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
Operations Support Intelligence Group
The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
V ail 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
“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
Operations Support Intelligence Group
The Pentagon
Arlington, Virginia
V ail 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
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