Uzi had never met Whitehall, but he had read enough of the man to know he was the sort of no-nonsense, straight-shooting leader for whom Uzi preferred to work.
He seemed to study Uzi’s face with a thorough once-over glance, as if he were inspecting a soldier in boot camp. “This… incident with the vice president — my vice president — can’t go unpunished. I want every fucking terrorist associated with this bombing strung up by his balls. If someone knew about it and didn’t do anything to stop it, I want him held responsible, too. I want their wives hauled in. Their barbers, car mechanics. Nothing overlooked. Am I making myself clear?”
“I assure you, Mr. President, we’re doing everything possible to get these cowards. We’ll find them.” Uzi’s eyes darted around the periphery. “Sir, it’s not my place to pass judgment, but are you sure it’s a good idea to be out in the open like this? Since we don’t know who’s responsible—”
“You’re right, son. It’s not your place. I’ve been in meetings round the clock. I needed to clear my mind, get some fresh air. I’ve got a contingent of Secret Service agents who won’t let me take a piss without following me into the goddamn bathroom. After Marine Two went down they shoved me into the PEOC and didn’t let me out for five hours. I won’t be held prisoner like that again. The president of the United States can’t be hiding, cowering away in some protected safe room. It’s degrading.”
Although he had never been there, Uzi knew that the PEOC was the Presidential Emergency Operations Center, located below the East Wing. An elaborate bunker, it was designed to withstand all types of non-nuclear attacks while allowing the president to remain in communication with other government facilities.
Whitehall lifted his putter and pointed it at Uzi. “The leader of the greatest country in the world has to lead by example.” The movement of the putter in front of Uzi’s face provided the emphasis. “If 9/11 taught us anything, it was that we’ve got to get on with our lives, show the terrorists they haven’t won. And this is how we go on living.” He craned his head toward the clearing sky. “By taking a few minutes off to clear the mind and hit some balls on a damn fine afternoon.” Whitehall seemed to be lost in thought for a moment as he stared at the moving clouds. “Damn fine afternoon, wouldn’t you say, son?”
“Mr. President, you asked me here for a reason—”
“Focus on what you’re paid to do. See the big picture. In case Mr. Shepard didn’t make it abundantly clear, we’re hosting the International Conference on Global Terrorism in eight days. I don’t have to tell you the embarrassment this incident has caused us. We can’t even deal with terrorism in our goddamn backyard, and we’re supposed to be heading up the effort to contain it on a global basis.” He shook his head. “Bastards.”
Shepard had not, in fact, mentioned it. But as he and DeSantos had surmised, Knox’s deadline was dictated by the conference. Uzi had been briefed three months ago on the security measures being implemented, but Homeland Security and the Secret Service were firmly in charge, and his unit was not involved in either the planning or execution, so it had slipped to the far reaches of his mind. Whitehall had a point… and perhaps the attempt on the vice president was not personal, as he had been thinking. Maybe it was meant to send a message.
Whitehall moved back to the line of balls. He spread his legs, swung the putter and popped the ball so hard it flew into the air and landed well beyond its intended target.
Uzi stood there, wondering if Whitehall was done talking to him. He wasn’t going to wait much longer. Standing there was a sign of weakness. He counted to three, then said, “Thank you, Mr. President.” As he started to walk off, Whitehall called after him.
“There’s something else you should know.”
Uzi turned and waited for the president to meet his gaze.
“The conference is a cover. It’s a working meeting, don’t get me wrong. But there are bigger issues at stake. Time-sensitive issues, political issues. Things that mean a great deal to me.”
Uzi cocked his head and quickly moved closer to the president. The nearest Secret Service agent, blending innocuously into a row of bushes a few yards away, slowly inched forward, clearly taking notice of Uzi’s movement.
When they reached whisper distance, Whitehall continued. “High-level peace talks between the Israelis and Palestinians. Unofficially sanctioned, totally clandestine. Special negotiators from each side are coming to town to nail down a blueprint for peace. ’Bout fucking time. I don’t intend to let this slip through my hands in the waning days of my presidency. No one, no one knows about this but me, the secretary of state, my Secret Service detail, and now you. And it has to stay that way, you understand me, son?”
Uzi suddenly found himself rigid, at attention, his head tilted slightly back, a posture assumed when being addressed by a drill sergeant. “Yes, sir.”
“Both my national security advisor and Director Tasset tell me there’re some Mideast extremist groups high up on our list of suspects.”
Uzi fought to absorb this news without reaction. Tasset had said nothing to him at the crash site about foreign extremist involvement. And the CIA rep on his JTTF had not yet made that assertion. Perhaps it was merely a knee-jerk reaction to a bold terror event of such striking scale. With their focus now on ARM, he wondered if he should brief the president on the turn the investigation had taken. He decided to keep his mouth shut until he was more certain of his facts.
“Some of these groups have had ties to certain factions within the Palestinian leadership for years,” Whitehall continued. “Hamas, for one. That’s no surprise to you, I’m sure. But if they’re responsible for the assassination attempt, I need to know that before I sit down at the table with these people. Because instead of brokering a landmark peace deal, I’ll be telling them they have six hours to get their people to safety because we’ll be bombing their fucking government buildings into a pile of rubble.”
Whitehall let Uzi chew on that a bit while the crimson drained from his cheeks. He rolled his shoulders, then said, “So you know where I stand on this, son, I do not want this investigation to show Palestinian involvement. I want this peace deal. It’s good for the Middle East and it’s good for the long-term stability of world markets. It further isolates Iran, and it brings some calm to a region plagued by decades of violence. And it’s good for America.” He paused, looked out at the roses a dozen feet away. “And, it’s good for me. If I can come away with a comprehensive peace deal, accomplish something no president’s been able to accomplish, well, then, that would be a mighty pretty feather in my fishing cap.”
Uzi squinted against the bright sky. Was Whitehall telling him not to do or say anything that might implicate the Palestinians, even if he later found that they were involved? Or was he conveying his hope that they were innocent — but that they’d suffer severe consequences if they had done the deed?
“Make no mistake,” Whitehall said. “Whoever they are, the bastards who did this are going to pay, Agent Uziel. Whether it’s in the courts, at the wrong end of a volley of Tomahawks, or in some back alley, they will pay for ruining my last days in office.”
After nearly fifty years in politics, it appeared that Jonathan Whitehall’s public and private personas had merged, shaped by political rhetoric and sound bites. Uzi felt like he needed a translator to cut through the chaff, to be clear what this man was truly asking him to do.