Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Tell us about it,” Jackson said.

  President Merrick stood behind the professor and placed a hand on his shoulder. “In a few minutes I’ll leave the White House and address the media and the nation about the latest series of bombings. As I’m leaving the White House, I’ll be seen shaking the professor’s hand and thanking him. The camera set up insures that every television station with a news department will see us. Later, there will be a leak to the Washington Post about intelligence we’ve received from a Kurdish relative of Kharrazi’s. Our office will confirm the allegation and add that the information is extremely helpful in our pursuit of the madman known as Kemel Kharrazi. We will not name any names, but that will be a moot point. Kharrazi will know who we’re talking about.”

  “Kemel is a news junkie,” Bandor added. “He monitors cable news stations all day long. He will come after me without question.”

  Dutton rubbed the side of his face. “It’s risky. And there’s no guarantee that Kharrazi will make the attempt himself. He could send one of his soldiers to do the job.”

  The President nodded. “Professor Bandor feels strongly that Kharrazi would be compelled to bring him down personally. There’s been bad blood between them for some time.”

  “I can only apologize for not coming forward sooner,” Bandor said.

  Nick said. “You realize if we keep close tabs on you, he’ll spot us. And if we leave even the slightest gap . . .”

  “He’s right,” Dutton said. “Kharrazi will be disguised. An old woman, a homeless person, you’ll never be able to walk down the street without wondering who’s around you.”

  There was no reaction from Bandor. Dutton lowered his head to meet the professor’s eyes. “What Nick is suggesting is . . .” Still no recognition of fear showed in Professor Bandor’s face. “It’s a suicide mission.”

  President Merrick patted the professor’s back as he stared down at the old man.

  “He knows, Louis. He knows.”

  Chapter 15

  Kemel Kharrazi exited the private jet and waddled across the tarmac toward a small brick building just south of the runway. His padding had come loose during the flight and was beginning to bunch up inside of his jacket. A suspicious eye might’ve noticed his unbalanced appearance, so he decided to adjust himself in the men’s room. But the second he opened the glass door to the building, an overzealous young woman standing behind an abbreviated counter accosted him.

  “You must be Mr. Henning,” she said cheerfully.

  By instinct Kharrazi headed directly toward the woman. His training commanded the response. Growing up on the streets of Istanbul, he’d learned to never allow a possible threat catch you avoiding their attention. A sure sign of weakness.

  Kharrazi dropped his leather suitcase, leaned over the counter and smiled. “Yes, that would be me.”

  The woman tapped her long, purple fingernails onto a keyboard and said, “Well, let’s see what the computer says, Mr. Henning.”

  For a brief moment Kharrazi was startled. What was this woman going to find on the computer? He was about to feel for his Beretta when she said, “It looks like everything’s all set. I’m just checking on your rental car now.”

  Kharrazi’s nerves were frayed and he chastised himself for being so jumpy. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Kharrazi noticed a stack of USA Today newspapers on the counter next to him. On the cover was the headline, “America Under Siege.” Below the headline was a surveillance photo of Kharrazi taken last year. He had a snarl on his face and it reminded him how important it was for him to smile. With puffy cheeks and a bald head, Kharrazi was certain he was unrecognizable, but the smile made him practically invisible.

  He scanned the parking lot. It was vacant. A couple of men stood in front of a hangar across the runway, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, engaged in conversation. The airfield had been chosen carefully. Even though it was scarcely used, it was only forty minutes from Ronald Reagan airport, which was certain to be infested with federal agents.

  “So, Mr. Henning, what brings you to Maryland?” the woman asked, still scanning her computer screen.

  “Business,” Kharrazi said.

  “Business? How come so far away from the metropolitan area?”

  Kharrazi grew irritable at the line of questioning, but he could see that she was making the silence between them go away. This was something that Americans were known for—their trivial conversations. The weather, sports, traffic, all harmless topics that Americans were compelled to whittle away their lives talking about.

