Now he understood.
The crisp winter wind wound through the barren trees along the periphery of the Capitol building. Heavy snow had fallen throughout the day yesterday, well into the late evening hours, snarling traffic and nearly shutting down the district. Inaugural event planners sat on their phones, ensuring vendors made their planned deliveries, while others worked their cells trying to arrange alternate routes of transportation for VIPs and invited guests.
The Secret Service poured over their blueprints and diagrams, grumbling about crowd control for two million people amid mounds of snow that had yet to be adequately cleared — wish-list cover for prospective gunmen.
Although thought was given to postponing the presidential Inauguration or changing its venue, it was an idea that garnered little support. If ever there was a time for America to show its resiliency and strength, it was now. Today. During the succession and transfer of power laid out by the Constitution. In accordance with our laws and customs. When and where it’s supposed to happen. Pomp. Circumstance. Politics and power. All on display.
If God decided to blanket the land in white, so be it. Perhaps it was a purveyor of good things — of purity — to come.
And perhaps not.
Television cameras, their cables snaking along the winter-pale grass, rolled as black-robed, white-haired Chief Justice Wendell Harris faced President-elect Vance Nunn.
Uzi had an unbelievably close seat, slightly off to the side and just over Nunn’s right shoulder, dressed in a pinstripe suit, beside Hector DeSantos, Douglas Knox, and outgoing president Jonathan Whitehall. Whitehall gently nudged Uzi’s elbow and leaned in close. Uzi bowed his head.
“You should be quite proud right about now, Agent Uziel. Of anyone else standing here today, you are almost single-handedly responsible for this.”
Uzi suppressed a smile, then turned to face the podium where President-elect Nunn and his wife, Doris, stood, their coats fluttering in the wind like the proud American flag atop the Capitol. Uzi did, in fact, feel good about the role he had played. But for the past few weeks, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d missed something. An insidiously creeping feeling — a mosquito bite that wouldn’t go away. Itching, scratching, red and swollen — always there, sometimes intolerable.
He’d been over things several times, and when he had continued to come up empty, finally confessed his unease to DeSantos. DeSantos chortled and punched him in the shoulder. Told him to relax, the job was done and everything ended happily ever after.
There were moments when Uzi was able to let it go, to revel in the knowledge he had done his job and done it well. Then there were the moments when it gnawed at him so much he had to go for a run. Or lift weights. Or shoot a few hundred rounds at the range.