by Ponzo, Gary
“If you are at all interested, uh—”
“Marie,” she blurted.
“Yes, Marie,” he said, gazing at her bone structure as if it was a fine diamond. “I’d be glad to do a little work on you, maybe a little around the eyes,” he said, gently pulling her skin toward her ear, then using both thumbs to get the symmetrical effect. “It wouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours. I could do it right across the street in my new office. And, of course, I would waive my fee. Like I said, I could use the work. At least until I develop my practice. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. What’s to understand? He was offering her every American woman’s dream come true. Free plastic surgery.
“That sounds great,” she beamed.
Tansu looked at his watch. “Uh oh. I’d better get back there. Could you—” he pointed to the door that he hoped led to the patient rooms.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she held her index finger up against the computer screen. “Mrs. Bracco is in room 406.” She stood, then pointed down a long corridor. “Take the second set of elevators to the third floor.”
Tansu was already walking away. “Thank you, Marie. I’ll stop by on my way out and give you my office number.”
She was smiling like a high school girl on her prom night. Tansu couldn’t help but smile back at her. A very helpful woman, he thought. He was almost to the corridor when he heard her yell, “Dr. Marshall.”
He turned.
“There’s a police officer standing guard in front of that room,” she said. They both stood there looking at each other. Tansu held up his hands, unsure what to say. He was prepared to kill a half a dozen people to get to Julie Bracco, one unsuspecting police officer didn’t pose much of a threat.
Marie finally picked up a phone and said, “I’ll call up there and tell him you’re coming.”
Tansu blew her a mock kiss. “Thank you, thank you.”
He made his way down the corridor, searching for a storage room for medical supplies. He came unarmed in case he needed to pass through a metal detector. He knew that a hospital had more than enough weapons for him to choose from.
He wondered why Kharrazi had such a fixation for this Bracco person. It seemed that half of their time was spent attempting to put to death this FBI agent or some family member of his. Tansu tried not to doubt his leader, but sometimes personal reprisals seemed to get in the way of their ultimate goal: to force U.S. troops out of Turkey and allow his people to defend themselves properly. Tansu himself had a cousin who was shot by a Turkish soldier. His cousin was simply escorting his wife to the river for water, when a band of soldiers came driving by in an open jeep, waving their machine guns in the air. They were drunk with hatred and didn’t stop to ask questions. If you were Kurdish and lived in Kurdistan, you had a target on your back at all times.
Now, all Tansu wanted to do was kill this woman as quickly as possible and get back to the business of pressuring the White House for a withdrawal. He saw the elevators he needed, but decided to find something sharp first. A nurse carrying a tray with glass tubes and packages of wrapped needles was walking toward him. He held up his hand to get her attention. “Pardon me, I’m new and a little lost here, could you direct me to the supply room?”
“Sure,” the nurse said. She turned back where she had come from and pointed. “See that sign that says, ‘Emergency Room?’”
“Yes.”
“Follow that sign until you go past the cafeteria, then make your first right. About halfway down that hallway you’ll find the supply room. Just tell Mitch what you need, he’ll help you out.”
“Thanks,” Tansu said. These Americans were wonderful hosts, he thought. Very helpful.
He followed the directions and found the room he was looking for. Under a sign reading “Supply Room,” was a wooden door split in half. The top portion was swung inward and open, while the bottom half was closed. Tansu leaned in and called, “Anybody here?”
A thin, elderly black man with a close-cropped, white beard slowly rose from behind a small, metal desk. The room appeared dim, but for the miniature gooseneck lamp illuminating the old man’s desk. “Can I help you?” the man asked.
Tansu extended his hand and the man shook it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Marshall. You must be Mitch. I’m new here. I was told to come down and get some scalpels.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Marshall. Do you have a requisition form?”
Tansu was perplexed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was just up in the operating room, and they told me to come down and get some more scalpels.”
“Who told you?”
