A Touch of Malice

by Gary Ponzo

  “Do you have any contacts in Colombia?” Nick asked.

  “Hmm,” Tommy said, understanding the need to keep the conversation confidential. “As in the country or the city?”

  “The country.”

  With a sour look, Rich finally placed chips in the pot to match Tommy’s bet. Then he relinquished his remaining chips to raise the bet another five thousand, leaving nothing but green space in front of him. He looked like a man walking to the gas chamber.

  “Of course,” Tommy said on the phone. “I know people everywhere. What kind of help do you need?”

  There was a long pause. The dry cleaning lady looked at her cards as if they were disobedient children, then placed them face down and slowly slid them under the large pile of chips announcing her resignation from the hand.

  “This is really important,” Nick said. “And really classified.”

  “Okay.”

  “The president’s brother had been kidnapped. I need to go down there and find him before he’s killed.”

  “Whoa,” Tommy snapped back in his seat. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I wish I was.”

  It was Tommy’s turn to bet and he was receiving glares from everyone at the table. He was breaking the first rule of Lloyd’s Poker House: No cell phone conversations at the table.

  Tommy said into the phone, “Hang on for a second.” Then he put the phone down on the table, pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Rich. “You have a losing hand there, pal. You know it. They know it. The Pope knows it. The police know it. The only way you win is if I fold.”

  Rich licked his lips with apprehension.

  “So, here’s my proposition,” Tommy said. “I’ll fold my hand if you promise to cash in right now and drive to the hospital and pay for your father’s procedure. I know what he has. It’s called Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus. NPH for short. I had an uncle with the same condition. Every hour you wait can destroy more brain cells and keep him from making a full recovery.” Tommy held out his hand for a handshake.

  Rich examined the pot of chips, probably trying to decide how much profit he’d have left over after paying the hospital bill.

  Tommy cocked his head. “Last chance, killer.”

  Rich must’ve known he had a losing hand, so he did the only reasonable thing. “Okay,” he said, shaking Tommy’s hand. “You have a deal.”

  Tommy turned over his four Aces and watched Rich’s eyes go wide in shock. “Go,” Tommy pointed to the door. “Now. Take care of your father.”

  Rich greedily swiped the pile of chips toward him and nodded.

  Tommy looked over at a bulky man who handled the security at the poker house. “Cash me out, Phil. I need to get going myself.”

  The man began the process of stacking and counting chips, while Tommy grabbed the phone and moved to the back of the room where a dozen empty tables stood bare in the dark. The fluorescent lights were turned off so Tommy couldn’t see the cigar and cigarette smoke, but he could still smell it.

  He sat at the farthest table, pulled out a purple toothpick and dug it between two back molars. “Okay,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and crossing his legs. “What’s going on?”

  “We need contacts down there. Anyone,” Nick Bracco said, suddenly in a whirlwind of background noise.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m about to get into a helicopter to go to Sky Harbor. We’re flying to Miami to pick up some technology for the trip. Then on to Colombia.”

  “Nicky, I’ll make a couple of calls, but how much time do you have?”

  “Very little. I doubt this will last beyond tomorrow night. You think you can find someone who can help us track down a cartel in the Amazon?”

  “Shit,” Tommy said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got people all over the world, even in Colombia. But the Amazon?”

  “This is important,” Nick said, the helicopter blades picking up in pitch. “The president is willing to do just about anything to get his brother home alive.”

  A man came out of the shadows of the poker room and dropped a stack of bills on the table where Tommy was sitting.

  Tommy took a couple of hundreds from the top of the stack and handed them to the guy. “Here you go, Phil.”

  Phil took the money and nodded as he left.

  “Tommy,” Nick said, “I need something. We’re desperate.”

  In the stillness of the dark something came to Tommy. “Actually, I do know one guy who is familiar with that part of the world.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Well,” Tommy said, digging out stale pretzels from his teeth with his toothpick. “The guy’s not exactly a boy scout.”

