“Typical intelligence agency,” Uzi said. “A bit paranoid.”
“That’s like saying the US Army has a few guns.”
Uzi laughed. “Bet their surveillance cameras are better than ARM’s.”
“Trust me. You don’t want to find out.”
Uzi parked near Operations Building 1 and waited for DeSantos to complete his business. In the twenty minutes he sat there, three different guards approached, inspected his identification, then questioned his reason for being on-site.
When DeSantos mercifully returned, he said, “If they come up with anything, they’ll let us know.” DeSantos shut his door. “Actually, they’ll let me know.”
They left Crypto City and made their way to Uzi’s office at WFO. After parking in the underground garage, they took the elevator up to the third floor. While DeSantos used the restroom down the hall, Uzi did a complete sweep of his work area. Satisfied it was clean, he set the scanning device on his desk and reached for a toothpick.
“Nice digs,” DeSantos said, his neck craning around to take in all the wall hangings.
Uzi turned slowly, taking in the décor. “Guess it’s a work in progress.” Despite lithographs from noted American artists, there were only three personal items in the office: a framed photo of Dena, Maya, and himself standing among the ancient ruins of Beit She’an, south of the Sea of Galilee; a six-inch square Lucite block containing one of the first Pentium 4 chips to come off the Intel line bearing the inscription: “In recognition for a winning design, this is hereby presented to Lead Engineer Aaron Uziel, Intel Pentium 4 Willamette Development Team”; and a ratty, battle-worn canteen with a large bullet hole in the side, from Uzi’s required duty tour with the Israel Defense Forces.
DeSantos lifted the canteen from the bookshelf. It clattered like a baby’s rattle.
“Canteen from my Efod.” Noticing DeSantos’s confusion, Uzi said, “An Efod is an equipment vest.”
DeSantos shook it a bit, then held it up and looked through the hole. “What’s in it?”
“Syrian sniper’s bullet. That hollow piece of tin saved my life.”
DeSantos returned the canteen to the shelf. “I ever tell you you’ve got strange keepsakes?”
Uzi sunk down into his leather chair. “You’ve never been here?”
“Shit no,” DeSantos said. “We always meet somewhere. You’ve never been to my office either. It’s always a park or a restaurant or a car or something.”
Uzi, sucking on the toothpick, spread his arms wide. “Welcome to my humble office.”
“Humble?”
“For a peon task force head.”
“Oh, yes. A peon.” DeSantos said, using his fingers as quotation marks in the air. “Right. That’s why you have an office instead of a cubicle.”
“Well it ain’t because everyone here likes me.”
“I like you. Doesn’t that count?”
“I think that may work against me.”
DeSantos took a seat in front of Uzi’s desk. “Go to hell.”
Uzi pushed aside the stacked messages on his desk and asked, “So… where are we?”
“Given what we found in your jacket,” DeSantos said, “maybe now’s the right time.”
“Right time for what?”
“May I?” He indicated the laptop Hoshi had been using, then sat down and logged on to the Pentagon’s Intelligence Support Agency database. He played the keys for a moment, then leaned back and turned the laptop so Uzi could see the screen.
“I had my buddy at NSA take some photos of the ARM compound.”
“Sat photos?”
“With those KH-12s,” DeSantos said, referring to the Strategic Response Reconnaissance Satellites. “The ones usually trained on Cuba. I had them rotate their axis a bit.”
Uzi’s brow rose. “No shit?”
“No shit. Had my guy do something like this a few months ago for Karen. Worked like a charm.”
Spying on US citizens was not a good road to travel. But when terrorism was suspected and lives were at stake, well… Uzi had struggled with that issue on many occasions. But each time information led to the preemption of an attack, and he knew it was the right call. But it still bothered him. He glanced at DeSantos. “And?”
“There are three buildings that pique my interest.” He struck a sequence of keys and a split screen of four images appeared. “Two sheds and a garage. With some unusual activity the night of the ninth. Trucks backing up to it making what I’d guess were deliveries.”
“Deliveries? What kind of trucks?”
“Trucks. Plain cab-over cargo deals.”
“So? Could’ve been delivering food. Or office supplies for the compound.”
DeSantos peered over the tops of his glasses at Uzi. “Yeah, right.”
“Wait a minute. The ninth. The hospital was bombed on the tenth.”
DeSantos elevated his eyebrows and tilted his head.
“But what would they need trucks for?”
“Don’t know. But we need to get onto the compound, take a look around those three buildings.”
Uzi lifted the phone. “I’ll get a warrant.”
DeSantos reached across the desk and disconnected the call. “Put that thing down.”
“Why?”
“No judge in his right mind would give us a warrant. For what? What’s ARM done that we have proof of? Besides,” DeSantos said, lowering his voice, “even if Knox said to continue investigating them, I’d rather not tip our hand yet that we’re still on their case. Not till after we’re in and out, and hopefully know more about what to look for.”
Uzi’s intestines twisted and turned. This was wrong — even if the director of the FBI gave the order, and even if President Whitehall had told him to do “whatever it takes to get the job done.” He stared at the screen, attempting to rationalize his involvement. No matter how he turned it over, this was outside his comfort zone. “They’ve got security cameras all over that damn compound,” he finally said.
“Not a problem.” DeSantos returned to his seat and struck another series of keys. “We go at night, wear dark clothing and ski masks.”
“Those cameras are infrared. They’ll definitely pick us up.”
DeSantos found what he was looking for and clicked on a file. “Take a look.” A grainy photo appeared on the left, a line diagram with callouts and descriptions to its right. “They look like Night Prowlers, manufactured by CCT. Computerized Camera Technologies. Standard motion sensor activation, sensor range up to fifteen feet at night. No night vision capabilities.”
“Looks like them, but how can you be sure?”
“Because I’m sure.”
Uzi studied the image on the display, then said, “They might have motion-activated spotlights. If that’s the case, image clarity rises and the range of the cameras just about doubles. Sometimes that’s better than night vision.”
“Right on both accounts. But we’ll be fine if we move carefully and wear the new light-absorbing clothing DARPA’s been working on,” DeSantos said. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency developed all sorts of new — and often futuristic — technology for the DOD. “B-one stealth technology.” DeSantos clicked again, and another four photos appeared: uniformed soldiers acting like the military’s equivalent of GQ, depicting the latest in warfare garb.
Uzi leaned close to the screen, examining the images with the care a jeweler uses to appraise a gem. He moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, then leaned back. “I still think it’s too risky. Even with this special clothing, even if we’re careful, we’re letting it all hang out. No backup. Not to mention the law’s working against us. We’d be totally on our own. Anything happens, no one will sanction what we’ve done. It’ll be like we jumped in a tub of horseshit. No one will go near us.”