“Well, uh, Dr. Williams.”
The man broke into a soft, wide grin. “That rascal. He hasn’t filled out one of those forms in twenty years. I guess that’s what happens when you have his kind of clout.”
“I guess,” Tansu said. He was ready and willing to snap the old man’s head like a stale pretzel if he resisted, but the man appeared ready to hand him the weapon he required.
“Which kind would you like, Dr. Marshall?” the man said, his shoulders already turning toward the shelves behind him.
“Oh, how about a big one?” Tansu said, casually.
The man stopped abruptly. He looked at Tansu with a leery expression. “Excuse me?”
Tansu shrugged. “They really didn’t tell me which size. I just assumed they wanted a large one.”
“A large one,” the man repeated. He seemed to examine Tansu more closely. “Where did you do your residency, Dr. Marshall?”
That was Tansu’s cue to take the man out. He looked up and down the corridor and noticed nobody in the immediate vicinity. He motioned for the man to come closer. And, as everyone else he’d met lately, the man cooperated. Tansu reached over the doorway and grabbed the man’s throat with his right hand. With his left hand he gave a short, powerful jab directly into the man’s nose. It was enough to cause the man’s vision to blur with tears, and he fell straight backward, holding both hands over his broken nose. The man’s head bounced on the cement floor hard and he appeared to lose consciousness.
Tansu reached over the ledge and twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. He hopped over the half door and jumped onto the man’s chest. It took only a couple of seconds to snap the old man’s frail neck, the bones clicking as they twisted sideways, unnaturally.
Tansu lifted the dead man’s frame and dragged him into a nearby walk-in refrigerator. There were four rows of metal shelving with vials and bottles of medicine neatly organized on each shelf. Tansu dragged the corpse by his shirt collar and dropped him face down on the floor in the back corner of the refrigerator. Without some serious investigative work, the old man would appear to have fallen to his death. And that would buy Tansu plenty of time to accomplish his mission.
Once out of the refrigeration unit, Tansu explored the rest of the supply room. Tansu wondered why the large windowless room was so dim for a hospital. He was searching for a switch to illuminate the overhead fluorescent lights, when he found the shelf that contained the scalpels. He looked at the side of the boxes, which displayed an actual life-size illustration of the blade for the various scalpels. He now understood why the old man found it curious that Tansu simply asked for a big scalpel. Each scalpel had a numerical value for the type of blade that it contained. Tansu assumed that a physician would always request a specific numbered scalpel depending on their needs. The old man must have sensed something was wrong right away.
Tansu had spent countless hours over the past months practicing his English. He didn’t, however, know very much about medicine. He pulled a scalpel from a box marked with a number 11 blade. He unwrapped the plastic sheath that kept the product sterile. He examined the blade, gently tracing it across the palm of his hand. It was sharp, but too pointed to cut long, deep lacerations. He put it back, then pulled one from a box marked with a number 15 blade. This was what he was looking for. The blade was sharp, but beveled. This was the kind of blade that
could slice a neck right down to the bone. He put two of them into his pocket and smiled. I’m on my way, Mrs. Bracco. Enjoy your last few breaths.
Chapter 27
President Merrick sat on a sofa down in the bunker fifty feet below the White House. Even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, his lead Secret Service agent began quoting statutes about his authority to protect the President of the United States. He had actually convinced Merrick that he could, and would, physically escort Merrick to the bunker himself if necessary. Merrick didn’t see the need to dig in on that point, so he settled in at his new command post. Everything he needed to run the country was right there with him. Technology would allow him to be in constant contact with every branch of the military, FBI, NSA, and CIA.
The bunker had an unusual brightness to it, as if the windowless basement was trying to make up for its absence of sunlight. Overhead fluorescent lights flooded stark white walls and tan Berber carpet. Covering over five thousand square feet, the bunker consisted of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a large multipurpose room that included five pullout sofas. The ventilation system assured that the inhabitants received the purest of oxygen, and the kitchen was stocked with enough dry goods and distilled water to support a dozen people for almost a year. Longer if rationed.