  “What are we talking about, some muscle?”

  “More than just muscle.”

  There was silence for a moment. Nick was smart enough not to pry. Tommy could practically see Nick running a hand through his hair while his partner, Matt McColm, waved at him to get in the helicopter.

  After a few seconds, Nick said, “I need you to meet me in Miami. I’ll have a Department of Justice plane waiting for you at Dulles Airport. Go to gate 1C and ask for Martin. He’ll take you to the plane. Call me once you’re airborne.”

  “Got it.” Tommy stood up to gather his money. “Hey, how’s Julie?”

  “Not happy.”

  “I can’t say I blame her. I mean, for crying out loud, Colombia?”

  “Yeah, well . . . this is different.”

  “All right,” Tommy said, stuffing cash into his pocket. “We’ll talk soon.”

  “Hey,” Nick said, a little too loud. “Don’t take any chances. Okay?”

  Although Nick couldn’t see him, Tommy smiled at his cousin’s concern. “All right, chief. Will do.”

  Chapter 10

  The Executive Residence in the White House is located between the East and West Wings. There were three floors to the complex and the second floor contained the private living quarters for the current president and the First Family. In order to gain entrance to this section of the building one must secure a name on the qualified visitor list, which includes FBI background checks, a fingerprint match, and a verbal approval from either the president or the First Lady, or First Man, depending on the residing president’s gender.

  The only exception to this rule was Samuel Fisk, who simply strolled past the security check without ever exchanging even a greeting with the four person crew of Secret Service agents who manned the entrance. He was more family than the president’s own in-laws.

  Fisk was clutching a memo e-mailed from the chief of staff to the department heads about the president’s upcoming schedule. He strode through the halls of the president’s residence with a purpose and didn’t stop until he found Ann Merrick in the master bedroom suite. The room was renovated by President Truman and included closets which were wallpapered and disguised as the rest of the wall.

  A Secret Service agent was guarding the doorway to the bedroom when Fisk zoomed past him. On the oversized master bed sat an open suitcase. Ann Merrick was standing over the suitcase with a handful of clothes in her hand mumbling something to herself when Fisk entered the bedroom and held up the memo.

  “Where is he?” Fisk said in a short burst.

  The First Lady turned and Fisk saw the trembling lips. The best she could do was shrug.

  Fisk let out a breath and realized she was more upset about the agenda than he was. She turned and headed to the master bathroom, dropping a trail of clothes on the carpeted floor along the way. Once inside, she slammed the door shut.

  Fisk shook his head and returned to the corridor, looking up and down for a sign of Merrick. Finally, he said to the Secret Service agent standing guard, “Where is he?”

  The agent nodded toward a sitting room across the hallway. In the far corner of the room, on an antique sofa, sat President Merrick and his young daughter, Emily. He was reading a book to her with his legs crossed. The wall TV was turned to CNN, but muted
.

  Fisk came halfway across the room, then cleared his throat to gain Merrick’s attention. The president turned. Fisk held up the memo. Merrick lowered his head and said something to Emily. He handed her the book and she offered a little resistance, but a small kiss on her forehead seemed to calm her down.

  Merrick got up and appeared ready for Fisk’s assault.

  “I’m well aware of the risks,” Merrick said in a low tone.

  “Really?” Fisk said, holding out the memo as if it were a poisonous snake. “Because there aren’t enough Secret Service agents to keep you alive in this environment.”

  Merrick pulled Fisk away from Emily and opened the side door to the Lincoln bedroom. A larger chandelier hung above Victorian-style furniture centered by a ten foot by eight foot rosewood bed against the south wall.

  Once inside, Merrick shut the door behind them. “What’s the real problem here, Sam? I’m making a diplomatic visit to a South American country with a democratically voted president.”

  Fisk pursed his lips. “I’m telling you, Santoro is psychotic. You have no idea how dangerous he is.”

