“So you’re saying it’s not structural failure.”
“That’s a conclusion I’m not willing to commit to just yet. What I’m saying is that I don’t see any signs of the parts being defective or worn. But there is evidence that something pushed against the transmission housing. Something very powerful and very sudden,” Maguire said.
“‘Something’ as in… what?” Uzi asked.
DeSantos said, “Man, you’re thick. A freaking bomb, that’s what.”
“But there’s something that disturbs me,” Maguire said.
Uzi frowned. “If it ‘disturbs’ you, I’m willing to bet it’s really going to upset me.”
Maguire placed the metal fragment where he’d found it. “Whoever did this used a sophisticated device to take down the vice president’s bird. As for the Stallion…” Maguire shrugged a shoulder. “Had to be something very powerful. And gaining access to these choppers is damn-near impossible.”
“The fact that they were able to do it is definitely alarming,” Uzi said. He studied Maguire’s face a moment. “But… that’s not what disturbs you.”
“No,” Maguire said. “If you’ve got a bomb, and you’ve gained access to the chopper, I could think of several more effective places to put it. Places that would’ve made it immediately drop out of the sky. Like the Stallion did. But if radar and the flight path check out, they flew Marine Two for almost five minutes after the first Mayday call.”
“Let’s go back to the Stallion for a minute. They took it down real fast. No fooling around there. What’s its Achilles’ heel?”
“Without a doubt, the Jesus Nut.”
Uzi smiled out of the right portion of his face. “Excuse me? What the hell’s a Jesus Nut?”
“I’m not being sacrilegious. It’s the ‘nut’ that holds everything together at the top of the main rotor. Screw around with it, put a bomb on it, the bird’s toast. Drops out of the sky.”
“Which is what happened.”
Maguire bobbed his head. “That’s what we think happened, based on radar. We’ll know more once I hear from the team assigned to that crash site. They’re searching right now with infrared, but there’s miles to cover. That said, if you want my opinion on the most effective way of bringing that chopper down in the middle of the Virginia countryside, that’d be it.”
They were silent for a few seconds before Uzi spoke. “So whoever did this wanted the Stallion down quickly, but they wanted Marine Two to stay up awhile longer. Why?”
“There’s no terror in a quick death,” DeSantos offered. “Whoever did this not only wanted Rusch dead, he wanted him and his family to suffer the terror of his helicopter going down.”
“So this might’ve been personal,” Uzi said. His gaze met DeSantos’s. “Looks like this is going to be my job for the next year or so.”
“It would appear so.”
A dust swirl rose from the ground a hundred yards to the north. Uzi, who had left DeSantos and Maguire moments ago, could tell a helicopter had landed, and seconds later the backlit silhouettes of a clot of men began moving toward the debris field. One of them had Marshall Shepard’s shifting gait. Another appeared to be FBI Director Douglas Knox — followed by an unusually large security detail — and another gentleman Uzi could not immediately identify in the murky darkness.
The men stepped into the bright klieg light aura that hovered above the crash site. Knox, wearing a dark suit and matching overcoat that contrasted with his thick head of gray hair, looked out at the firefighters hauling their equipment back to their rigs and the army of investigators combing the debris.
At this proximity, Uzi recognized the other official with Knox as Director of Central Intelligence Earl Tasset, which explained the large contingent of bodyguards: in addition to Knox’s security detail, Tasset’s Security Protection Officers were also along for the ride.
Tasset said a few words to Knox, shook his head in disapproval at the scene before them, then approached Uzi and Shepard. Tasset had pointed, petite features, John Lennon glasses, and above-the-collar wavy, salt-and-pepper hair with a tightly cropped goatee. Uzi always thought the guy looked more like a progressive college professor than a top spy master.
“Mr. Directors,” Shepard said, “this is Special Agent Aaron Uziel, head of WFO’s JTTF.” Both men, each intimately aware of the Joint Terrorism Task Force, nodded.
Uzi shook Knox’s gloved hand, then Tasset’s. “An honor to meet both of you,” Uzi said.
Knox’s eyes roamed the area beyond Uzi’s right shoulder. “Report.”
“Everything’s very preliminary at this point, sir, but my impression is that this was not an accidental downing. No overt signs of mechanical or structural failure. Not to mention they were both real tough birds.”
“Anything point to a bomb?”
“There’s some… suggestion that an explosive device was placed beside the transmission housing of the veep’s chopper. But this is all very preliminary.”
“Son of a bitch.” Knox clenched his jaw. “Find these people, Shepard. Whatever resources you need, whatever it takes, I don’t care.” He turned to Uzi. “You’ve got nine days to get me an answer.”
Uzi’s eyebrows rose. “Nine days?”
“Yes sir,” Shepard said quickly. “We’ll have that information for you, not a problem.”
“I want to be kept aware of everything you learn,” Tasset said to Shepard. “The idea is to work together here, pool our intel.”
Knox’s scowl deepened. “I’m sure he’s well aware of ‘the idea,’ Earl.” Knox threw a cautious look at Uzi, then moved off to tour the wreckage. Tasset and his people followed.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Uzi spoke. “Shep, I can’t guarantee we’ll be any closer to solving this thing in nine weeks, let alone nine days.”
“When the director tells you he wants something done, you do it, Uzi. No excuses, just answers. Answers.”
Uzi frowned and turned away.
“You need something, let me know. More agents, just tell me how many. That’s how this is going to work.” When he didn’t get a reply, Shepard put a reassuring arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Hey, someone tried to kill the president-elect of the United States, Uzi. That’s never happened before. This is major shit. And you get to be the guy in the middle of it all.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better, Shep.” Uzi held up a hand before Shepard could respond. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.” He tightened his large paw around Uzi’s shoulder, then turned and headed off toward the director.
Uzi rolled his head back, ran his hands across his face… and wondered how he was going to deliver.
DAY ONE
Uzi brought his fist up to his mouth as the yawn stretched his lips wide. Fatigue was not just announcing its arrival, it was propping up the pillows and begging him to find a bed. He needed a Turkish coffee — but at this time of night, in the middle of the countryside, that was not going to happen. He hugged his body tight as a shiver rippled through his shoulders.
He hadn’t wanted to call his old contact. There were issues such a meeting would bring up, things he didn’t want to discuss. But he needed information his former colleague might be able to provide; the man was dialed in, always was, and with a nine-day deadline, Uzi needed something to set him in the right direction, intel that could streamline his efforts and spark his investigation. If there was anyone who could do that, like jumper cables to a dead car battery, it was Nuri Peled.
Uzi sat beneath a grove of trees on a metal mesh bench in Pershing Park, an unexpected slice of suburbia two blocks from the White House. To his right and across the street stood the regal centenarian Willard InterContinental Hotel, the “crown jewel” of Pennsylvania Avenue. Uzi remembered reading that the term “lobbyist” had been coined in the Willard’s grand lobby and that writers Mark Twain and Walt Whitman had once chosen it as a place to gather and socialize.