by Ponzo, Gary
Chapter 16
The Oval Office sat on the southeast corner of the White House, overlooking the Rose Garden. During their tenure, each President got to choose the décor inside of the office. President John Merrick decided to use the Oval Office to memorialize his brother. Paul Merrick was killed on September 11th, 2001, when a suicide terrorist crashed a commercial jet into the office where he worked in the Pentagon.
Directly across from the rosewood desk hung a large framed photo of Paul Merrick in his lieutenant’s uniform, taken just a week before the attack. Other photos of his brother, his wife, and their two daughters intermingled with portraits of Harry Truman and JFK. Paul’s favorite putter leaned against the wall next to a couple of golf balls. Whenever Merrick got the nerve, he gripped the club and felt the indentations where his younger brother’s hands had worn down the leather. His fingers wound around the grip and rekindled the warmth that his brother’s hands left behind. Merrick would lean over, aim a golf ball at the leg of his desk and stroke the putter. Like a magic wand, it conjured up teenage memories of Saturday afternoons sneaking over to the local public course and playing golf with his brother deep into the darkness. In more recent years, with the finances to back him, Paul would constantly tinker with new equipment. Somehow the latest technology always ended up in his golf bag, but the putter was the only club that Paul would never replace no matter how old and worn.
Now Merrick stood over a golf ball, his hands duplicating his brother’s position on the putter. With memories of his brother resurfacing, he stared intently at the ball as if he might see his brother’s face when his head came up. He didn’t. Instead he saw the stern expression of Chief of Staff William Hatfield, who was sitting on a leather chair, scrolling down the screen on his laptop.
Situated in various chairs and sofas fronting Merrick’s desk were five of Merrick’s aides, who’d pulled an all-nighter with him collecting data and discussing options. A tray of cut fruit and vegetables sat on a coffee table in the middle of the room. Secretary of State Samuel Fisk interrupted his pacing to take a celery stick and nervously chew it to down his fingertips. Fisk had the longest running relationship with Merrick, going back to eighth grade, and he always had the last word on serious issues. Everyone in the room knew this, so Merrick would sometimes catch his staff addressing Fisk instead of him. This was of no concern to him. Merrick was as no-nonsense as they came, and everyone who worked for him understood his loyalties. The Presidency was one of the few occupations where cronyism was not only allowed, but practically a necessity. Merrick surrounded himself with people he trusted and in return, his people trusted him.
Standing behind Hatfield and looking over his shoulder, Press Secretary Fredrick Himes, who craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the overnight polls.
Hatfield scrolled down the computer screen with his index finger. “Do you want the bad news, John, or the worse news?”
“Just give it to me, Bill.” Merrick hunched over the putter, eyeing the golf ball.
“Your approval rating has dropped again. It’s down from forty-three to thirty-nine percent.”
Merrick felt the room tighten up. A lame-duck president not only lost the support of his political constituents, but could indelibly tarnish a staff member’s career. The captain might go down with the ship, but the crew didn’t escape unscathed.
Hatfield scrolled further until he found what he was looking for. “When asked whether the President was handling the KSF attacks properly, sixty-five percent said no. Only twenty-five percent said yes. Ten percent were undecided.”
Merrick looked up at the faces before him. They were long, tired and confused. They’d spent the past week performing masterful acts of damage control and it seemed to be paying little dividends.
Hatfield said, “Then there’s the people who were asked whether—”
“That’s enough,” Merrick announced. He didn’t need to hear any more, especially from his Chief of Staff, who was the White House’s version of Chicken Little. Hatfield was a good, loyal man, but the pressure associated with the everyday dealings of a sitting president was becoming too much for the man. Nobody wanted to hear bad news from the panic-stricken voice of Bill Hatfield.
Merrick leaned the putter against the wall and walked to the front of his desk. “I want to remind all of you, this is not a permanent condition. We will ultimately succeed in finding Kharrazi and we will put a stop to the bombings, and our approval rating will go up.”
