by Ponzo, Gary
Nick switched the channel. Through the miracle of a satellite dish, another reporter in a different city stood in front of a house in a similar condition. Nick switched the channel again and saw that all across the country reporters with somber faces stood in front of the premeditated destruction of different households. Random assaults had devastated individual homes in each of the fifty states.
“What’s happening?” Julie cried.
“It’s begun.”
“What’s begun?”
Nick stood in front of the television, tight-lipped, his jaw clenched, his eyes distant. He turned and seemed to look through her as if she was invisible. Not the same man she had just made passionate love with twenty minutes earlier.
“I’ve got to go,” he said and disappeared into the closet.
* * *
The Baltimore field office housed the largest War Room in the country. It was built during the cold war era and was bunkered in the basement, where the only access was through an elevator fronted by an iris-scan entry. The room itself was more like an auditorium. It had an elevated podium, which stood above rows of wooden booths that resembled church pews. Surrounding the seats were four stark white walls with assorted maps and diagrams tacked to them, An occasional poster of Marilyn Monroe or Mickey Mantle remained behind, mementos from the patriotic souls who first used the bunker during the Cuban missile crisis.
Walt Jackson stood at the podium, his massive frame looming over the seventy-five FBI agents seated in front of him. Behind him stood the Director of the CIA and next to him, drawing the attention of every man and woman in the room, sat a telephone with one line conspicuously blinking. Nick sat in the front row next to Matt.
Jackson pushed the blinking button activating the speakerphone. “Mr. President?”
The unmistakable voice of the President John Merrick said, “Yes, Walt, I’m here.”
“Mr. President,” Jackson turned to make eye contact with the Director of the CIA, “I have Ken Morris with me. We’re all assembled, Sir.”
“Good,” said President Merrick. “Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies—Senator Williams was a close personal friend of mine. Some of you may know he was the best man at my wedding.” He sighed. Everyone sat at attention and listened as if the principal was addressing his students.
“Unfortunately, he was only one of fifty families that are grieving this morning as a result of the brutal attack on our nation.
“We received an e-mail from the Kurdish Security Force. Walt, I know your people follow this stuff closely, so the message won’t come as a shock. They will bomb one home in each of the fifty states every week that we don’t withdraw our troops from Turkey. The same message was sent to the Washington Post. The American people are going to know of their demands. It’s a shrewd tactic, folks. The occupation of Turkey wasn’t popular to begin with. Now it appears as if it will cost innocent citizens their lives if we don’t cave in.”
The President’s voice grew harsh, “Walt, you know damn well I can’t withdraw our troops under these conditions. Our presence was mandated once the Kurds began slaughtering hundreds of Turkish civilians. I know I don’t have to sell you on my decision, but now every time an American is killed, it’s my fault. I’ll accept the responsibility, but I need answers and I need plausible options and I need them quick.”
President Merrick stopped abruptly and it seemed to take Jackson by surprise, as if he expected the longwinded political statement that usually came from a White House conference call.
“Walt?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President.”
“Walt, how many KSF do we have in custody now?”
“As of thirty minutes ago, we have nine, Sir.”
“Nine KSF members—how many do you suspect are directly or indirectly related to the bombings?
“All of them.”
“That’s good. What have we learned from them?”
The assemblage of agents knew the answer before it ever left Jackson’s mouth.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing?”
“No, Sir. They’d rather die first. As a matter of fact two of them have attempted suicide.”
“I see.” In the silence, a deep breath could be heard.
Ken Morris stepped closer to the speakerphone. “Mr. President, this is Ken.”
“Yes, Ken,” the frustrated voice said.
“Sir, this is similar to stomping on roaches as they crawl across the floor. We can’t protect every citizen in the country. We have to find the source. That’s the only way we’ll put an end to it. The scheme is too elaborate not to have a leader dictating the details of the mission.”
“And you’re sure who that leader is?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s Kemel Kharrazi. We find him and we can end the terrorist acts.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t we found him yet?”
“Sir . . . uh, there are some leads, but—“
“Ken, we have satellites circling the Earth that could read the date on a dime sitting in the road between two parked cars. Are you telling me we can’t find the most infamous terrorist in the world, in our own backyard?”
Ken opened his mouth but only to take a large breath.
The President exploded. “Gentlemen, I want Kemel Kharrazi’s picture on every television, every newspaper, every magazine cover. I want you to burn up every favor you have with every informant you’ve ever used. Offer immunity, offer pardons, offer money, whatever you want, I’ll approve it. Bottom line—I want Kharrazi! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” came the collective answer.
President Merrick hung up.
Walt Jackson stood tall, his long arms leaning on the podium in front of him. In one slow sweep of the congregation, he seemed to make eye contact with every individual in the bunker. “Well then,” he said, “let’s get started.”
* * *
In the aftermath of the two-hour briefing that followed the President’s call, Walt Jackson lumbered into his office, walked behind his desk, and dropped onto his leather chair. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the stubble on the side of his unshaven face. When he looked up, Nick and Matt were seated across from him.
