“He knows about our… instrument,” Charlie said into the encrypted handset. “Our route of information is compromised.”
After a moment of silence, Alpha Zulu asked, “Can you replace something like that?”
“My people have some ideas.”
“Ideas? Things are in play. If you can’t fix it — soon — we’ll take care of it ourselves.”
Even though it was chilly inside his car, beads of perspiration were forming across Charlie’s brow. He flapped his overcoat to cool himself. “We’ve got it handled,” he said, only half believing his own assurance. He hoped his voice was not betraying him.
“If you’d let us do it our way in the first place,” Zulu said, “this wouldn’t have happened.”
Charlie blew some frustration through his lips. “Give us a day to get it fixed.”
“A day is all you have. The time is—”
“I’m aware of the time, thank you very much.”
The man with the shopping cart was headed in his direction, drawing Charlie’s attention. Charlie tucked his chin and started to turn away — but something about the guy’s face seemed wrong. It took a moment, but he finally realized what it was: the man was clean shaven.
“I’ve gotta go,” Charlie said. “I’ll contact you when I have something to report.” He ended the call, then tapped his brakes three times, signaling his colleague dressed in a park police uniform thirty yards back. If this homeless person was, in fact, someone sent to spy on him, within five minutes he would be questioned and killed, his body expertly searched, ID confiscated, fingerprints and DNA samples taken.
And then the corpse would be disposed of with Jimmy Hoffa efficiency.
Uzi remained at the office another two hours, stopping only to grab a snack to maintain functional blood-sugar levels. With less than twenty-four hours before they infiltrated the ARM compound, he logged off his PC and closed his mind to further intrusion. He was tired of thinking and needed to unwind.
He left the WFO parking lot, driving without thought to where he was going. Ten minutes later, he found himself stopped at a traffic light at 21st and N Streets, half a block from Leila’s apartment building. He leaned forward, chin kissing the steering wheel, and trained his eyes on the eighth floor of her building, peering through the barren tree branches, wondering if she was home.
Remembering that her living room looked out over New Hampshire, he tried to estimate which balcony would be hers. One was lit, while several adjacent windows were dark.
He waited for the green light, then pulled in front of her building and saw the tall, wiry Alec in the lobby, jotting something into his journal on the stand by the door. Uzi parked his car in the passenger loading zone and tossed Alec the keys. Jiri, standing behind the reception desk, raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise, then told Uzi he would take care of his car for him.
Uzi proceeded up the elevator to Leila’s floor, all the while wondering why he was there, and if Dena was looking down on him with disdain. As the doors slid apart, he stood there, lost in thought, until they started closing. He stuck out his hand and they snapped back. He walked out of the elevator and strode the twenty feet down the carpeted hall to Leila’s apartment.
Uzi raised his hand to knock, but left it there, poised but inactive. Showing up unannounced, after only their first intimate date, was a bit strange, for sure. Would it show weakness, that he couldn’t go a full day without seeing her? If so, was that bad — or was it good?
How could he be thinking of such things? How could he betray Dena like this? She would want me to get on with my life; she’d want me to be happy. But I got her killed. I was responsible. How can I be with Leila? I don’t deserve to be happy—
Uzi turned and started down the hall, back toward the elevator. Five long strides and he had pressed the down button.
But before the car came, he heard a latch throw and the jiggle of a doorknob. Rather than turn around, he focused on the closed doors, willing the elevator to arrive.
“Uzi?”
He twisted his neck. Dressed in a suit and high heels, Leila had one foot inside the apartment and one in the hallway, a bulging Hefty bag in her hands and the door resting against her buttock. She put the garbage down in the middle of the threshold, then started toward him.
He turned his body fully toward her, regretting the question he knew would be on her lips.
“What are you doing here?”
And there it was. “I thought I’d stop by, surprise you,” he said, taking the honest approach.
“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” she said, looking back at the door as if the glance would explain why it hadn’t worked.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“I just got home,” she said. She took another few steps toward him, her long legs grabbing his eyes and refusing to let go. “I was going to cook up some eggplant parmigiana. Why don’t you stay, have some with me?”
He stood there, his feet riveted to the ground as if stuck in cement. The arriving elevator dinged. He turned his head to look, but before he could make a move, he felt fingers hook his left elbow, gently urging him forward, toward her apartment.
Leila called to Uzi to turn on the oven while she changed out of her work clothes. He stood there staring at the digital readout, trying to make sense of the display. He was a whiz with a keyboard or circuit board, but in the kitchen, it was like the intelligence got sucked out of his brain cells. After several failed attempts, he pushed the right buttons and the oven began to heat.
Looking over the LED readout, satisfied he had initiated the preheat process and not a countdown toward a nuclear launch, he let a smile of accomplishment creep across his lips.
He found a bottle of Niebaum-Coppola Estate Merlot and poured two glasses, flashing on the first day when he had met Leila at the crash site. Aloof, unwilling to let him into her life — and now, a warm savior, taking him by the arm and pulling him to safety.
He lifted the wine glasses off the counter, then turned toward the living room. He nearly slammed into Leila, who was right behind him, standing there in a white lace negligee and spiked high heels. Her hair was tousled and she was wearing glitter lip gloss.
Uzi had to fight from losing his grip on the glasses. She leaned forward, between his occupied hands, and let her lips brush his. He could hardly breathe. His chest was tight, the heat from the oven suddenly unbearable.
She reached up to each of his hands, removed the glasses, and placed them on the counter. She then turned and walked out of the kitchen, her buttocks sliding beneath the short negligee, pulling him forward, inviting him to follow.
DAY SIX
Uzi toweled off as he walked toward the living room, leaving Leila to finish showering. The sun was beginning to wake up along with the rest of the district. The evening was past him, the guilt simmering beneath the surface, new fodder for internal conflict. What had been a wonderful night with Leila had turned into “buyer’s remorse” in the morning.
He lifted the phone and dialed Rudnick’s home number. He kept his request short: he needed to talk. With the op scheduled for this evening, he needed to get this off his chest so he could be fully focused on the mission. In the past, he would’ve pushed it out of his mind and stuck it in his emotional closet, shoved back behind boxes and old memories. But if there was one thing his sessions with Rudnick had taught him, it was better to deal with such issues sooner, rather than later, before they morphed into painful, longlasting complications. He thought of the old computer monitors, and how images would get burned into the screen if left there indefinitely. He needed to avoid the burn-in factor.