This inspired a few nods of sympathetic agreement. Merrick could sense the disingenuous consent to his appraisal and wondered how long he had before he would lose even his own staff.
“Sir,” Press Secretary Himes said, “if you don’t mind me asking—how close are we to accomplishing our goals?”
This, of course, was the real question. Merrick could tell a story and buy an extra day or two, but eventually it would come back to bite him. He knew better than to fabricate scenarios that didn’t exist. He received confidential information from the FBI three or four times a day, and each briefing was more frustrating than the last. Apparently, Kharrazi had cultivated a team of Kurds whose only purpose was to act suspicious enough to be brought in for questioning. Hundreds of decoys were sent out into the streets of America asking hardware storeowners for large amounts of fuses and other curious materials. They would linger long enough for the clerk to contact the FBI and get themselves dragged into custody without any possibility of furnishing information about Kharrazi. It cost the Bureau precious man-hours of investigative time, which they desperately needed.
“Fredrick, I’ll have a full report available to you for the three o’clock press conference. I’ll know more when I get my briefing from the Bureau this morning.” He gave Himes a trust me look, but his clout was wearing thin and he knew it.
Merrick pointed to Defense Secretary Martin Riggs, “Marty, what about that other option?”
This drew some few flinches in the room. It was the option that no one wanted to consider. The eight-hundred-pound gorilla that sat on Merrick’s desk in the form of an order to withdraw troops from Turkey.
Riggs was an ex-marine, ex-CIA, and exceptional at finding a middle ground in almost every situation. He knew the terrors of war intimately and Merrick took him on as Defense Secretary for that very reason. Merrick wanted someone who understood the consequences of combat, and therefore would be more agreeable to alternatives. Riggs wasn’t afraid of confrontation, just aware of the costs.
“Sir,” Riggs said, dropping a clipboard onto the coffee table and leaning over, elbows on his knees. “We’re prepared to release military footage from Turkey showing Turkish Security Forces in Kalar raising the Turkish Flag and shouting cheers as they pump their guns into the air. Kalar was the Kurds’ last stronghold and this should be enough evidence to show that the United States is no longer needed. It could allow us the dignity to leave on our own terms, without pressure from the KSF.”
“Bullshit,” came a voice from the back of the room.
Merrick saw Samuel Fisk shaking his head, looking down at the wood floor. “Sam,” Merrick said, “you think the public will buy it?”
“Fuck no—would you?” Fisk snorted.
Merrick laughed for the first time in so long that his cheeks hurt from the unused muscles. “You shouldn’t pull any punches, Sam.”
Fisk muttered a few words under his breath and returned to a contemplative posture.
Merrick tugged down on his tie and pulled a melon ball out of a crystal bowl with a frilled toothpick. Before he finished chewing, he said, “Marty, thanks for the report.”
The intercom buzzed to life and Merrick’s secretary said, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President. Nick Bracco is on the line. He says it’s urgent that he speak with Mr. Fisk right away.”
“Put him through on the speaker phone, Hanna,” Merrick said.
There was a pause. “Uh . . . Mr. President, Mr. Bracco insists that it is for Mr. Fisk’s ears only.”
/> Merrick raised an eyebrow at Fisk. They both understood the move. Bracco obviously had information that flirted with unethical, immoral, or illegal operations, and he wanted to allow the president deniability. Merrick waved a hand at Fisk and watched him hurry out of the room.
Riggs stood, retrieved his charcoal gray jacket from the brass coat rack and slipped it on. “Mr. President, I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in twenty minutes. Which of these options do you prefer we discuss?”
Any large-scale military action attempting to wipe out the KSF within the United States would end badly, and Merrick knew it. He felt as if his body was crawling with poisonous ants and he needed to suppress the urge to stab them with a knife.
Merrick frowned. “Marty, I want you to tell the Chiefs we’re not leaving Turkey. Not today, not tomorrow, not as long as we’re being blackmailed by Kharrazi. Tell them I want more options. I don’t like the corner we’re in, and I want out.”
