“Could also mean that by choosing a Russian SV-98, they’re trying to throw you off. They’re a tad bit rare in the US.”
Uzi chewed on that a second, then realized something. “Is the SV-98 a bolt-action rifle?”
“Yup. Why?”
“So the bolt has to be manually cycled after each shot to eject the spent case, and then manually moved forward to chamber the next round. Right?”
“Yeah.” Meadows tilted his head. “So what?”
“Just something that’s bugged me. We found a casing at the crime scene. Now I can accept that after the guy ejected the casing, it rolled away from him in the dark and he couldn’t find it and he had to get the hell out of there. But what’s bothered me is that he ejected it in the first place.”
“A pro would only need to take one shot and there’d be no need to chamber another round.”
“Exactly.” Uzi looked again at the on-screen image. “Law enforcement and military snipers are generally taught to automatically chamber a round to be ready for any eventuality, even if they don’t expect to have to shoot a second time. Target could sneeze just as you stroke the trigger and your bullet passes through thin air instead of the guy’s eye socket.” Uzi shrugged a shoulder. “Of course, that doesn’t mean our assassin is an ex-cop or military-trained sniper, but it sure makes it interesting, doesn’t it?”
“‘Interesting’ to me is a hard drive that contains encrypted data. That’s the kind of stuff that gets me going. This investigative stuff is more your speed.”
Uzi rose from his chair and gave Meadows a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be in touch. As soon as this case breaks, we’ll do dinner, okay?”
“McCormick and Schmicks, that’s where I want to go. The lobster’s to die for.”
Uzi snorted. “Again with the McCormick and Schmicks. GS-15’s a solid salary, Tim, but isn’t their lobster like forty bucks?”
“I think it’s closer to sixty.”
“Sixty.” Uzi’s hand covered his wallet. “You’re killin’ me, man.”
“Oh — oh — wait a minute. I hear violins playing.”
“Yeah,” Uzi said with a grin. “It’s that New Age shit you listen to.”
Uzi left Meadows and took the elevator up to the sixth floor to meet with the Bureau’s expert on militia groups, Pablo Garza. Hoshi had set up the meeting but hadn’t had time to assemble a background sheet on the man. At a minimum, Uzi liked to know the agent’s FBI pedigree — most importantly, was he known among his peers as someone whose information could be trusted? Was he a diligent investigator? Did he accept the information given to him as fact, or did he dig to verify?
He located Garza’s office and rapped on the door with his knuckles. One thing was sure: Garza worked out of HQ, a floor below the director. Proximity to power meant you had some yourself.
After knocking, Uzi heard a noise to his right. Down the hall, staring at Uzi as if he were Osama bin Laden risen from the dead, stood Jake Osborn. Uzi turned back to the door, hoping to avoid a confrontation so close to the director. He wondered what Osborn was doing in the Hoover building. On a Sunday, no less.
As Uzi raised his fist to knock again, the thick wood door swung open. Uzi almost rapped Garza in the face.
“Agent Uziel,” the agent said, “come on in.”
“Call me Uzi,” he said as he glanced over his right shoulder — and saw that Osborn had moved on. He shoved his hands into his dress pant pockets and stepped into Garza’s office.
Papers were stacked haphazardly across the desk; magazines, folded back to specific articles, and a variety of textbooks sat beneath official reports and periodicals.
But Pablo Garza the man painted a different picture: with a starched white shirt and burgundy tie, charcoal suit and gold cufflinks, he looked like a show-quality FBI purebred. Crisp and professional. Self-important.
What grabbed Uzi’s attention, however, were his dark, deep-set eyes.
“What can I do for you?” Garza asked, standing behind his desk.
Uzi was tempted to sit down, more by instinct than fatigue, but with Garza remaining on his feet, Uzi felt compelled to do the same. “I was told you’re the man to see about militia groups.”
“I’ll accept that. What would you like to know?”
“I’m heading up the task force on the downing of Marine Two. We have reason to believe ARM might be involved.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Why’s that?” Uzi asked.
Garza waved a hand dismissively. “Just a feeling. After a while dealing with these people, you get a feel for who might be capable or inclined to do what to whom.”
“Just a feeling?”
“You want evidence? Can’t help you. You’ll have to do your job yourself.”
Uzi felt his face flush. What was this guy’s problem? He’d never asked anyone to do something for him he could do himself. “How about just telling me about ARM— Any unusual activity in recent months?”
Garza thought for a second, then shook his head. “Nope. Nothing comes to mind.”
“So you feel ARM is capable of bringing down Marine Two.”
“Like I said,” Garza said with a shrug, “just a feeling.”
Uzi twisted his lips in frustration. “What can you tell me about them?”
“Don’t you have someone on JTTF that handles domestic militia groups? Osborn, right?”
Uzi forced a grin. “I’m interested in your perspective.”
Garza hiked both shoulders, then launched into a monologue that lasted a solid two minutes, delineating the beginnings of ARM, including the rise to power of Jeremiah Flint, and how son Nelson succeeded him. It was all info Uzi already knew, most of which he’d gotten from DeSantos, the Internet, or Bureau database.
Uzi realized he was wasting his time. Either the Bureau was horrendously ill informed about ARM, or his colleague Garza was purposely withholding information. He was inclined to think it was the latter, but his FBI loyalty forced him to conclude it had to be the former.
Uzi thanked Garza for his time. Don’t ever come knocking on my door, pal, he felt like saying. But he kept his mouth shut.
He was in the elevator, heading back to his car, when a thought occurred to him. There was another source of information on extremist groups, one whose sole purpose was keeping tabs on organizations like ARM. He just about ran the rest of the way to his car, buoyed by the possibility that he might actually gain some insight that would help push his case to the next level.
The Washington offices of the Anti-Defamation League, or ADL, were located in a nondescript highrise in the heart of downtown. The building’s only distinguishing characteristic was the modern entrance that conspicuously jutted out onto the sidewalk.
Uzi flashed his credentials at the lobby guard, then took the elevator up. He slid his badge and ID through the bulletproof glass pass-through, along with his business card. The receptionist examined them, then picked up a telephone to make a call.
There was no shortage of surveillance cameras — those he could see, as well as those he couldn’t, even though he knew they were there.
He figured the woman was calling the number on the card, verifying his identity. At least, that’s what he would be doing if he were them. And because of who they were — the target of just about every racist, hate-mongering group in the world — they had to exercise extreme caution. Some considered their safeguards paranoiac, but Uzi knew better. He sat down and absently thumbed through a magazine while his mind ticked through the various facts he had thus far amassed.