Dempsey cleared his throat. He felt a sense of anxiety, as if he were Dr. Frankenstein … and the monster had just awoken and was about to leave the nest.
Prideux clapped a bony hand on Dempsey’s thigh. “Thank you for your time, Lucas. We’ll be in touch.” He winked, then popped open the door and got out.
6
Uzi set his leather satchel on his desk at the FBI’s Washington field office, then headed over to check in with a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, Special Agent Hoshi Koh.
Hoshi’s desk was a hodge-podge of files, notes, and a variety of tech gadgets: her smartphone, a tablet, a Bluetooth headset, and an external battery pack.
“I’m impressed,” Uzi said, taking inventory of the devices.
Hoshi tilted her head and examined his face. “You look tired.”
“Late night.”
“Another hot date?”
“Not exactly.” He stifled a yawn. “Who says hot date anymore?”
“Obviously I do.”
“Hey, where do we stand with that wild and crazy theory of Hezbollah collaborating with the Cortez cartel?”
“Soon as I got your email this morning I checked in with DEA. They’re running a new informant in San Diego that’s shown promise.”
“When are we expecting to hear?”
“They’re going to get back to us. Any day.” Hoshi slipped her glasses on. “Oh — Shepard wants to see you.”
Uzi walked into his ASAC’s office a minute later. Marshall Shepard leaned his large frame backward in his chair, making the springs creak loudly. “’Bout time you brought your ugly ass into my office. Left that message with Koh an hour ago.” He yanked off his glasses. “Take a seat, man. You look tired.”
“Jeez, between you and Hoshi, a guy can’t have a bad night.”
“You hear about that explosion on Irving Street, near 14th? They’re calling it a gas main, but I’m not buying it. I called Metro and they said they had no complaint on file. I ran it up the line and the brass wouldn’t even take my call, like they were dodging me. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Uzi tried to maintain a neutral expression. “Yeah.”
“I want you to look into it. Quietly.”
“Quietly, Shep?”
“Yeah, just you and — well, maybe Koh. That’s it. Let’s find out if there’s something fishy going on. I don’t know, maybe I’ve seen too much. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. But I see the CIA’s hands in this.”
“Really.” Uzi grabbed a toothpick from the cup on the desk. “Can’t it just be a gas main explosion? They do happen.”
Shepard scrunched his dark skin into an animated frown. “I am talking with Aaron Uziel, right? After all that shit that went down with the Armed Revolution Militia, you really think some suspicious shit can’t be going down that they’re keeping from us?”
Shepard was referring to a case a couple of years ago involving domestic terror attacks aimed at bringing down the US government.
Shepard’s desk phone rang. He listened a moment, then said, “Yeah, put him through.” He glanced at Uzi and said, “I need to take this, can you—” Before he could finish, the line connected. “Yes sir. This is Shepard.”
Uzi rose from his chair to give his ASAC some privacy. But Shepard suddenly rapped his knuckles on the wood desk. Uzi stopped and turned.
“Can you give me details on—” Shepard sat up in his chair. “No, no, of course. I’ll make him available. Whatever you need.” He hung up the phone and glowered at Uzi.
“What?” Uzi asked. “Who was that?”
“You know damn well who that was. I thought you were my friend.”
Uzi took his seat again. “I am, but I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
Shepard grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. “You’re going to be working a project for the director. And you didn’t see fit to inform me?”
“Oh, that.” Uzi unwrapped the toothpick and placed it in his mouth. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It puts me in an awkward position, given our relationship.”
“Which relationship are you referring to?” Shepard asked, his eyebrows raised. “That I’m your boss or that I’m your friend?”
“Both.” Uzi started rolling the cellophane wrapper between his fingers. “C’mon, Shep, we’ve been through this before.”
Shepard shook his head. “Care to tell me what you’re going to be working on?”
“Can’t.”
Shepard leaned forward, his gaze boring into Uzi’s. “This have anything to do with that explosion last night?”
Uzi did not reply — but he did not need to. Shepard was a sharp guy and he knew Uzi very well. A slight twitch in his eye, a dilated pupil — it didn’t take much — and Shepard would know the answer.
Shepard slapped the table with a large, thick hand. His brass FBI paperweight jumped. “Knew it.”
“Yeah, well, keep it to yourself. I have a feeling you’re going to be brought into this sooner rather than later. I tried to convince — actually, I’d better shut my mouth.”
Shepard twisted his full lips, then nodded slowly. “Fine. Go play spy. Or whatever the hell it is you’re doing. Keep me posted.”
“I can’t—”
“Yeah,” Shepard said with a dismissive wave of his right hand. “Whatever. Get your ass outta here.”
7
Vail was led through the Pentagon’s river entrance and down a nondescript corridor to a single elevator door. She was instructed to place her hand over a glass plate and a yellow light ran beneath it. The car arrived seconds later. Her escort dipped his security card, pressed the B button, and said, “Someone will meet you downstairs. You can take it from here.”
Gee, you think? “Thanks.”
The elevator doors slid apart and revealed a uniformed officer who was tall and broad, with calloused hands and a wind-weathered face. “This way.”
He brought her down a tiled corridor to a room at the end of the hall. She saw another panel beside the door and did not need to be told what to do. She placed her palm on it and waited for the sensor to scan her print. The electronic lock buzzed and the man turned and left her, headed back the way they had come.
Inside, she felt like she had walked into a gamer’s paradise: wall to wall flat screens, all displaying satellite or real time surveillance images from around the world. A constant flow of cool air swirled around her ankles, keeping the tech equipment well ventilated.
People milled about the large, high-ceilinged room, which was dimly lit and had personnel seated at workstations along the periphery, headsets on and monitors perched at eye level on articulating metal arms.
Uzi and DeSantos were across the way, in a separate glass-walled room that featured an oval conference table. When she walked in, they were talking with Troy Rodman, who was larger than the guy who had led her down the corridor and a shade darker than the rosewood surface peeking through the sheaf of papers scattered across it.
“Agent Rodman,” Vail said. “Good to see you again.” The last time their paths crossed they were in the back of a van in the outskirts of London, in deep trouble with the British authorities.
“Troy. Or Hot Rod. We’re a team. Takes too damn long to communicate when we’re on a mission if we’re saying Agent this, Agent that.”
“Got it.” She gestured to the papers. “What are you working on?”
“Compiled a list,” Uzi said, “of most likely groups to have the will, wherewithal, and balls to put together an operation like this.”