by Ponzo, Gary
Nick looked up and saw a stunned expression on his partner’s face. Nick felt his heart racing while he fought the urge to go any further. He doodled furiously on the legal pad, making jagged lines around the word ‘Sarock.’
“You never answered my question,” Kharrazi finally said. “How is your wife?”
Nick strangled his pen with the palm of his hand. “She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“When I tell you she’s fine, you can trust that it’s true. Now Nihad Tansu on the other hand isn’t doing so well.”
There was a pause. “Is that so?”
“He’s dead, you twisted fuck. He couldn’t even finish off my wife like you commanded. That’s why I’m telling you, your plan won’t work. Too many incompetents under your rule.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What don’t you believe, that you’re a twisted fuck or that Tansu’s dead?”
“Tansu didn’t die without completing his mission.”
“Oh really? Then how do you think I got this phone number—directory assistance?”
There was silence while Kharrazi put it together. In a stern, but restrained voice, he said, “We should meet, you and I.”
“I agree.”
“Face to face.”
“Absolutely. Tell me when.”
“I will surprise you.”
“I hate surprises. Tell me when and I’ll have coffee made.”
Kharrazi forced a laugh. “I must go, Mr. Bracco. I’d be walking with one eye over your shoulder if I were you.”
Nick looked at Matt. “I have someone covering my back. Do you?”
“You would be surprised what protection I command. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll phone you when it’s time to meet.”
Nick hesitated, then decided there was nothing Kharrazi could do with the number but call him.
“Please,” Nick said, “call me when you’re ready to surrender. I’ll make sure you’re protected.” He gave Kharrazi his secure phone number. The second he finished the last digit, the connection went dead.
Nick pushed the end button and found Matt with a proud expression usually reserved for first-time fathers. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” Matt said.
Nick felt a trickle of moisture drop onto his wrist. He wiped his sideburns dry with clammy fingers. “It’s hot in here.”
Chapter 29
Miles Reese had been Washington Post’s White House correspondent for the past twelve years. Before that he was the Post’s Bureau Chief in Moscow. Somewhere between the Berlin Wall crumbling and the impeachment of President Clinton, Moscow’s bud had lost its bloom and he came home to claim the paper’s most prestigious prize—covering the White House.
With the threat of an attack on the White House now just eight hours away, Miles was hunkered down in his office, hammering furiously on his computer’s keyboard. A tap on his open office door didn’t deter him, and he said, “Go away,” with his eyes glued to his monitor.
“I know you don’t want to be disturbed,” his secretary’s voice said from behind him, “but you’ve got a call from someone saying it’s urgent.”
“Who is it?”
“He wouldn’t say, but he assured me that you would want the exclusive. He says he knows where the terrorists are.”
Reese stopped typing. He looked over his shoulder. “What line?”
“Four.”
The reporter snapped up the receiver. “Reese,” he said.
“Are you interested in knowing where the KSF are hiding?” a man’s voice said.
“Bill? Is that you?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Reese grabbed a pen from his penholder. “Of course I want to know where they are.”
“Good. Then I will tell you under one condition. This is going to be an anonymous source—not an anonymous source from the White House, or a high-ranking official, or even a government employee. This is going to be an anonymous source—period. Understand?”
“Gotcha, boss. Let me have it.”
There was a hesitation as Reese thought he heard the man murmuring to himself about whether it was the right thing to do.
“Look,” Reese stoked the flame of free-flowing information, “I’m not sure what your concern is, but I can not only guarantee your anonymity, I can assure you that—if the information is accurate—you’d be doing the country a tremendous service. The more people who know where to look, the better chance we have of finding them.”
Reese didn’t hear anything for thirty seconds. The line was still open and he didn’t want to hard-sell the guy, so he kept quiet. Finally, after a minute of silence, the man’s voice said, “Payson, Arizona,” then hung up.
Reese scribbled the name down, then pulled a map of Arizona from the bottom drawer of his desk. He groped through the state of Arizona with his finger until he found the tiny dot that was Payson. He circled it with a pencil. Tapping the pencil on his desk, he considered the call. Reese’s suspicious nature kicked in. He’d received White House leaks all the time, but usually they came from an intern, or somebody completely expendable.