Riggs nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
Attorney General Mitchell Reeves also reached for his jacket. “I’d better be going too,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen defense attorneys screaming that I can’t keep their clients locked up for over a week without formally charging them.”
Merrick pointed an accusing finger at Reeves. The Attorney General held up his hand, “Don’t worry, we’re not releasing anyone. I’ve just got to juggle with the Bill of Rights a little.”
Merrick watched the two men leave. He circled around behind his desk and sank into his high-back leather chair. He tugged even further on his tie, loosening it to the point of separation. One piece of silk now looped around his collar and hung down in two separate strands. He unbuttoned the top button of his starched, white shirt, placed his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Even with two people left in the room and another seventy-five currently roaming the corridors of his residence, he’d never felt more alone.
* * *
Outside of the Oval Office, perched on a drooping tree branch, an oriole scrutinized the White House lawn for an easy meal. Three blocks west of the Oval Office, a construction worker peeled back the cellophane wrapper from his tuna fish sandwich and sighed at the long day still ahead of him. Less than a mile northwest of the Oval Office, a short, chubby, bald man waddled through the pedestrian traffic on the perimeter of Georgetown University. A Welsh Terrier pulled on the leash in front of him as he gleefully made his way down L Street NW, drinking in the worried faces of students and businesspeople as they passed him by. He wasn’t enjoying the anxious expressions because of some prurient thrill, but because he knew that his plan was working. The president was just blocks away, receiving pressure from every imaginable sector of the public. He had virtually no other political choice but to withdraw U.S. troops from Turkey and Kemel Kharrazi beamed with satisfaction.
Kharrazi made his way down a residential neighborhood with the innocent stroll of an old man walking his dog. He knew precisely which streets to turn down, so his moves lacked any unfamiliarity. The street where his uncle lived was tree-lined. The houses were mostly 19th century Victorian with sprawling mounds of grass and sidewalks that buckled from maturity. The terrier was a sturdy animal with a thick, wiry coat, and when he pulled Kharrazi in a serpentine path, Kharrazi’s Beretta pinched the skin along his waist.
Kharrazi casually inspected every parked car, every conspicuous individual who looked like he didn’t belong. He hadn’t gone more than thirty yards when he noticed a heavily-gabled house across from Professor Bandor’s with an upstairs window open. He continued his journey unabated when he discovered a windowless, black van parked a few doors down. Behind his benevolent smile, Kharrazi fumed. He kept walking, occasionally giving gentle tugs on the leash of the terrier he’d just purchased thirty minutes earlier. With his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of something metallic peeking out from the window across from his uncle’s.
He couldn’t fathom his uncle’s betrayal. As a boy, the professor would drape his arm around young Kharrazi and tell him of the social immorality of the United States. Then he persuaded Kharrazi to attend Georgetown, where he headed the program for Middle-Eastern studies. What kind of person does that? If not for Professor Bandor, Kharrazi would have never come to see the corruptness firsthand. He would have dismissed it as the professor’s own personal issue. Now, the immorality surrounded him at every turn, and it was disgusting.
Kharrazi left the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, taking side streets for about a quarter mile before he unleashed the dog and set him free. He found his rental car and with a stranglehold on the steering wheel, he merged into the midday traffic. So much adrenalin pumped through his veins, he almost ran a red light. He steered toward the safe house, where he would find seven KSF soldiers who were prepared to die for whichever order he gave them. And Kharrazi had a whopper for them.
Chapter 17
President Merrick woke up startled. He found himself leaning back in his chair in the Oval Office and was halfway through rubbing his eyes when he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting on a sofa, reading the Washington Post, was Samuel Fisk.
“Sam,” Merrick said, “how long have I been out?”
“About an hour and a half,” Fisk said, turning a page.
“You should have gotten me up.”
“I canceled your noon appointment with Stanton. He’d just waste more time pinching you for a withdrawal. Besides, you needed the sleep.”