  “Sam, I’m flying with a plane full of Marines. They’ll be securing the area before I ever step foot outside of Air Force One.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand better than you think. The press already knows about Trent. When a US president goes to a country like Colombia, the media follows. They will be scattering like termites, looking for a story. We can use that type of scrutiny down there. Santoro’s presidency has never been studied with the sort of searchlight focus a hungry press corps will bring. We can use that type of examination. They may uncover things we can’t.”

  Fisk rubbed the side of his face. “That’s it? That’s what you’ll be doing, bringing a trail of reporters to uncover the story? Find out what happened?”

  “Of course, Sam,” Merrick slapped the side of Fisk’s shoulder. “What, you thought I was going to personally lead a search party through the Amazon?”

  “No,” Fisk said. “I thought you were going to arrange a meeting with Pablo Moreno. Maybe do some negotiating face to face?”

  If Merrick had those thoughts he gave nothing away, but Fisk had known him too long. Merrick wouldn’t let this go without a fight.

  “I offered fifty million dollars to keep him alive until I get there,” Merrick said, bluntly and without apology.

  There it was, Fisk thought. The can of worms had officially been opened.

  “Daddy!” came an urgent scream from the sitting room.

  Merrick flung open the door and ran to Emily, who was standing in front of the couch and pointing to the muted TV.

  “It’s Uncle Trent!” Emily shouted. “He’s missing, Daddy.”

  There stood a CNN reporter in front of the capital building in Bogota. The words, “President’s Brother Missing,” highlighted in bold at the bottom of the screen.

  Merrick draped his arms around his daughter and pulled her close. “It’s okay, sweetie. Daddy’s going to find him and bring him home.”

  Great, Fisk thought. Among all the other crap he had to negotiate as secretary of state, he’d become advisor to the Indiana Jones of presidents as well.

  * * *

  President Santoro examined the man sitting in his office with a sense of admiration. Dr. Mark Grennan was a slim man with a trim mustache and a medical degree from Yale School of Medicine. He also received a PhD in Psychology there as well.

  Santoro sat behind his large desk and smiled affably as the psychologist scribbled notes in a legal pad placed in his lap. They’d been talking for over an hour and the man must’ve written enough pages to fill a book.

  “So, Dr. Grennan,” Santoro raised his eyebrows. “Do you think I am disturbed?”

  Dr. Grennan looked up at Santoro suspiciously, as if his answer was being measured somehow. “Of course not, Mr. President,” Dr. Grennan said, suddenly losing interest in his book full of notes. “You are simply operating under extreme pressure and you use the dolls as a form of transference.”

  “Transference?”

  “Yes. You must understand, Mr. President, the main characteristic these dolls have in common is that they can’t speak. Therefore they can’t disagree with you. They are simply inanimate objects so they can’t criticize your actions. Deep down you crave acceptance. This experience you had in the Amazon with this young businessman, you were simply looking for him to approve of you. You see, every day you make decisions which half the people agree with. No matter how hard you try, the other half are going to disagree with you. This is a hard principle for any leader to have to face. These dolls simply help you cope with the barrage of noise aimed at your position in the country.”

  Santoro sat there, hands clasped, index fingers tapping together under his chin. Dr. Grennan seemed concerned about his comments, maybe not knowing how far to go.

  Finally, Santoro smiled, accepting the value of his session. “So do you believe I should take medicine for my . . . um, condition?”

  Dr. Grennan seemed prepared for this one. “No, absolutely not. You are a mentally healthy person.”

  Ultimately, this was what Santoro wanted to hear. He wasn’t crazy, just stressed and needing an outlet for the pressure he endures on a daily basis. He pointed to the notepad in Dr. Grennan’s lap.

  “What are in those pages?” Santoro asked.

  Dr. Grennan looked down at the pad and shrugged. “They are simply notes I use for my patients. It helps me keep track of our progress.”

  “And do you believe I have made progress? Even in this one visit?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. You certainly have.”