  He smiled. “I sell custom boats. Most of my customers live here at the south end of the bay.”

  This seemed to satisfy the woman’s curiosity, which coincided with the end of her search. “Here you go, Mr. Henning.” She handed Kharrazi a folded pamphlet and a set of keys. “Just go through that door and hang a left. Your rental car is the third one in, the green Taurus. Just bring it back tomorrow with a full tank and leave the keys in the ignition.”

  Kharrazi thanked the woman and hurried towards the men’s room, where he adjusted his padding. After he was rearranged, he found his car and left the complex. There was no need for a map since Kharrazi had the route committed to memory. Once he reached the D.C. area, he would call upon his college days at Georgetown to assist his recollection of the district.

  He switched the radio to an all-news station, where he heard an aggressive dialog between a journalist and a civilian caller. The caller wanted the President impeached and the journalist countered with talk of rounding up all non-American civilians from the Middle East. Kharrazi was fascinated with the grouping of all Middle-Eastern countries into one giant alliance. As if Iraq, Israel, Lebanon and Turkey all shared the same doctrine.

  At the top of the hour, a newscaster spoke of late-breaking news from the White House. Apparently President Merrick had addressed the nation earlier that morning and made reference to an informer who’d volunteered valuable information about the terrorist behind the bombings. Kharrazi turned up the volume and listened as the announcer confirmed a Washington Post report that the informer was a relative of Kharrazi who lived in the Washington, D.C. area.

  Kharrazi slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Malik, the old fool! He tried to recall how much information his uncle could have known. How much did his mother know about his mission? He saw a sign directing Washington D.C. traffic to the left lane. He was disgusted with his meddling family and was determined to tie up any loose ends. Just then a large SUV passed his Taurus on the passenger side and he caught the driver spying on him. Kharrazi realized that the driver was reacting to his temper tantrum and he forced a benevolent smile. The driver became uninterested and quickly moved ahead.

  Kharrazi steered the car into the left lane and drove toward the nation’s capital with an entirely new agenda.

  * * *

  Nick sat at his desk at the Baltimore Field Office clicking the mouse on different files on his computer screen. He’d been navigating through the maze of information in a slow methodical manner for the past two hours. In the top left hand corner of the screen were the names of every Kurd who had applied for a visa over the past year. The right side ran a program called Linksgate. It cross-referenced every possible connection between the names on his computer screen and any KSF sympathizers. As the individual names were linked to a possible association, they were highlighted. Once highlighted, Nick would click on the name and instantly identify the connection. Some were weak, like Assad Jihed, who went to school with a KSF member fifteen years earlier. Yet other connections made him feel that the CIA had dropped the ball. There were twelve eavesdropping and surveillance satellites continuously inundating the CIA with information without the proper manpower to keep up. They routinely intercepted two million phone calls, e-mails, and faxes daily, only to decipher the information months and sometimes years later.

  He was sifting through Rashid Baser’s file when the intercom beep
ed on his phone.

  “Nick?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes, Muriel.”

  “Fourteen thirty-two is for you. It’s Julie.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then pushed a button and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Sweetie.”

  “Nick I’m down here at Johns Hopkins. I think you’d better come.”

  Nick jumped from his seat. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s Tommy, he’s . . . well, he’s in intensive care.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was a victim of the bombings. He’s not doing very well. There might not be much time.”

  “I’m on my way.” Nick hung up the phone and found Matt slapping the side of a printer trying to get it to print. “Let’s go,” Nick said.

  “Where to?”

  “The hospital. They got Tommy.”

  * * *

  Johns Hopkins contained Maryland’s only regional burn center. Nick could sense the competence of its professionals the moment he entered the hundred-year-old building. He approached the information desk and introduced himself to an older woman. The woman pointed to a room with a narrow slit of a window in the door. “They’re all in there.”