Merrick opened a side door to a small bathroom, where he splashed water on his face, wiped dry, and began running an electric razor over the stubble. “I should be getting my briefing from the Bureau any time,” Merrick said over the noise of the razor. “Has Walt called yet?”
“Not exactly,” Fisk answered.
Merrick clicked the razor off and faced Fisk from the bathroom doorway. Fisk continued as if he was reading the Sunday paper at his kitchen table. Merrick suddenly remembered Nick Bracco’s phone call. “Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“You have something you want to tell me?”
Fisk folded the paper neatly and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. He motioned to the sofa across the table from him. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
Merrick replaced the razor and began looping his tie into a knot as he approached the couch. Sitting down, he said, “Talk to me.”
“John, how long have we been friends?”
Merrick froze. “Oh shit, Sam. I don’t like the sound of this one bit.”
“There is an option that just became available to us and I can’t tell you very much about it.”
Merrick finished knotting his tie and secured it snugly around his neck. “Does it entail anything unethical?”
Sam looked at Merrick stone-faced. As the seconds passed and the silence grew conspicuous, Merrick nodded his head. “I see.”
“John,” Fisk said, “I’m going to do you the biggest favor anyone has ever done. I’m going to get rid of these bastards, and it’s not going to be pretty, and it’s not going to be fair, but we’ve been hogtied by the law for too long.”
Merrick gave his friend a sideward look. “Have we been hogtied by the Constitution as well?”
Fisk stood and turned to study the large photo of Paul Merrick on the south wall. He nodded his head toward the picture. “Do you think the terrorists that killed him cared about the Constitution?”
“Don’t, Sam.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too personal. I can’t carry that kind of baggage into a decision that involves our nation’s policy on . . . on . . .”
“On what?” Fisk said, turning to face Merrick. “Exactly which policy are you referring to? Is it our policy allowing foreigners to kill our civilians for political purposes? Or is it our policy involving innocent lives destroyed because we have to wait until there’s enough evidence to guarantee a conviction? I am sick and tired of surveilling terrorists who we know are plotting violent acts inside of our borders. Borders that are open to a myriad o
f criminals to play in our backyard, with our tools, and with our personal rights guaranteed by the Constitution. By the time we have the legal right to make an arrest, blood’s been spilled and alibis have been perfected for a jury of their peers.” Fisk pointed at the large picture. “I’m not only doing this for you, I’m doing this for him. He doesn’t have a voice anymore and I’m speaking for him.”
Merrick sighed. He approached the Secretary of State and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sam, don’t risk your career over this.”
“I’d gladly give up my career for this cause. It’s time you took this personally too. Otherwise, just have those pollsters run the damn country. What the heck do we need you for?”
Merrick and Fisk faced Paul Merrick’s image together. Lieutenant Merrick seemed to be looking down smiling eerily at them. The president began to reach for his brother, then pulled back. He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, Sam, I look up at this thing and think, ‘There he is.’ It’s so lifelike, so real. I can’t believe he’s not here anymore.”
Fisk looked squarely into Merrick’s eyes. “All you need to do is say ‘go.’ One word and I’ll set this thing in motion.”
Merrick considered what his friend was protecting him from. The CIA? Covert operations?
“John?”
Merrick stared up at the soldier framed on the wall above him and became lost in his brother’s gaze. “Let me think about it, Sam.”
Fisk nodded. “Okay, but don’t take too long.”
“Sam, I don’t even know what—”
“Stop,” Fisk interrupted. “You’re going to have to trust me. It’s all on me, not you. I just need a command. I won’t do it without one.”
When Merrick finally wrestled his gaze away from his brother, Fisk was already leaving, closing the door behind him.
Merrick found his brother’s putter and returned his hands to the proper position on the grip, his fingers melding into the grooves his brother left behind. He stood over a golf ball with his brother’s face in his mind. “I don’t know, Paul,” he said out loud. “What would you do?”