He looked up at his clock and picked up his phone. Regardless of President Merrick’s motives, Reese had to move on the story.
“Fredrick Himes’ office,” a man’s voice answered.
“This is Miles Reese with the Post. I’d like to have the Press Secretary comment on a story I’m about to put on our website. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. I’m sure you understand that—”
“I’m publishing the location of the Kurdish terrorists’ headquarters in the United States.” Reese paused for effect. “Now is the Press Secretary available, or should I run with this story?”
There was a brief interval in the conversation. Although it was obvious that the man’s hand was now covering the phone, Reese could hear his voice speaking urgently through the muted mouthpiece. A moment later, the man said, “I’ll put you through to him now.”
A clicking sound, then, “Himes.”
“Fredrick, this is Miles. I’ve got a source telling me the general location of the KSF headquarters. Would you care to comment?” Reese always blurted out the leak quickly and listened carefully for the response. All too often the reply was practically scripted.
This time, however, the Press Secretary seemed genuinely dazed by the call. “Uh, are you saying that you know the actual state they’re located?”
“And city.”
“How certain are you?”
“I’m certain that my source is credible.”
Himes hesitated, then sheepishly asked, “Who is your source?”
“Jeez, Fredrick, what’s going on over there? Don’t you guys even talk with each other? This is not something that’s likely to miss your circle.”
“Who is your source?”
“Come on, you know I’m not going to tell you.”
Himes’ voice got dark. “If you publish this information, you’d better know what you’re doing. Otherwise, your career will be doing a tightrope act.”
“My source is credible. So, what’s your comment?”
“How can I respond without hearing where you think they are?”
Reese shook his head and leaned back into his chair. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Silence.
“I’m told they’re in Arizona. What’s your comment?”
Reese could hear the man sigh. “No comment.”
“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Fredrick. Go introduce yourself to the President. He’ll be the one with the herd of Secret Service around him.”
Reese hung up. There was no sense trying to run down a second source to corroborate the story. After all, it came from the White House Chief of Staff. What more did he need?
* * *
As the helicopter breezed dangerously close to the ground, the treetops became larger and greener with every passing minute. They were head
ing from the desert of Phoenix, to the mountains of Payson. Nick had a death grip on one of the restraining straps while staring out of the front of the chopper.
“Isn’t this thing flying a little low?” Nick asked anyone.
“Relax,” Matt said. “Look at it this way—we’re close enough to survive a crash landing. You can’t say that about a commercial airliner.”
“Gee, I feel better already,” Nick said. He cupped his hand around his mouth and aimed at the pilot. “How much longer?” he yelled over the din of the rotor.
The pilot turned his head slightly, but kept his eyes on the landscape ahead. “Ten minutes.”
“That’s what you said ten minutes ago,” Nick muttered to himself.
“What kind of assets do we have up here?” Matt asked.
“There’s an R.A. They didn’t give me a name.”
“That’s it—a resident agent?”
“We’re supposed to be running a clandestine operation. It’s up to us and whoever we can conjure up from the Sheriff’s Department.”
“Great,” Matt said.
The helicopter circled an open patch of grass near a paved road. A red pickup truck sat next to the opening and someone stood beside the truck with his hand protecting his face from the gusty assault of the rotors.
When the chopper finally settled down, Nick was the first to jump out. He was followed by the rest of the team and Don Silkari. They’d gone from the desert to the mountains and the fall air had a crisp chill to it. Nick waved off the pilot and watched as the helicopter hovered out of the opening, then tilted forward and surged back to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.
By the time Nick reached the local FBI agent, Matt was already shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. He was surprised to find an attractive woman dressed in jeans and a dark nylon vest. She wore her long, brunette hair in a ponytail, which was pulled tight through the opening of the back of her baseball cap. It wasn’t lost on Nick that Matt was the one who was doing the introductions, but with an awkward look on his face.
Nick shook her hand. “Nick Bracco.”
“Jennifer Steele,” she said.
