“My last two months will be a hallmark of my administration,” Whitehall continued. “It’s not always how you perform, it’s how you leave the stage that people remember. I want to be remembered as a strong leader who led the people through a difficult time, who brought us out better than when we went in. Above all, it’s imperative we show these terrorists that no one fucks with the United States of America and gets away with it. Getting bin Laden was a really good deal. But it’s old news. This— This latest attack is now the story of the day, maybe of the decade. Each day these terrorists escape justice is an insult. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Uzi definitely did not. At the same time, this was the president. He felt intense pressure to appear confident, competent, and up to the task. But he wasn’t sure what that “task” actually was. He had to risk asking for clarification. “Sir, what exactly would you like me to do?”
Whitehall jammed his putter into the turf. “I want justice, goddamn it!” The president looked hard at Uzi. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t care how you get it. Do things by the book, but if you have these fuckers by the balls, don’t let ’em disappear into thin air while you jerk around with a judge trying to get a warrant, goddamnit. Just get the job done.” His eyes coursed Uzi’s face again, as if searching for something. “If you can’t do that, tell me now and I’ll find someone else who can.”
Was the president directing him to shoot a suspect in cold blood if the “need” arose? Due process right there on the street? Uzi had taken orders like this in the past, but they were always backed by hard evidence and the corroborating proof of reliable intelligence.
A stiff wind smacked Uzi in the face. He looked at the president a few feet away and realized the man was awaiting his response. It appeared Whitehall was ordering him to be judge and jury. Uzi wondered if he was, indeed, up to the task. His commanding officer was giving him his marching orders, and he was expected to comply. In the past, there was only one time when Uzi had questioned his superior, and it ended in disaster.
Still, Whitehall’s demeanor gave him pause. Whatever Uzi did, he had to be damn sure he was right. There was a lot in play, a great deal at stake. Uzi nodded slowly. “You can count on me, sir.” Then he turned and walked away, unsure of the methods by which he would act. But the president’s admonition continued to bounce around his thoughts like a superball on speed.
Just get the job done.
Alpha Zulu had the constitution of a retired Navy SEAL. Yet though he moved with the slyness of a wild cougar, he prided himself more on his chameleonic ability to reinvent his appearance and demeanor to suit his environment. But an innate sense of timing was his most valuable asset.
He was the ideal person for this job, even if his business partners had not known the depth of his talents when they first initiated contact.
Alpha Zulu had a real name, of course, but almost no one knew it. He had several aliases, including bogus credit cards he used once a month, checking accounts, and studio apartments in seedier parts of town with utility hookups set on automatic debit from the bank to give the appearance of regular activity. Whatever he couldn’t do himself, he had a small group of confidants he could count on to legitimize his illusion. It was all about credibility and the ability to blend in — into society, into a crowd, into everyday life, without anyone noticing him.
And in spite of all the post-9/11 security hype, he still functioned with impunity. No one in law enforcement knew who he was or what he was up to. He literally operated off the radar.
Zulu parked his run-of-the-mill Ford Escort on Tracy Road in Kalorama Heights, three blocks from the home of Republican Congressman Gene Harmon. Harmon held a powerful position in the United States government: head of the House Select Committee on Intelligence. Harmon was privy to secrets a mere handful in the government knew, and when a covert mission was undertaken, he was one of only eight individuals who were informed of the action before it was launched.
Zulu moved in the shadow of early nightfall, timing it so that even the occasional streetlight did not awaken while he was in the middle of his maneuver. Carrying a small device that fit inside the housing of a standard cell phone, he stepped briskly past the columned entryway of the sprawling, four-story, five-thousand-square-foot brick-and-slate Victorian mansion.
He turned right into the sunken driveway, knelt to tie his shoe, and set down the rigged phone. He continued down Tracy Road another two blocks, then crossed the street and headed back toward the Harmon residence. His destination was a narrow easement between two well-maintained three-story homes, one of which had a realtor’s sign sunk in the postage stamp lawn. While well-hidden, this location provided an unimpeded view of the congressman’s garage.
Zulu removed two pointed snowshoes from his compact backpack and fastened them to his Timberlands. Walking with them provided a challenge, but it was a necessary precaution. He settled himself behind the black iron gate and blended into the fauna that filled the space: ivy and well-pruned privet hedges. He repositioned the ski mask, then pulled a pocket watch from his fanny pack.
This was no ordinary watch, however. It was custom-crafted in Switzerland, the mecca of time-constipated artisans whose creation of accurate timepieces approached sexual ecstasy. Commissioned by Zulu’s group three years ago, the pocket watches were fashioned from Italian sterling silver, engraved with curls and whorls in a pattern that emphasized its classic — indeed timeless — style.
In the center of the lid was a gold-inlaid scorpion, its powerful oversize claws, jointed tail, and venomous stinger manifest evidence of its menacing lethality. Zulu related to the arachnid; he owned several species from around the world and bonded with them as some do dogs. His shared kinship and common modus operandi made the scorpion a logical choice for the group’s unofficial crest.
Thirty-five minutes passed. Zulu, dressed in black neoprene pants and top, was doing his best to fend off the chilled temperature. Though it was no colder than forty degrees, remaining still and squatting in bushes stagnated the blood and numbed his extremities.
After Zulu rose to flex and extend his feet — contracting the calf muscles helped the circulation in his legs — Congressman Gene Harmon’s garage door rolled up. The midnight blue BMW crawled forward, up the driveway’s gentle incline. Zulu brought a pair of compact night-vision binoculars to his eyes, positively identified the congressman through the windshield, and prepared to trigger the device, waiting for the right moment. Timing, as always, was key.
He squeezed the button and a split second later, his task was complete.
After retrieving his car, Uzi headed off to interview Glendon Rusch at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. After arriving, he was directed to Building 10, where he took the stairs to the ICU. After clearing the security protocols at the door to Glendon Rusch’s room, he hesitated with his hand on the knob. He’d seen injured soldiers before, men whose faces were obliterated by mortar rounds, women and children whose flesh and body parts were strewn a block away by a suicide bomber’s explosives. But no matter how many times he’d done it, facing a terror victim was never easy.
Uzi had been told the president-elect’s ability to talk would be dictated by his level of sedation and pain tolerance. He didn’t expect the interview to last long or provide a magic bullet lead, but he had to make the attempt.
After gowning, Uzi settled the mask over his face and pushed through the door. He took in the scene with one quick glance: blinking and quietly thumping machines monitored Rusch’s vitals and infused his ravaged body with fluids. He let the door swing closed behind him, then nodded at the Secret Service agent and took a few steps to Glendon Rusch’s bedside, a move that drew the patient’s attention. He slowly turned his head and his gaze found Uzi’s. Though Uzi could not see his face, he thought he read pain in his gray, medication-hazed eyes. Not physical pain, however. Emotional pain.