“Let’s just say that certain… undesirable details about my past have come to light that… threaten my career. And my pension. Before CNN gets hold of it and it all blows up in my face, I need you to make it all go away. In a few weeks, you’ll be in a position to do that. You make that happen, and I’ll conveniently forget about this phone number.”
There were several seconds of silence.
“My next call,” Uzi continued, “won’t be to you, Mr. Larchmont. It’ll be to the Post, where I have a really good relationship with one of the editors who’ll pay me pretty well for the story. And then I’ll write a book and hit the talk show circuit — and the loss of my pension won’t matter.”
“The warehouse near Union Station, Fourth and G. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”
The line went dead. Uzi pulled on his ski mask, followed by the helmet, then brought the rifle scope up to his eyes and watched the entrance. Inside of two minutes, Quentin Larchmont appeared, followed by two dark-suited men — Secret Service agents. The chief of staff-to-be stopped outside the building’s large glass doors and said something to them. One of them spread his arms wide and replied.
Larchmont motioned with his hand, and the agent on the left reached into his pocket and passed over a small object. Larchmont then turned away and climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV.
Uzi shoved the scope into his pocket and started the Suzuki. There was no turning back now.
Echo Charlie squeezed the encrypted mobile so tightly his knuckles ached. He sat at his desk, wondering how the Fed had gotten this phone number. And how could he have known he was working with Lewiston Grant?
Charlie realized Uziel could’ve been bluffing — but still, he knew too much if he could place him in the same sentence with Grant. They were too close. No, he was too close. It sounded to Charlie as if the agent was working alone in hopes of pulling off a trade: silence for a favor. This was not unusual in the power-driven winds of Washington. But was it legit? He couldn’t take the risk. This had to be taken care of — quickly.
Charlie consulted his silver pocket watch, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he called to the secretary sitting at the front desk as he turned left down the hall.
“But sir, you have a meeting with Mr.—”
“I said I’ll be back,” he yelled, and kept on walking.
Two Secret Service agents fell in step behind him. With the assassination attempt an ugly blemish on their record, the Secret Service was taking no chances, and agents followed him everywhere he went off-site. Though it was annoying, Charlie reminded himself it was merely a constant reminder of the power he now wielded.
He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be back shortly. I won’t be needing you on this errand.”
“Procedure, sir,” the older one said. “We’ll be accompanying you—”
Charlie pushed through the glass doors and stopped a dozen feet short of the curb. He turned to face the two men and said, “You guys are just doing your job, I understand that. But I’ll only be an hour. I’d rather be alone for a little while. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“Sir, we’re not supposed to—”
“Actually, there is something you can do for me. Give me the keys to the Suburban.” He extended a hand and wiggled the fingers. “Quickly, please.”
The agents shared a look, then one dug into his pocket and handed over the keys.
Echo Charlie climbed into the armored-up vehicle, started the engine, and drove off.
Uzi accelerated hard. He needed to arrive ahead of Larchmont — and whoever else the chief of staff was bringing with him.
He ran a couple of lights and took turns faster than he should have, but he wanted to give his plan every chance to succeed. He swerved down an alley and the warehouse swung into view.
He did not think the Suburban could have made it here before him, and in fact, his quick recon of the immediate vicinity indicated it had not. He made a tight circle with his bike in front of the dilapidated structure, located its only entrance, and went to work.
Despite stopping to pick up his four passengers, Echo Charlie was early — important because they wanted to do a reconnaissance drive-by to ensure they were not being set up. Once convinced the area was clear of law enforcement, they would take action. The operation required stealth: work swiftly, dispose of the body cleanly, then get rid of all evidence that they had been there.
Charlie turned the corner of the potholed, puddle-filled alley and slammed on his brakes. Spread across the pavement, blocking the narrow road to the warehouse twenty yards away, was an upended motorcycle. The driver, pinned beneath it and lying on his back, flailed his arms like a beached fish impotently flapping its fins.
Charlie rubbernecked left and right, hoping for a way around the biker. But the area was too narrow. He cursed under his breath as his eyes darted around the alley, which was bordered by two windowless brick buildings. It was unlikely anyone had seen or heard the spill the motorcyclist had taken.
“Go deal with that,” Charlie said to the men behind him. “No matter what, keep him quiet. We don’t want anyone calling an ambulance. Drag him into the warehouse, gag and blindfold him. I don’t want him to be able to identify us—”
“I get rid of him,” one of them said in clipped English. “He see our car, the license plate.”
“Fine. Just be fast, quiet, and clean. And get the goddamn alley cleared. Go! Move!”
The three men left the Suburban, the fourth staying behind with his boss. Charlie gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as his enforcers approached the motorcycle.
Uzi lay in wait. Seconds later, Larchmont’s black SUV lumbered into the alley and ground to a stop. Uzi began flapping his arms, as if he were trapped beneath the motorcycle, which had tipped on its side, taking the driver down with it. At least that’s what he wanted them to think.
Lying on his back wearing a bulbous helmet was not comfortable. But if he was right, he wouldn’t be here very long. He activated his digital recorder as the two back doors opened and slammed shut. Three trim olive-skinned men dressed in dark suits hurried toward him. As the closer one approached, his jacket parted, revealing a large-caliber handgun.
“Help me,” Uzi said, his muffled voice sounding even more desperate.
But these three did not appear to be American Red Cross types; they looked more like the Middle Eastern terrorists he had once been ordered to kill. As the larger man bent over him, Uzi whipped his Puma tactical knife from his pocket and sliced it through the henchman’s neck with the swiftness of a magician. Arterial blood gushed from his carotid.
Uzi swung the blade back to his right, and with equal precision and speed, cut the second man’s trachea. Both reeled back, unsteady hands clutching their fatal wounds.
The last man stepped back and drew his handgun. But Uzi was faster with his blade, and he flung it through the air, the sleek metal slicing the intervening dozen feet in a split second. It was over before the pistol could clear leather. Clumsily grabbing for the handle of the blade protruding from the left side of his chest, the assailant fell back toward the pavement.
Uzi leapt up, and in two long strides reached the man’s shoulder rig. He drew the Smith & Wesson and fired twice at the SUV. The fourth henchman, who had just exited the Suburban’s open front passenger door, got off an errant shot before Uzi planted a suppressed round in the man’s forehead.