And he’s a CIA operative whose territory included those areas. Uzi rubbed the back of his neck. He turned and saw Vail walking toward him.
“Thanks, Gideon. I’ll look into this.”
“Why are you asking about him? Any reason for us to be concerned?”
Uzi thought about that a second. “I honestly don’t know. He’s — and you didn’t hear this from me — he’s working for us. So he should be fine. But …”
“But if his nephew was a suicide bomber, someone he was close to, you just don’t know.”
“Thanks, Gideon. Gotta go.” He disconnected the call as Vail stepped in front of him.
“Everything okay?”
Uzi rose from the stool and took a long look at Vail. He did not know if he should say anything about what he had just learned so he went with how he genuinely felt: “We’re under attack and our enemy has been able to do anything they want, whenever they want. No, everything’s not okay.” In the distance, Uzi caught sight of Fahad approaching.
“There’s something else. That call.”
“Yeah, that call.” He watched as Fahad closed to within twenty feet then stopped and looked at one of the victims sprawled facedown across a vegetable counter: a man wearing a backpack, a brown bag still clutched in his right hand. “Let’s go see what our new task force member thinks of what happened here.”
Vail and Uzi came up behind Fahad, who was examining a deceased sweat-shirted male slumped over a vending stand.
“Mahmoud,” Vail said.
He turned, a frown etched into his face. “Call me Mo.” He gestured at the body, which showed evidence of multiple bullet entry wounds across its back. “These bastards aren’t going to stop unless we stop them.”
Kind of like a serial killer.
“This is not like any attack I’ve seen carried out by Hamas or al Humat,” he said. “Completely different methodology.”
“Hey. Boychick!”
They turned to see DeSantos walking toward them, negotiating the ruins littering the market’s floor.
“We got something.” Two Metro police officers brushed past, an injured man wedged between them, his arms draped around their shoulders. “A finger.”
“A finger?” Vail asked.
“A severed finger, probably from one of the bombers.” DeSantos handed her an evidence bag containing the bloodied digit.
“You’re giving me the finger?”
“I think they’ve already done that,” Uzi said.
“No kidding,” DeSantos said as he took the bag back. “CSU found it several dozen feet from the remnants of the bomber’s vest. When a suicide bomber blows himself up, the direction and location of the explosives sever the head and send it flying clear of the blast.”
“Thanks for that image,” Vail said.
“In this case,” DeSantos continued, “because of the double blast, both their heads were obliterated. This finger may be our only lead in terms of giving us an ID.”
“Well if it isn’t Aaron Uziel.”
They turned to see Tim Meadows, an FBI forensic scientist, approaching from the opposite direction. “Should’ve known you’d be working this case.”
“The worst criminals bring out the best and the brightest the Bureau has to offer,” Uzi said. “Except that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“I see our agent with the name of a submachine gun is locked and loaded with humor.” He turned to DeSantos and eyed him a moment. “No offense, but if you’re on the case, that’s not a good sign.”
DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that depends on how you look at it. I think it’s a good thing. Actual work is going to get done.”
“And my favorite female shrink,” Meadows said, giving Vail a hug. “Or maybe just my favorite female.” As he leaned back he seemed to notice Fahad for the first time. “Hmm. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Mahmoud El-Fahad. CIA.”
“Guess we’re pulling all the cans of alphabet soup off the shelves for this one, eh?” Meadows chuckled.
Alphabet soup was a common slang term to describe the government’s acronym and abbreviation nomenclature for its agencies: CIA, FBI, NSA, DoD, among dozens of others.
“We’ve got a finger,” Uzi said gesturing at the evidence bag in DeSantos’s hand. “Can you make sure it’s processed—”
“ASAP, yeah, I got that. Don’t you know that I’ve come to realize that if you’re on a case, it’s automatically important?”
Uzi leaned back. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ve learned that certain things are not worth fighting. Death. Taxes. Bureaucracy. Aaron Uziel.”
“That’s some great company, Uzi,” Vail said.
Uzi frowned. “Yeah, whatever. When can we get an ID?”
Meadows rocked his head side to side. “How about ten minutes?”
“Don’t play with me, Tim.”
Meadows took the bag from DeSantos and held it up to the light. “I’ve got a mobile lab outside. Let me see what I can do.”
Meadows was wrong: he didn’t have an answer for them in ten minutes. He had something for them in eight.
“The digit was intact, so I didn’t have to play with it to raise the print. I scanned it, uploaded it, and the computer got a match.”
“Can you email it to me?” Uzi asked.
Meadows pulled out his phone, tapped and scrolled and the image of whorls and ridges was on its way.
Uzi forwarded it to Gideon Aksel the second it hit his inbox, with a request for information.
Vail, who had taken a look around the remains of the market, its deceased shoppers and retailers, returned to the group.
“Anything?” Fahad asked.
“Death and destruction,” Vail said. “But you knew that already. You?”
“We got a hit on the print.”
“An ID? This fast? Tim, you’re setting a dangerous precedent.”
“I got a hit, not an ID. Sorry to get your hopes up.”
“Then I take it back. No precedent. Just disappointment.”
“Ouch,” Meadows said. “But before you judge me, since our bomber’s print was in AFIS, I did some more digging to see if our muskrat’s got a record.”
DeSantos turned away from an ATF agent he had been conferring with. “Hold on. This muskrat got a name?”
“I’m sure he does,” Meadows said. “I just don’t know what it is. Yet. But he was apparently storing up nuts for a long, cold winter.”
Vail looked at Meadows. “Kill the friggin’ muskrat. Just tell us what you found.”
“Latents from a New York City crime scene matched our bomber’s print.”
“Homicide?” Vail asked.
“Bank robbery, eighteen months ago.”
“From bank robber to suicide bomber?” DeSantos pulled his chin back. “You trying to be funny?”
Meadows held up one of his hands. “I’m only telling you what I know. I didn’t say it made sense.”
“So what’s the connection between the bombing and the bank heist?” Vail asked. “What was stolen?”
Uzi pulled out his phone. “I’ll see if Hoshi can set up a conference call with the detective on the case.”
“My old stomping grounds,” Vail said. “I think we should go there, meet with the guy, talk with the bank administrators, look at who’s got accounts there.”
“Set it up,” Uzi said. “We’ve all got go bags. Let’s meet at the field office in an hour.
19
They arrived in New York City at 6:00 PM, avoiding the typical weekday rush hour traffic.
En route, Knox informed them that Secretary Bolten had convinced the president to raise the threat level and go public with the terrorism connection — something Vail and Uzi felt was long overdue.