A Touch of Malice

by Gary Ponzo

  Merrick thought about his brother’s pregnant wife. He would need to speak with Jaqui and find out what he could about Trent’s trip.

  “Mr. President,” Hanna’s voice said over the speaker. “President Santoro for you.”

  Merrick reached for the phone, then stopped himself. He turned to Fisk and waited for his approval.

  Fisk nodded.

  Merrick picked up the phone. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  Santoro’s voice was heavy with fatigue, as if he was tired of the conversation before it even started. “Your brother is alive.”

  Merrick let out a big breath and sat back on his desk. “Good.” He knew enough to shut up and listen. Maybe Santoro would fill the empty space with words he wasn’t prepared to speak.

  The silence lasted only a few seconds.

  “He has been badly hurt,” Santoro said. “He has taken a fall from a tree while spying on a private conversation.”

  Merrick stood erect and took the slack out of his grip on the phone. “How badly?”

  “He’ll need medical attention for a few days, but he will survive.”

  Merrick waited as long as he could before he asked, “When can he come home?”

  There seemed to be some consulting going on the other side of the phone line because Santoro could be heard speaking in hushed tones to someone in his office.

  “Mr. President,” Santoro said, “there is very little I can do to help your brother. He has been taken prisoner by the Cameno Cartel and he will be used as a bargaining tool. I am not capable of intervening in this matter.”

  “I see,” Merrick said, his chin muscles tightening. Fisk must’ve sensed his aggravation, because he jumped to his feet and approached Merrick with a paternal glare.

  Merrick stared at Fisk and said into the phone, “What exactly do the Camenos want?”

  “They are probably going to ask for more than you can give. So I would not expect this to end well for your family.”

  Merrick thought about the one thing he could bargain with. He held up the image on his cell phone. “And what about this photograph I have?”

  A pause.

  The grandfather clock ticked.

  “I think we both know what would happen should that ever get released.”

  Merrick nodded. “So you do have some say with my brother’s welfare?”

  “I may be able to keep him alive for a period of time. But not much more than that. I am sorry. Spies do not have a long lifespan in this part of the world.”

  Merrick gritted his teeth. “Trent is not a spy.”

  “So you say.”

  Fisk grabbed Merrick’s arm and raised his eyebrows. Merrick took a breath. “Okay, Mr. President. Please do your best to keep him alive while I work out the situations with the Camenos.”

  “I will do my best.”

  Merrick slammed the phone down. He was already in presidential mode.

  “Here’s the problem,” Merrick said, folding his arms. “I just got a briefing from Ken yesterday telling me that Santoro hated Pablo Moreno. So either one of Ken’s contacts has turned, or he’s feeding me the bullshit I want to hear. Either way, our resources are scarce down there.”

  “Ken does trigger the bullshit detector at times,” Fisk said, referring to the director of the CIA.

  Merrick needed time to see this through. He hated making decisions he would regret later.

  “That being said,” Fisk added, “we still need to get Ken on this right away.”

  “Yes,” Merrick said, his pace picking up speed. “Eventually.”

  “We don’t have time to play favorites,” Fisk said. “Ken will have assets in Colombia.”

  “He’ll send drones and spies and tip off the Colombians before we have a chance to rescue Trent.”

  “Rescue Trent?” Fisk turned to face Merrick. “What are you talking about? You already have a rescue mission in mind?”

  Merrick walked over and sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled around to see the Rose Garden lit up with accent lights outside his office. He was the most powerful political leader on the planet, yet he felt completely helpless. His family would need to be consulted. He wouldn’t allow them to mourn another death though. It was too much to ask.

  Merrick began to develop a plan. He considered his options. The CIA would be quick, but bulky. Navy SEALS could surprise the kidnappers, but they’d need a specific target. They’d need intelligence to develop a solid rescue mission. He knew the incriminating photo would only allow him a minimal amount of time. Maybe days, maybe hours. He scrolled through the contact list on his cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  Merrick was groping. He needed someone with stealthy contacts and the ability to move quickly. Someone who could assemble a small team of professionals to maneuver without alerting the Colombian government. An almost impossible task.

