“Notifying the directors of the FBI, Secret Service, and Homeland Security we may have a serious breach of security is crucial to maintaining the safety of this country.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president turned right and headed for the door again. Uzi followed. Back out on the Colonnade, Whitehall started walking down the path, but this time did not stop. He gave Uzi a sidewards glance, then said, “Unofficially, I believe you’ve started something you would like to finish. Am I right, son?”
Uzi nodded, unsure of where the president was leading.
“I don’t know if Director Knox is involved. I would find it hard to believe given his decades of distinguished service. But I’ve also been around the block a few times, and I know that men are sometimes driven by things people like me can’t pretend to understand. For one, I could never do some of the things our covert operatives are paid to do. But they do them without hesitation. Whatever their internal motivation is, I don’t know. Honor, duty, love for their country is what I’m told. But all I need to know is that when the call goes out they put their lives on the line and do what’s necessary to get the job done.” Whitehall turned to Uzi. “There’s something about you, agent, that makes me think you understand such men and their motives. And that’s why I’m asking you to continue doing what you need to do to get the job done.”
Uzi’s head snapped left. “But you just called the director—”
“Because until January twentieth I’m still president of the United States, and I have to follow procedure. But sometimes following procedure is ineffective. I think you’ve been around Washington long enough to understand what I’m saying.”
Uzi nodded. But he wondered if Whitehall knew more than he was letting on. Was there more depth to his comment on following procedure or was Uzi to take it at face value? Had the president been briefed by Knox — or Shepard — about his clash with Osborn? He had no doubt that Whitehall had asked the Secret Service to prepare a full dossier on him after, or even before, their first meeting at the White House. But exactly how much Whitehall knew about his past was unclear.
“You’re wasting time, son, and that’s something we can ill afford. Now get going. And Godspeed.”
Uzi pushed his thoughts aside, shook the president’s hand, and was off.
Alpha Zulu paced outside his car, rubbing at his forehead but keeping his Redskins ball cap pulled low over his brow. He was good at keeping cool under pressure; it was more a learned skill than an inherited personality trait. But with time growing short, he was in operations mode. Expectations rose along with tempers. This was not the time for things to go wrong.
At the moment, there were no serious indications the plan was in jeopardy. Like any successful business, safeguards were built in, redundancies and backups. The anticipated glitches caused by law enforcement’s inevitable probing made the intricate strategizing vital, the challenge that much more alluring. It was a chess game on a grand scale, with pawns and queens, moves and countermoves.
Like a master, Zulu had drawn up a winning plan, yet continued studying his opponents — measuring their weaknesses, finding holes in their methods. Identifying ways to use their deficiencies against them to break down their defenses. In this deadly game, when all was said and done, preparation, patience, and experience were king. They planned to have the board cleared in a matter of hours. But if getting to checkmate took weeks, or days, or years, so be it.
He glanced at his scorpion-engraved pocket watch: it was time. He climbed into his car and slid behind the wheel. A moment later, a late-model sedan pulled up alongside his and stopped. Oscar Delta got out, adjusted his jacket, and then moved around to Zulu’s back door. He got in and closed the door quietly.
Zulu cranked the engine and drove off. “Things are hot. There’s a lot in play.”
“We expected that.”
Zulu’s eyes roamed the street. “Yes.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Delta, then continued. “Be ready in case we need to implement Fallback.”
“You think it’ll come to that?”
Zulu knew what this could mean to Delta, but he had never doubted the man’s resolve. “Hard to say.” Zulu made a U-turn and accelerated back toward the park.
“What does your intel indicate?”
“I’ll evaluate and advise. For now, that’s all you need to know.” He saw Delta’s mouth contort in rebuke. A moment later, Zulu stopped beside the sedan and looked off to his left. “Good luck.”
Without a word, the rear door closed. The interior was quiet.
Another car door slammed, and the sedan drove off.
As Uzi walked along West Executive Avenue toward his motorcycle, he pulled out his phone and called Tim Meadows. After obtaining the number for Larchmont’s encrypted cell, he got onto his Suzuki and peeled away, headed for the Rusch transition headquarters.
He did a couple of drive-bys, casing out the place and locating all the entrances and exits. It would’ve been a great deal easier to involve the Secret Service detail assigned to the vice president’s staff, but Uzi’s plan demanded he engage as few people as possible.
He called DeSantos, but it went to voicemail; his partner either did not recognize the phone number of Uzi’s borrowed cell, or his phone was off. Regardless, Uzi hoped DeSantos checked his messages soon.
After making his third pass around the office building, he settled on his surveillance point. A reinforced black Suburban was parked at the front curb, twenty feet from one of the two exits. Uzi reasoned the Secret Service would choose the shortest unprotected path to the car, and this was, indeed, the door Larchmont had used when Uzi had visited him.
He parked his bike two blocks away and across the street. From this vantage point, the Hensoldt scope gave him a clear view of the building and the Secret Service’s black Suburban.
He inserted a small Y-connector plug into the side jack of the cell phone, then pressed Record on a digital recorder in his pocket. He dialed the encrypted mobile, hoping Larchmont kept the phone on at all times. If not, this could take longer than he’d planned. And the longer it dragged out, the greater the likelihood Knox could take actions that would interfere with Uzi’s plans. At this point, Uzi wasn’t sure if that was good — or bad.
Ninety minutes later, after repeated attempts and Uzi’s patience — and time — wearing thin, the call to Larchmont’s encrypted mobile finally went through.
“Mr. Larchmont,” Uzi began. “It’s good to hear your voice again. I’ve been trying to reach you. Now don’t hang up. I know, this comes as a bit of a shock—”
“Who is this?”
“Oh — sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude. This is Special Agent Aaron Uziel. Remember me? We met—”
“What do you want?”
“Easy, Mr. Larchmont, easy. I’ve got a problem and you’ve got a problem. I figure maybe we can help each other out.”
“And just what problem do I have, Agent Uziel?”
Uzi chuckled. “I know all about your work with ARM. Specifically, Lewiston Grant.”
“You don’t know anything because there’s nothing to know.”
“Really? See, I’ve got this phone number, now, don’t I? And I know about your calls to the Executive Office Building. By the way, I should remind you that your phone may be encrypted, but mine isn’t. Still want to discuss this so close to the government’s probing ears?”
“You didn’t mention what your problem was.”
Uzi smiled. He had him. What had been a listing of suspicious phone calls and unusual circumstances was about to turn into hard evidence. Larchmont was sniffing the bait, weighing the risks, wondering if it was a trap. Whether or not Uzi could hook him and reel him in depended on his next comment.