  The room appeared to be a waiting area. “You don’t understand, I’m family,” Nick flipped open his FBI credentials as if this would be the magic pass to his cousin.

  The woman had a peculiar expression that held concern and curiosity. “Exactly how many family members—” she stopped herself. “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman frowned. “The staff is doing the best they can. I’ve already notified the doctor and as soon as he is available he promised to meet with you and all of your family.” Again she pointed to the room.

  “All of my family? How many family members are we talking about?”

  The woman took an exasperating breath. “A lot.”

  Nick opened the door slowly to avoid hitting anyone in the crowded room. The small room was intended for intimate conversations between doctors and family members of patients undergoing surgery. The architect didn’t have Tommy Bracco’s family in mind when he drew up the blueprints. Nick found Julie sitting in a corner with his Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth, who was openly sobbing. Julie rubbed Ruth’s back while Victor carried on a conversation with Don Silkari.

  Nick crouched down to his aunt’s eye level, “I’m sorry, Ruth,” he said, taking her hand into his. He looked at Julie, “What do you know?”

  Julie shrugged. “Nothing. The doctors are still working on him.”

  Nick said, “Ruth, there couldn’t be a better place for Tommy to be right now. These guys are the best in the world at this kind of stuff. Have hope.”

  “Hope?” His Uncle Victor flicked the back of his hand from under his chin. “There’s your stinking hope. They better not take these terrorists to trial, because I’ll be outside with my Remington. They’ll never see the inside of a courthouse. I’m telling you right now, Nicky, it ain’t ever happening in a courtroom.”

  Nick allowed his uncle to vent. There was no sense trying to calm him down, especially when Nick felt exactly the same as Victor.

  Silk made eye contact with Nick and anger flashed across their eyes like lightening bouncing between two mirrors.

  “Victor,” Nick said, “I’ll make this right.”

  “How are you going to do that? You gonna bring my boy back to me?” Cause if you can’t do that, then you can’t make it right.” Victor’s lips twitched. His mouth acted like it wanted to continue, but his heart seemed too damaged for the job.

  Silk gently tugged on Nick’s coat jacket and gestured to the opposite corner of the room. Nick saw his partner having an animated conversation with husky Sal Demenci. Sal was surrounded by five of his men, who regarded Matt with dubious expressions. Nick heard Matt say something about justice and this brought Sal to his feet. He pointed a finger at Matt, “You have the audacity to come in here and talk about justice? Do you have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about?”

  Nick immediately wedged himself between the two men and patted Sal’s shoulders with baby taps. “Come on, Sal, settle down.” He looked into Sal’s eyes with compassion. “This isn’t a contest to see who cares about Tommy the most. Everyone in this room is hurting—including Matt. You know that, Sal. You know that.”

  Sal took a breath and sat down, muttering obscenities.

  “Did they give you any indication how bad he was?” Nick asked.

  Sal shook his head. “I got a glimpse of him when they were moving him around. He’s burned all over. They’re keeping their mouths shut, so they don’t hedge any bets.” He looked up at Nick as if he’d forgotten something. “Hey, by the way, how’s Phil?”

  “He’s good, Sal.”

  “Good. Listen, I think maybe we need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  Sal stood and examined the crowd. He gestured toward the door and Nick followed. Sal’s men fell into step behind them until Sal turned and said, “It’s okay. Me and Nick are going to have a little chat.” He looked at Matt and said, “We’ll be right outside.”

  Nick nodded to his partner and Matt grimaced.

  Sal walked out of the hospital and led Nick to a bench under the canopy of the entrance. Nick sat next to him at arm’s length.

  Sal stared at Nick like he was waiting for him to say something.

  Nick shrugged. “What?”

  An Army Jeep rolled by, patrolling the street next to the hospital. It was full of soldiers with M-16’s strapped to their shoulders. They scrutinized the terrain with stern expressions.

  “This country’s in bad shape,” Sal lamented.