  Merrick hovered his finger over the name he was about to call. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it were a loaded weapon. “We have assets even Ken doesn’t know about,” Merrick said, looking over at Fisk with a raised eyebrow. It was subtle, but the inference was there and Fisk seemed to understand. It was the first time Merrick had acknowledged he was aware that FBI agent Nick Bracco had been using his mafia-connected cousin, Tommy, to help fight the war on terrorism. It was a fiercely kept secret within the confines of the beltway. Something only a select few were privy to. The president needed deniability and Fisk had done everything he could to protect his friend from the damage he would incur.

  Merrick could see Fisk over there shaking his head, trying to determine a more effective method of saving Trent. Nick Bracco had been one of the most celebrated FBI agents in the bureau, and his partner, Matt McColm, was ex-Special Forces. Between Nick’s contacts and Matt’s training, the two had thwarted many terrorist attacks. But Merrick needed deniability and Fisk never wanted anyone to connect the dots back to the president.

  “If it were your brother, Sam,” Merrick said, somberly, “what would you do?”

  Fisk sighed, then walked over and closed the door to the private office.

  “I’d call Nick Bracco,” Fisk said.

  Chapter 3

  Casa de Nariño was Colombia’s version of the White House. It was a palatial estate fronted by granite columns and a guarded black iron gate. The inside was decorated with Colombian artwork in virtually every oversized room. It hosted most formal state functions and included the residence for the president and his family.

  As with most rooms in the manor, the president’s business office was immense with a dark oak desk large enough to support a small vehicle. Behind the desk, the Colombian flag hung from a gold-plated flagpole. Everything in the room was designed to intimidate. Even the menacing portrait of Pablo Estrada which loomed across from the entrance was meant to create an ambiance of forewarning to foreign dignitaries who came to discuss their mutual interests.

  President Santoro hung up the phone in his office and tapped a finger on his desk. He was a smallish man with intense eyes and twitchy movements. Sitting across from him was Roberto Sanchez, his vice president and overall muscle to Santoro’s aggressive presidential style. Sanchez had large shoulders and a permanent sneer planted on his face.

  “He seems resigned to his fate,” Santoro said.

  Sanchez leaned forward, elbows on his khaki’s, his biceps tight against his blue cotton shirt. “Did he give you threats?”

  “No. He simply stated the obvious.”

  “The picture has potential harm, yes?”

  “Yes,” Santoro said. “We need to devise a plan to minimize its impact. Until then, make sure Padilla keeps the brother in seclusion.”

  Sanchez gently rocked back and forth and avoided eye contact. “It was a stupid ceremony.”

  “It was just that. A ceremony,” Santoro said with a flat tone. “Do not place more importance on it than necessary.”

  Sanchez glanced out the bulletproof window behin
d Santoro into the dimly lit courtyard filled with orange trees and accent lights. He wondered where Santoro got all his bravado from. The smallish man with bad breath which no one would ever tell him about.

  “We should have Padilla let the brother go,” Sanchez said. “He will only bring us attention we do not need.”

  Santoro kept tapping his index finger on his desk, the cadence picking up speed as the conversation continued. His eyes darting in different directions. “I’ve instructed Padilla to kill him.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We do what we always do when there is resistance to our ways.”

  “But we cannot just send our men to eliminate the dissidents this time. We are speaking of the president of the United States.”

  Santoro’s eyes momentarily focused on Sanchez. “He has sent his brother down here to spy on us. He deserves everything we give him.”

  “See, this is the part which I do not understand,” Sanchez said, pulling a round lollipop from his shirt pocket and pointing it at Santoro. “Would you send your brother to go spy on the president of another country?”