The bunker was initially constructed during the Cold War. Its initial purpose was to protect a sitting president, his family and a few choice aides throughout a nuclear attack. Other than a monthly maintenance check, the bunker had never been occupied, and rarely discussed.
Merrick’s wife and two kids were away with his mother-in-law surrounded by Secret Service agents. If he was going to be a target, there was no reason to put his family in harm’s way also.
Merrick sat on the sofa next to Bill Hatfield, who was hunched over a laptop computer with the Presidential Seal displayed on the back. The computer sat on a coffee table that competed for space with ten different newspapers layered between manila files marked ‘Confidential’, ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret.’ Bob Dylan’s voice twanged sarcastically from the built-in speakers. Merrick had been stressed for so long that he was beginning to feel a bit numb.
Samuel Fisk sat in a leather chair across the coffee table from Merrick and Hatfield with folded arms. He listened while Bill Hatfield attempted to gain the President’s attention for a briefing. The three of them were temporarily alone while the remainder of Merrick’s staff noisily discovered the challenges of cooking powdered eggs and potatoes in the kitchen.
“They know where he is, John. Doesn’t that bother you?” Hatfield bristled.
Merrick dug through files of the latest arrests stacked on the table in front of him. “Listen, Bill, I trust Marty to make the right moves. He’s no dummy. If he thinks that surprising them is better than tipping them off, I’ll buy it.”
Hatfield looked at his watch. “We’ve barely more than thirteen hours to go. Why are we being coy here?”
Merrick understood Hatfield’s tendency to panic, but he was tired and wanted to be certain of his judgment, so he glanced at Fisk for reassurance.
“He’s right, Bill,” Fisk said. “We’ve got to give Marty and Louis and Walt their opportunity to clean up this mess.”
Hatfield looked back and forth between Merrick and Fisk. “I can’t believe you two are taking this so calmly. Don’t either of you understand the ramifications of the White House going up in flames? Even if it’s abandoned, it will symbolize the extent of our vulnerability and encourage all kinds of terrorist attacks. Anyone with a slingshot will try picking off government employees going to their cars.”
While Merrick reviewed his latest e-mail from the FBI War Room, he said. “I’m not real eager to make a mistake here, Bill. Let these guys do their job. I just spent the past three hours with that damn phone stuck to my ear and I’m getting briefed every thirty minutes. I believe Walt knows what’s at stake.”
Hatfield grimaced but said nothing.
Merrick read from his e-mail. “Walt’s got a task force on its way to Payson already. Apparently, the Gila County Sheriff’s Office has set up roadblocks disguised as sobriety checkpoints so they don’t raise any suspicions, but they’ll scrutinize everything they see. He feels confident that we’re closing in.”
“John, you’re making a mistake,” Hatfield said with a restrained voice. “This is a golden opportunity to—”
Merrick reached behind the sofa to a button on the wall. He turned the button to the right and Bob Dylan’s nasally voice boomed over the ceiling speakers. Dylan was pining about some cryptic burden that Merrick was sure even the CIA couldn’t decipher. It did, however, drown out Hatfield’s ineffectual argument and that’s all that mattered.
Hatfield stood, pointed to Merrick, and yelled over the dirge of harmonicas and steel guitars. “This is a flagrant miscalculation!”
Merrick held his hand to his ear and shrugged. A few aides poked their head into the doorway to see what the commotion was all about. They got there soon enough to see Hatfield throw up his arms and storm out of the room.
Fisk hopped up and took a seat on the sofa next to Merrick. He centered the laptop in front of him and continued opening e-mail messages in Hatfield’s absence.
“Do you think I’m being too hard on him, Sam?” Merrick asked.
“You know how I feel about him. I plead the Fifth.”
