“Knox has known for a long time, Shep. So he’d be in the shit, too. But he and DeSantos — and now you — are the only ones who know. It can stay that way.” Uzi ventured a glance at his boss.
Shepard’s face was hard, his brow thick, his gaze focused on the sidewalk ahead. He abruptly turned left at the corner. Uzi stopped. “Where are you going?”
“To finish my breakfast,” Shepard yelled over his shoulder. “At least with that, I know what I’m getting. Eggs are eggs. No surprises.”
Uzi stood there, watching the big guy trudge down the street, feeling the same sense of loneliness he’d felt six years ago. Despite all the intervening time and his attempts to repair his life and fill the void, the only friendships he’d managed to harvest were now rooted in uncertainty.
As Uzi headed home, he realized the landscape of his case had changed substantially in the past twenty-four hours: he had been sure ARM was behind the helicopter bombing and subsequent murders; the brass casing recovered from Bishop’s crime scene matched the Russian 7.62 round he and DeSantos had pilfered from their compound. That was a pretty damning connection. But if he took a hard, objective look at his “evidence,” all it proved was that the person who assassinated Bishop had access to ARM’s ammo — or their storage shed, or to the same ammo supplier. Or, he was a lone wolf affiliated with the group. After all this time and trouble, Uzi had hoped to have more substance behind his suspicions.
Yet the bombs that took out Fargo and Harmon, and the attempts on Rusch and himself — appeared to be connected. Even though the explosive devices and MO differed, Karen Vail said a bomb was a less traditional assassination tactic. In terms of most probable explanations, it was likely the bombings were all perpetrated by the same group. Who had the most to gain from taking out these people? Was it ARM, in coordination with NFA, the attorney general and… Douglas Knox? All to remove Rusch from power in an attempt to eliminate a staunch gun-control advocate?
Then there was Nuri Peled’s death. Suicide? Not likely. Murder, then— But why, and by whom? The obvious answers could not be overlooked. Even if he’d been taken out by an al-Humat terror cell Peled had discovered, Uzi had no hard link, direct or indirect, to his case.
Perhaps his answers hinged on Leila. This was the question that gnawed deep inside him, the one that demanded resolution if he was to have any peace of mind going forward: Was Leila al-Far in fact Batula Hakim? It appeared not — the fingerprint discrepancy was absolute proof of that — but Aksel’s intelligence was flawless. Unless he was purposely leading Uzi down the wrong path.
But if Leila was Batula Hakim, how would she and al-Humat fit into the equation? Or were they part of another equation — gearing up for an unrelated attack on US soil? The terrorism conference? Or the supposedly secret Israeli-Palestinian peace talks?
If she wasn’t Hakim, the complexion of his case — of everything — would change. He thought back to when he’d first met her. Was it merely coincidence that he had gotten involved with her? After all, he had pursued her; she wanted no part of him. Or was that by design? Was she a honey trap to draw him in? A few hours ago, he’d been convinced it had been just that.
Yet again, all he had were mere suspicions, theories without substance. In many respects, a case without evidence.
His years as a Mossad operative came roaring back to him — the unease, the paranoia, the questioning of everyone and everything, of not knowing who you can trust. He was out of practice — if there was one thing Gideon Aksel had said that rang true, it was that living in America had softened him. Uzi did not want to admit it, but he also could not dispute it.
His survival skills had eroded substantially in six years. It was a natural effect of becoming an administrator and investigator rather than a covert assassin. Two different skill sets. Two different lives.
No matter. He needed to tap those rusty instincts and abilities. He needed to be on top of his game. Because the people he was facing were undoubtedly on top of theirs. Several corpses were proof enough.
After parking two blocks from his house, Uzi observed the immediate area, watching for and evaluating stray movement — especially people or cars out of place. Despite the paucity of time left, he reminded himself that patience was a strength. He moved stealthily, blending into his surroundings the way he’d been schooled so many years ago.
Rucksack on his back, he knelt behind a line of bushes and peered about. Convinced it was safe to approach his townhouse, he moved to a planter by the building’s entrance. Well hidden by shrubs, he squatted and withdrew his boot knife. Sticking the tip into the moist soil, he dug around until he located a small plastic container that housed a tiny combination-locked metal case. He dialed in the numbers and pulled open the lid. Inside were three keys: one to his house, one to his Tahoe — which he wouldn’t be needing anymore — and one to his Suzuki motorcycle.
Uzi quickly reburied the container and headed down the block to his bike. Reasoning it was more difficult to plant a bomb on a motorcycle than a car — almost everything was exposed — he moved swiftly, eyes keeping sentry over the street for unexpected movement.
As Uzi neared the corner, he snuck a peak at his watch: 8:10. He undid the rope tie holding the heavy vinyl-coated canvas cover and pulled it off the vehicle. He hadn’t used the beast in two months, but figured it would start.
After a once-over to visually inspect for faux engine parts fashioned from C-4, he unlocked his black M-4 Bell helmet and removed the ski mask he stored beneath the seat. As he pulled both over his head, he thought of the day he’d bought the motorcycle — against the wishes of his parents. His mother eventually caved, saying he could only ride the thing if he wore the best helmet money could buy. He squirreled away cash for three weeks, then bought a top-of-the-line Bell, which he used until he mothballed the bike in his parent’s garage. He gave the helmet to a neighbor’s son who couldn’t afford one — and it ended up saving the teen’s life two weeks later when he collided with a truck.
Uzi unlocked the hardened steel cable, pushed the Suzuki off its stand and rolled it around the corner. He got it going at a decent rate down L Street, then hopped on and started it up. It idled rough, but when he accelerated hard, the engine responded as it had so many times in the past.
Helmet and leather overcoat disguising his identity, he sped away.
Uzi parked his motorcycle a block from Leila’s apartment and peered through a Hensoldt Wetzlar rifle scope — courtesy of the FBI lab — at his former girlfriend’s window. Had she been back? Was she there now, getting ready to leave for work? He had no way of knowing.
As he eyed the garage entrance to his right and the building’s charred and damaged entryway further down the street, he realized Tim Meadows had no way of getting in touch with him if he had awoken and continued analyzing the “evidence.” He pulled the Bureau phone from his pocket: he had only two of five bars of battery life left. And no charger.
Nothing he could do about it. He dialed WFO and asked for Tim Meadows, concerned about having the conversation because he’d have to talk loud due to Meadows’s hearing deficit.
“Nice of you to call,” Meadows said. “I’ve got a good mind to tell you what you’ve put me through—”
“You probably don’t remember because you were so doped up, but I already apologized about the… incident at your house.”