  Santoro seemed incensed at the concept. “Of course not.”

  “Exactly,” Sanchez said, tucking the cocaine-laced lollipop into the corner of his mouth. “You would send spies to do spies’ work. Why risk a family member?”

  “So you suspect President Merrick is incompetent?”

  “No, I suspect this brother was there for some other reason and just happened to stumble upon your . . .” Sanchez tried to remove the sarcasm from his words, “ceremony.”

  Santoro curled his lip into a ferocious scowl. “You have been sucking on too many of those drug sticks, Roberto. This man was there for one reason. And we need to find out everything we can about his agenda.”

  Sanchez may have been influenced by the small amounts of cocaine he ingested each day, but he was not nearly as psychotic as Santoro. The man twitched like a horsefly, never once remaining on task for any length of time. His neurotic tendencies always getting in the way of governing the country the way it should be run. The way Sanchez would run it if he were in charge.

  Then, Santoro’s expression changed. His bald head bobbed from side to side and that stupid childlike grin came over him, as if a new person was emerging from the inside of his skin. He bent over and opened the bottom drawer from his desk and came up with a small doll.

  Sanchez rolled his eyes, then looked away. He could never get over this fetish of Santoro’s.

  “My pretty girl,” Santoro whispered.

  Sanchez knew to stay quiet during these episodes. The little man would go on for five or ten minutes pampering the blond-haired piece of plastic as if he were in a trance.

  The doll was dressed in nothing but lace underwear and Santoro’s eyes glowed as he held out his index finger and reached for the doll’s lower stomach. Slowly, and with a trembling hand, he touched the doll’s tiny abdomen and shut his eyes. A soft moan escaped from his slackened jaw.

  Sanchez watched the mentally disturbed leader with disgust. He sucked on the lollipop and swallowed, allowing the cocaine to numb his sense of pride. The power Santoro yielded prevented Sanchez from interrupting the sordid fantasy. Colombia’s landscape was littered with the shallow graves of tortured souls who even came close to embarrassing their president.

  “Now,” Santoro said, rubbing his tiny hands together, “how about some new girls?”

  Oh boy, Sanchez thought. The girls he was requesting now were all virgins, not more than fifteen. All of them handpicked by Santoro’s guards and held prisoner until he called for them. The things he would do to them made Sanchez cringe. He was tired of pampering the man’s fetishes, but he didn’t yearn for a death sentence either.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Sanchez said. He yanked the lollipop from his mouth and dropped it in a nearby trashcan as he opened the massive oak door. Two armed guards on either side of the doorway came to attention. He regretted the anguish he was about to facilitate, but he was in no position to oppose the request.

  “He wants the girls,” Sanchez said. The guards both had the identical reaction. Their faces couldn’t hide the revulsion gathering in the pit of their stomachs. They were the ones who had to clean up the mess once the sadistic little man was through with the young women.

  One of the guards acknowledged the command with a terse nod, then left to retrieve the bait. The other guard simply stared at Sanchez with sadness.

  * * *

  Julie Bracco was startled awake when she heard the buzzing noise coming from inside her bedroom. She looked at the clock. Only ten thirty. She must’ve been asleep less than an hour. The buzzing persisted. The Braccos’ cabin in Payson, Arizona, was wired with a sophisticated alarm system and Julie knew every cautionary sound. This was not one of them, however. Her husband, Nick, headed the FBI’s top anti-terrorist team and they’d been targets of some revengeful terrorists in the past, so Nick had the place secured and tricked out for any intruders around their home.

  A slight glow came from the top of the dresser. She’d found the culprit. Nick’s cell phone. It was set on vibrate and danced slightly with each silent ring. Julie glanced to the other side of the bed and realized she was alone. She sighed. Nick was going through another battle of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and she figured he was reading downstairs in the den. He was finding it harder and harder to sleep and reading usually kept his mind from wandering down the wrong paths.

