“That’s not the way a former journalist thinks.”
“Tell that to Daniel Pearl.” The Wall Street Journal reporter had been kidnapped and murdered by al-Qaeda terrorists — a videotaped beheading shown on the Internet.
“I knew Danny,” Ruckhauser said. “The Journal lost more than a reporter that day. It lost a brilliant mind and a gentle soul.” He looked down at his desk. “Point taken. I’ll be careful.”
Uzi thanked him, then headed out. He suddenly had an unscheduled appointment, and he had a feeling it was not going to be pleasant.
Uzi did not even acknowledge the sixth-floor receptionist as he breezed past her desk.
She rose from her chair. “Hey, you can’t—”
“Watch me,” Uzi said under his breath as he rounded the corner. He grabbed the knob of Garza’s office and flung open the door.
The room was empty. “Shit,” Uzi said. He set his hands on his waist and stared at the empty chair twenty feet in front of him.
“Back so soon?”
The voice came from behind him. He spun, his right hand instinctively reaching for the handle of his Glock, as he’d done so many times before when his brain screamed “imminent danger.” But he stopped himself before he’d drawn the weapon, the adrenaline subsiding a bit when he saw Garza standing behind him.
Uzi clenched his jaw. “You’re an asshole, Garza.”
The agent slid past Uzi into the office, making his way toward his chair. “No, I’m really not. I’m actually well liked by my staff and colleagues. Unlike yourself.” He stopped, looked at Uzi, and grinned.
“What’s your problem? What did I ever do to you?”
“Why are you here?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Garza took a seat behind his desk and lifted the phone. Uzi flashed across the room like a bobcat, his hand slamming the handset back onto the receiver.
“You seem a bit pissed.”
Uzi kept his hand firmly atop Garza’s. “You think?”
“Guess I’d better be careful. I don’t want to get a visit by OPR,” he said, referring to the Bureau’s internal affairs police.
Uzi stood up, releasing his grip on Garza’s hand. “What?”
“Jake Osborn isn’t just my friend, he’s a top-notch agent.”
Osborn. That’s what this is about. I should’ve seen it coming.
“Jake’s paid his dues to get where he is, and then some punk foreigner comes along—”
“Stop right there, asshole. I’m a US citizen. I was born here. Even if I wasn’t, so what? Osborn fucked up. He was unsafe. People could’ve gotten killed. He didn’t follow established protocol, which means that if I look the other way, I’m as guilty as he is. It’s bad for me, bad for the Bureau. It isn’t what we get paid to do.”
“We get paid to make the country a safer place. That’s what Jake was doing.”
“I could’ve referred him for an OPR, made things a lot worse for him. But I didn’t.”
“He engaged the suspect against orders because he felt the asshole was dangerous and could’ve killed others if he’d gotten away. Jake did what he thought was right.”
“So did I.” Uzi looked away. He had important matters to discuss with Garza, and this wasn’t one of them. “I’m here to talk about ARM and the NFA.”
Garza spun his chair to face the large picture window that looked out over downtown DC. “We already had that discussion.”
“We’re gonna have it again. Only this time you’re not going to bullshit me. You’re gonna tell me what you know.”
“What makes you think I didn’t already do that?”
“Obstruction of justice is an ugly thing to appear on your resume,” Uzi said. He leaned both hands on Garza’s desk, and waited.
“You’re so good, I figured you’d find out whatever you needed on your own.”
“I’m not kidding, Garza. You hindered an investigation, obstructed—”
“Give me a break. Where’s the harm? A couple hours of your time? You’re back here, asking questions. Maybe it proves you’re a smart guy, a decent agent.” He turned to Uzi and grinned a one-sided smile. “Then again, maybe it doesn’t.” He turned back to the window.
“Agent Garza, it’s my responsibility to direct the investigation into the attempt on the president-elect’s life. Do you understand the implications of all this? If you don’t cooperate, the next time I give my report to the director — or the goddamn president — he’s gonna know I’ve hit a roadblock. Call it ratting out, call it tattling, call it whatever the hell you want. I’ve got a thick hide, and I’ve heard it all. But I’ve gotta get to the truth, and no one, not some two-bit punk — and certainly not another agent — is gonna keep me from it. You understand what I’m saying?”
Garza seemed to be weighing the risks. His gaze still on downtown, he said, “I hear you.”
“Good. Then tell me about the ARM-NFA connection.”
“What do you want to know about it?”
“Karl Ruckhauser sends you all the info that ADL gets their hands on, their intelligence data. You’ve seen it all. There anything Karl doesn’t know about?”
“There’s no connection. I couldn’t find anything.”
“Ruckhauser seemed to think there might be. You sure about your conclusions?”
“All he had were theories. Theories are good for conspiracy theorists like your dead informant. But they don’t do jack for us.”
“How far did you look into it?”
Garza spun his chair and drew a bead on Uzi’s face. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It was a simple question.”
“I did what I was required to do, what we all do to investigate an allegation. I went as far as I could. Without something substantial, there was nothing more to do, nowhere for me to go.”
“What do you know about Lewiston Grant?”
“Guy’s a dead end. He died in a fire in Utah.”
“Find a body?”
“No. But with the level of destruction—”
“How hard did you look into his death?”
“Hard enough. Guy’s credit card, bank accounts, apartment, everything went dormant after the bombing. No one’s seen him. He’s dead.”
Uzi reserved judgment on that statement, but let it drop. “What’s your gut say? On ARM.”
Garza turned back to the window. He seemed to be giving the question some serious thought. Or maybe he was deciding whether or not he wanted to share his opinions with Uzi.
“I think they’re involved. If there was a way to get at them, I’d be all over their case.”
Uzi pushed off the desk. He had not gotten what he had come for; however, though he still had no hard evidence against an ARM-NFA alliance, he at least had another supporting opinion from someone with knowledge and experience in dealing with these groups. And that was more than he’d had only a few hours ago.
Uzi answered his cell phone as he entered the Hoover Building’s elevator, headed toward the parking garage.
“I found something,” Tim Meadows said.
“Cool. What do you got?” Uzi pressed the elevator button to stop the car at the next floor. If Meadows had something significant, he could be there in a couple of minutes.
“After you left, I ran those brass casings through the spectrometer. Turned up some really interesting readings. So I took it upon myself to do some more digging.”
“That’s what I like about you, Tim. Always going the extra mile.”
“Yeah, that’s what the section chief says. He loves my work ethic.”
“Least you could do after twisting my arm over dinner.”
“Well, I think by the time I’m done with this case, I’ll have made it worth your while.”