Jackson’s finger tapped a staccato cadence on his desk. “The President thinks we dropped the ball,” he said.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Walt,” Matt said. “You made all the right moves. Don’t second guess yourself now.”
“Fact is,” Walt grimaced, “we can protect our national monuments. We can make provisions for all of our federal buildings, our courts. But we simply can’t cover every single household in the United States. It’s just not possible.”
“Kharrazi is shrewd,” Nick said. “He knows America doesn’t have the stomach for this type of warfare. Not here at home. Not with the media flashing the faces of our dead neighbors on every news channel. This isn’t some distant operation in the jungles of Asia. The political pressure will eventually become so great, we won’t have a choice but to retreat from Turkey.”
Jackson nodded. He smiled at the two agents, coming to support him. He sat upright and pointed a finger at Nick, who was already glancing down at digital pictures he pulled from a stack on Jackson’s desk. “What do you make of those photos?”
“These bombs have Rashid’s signature all over them,” Nick said, scrutinizing the closeups of bomb parts already partially reassembled. “The design of the circuitry is identical to the White House bomb. No matter how sophisticated he gets, he always uses the same configuration.”
“Yes, but where does he get the material?” Matt said. “Find the place he gets the parts and you’ll find Rashid.”
“And if you find Rashid,” Nick added. “You find Kharrazi.”
Jackson leaned back in his chair, enjoying the rhythm of the banter between his two agents. “All right,” he said. “I want you two to follow the bomb trail. All of the bombs were Semtex, therefore massive
amounts of RDX were made for the explosions. Stop by the Explosives Unit on your way out and talk with Norm Boyd. He knows more about RDX than anyone we have. Find an ingredient, a chemical, a blast cap, anything you can that might be hard to find in normal retail stores and zone in on that item. Since RDX is a fairly stable compound, my guess is that Rashid is making the stuff in quantity, then transporting the devices to the appropriate city. It makes more sense than risking fifty different chemical labs.”
Jackson looked at his watch. “I suggest you gentlemen get going. I have to decide whether to rewrite my will or my resume.”
* * *
Nick was bent on getting home that evening, even if it was just for a nap and a change of clothes. Julie would be worried about him and he’d try to disarm her concern with a smile and a hug. He would show her no visible signs of stress. She wouldn’t see the neurons firing back and forth across his brain, pressing for the answers that would lead him to Kharrazi and, ultimately, refuge for his overactive mind.
When he turned on his car radio, he heard the Washington Post story about the KSF demands leading every newsbreak. As he drove home, talk radio was having a field day with the subject. A paranoid America tuned in to hear the news, rumors, or anything else that could keep them even the tiniest bit safer than their next-door neighbor. The President was getting hammered from both sides of the political aisle. One right-wing commentator even suggested impeachment. A poll had already been taken, and sixty-two percent of the American public wanted troops out of Turkey immediately. That number skyrocketed to eighty-seven percent when they polled anyone who lived within twenty miles of a bombed house.
The Associated Press reported that most of the bombs had been planted for some time before they were detonated. In a few cases they were fired from passing cars. A delivery method that was harder to defend, yet easier to track down. Out of the nine KSF members in custody, eight had been involved with the drive-by method of bombing. Nick marveled at the accuracy of the information. It was almost as if AP had a reporter inside the War Room that afternoon.
* * *
Nick arrived home late and hugged Julie so tightly, he felt the breath surge from her diaphragm.
When he finally released her, she delicately swept a tuft of hair from his forehead with the back of her index finger, “Rough day at the office, Sweetie?”
Nick smiled for the first time since he’d left her arms that morning. “I can’t slip anything by you, can I?” They both laughed and released whatever pressure their tense bodies would allow.
“Do you have time for a meal? I’ve got sauce warming on the stove. I could boil some pasta real quick.”
“Sure,” he said, jogging up the stairs to their bedroom.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Julie said. “Tommy’s been calling all day. He said he needs you to call him on his cell right away.”
Nick grimaced. “Like I needed to hear that.”
* * *
Tommy picked up on the first ring. “Yo.”
“It’s me,” Nick said.
“I think you owe me a favor,” Tommy said.
“Of course. You want the name of the person who kidnapped Phil— right?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. You see, I know the name you’re gonna give me, and that’s not quite enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nicky, I know you’ve been busy today, but did you happen to catch the name of the family that was killed this morning in Baltimore? You know, the terrorist’s pick for the state of Maryland.”
“I saw the list.”
“The name was Capelli. Joseph and Mary Capelli. Ring a bell?”
“Aw shit, Tommy. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well . . . now I need a favor from you.”
Nick flinched. “I’m listening.”
“The Capellis have given me the responsibility of finding the monster who killed their family. I’m talking three gorgeous little kids, Nicky. I need your help and I need information. Don’t let me down.”
Nick was about to react by rote. Normally, he would dismiss Tommy with the standard policy and be done with it. But this was different. The President had said as much that afternoon. Technically, Tommy was an informant. Informants exchange information with the government and almost always receive more information than they give. It was the quality of the information that counted, not the quantity.