  They’d left Baltimore in hopes of finding a peaceful mountainside community where they could escape the grind of the DC politics and the speedy city lifestyle. But terrorists don’t have nine-to-five hours and they don’t care where you live. They will come find you and go for your weakest link. Your friends. Your family. Anything they can do to exact revenge.

  Julie slid from bed and pulled down her oversized T-shirt to cover her knees. She thought of looking at the display on Nick’s phone, but was more concerned about his whereabouts than his incoming call. As she crept down the empty hallway, she decided to look in on her son, Thomas. His bedroom door was open slightly. She softly nudged it, then moved aside to let the dim hallway light fall across her son’s crib. She could barely make out shapes in the dark room. The oversized stuffed lion in the corner; the airplane mobile dangling from the ceiling. She eased over the carpeted floor to the side of her son’s crib. At first it looked normal until she reached inside to pull on a fluffed-up baby blanket and found it empty. She frantically reached around in the dark, groping for her child. Her heart rate increased while her scalp felt like it was crawling with ants.

  As her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, she noticed a large lump in the bed against the wall. It was her son’s next sleeping quarters once he outgrew his crib. A low-to-the-ground mattress surrounded by a racing car frame. As she approached the bed, she could see the large shape of a man. Julie got down to her knees and saw Nick curled up on his side, facing her, his chest falling and rising in the quiet. Cradled in his arms was Thomas, facing Nick, his tiny head resting in the crook of his father’s elbow.

  Julie put a hand to her heart and caught her breath. It took her a moment to calm down and enjoy the scene. Nick, the born protector, watching over his son even in his sleep. She could hear her husband inhale gently, but when he exhaled it came out in short blasts. A beam of moonlight came through the window and glistened off of Nick’s forehead which was spotted with beads of sweat. He was having another nightmare. Julie was as attentive to her son as she could possibly be, but she’d felt completely helpless with Nick. He kept everything inside. The brave warrior not letting anyone know his frailties. Not even his wife.

  Nick’s phone buzzed again from their bedroom. Julie cursed under her breath. She slowly got to her feet and before she could turn, Nick jerked up gasping like a raged animal, his eyes wild and confused.

  “It’s okay,” Julie whispered. She quickly slipped her hands under Thomas and scooped him up and kissed his cheek. With his eyes st
ill shut, his arms spastically groped for comfort in the night. She kissed his cheek and gently lowered him into his crib. He immediately curled up and stuck a thumb in his mouth.

  Nick rubbed his eyes and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, his knees still higher than his waist. He crawled over the side railing and pulled himself to his feet.

  “You all right?” Nick asked.

  “Of course,” Julie said, wiping the sweat from Nick’s eyebrows with her fingertips. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “My phone. Has it been ringing long?”

  “No, this is the second time in the past few minutes.”

  Nick took her head into his hands and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

  Before she could return the comment, he was out the door. She smiled. It had taken him almost ten years to get those three words out of his mouth. Now, after months and months of therapy, he could recite them without hesitation. He would say it proudly, in front of company, just to prove to her how healed he was. But she knew PTSD had its claws in him and it wasn’t ready to let go, no matter how many “I love yous” he could blurt out.

  Julie covered Thomas with a blanket and checked the volume on his wireless monitor. She quietly left the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Nick came rushing out of their bedroom, his phone to his ear. As he passed her in the hall, he whispered, “The White House.”

  Julie watched him hustle down the stairs, two steps at a time. At the base of the stairs, he turned the corner and scrambled into his office. She heard him say, “Yes, sir,” with a wide awake voice.

  Then the door to his office closed and Julie knew he was leaving again. This time she knew he wasn’t ready. He needed more time to recover from his last episode. She leaned back against the wall and her legs gave way as she slid down to the floor. She curled her knees to her chest and lowered her head.

  The thought which ran through Julie’s mind was the same thought she’d always had when Nick packed a bag to leave.