They had waited as long as feasible. Rodman needed to get airborne. He switched the frequency on his radio, then squeezed off two long squelches. They blew some last coughs of smoke out the tail, then the chopper lifted off, banking sharply and paralleling the periphery of ARM’s boundaries.
While in the car on the way to Tim Meadows’s home in Alexandria, Uzi and DeSantos inventoried their ill-gotten goods. This “evidence” could not find its way onto FBI grounds, or it could mean the end of their careers with a fanfare from which the Bureau itself might never recover.
“I like the pen idea,” DeSantos said.
“Works well unless the person who interrogates you tries writing with it.” After a moment’s reflection on what had happened with the militia guard, Uzi asked, “Why do you think that guy was gonna let me go?”
“It was all in your head. You thought he nodded at the fence. But it was dark, man. Maybe he heard me coming and tilted his head, but couldn’t place the noise.”
“Doesn’t matter. Lucky for me, you saved my ass.”
They turned on King and Uzi quickly located Meadows’s street.
As DeSantos pulled against the curb, he said, “Basement light’s on.”
Meadows, a night owl by nature, took the materials without asking where they had come from, but Uzi told him they were never to be brought onto Federal property, nor would he acknowledge ever having given them to him.
“You’re putting me in a tough spot,” Meadows said. They were standing on his porch, the tech dressed in a pair of threadbare jeans and an FBI sweatshirt with a pair of Wal-Mart reading glasses hanging from his neck on a gray pull-chain necklace. “What’s the deal with this stuff?”
“You don’t want to ask that question,” Uzi said. He gestured at the light in the basement window. “How’s your project going?”
Meadows folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t change the subject on me, Uzi.”
“You can have the oysters, okay? Two orders.”
Meadows arched backward. “Two appetizers?”
“Maybe that way you won’t order an entrée.”
Meadows took the package. “Don’t count on it.” He nodded at Uzi’s car, where DeSantos was seated, leaning back against the headrest, staring at them with glazed, disinterested eyes.
“What’s wrong with your partner?”
“Tough night,” Uzi said. In truth, DeSantos had told Uzi his presence might give Meadows pause before agreeing to take part in a federal offense. Uzi felt a pang of guilt over asking his friend to jeopardize his career, but if it all came apart and Knox did his thing to shield him and DeSantos, he’d make sure Meadows somehow got the same immunity.
Meadows eyed Uzi cautiously, then looked at the thick envelope before moving to open it.
Uzi held out a hand. “Not here.”
Meadows frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
“One item is self-explanatory. I need it matched to the evidence you examined from the Bishop murder.”
Meadows nodded knowingly. “Okay.”
“The other thing is less clear cut. Give me the works — prints, DNA, cryptanalysis, alternative light source, spectrometer, and anything else you can think of.”
“Looking for…?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“That’s damn helpful, Uzi.”
Uzi shrugged. “What can I say?”
“How about, ‘I know this is an impossible job that’ll dominate your evenings for the next week, but I really appreciate it.’”
“Here’s the thing. You don’t have a week. You’ve got two days.”
“Two days? Two days, Uzi?”
Uzi held up his hands in mock surrender. “How about this: Thanks, man, I owe you.”
Meadows grunted. “If I had a ten spot for every time I’ve heard that…”
DAY SEVEN
With less than five hours’ sleep under his belt, Uzi reported to the task force’s new base of operations: the suite used by the standing Counterterrorism Task Force, a once-woefully small group of experts that, after 9/11, expanded faster than a filling helium balloon. Caught off-guard, the FBI revamped their thinking on terrorist groups. They reorganized with serious manpower and — something that had been lacking — budgetary support.
Uzi was there to receive status reports. At this point, he could not rally the troops behind an investigative assault on ARM; he would have to tread lightly in view of Coulter’s orders to back off — despite Knox’s covert orders to the contrary. Of more concern was that if Meadows found something suspicious in the materials he was examining, Uzi and DeSantos would have to find a legal reason for returning to the compound with a properly executed search warrant. And with the attorney general in the way, with no way of disclosing what they’d found, that would be difficult, if not impossible.
And knocking around his thoughts was that there were only two days remaining before he had to finger a suspect and report to the president. He felt something stir deep down in his stomach. He used to thrive on pressure-packed missions like these. The ARM incursion definitely rekindled a spark inside him, the pinch of spice that had gone missing in his stir fry of a life.
As Uzi left the task force meeting, he was handed a message that Marshall Shepard wanted to see him. He winced; he had known there would come a time when he’d be forced to face his boss. He’d just hoped it would be later rather than sooner.
He made eye contact with Shepard’s secretary and got the nod to continue into the ASAC’s suite. When he entered, Shepard was standing at the large window behind his desk, his back to Uzi.
Uzi took a seat, and for the first time he could remember, was nervous about seeing his friend. He unwrapped a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth as he waited for Shepard to acknowledge his presence. In the meantime, he would play it as cool as he could, hoping Shepard’s reason for wanting to see him had nothing to do with his circumventing Coulter’s direct orders.
“You were told to stay away from ARM,” Shepard finally said. Still facing the bright window, his large form was silhouetted against the glare of a gray Washington December morning. “You were told to stay away not just by me, Uzi, but by the fucking attorney general.”
“Shep, what gives? What are you talking about?”
“I have reason to believe you didn’t drop it like the AG told you to do. You didn’t drop it.”
“Look, we’re conducting an investigation. You know how that goes. It’s hard doing stuff from a distance. But if that’s what we have to do, that’s what we have to do. You hear what I’m saying?” Uzi wasn’t sure he understood what he was saying. Shepard must have been confused as well, because he turned around. But the window glare prevented Uzi from seeing his boss’s face.
“Uzi, you’re talking in circles and when you talk in circles it’s because there’s something going on. Tell me there’s nothing going on, because I sure as hell don’t want to find out about it from the director or AG. I fucked up once. My ass is on the line. And I like it here. I like my job. Now you wouldn’t be doing anything to put me in a bad way, would you?”
Uzi swallowed hard, but tried to disguise it by shifting the toothpick around in his mouth. “Shep, your friendship means everything to me. I want you here for as long as I’m here.” Given the covert raid of ARM’s compound, he wondered how long that would be.
“Better fucking be telling the truth, ’cause I heard things. I heard that something went down at ARM last night, and that you were involved. I just wanna know that it’s all bullshit. That you’re clean. Are you? Clean?”