Fisk checked the final e-mail. It was forwarded from FBI Headquarters where Kharrazi had been sending his demands. “Look at this,” Fisk elbowed Merrick.
The message was preceded with a note from the Assistant Special Agent in Charge. It read, “This seems legitimate. The trace came back with a dead end. A pre-paid server with a P.O. Box address, never been used before, like the others.”
Merrick scrolled down to the body of the e-mail:
President Merrick,
We both know that your time is running out. You don’t have the support of the American people any longer. I realize that you are hiding in your bunker like the coward you are. Tonight, when the White House explodes into a beautiful fireball, the United States will no longer be under your command. The media will disembowel you publicly and there will be nothing to prevent the impeachment process. Congress will not allow America to be destroyed over the tepid support for a country that means little to its citizens. It’s only your ego that precludes you from doing the right thing and saving your presidency and the nation you swore to defend. Order your troops out of Turkey before midnight, and you will be safe. It is the only logical thing to do.
By now, you must be receiving intelligence suggesting that they cannot find the missiles that will destroy your home. They won’t, Mr. President. And even if they do there is nothing they can do to prevent its launch. They can only expedite it.
I look forward to your press conference.
KK
Fisk shook his head. “Good old-fashioned Georgetown education. The asshole knows his politics.”
Merrick looked at him. “He’s right about one thing.” He pointed up. “If this baby takes a hit tonight, I might not be impeached, but I could start packing my bags. It’s six weeks until the election and I haven’t left this damn building in three days. I could count on one hand the amount of votes I’d be certain of, and I’m including me and my wife.”
Fisk scratched his ear. “If you withdraw troops from Turkey, you’re fucked. You would forever be the President who cowered to terrorist demands.”
Merrick nodded, still staring at the e-mail. The reward was nowhere near the risks, reputation or not. Didn’t he have a responsibility to protect U.S. citizens?
“On the other hand,” Fisk added, “if we’re able to find these guys and put this issue to bed, you’d be the President who caught Kemel Kharrazi—the world’s most notorious terrorist.”
Merrick sat back in his chair and folded his arms, still regarding Kharrazi’s words on the screen in front of him. “Missiles.”
“What’s that?”
Fisk patted his friend’s back. “Don’t worry, John, we’ll get him.”
Merrick turned toward him. “You know something that I don’t?”
Fisk picked up a file and began reading, as if the question was never asked.
Merrick pulled a half-unrolled package of Tums from his pocket and with practiced agility popped one into his mouth and crunched down hard on the chalky tablet. “Boy, Sam, this better be good.”
***
Nihad Tansu had taken a lab coat from the supply room and hid a couple of scalpels in his outside coat pocket for easy access. As he approached Julie Bracco’s hospital room, he walked directly toward the stocky officer guarding the door. He made no pretense to avoid a confrontation. The man stared at him as he smiled a greeting. “Hello, Officer, I’m Dr. Marshall. I believe Marie called you about my visit.”
Tansu had his hand in his coat pocket, ready for a quick nick of the carotid artery. To his credit, the officer did not appear comfortable with the last-minute addition. He kept a stoic expression, as if he was waiting for Tansu to crack; but Tansu stood his ground, a cheap forgery of a smile planted on his face.
The officer said, “Can I see some I.D.?”
Tansu pulled his fake identification from his pocket and handed it to the man. The officer looked at the photo, then Tansu. Finally, he handed the card back to Tansu and nodded toward the door. “Go ahead.”
Tansu had altered his appearance slightly, dying his hair blonde and adding blue contact lenses. He knew that would be all he needed to get close enough to Julie Bracco to slit her throat.
Tansu abruptly entered the room, hoping that a quick confident entrance would seem more routine. He smiled at the woman sitting up in the bed, but the woman’s head was slumped to the side. Was she dead already? He was actually disappointed that he hadn’t had the chance to be the instrument of her death. Especially after she had the nerve to survive one of his best shots at a moving target.