Tommy waited patiently while Nick sorted things out. He could sense Tommy’s rebuttal about to commence.
Finally, Nick said, “How much do you know about Semtex?”
Chapter 10
Rashid Baser stepped into the pawnshop, flipped over the open sign to read “closed” and locked the door. Behind the counter, Fred Wilson offered him a sheepish smile while running a cloth over the barrel of a gun. When he glimpsed the manila envelope in Rashid’s left hand, he set the gun on the glass counter in front of him and nodded toward a doorway. Rashid followed him into a dark room, where guns and cameras mingled together on the warped wooden shelves that covered all four walls. To one side of the room a large mound was covered conspicuously with a canvas tarp. Fred sidestepped his way to the mound, mumbling apologies about the condition of his storage room. Rashid understood the maneuver very well. He recognized it from his native Turkey. It was the dance of the intimidated. Back home his reputation had grown to such proportions, he could move through the crowded streets of an entire village without ever viewing the back of a head. The Red Sea of fear would part before him. But not in America. At first he was disturbed by the absence of respect, but he grew to revel in the anonymity. Blending in made his missions that much easier. That’s why Fred’s demeanor was so troubling. He didn’t even know Rashid’s name.
As if he was trying not to wake a sleeping baby, Fred carefully lifted the corner of the tarp revealing a load of large silver tubes. “Here they are,” he said.
Rashid lifted one of the tubes. He was unprepared for its weight and accidentally clanked it slightly on the side of another canister.
Fred jumped back, “Careful,” he said. “Those are mighty powerful blasting caps, the primer alone could blow the roof off a hou . . .” he dropped his eyes. In the tension of the moment, Fred Wilson had made a mistake.
Rashid seemed to let the comment go, as if he didn’t hear it. He busied himself with the detonators, counting the stacks.
Fred removed his baseball cap, leaving its imprint in his hair. He fondled the hat, reluctant to look at Rashid directly. After an uncomfortable silence, Fred got the words to his mouth. “Well, Sir . . . how about the money?”
Suddenly, Rashid thought, he’d become Sir. Two weeks ago he was foreign trash. Now he was Sir. He was certain the fifty thousand dollars was only part of the reason.
“Aren’t you curious why I needed such a large cylinder?” he asked.
“I . . . uh never get involved with the details.”
“But surely you must wonder.”
Fred refused to engage him. He picked lint from the bill of his cap. “Sir, I haven’t the slightest idea what you might be using it for. I’m just the middleman. I don’t make judgments.”
“Do you watch the news?” Rashid asked.
Fred hesitated a moment too long. “Sometimes. I’m pretty busy with work and all.”
“You’re a liar,” Rashid said.
Fred stepped back, rigid with fear, his eyes searching for something over Rashid’s shoulder. Rashid heard a familiar click from behind him.
“Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. “Just take the money out of the envelope and give it to Fred.”
Rashid’s blood raced through his body. “You expect me to trust you.”
“I don’t see that you have much of a choice,” the voice said.
Rashid listened carefully to the voice. Years of training aligned his thoughts. He ran an index of moves through his mind, then waited to hear the voice and determine whether it was moving or stationary.
“
This ain’t no pistol I’m holding here.”
That sentence offered Rashid everything he needed to know. He slid his hand into the manila envelope and gripped the knife inside. Judging the position of the voice, he dove straight back onto the floor, rolled, and heard the shotgun blast whistle over his head. Rashid heard Fred Wilson scream in agony as he jumped up, caught the barrel of the shotgun with his shoulder, and thrust the blade under the man’s ribcage. Standing inches from the man’s shocked face, Rashid twisted the knife, skewering the life-sustaining organs and draining his mortality until the only thing that held up his lifeless form was Rashid’s hand holding the knife.
Rashid turned to see a streak of red on the floor where Fred Wilson had dragged his wounded leg. Fred frantically crawled toward a rifle that leaned against the wall. Rashid grabbed a fistful of Fred’s hair, pulled his head back and lashed his steel blade across his neck so deep it nearly decapitated him. The head hit the floor with a thump.
* * *
Nick Bracco sat at the kitchen table surrounded by heaps of files and photographs. With his secure phone planted to his left ear, he scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. Working from home was his meager attempt at spending more time with Julie.
Julie stood at the counter flipping through pages of a magazine while she waited for the coffee to finish brewing.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
Nick glanced at her, half listening to a diplomat from the Turkish embassy reciting a verse from a propaganda textbook. He cupped his hand over the phone. “What did you say?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Nick dropped his pen on the table and hung up the phone. His jaw was slack and his eyes drooped, as if she’d announced that she’d been diagnosed with cancer. No elation. No “I’m-going-to-be-a-father” glow on his face. Just surprise and confusion.
“But how?” was all he could manage.
She shook her head, “I was just seeing if you were listening. I guess I’ll know what to expect from you, should I ever really be pregnant.”