  Santoro stood up and walked over to a massive wooden hutch against the wall to his right. The structure stood over ten feet high with a sparkling marble shelf and a mirror inset between two adjacent cabinets.

  Santoro pulled up on a semicircle scalloped door which exposed a countertop full of bottles of gin and whiskey and different wines. He held out a hand presenting the assortment of beverages to the doctor. “Can I please offer you a complimentary drink before you leave today?”

  The way Santoro said it, the good doctor would’ve been foolish to decline the offer. It could be taken as offensive.

  “Yes,” Dr. Grennan nodded nervously. “Thank you.”

  Santoro stood before the collection of beverages and said, “Your choice.”

  “Um,” Dr. Grennan searched the bar for something he might enjoy. “I’ll have a glass of Merlot, if you have it.”

  Santoro smiled, then pulled a hand-tightened cork from the bottle of Merlot and poured it into a wine glass. He walked over to his guest and handed him the glass of wine.

  Dr. Grennan wisely accepted and said, “Thank you. You are not drinking?”

  Santoro leaned back against his desk while facing the doctor. “No, I am afraid I have an important meeting this afternoon and I need to have a clear mind.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Grennan replied, taking a sip of the Merlot and leaning back in his chair. “This is quite good.”

  “Thank you,” Santoro said, congenially. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “You are from America, yes?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Grennan sat with his notepad on his lap. He placed the wine glass on top of the notepad for balance. “My wife is from Colombia, so we decided to move down here to raise the children.”

  “This is quite nice to hear. Your wife is very loyal, eh?”

  “Yes, she is.” Dr. Grennan seemed pleased the way the conversation was going.

  “Colombian woman are sensual animals,” Santoro said with a wicked grin.

  This caught the doctor a little off guard and he gave a terse nod to the comment.

  “I mean, look at Shakira, she is quite the woman,” Santoro said, pulling the starched cuffs out from his suit jacket. “I knew her back when she was just a child. Back when she was a brunette.” Santoro lifted his eyebrows and ran a hand up and down his tor
so. “And I mean, she was brunette all over.”

  Dr. Grennan seemed to be drinking quicker now. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, Mr. President, you have been very gracious with your time. I must leave now and get back to my other patients.”

  As Dr. Grennan leaned forward in his chair, Santoro held up a palm and said, “Please, just another minute.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Santoro examined his guest and recognized the dull expression come over him now. His eyes began to droop just a bit and his shoulders slumped considerably.

  Dr. Grennan must’ve become aware of his sudden grogginess because he looked down at the glass of wine as if it were a grenade in his lap. “Mr. President?”

  Santoro was now comfortable enough to bend over and remove the glass from Dr. Grennan’s hand before it spilled all over his nice floor.

  “There is an old Colombian tradition,” Santoro stated, “which I have always respected. Whenever a man is about to be killed, a true Colombian will always offer the dying man a last drink.”

  Dr. Grennan had enough strength to show surprise, but not enough to actually come to his feet. He slumped back in his chair while staring at Santoro with a mixture of shock and dread.

  Santoro lifted the notepad from the doctor’s lap without any resistance. “I am sorry, but I cannot afford to have my personal issues leave this room. Either on paper,” the president pointed to Dr. Grennan’s head, “or in someone’s brain.”

  Saliva welled up over the doctor’s lower lip as he began to lose command of his body fluids. A urine stain grew in the crotch of his pants. He was fighting the fatigue and losing.

  “But . . . ,” Dr. Grennan steered his eyes to the hutch and the myriad of choices he had. He seemed to question how he could’ve made such a bad choice of beverage.

  Santoro followed his astonished gaze.

  “Oh,” Santoro said, replacing the cork in the wine bottle, then setting it back down on the marble bar. “I am afraid the entire collection is poisoned. It made no difference which drink you chose.”

  Dr. Grennan’s vitals began to wither as his head sagged back into the cushion of his leather chair. Finally, his arms dropped over the armrests and dangled lifelessly until gravity took hold and slowed the inertia to a halt.