  Nick saw something in Sal’s eyes he wasn’t familiar with. Sincerity. He’d known Sal back when Sal was merely a Captain with the Capelli family. Nick avoided any law enforcement that involved family business, an easy chore from within the counterterrorism division of the Bureau. Besides, Nick was Sicilian and something deep inside always held a certain understanding for the Sicilian ways, as perverted as they were.

  “You’re right,” Nick said. “The country is hurting right now.”

  Sal moved his hands in a circular motion. “Your boss, I’ll bet he would love to know where this Kharrazi guy is, wouldn’t he?”

  The smile vanished from Nick’s face. “Is there something you want to tell me, Sal?”

  Sal leaned back into the bench and crossed his legs. “What if I told you a story? A story about a friend of mine who happened to figure out where they’re making these bombs. I mean we’re talking strictly fiction here, you understand?”

  Nick nodded, knowing that nothing was further from the truth. “Go on.”

  “Well, these terrorists have to get their supplies from somewhere—I mean, hey, they didn’t just check it in with their luggage on the plane, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So this friend of mine gets wind of a large underground purchase of blasting caps, big enough to blow up, oh, say, a house or something. Capisce?”

  “Capisce.”

  “Anyway, my friend finds the guy who makes these bombs and he confronts him. Well, of course, the bomb maker, he’s not so happy to see my friend and my friend—in self-defense, mind you—shoots the bomb maker and kills him.”

  Sal stopped talking when two men wearing blue scrubs and stethoscopes draped around their necks walked past them into the hospital. Nick wanted to slap the story out of Sal, but he remained calm. When the traffic around them quieted, Nick couldn’t resist any longer, “Sal, are you going to finish?”

  Sal appeared to be taking in the sights from the park bench, as if the sun and the clouds were a new experience for him. He waved at a group of birds fluttering around the crown of an oak in the median of the parking lot. “You know what kind of birds those are?”

  Nick lowered his forehead into his hand and used his thumb and middle finger on either side of his face to massage his temples. “Tell me, Sal. What kind of birds are they?”

  “Tho
se are what you call Orchard Orioles. They’re rare this time of year. Very pretty coloring, but very fragile. They don’t do well in cold weather.”

  Nick wasn’t sure whether Sal was speaking metaphorically. “Are you a bird lover, Sal?”

  Sal seemed content listening to the birds chirping. He nodded to the question as if in a trance. “I’m a charter member of the Chesapeake Audubon Society.”

  Nick couldn’t help but follow Sal’s gaze to the large oak tree. He tried for a moment to focus on the birds, their musical cadence, and their sense of community. The country was slowly being destroyed, house by house, and these creature didn’t seem to notice. Apparently none of them read USA Today or they’d be starting a block-watch program like everyone else in the nation. Neighborhoods were taking shifts sleeping and yet the birds kept singing. Nick realized that Dr. Morgan was right. If Sal hadn’t brought the loud chirping to Nick’s attention, he never would have noticed. Still, he couldn’t last thirty seconds on the birds without shifting his thoughts back to the KSF and Kemel Kharrazi.

  Nick watched Sal withdraw a plastic bag of breadcrumbs from his pants pocket, dip his hand into the mix and toss it onto a patch of grass next to the bench. A moment later, a black bird with a sliver of purple on its chest landed on the far edge of the newly-discovered banquet and pecked at a couple of breadcrumbs. After another moment, two more birds braved the trip down to the buffet line. Sal’s eyes gleamed with delight.

  “Mangia,” he said, losing himself in the ceremony. “Mangia.”

  “Sal,” Nick said, “if you know something that would help us find these terrorists, we would be very grateful. Maybe even rewardingly grateful.”

  This seemed to get Sal’s attention. He quickly dispensed the remainder of his baggie and turned to Nick with a somber expression. He smoothed Nick’s arm with his hand, as if he were ironing out imaginary wrinkles from the sleeve of his jacket. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Nick knew right away it wasn’t anything he was going to like.