“Jennifer Steele?” Nick squinted. He looked at Matt. Matt nodded. Yes, that Jennifer Steele.
Some women pull back their hair, throw on a flannel shirt and become Grizzly Adams. Steele didn’t wear a speck of makeup, yet Nick could tell that underneath all the denim there was a body dying to be wrapped tight in an evening gown.
“I see,” Nick said.
“Is there a problem?” Steele asked.
“Of course not,” Nick said. “You’ve been briefed?”
“Well . . . actually, very little. The only thing I’m certain of is that you’re searching for the KSF’s home base. You have reason to suspect they’re hiding somewhere in the vicinity of Payson. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
She looked around at the group, all wearing casual clothes, no FBI windbreakers to be seen. “If you don’t mind me asking, how much more backup are we getting?”
“None,” Nick said. “You’re looking at the task force.”
“Oh,” she said, regarding the team with a fresh set of eyes. “Well, I’ve been instructed to assist you any way I can. I’ve been the R.A. up here for five years, so I’m certain I’ll be an asset.” She raised her brow. “Of course the more I know, the more valuable I become.”
Nick smiled. He knew how it felt to be in the lower echelon of the information chain. Most resident agents worked out of their homes in remote locations. For them, a bank robbery was about as exciting as it got. Terrorists harboring an operation center was way up the intrigue chart. And that’s precisely what Jennifer Steele looked like to Nick. Intrigued. Almost as intrigued as his partner. Matt stood there listening to Steele as if she were reciting the Ten Commandments.
Nick lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you what, Agent Steele, let’s head toward our command post and I’ll update you along with the local law enforcement.”
Her eyes were bright with anticipation and the corner of her mouth always appeared to be on the verge of a grin, yet her demeanor was all business. She pointed to her truck. “It’s your show. We’ll be using the Sheriff’s office as a command post, but don’t expect a welcome wagon when we show up.”
Nick smiled. “We never do.”
“A couple of you can ride up front with me, the rest will have to rough it in the back.”
Without a word everyone but Nick and Matt groped their way into the back of the truck. As they approached the passenger door, Nick gave Matt a wide berth and ushered him in.
The truck jostled back and forth as Agent Steele rolled the truck from the rough terrain onto the smooth surface of a paved road. Steele and Matt seemed eager to start a conversation, but neither of them appeared as if they could decide the proper way to begin. They rode in a stiff silence for a while until Matt ducked his head to look at the tops of the tall Ponderosa Pines waving in the autumn breeze. “Beautiful country up here.”
“I think so,” she said.
The silence lingered until the truck ascended the crest of a hill and downtown Payson came into view. Retail stores made out of logs and T-4 wood siding cohabitated with modern strip shopping centers and fast-food restaurants. Steele slowed the truck to match the lower speed limit. “I have to warn you about the sheriff,” she confided. “He’s a bit heavy-handed.”
“You mean he’s a bully,” Matt said.
“I mean he’s not exactly friendly toward us federal employees.”
Matt grinned. “He just hasn’t met anyone as likable as us before.”
Steele looked at him. “I know enough about you, Agent McColm.”
Nick could feel Matt’s body go rigid. He seemed prepared to defend himself, when Steele said, “I mean, what kind of agent would I be if I wasn’t familiar with the FBI’s two-time reigning sharp-shooting champion?”
A grin crept across Matt’s face and he sat up a bit taller. “I guess you would be the uninformed kind.”
This got her to display a smile that even happily-married Nick Bracco had to admire.
“Well, I happen to be a bit of a marksman myself,” she said. “Maybe not as good as you with a handgun, but I’d give you trouble with a rifle.”
“I’ll bet you would,” Matt said, looking her over as if he were appraising a fine diamond.
“Listen, kids,” Nick interrupted.
“Yes, Dad,” Matt said.
Steele let out the tiniest of a nervous laugh.
“First of all, we’re pretty certain the KSF is tucked away up here somewhere. Do you have any ideas where we might start a search?”
“Well,” Steele said,” there are plenty of cabins scattered throughout the outskirts of town. If I wanted seclusion, that’s where I’d hide. How did you discover their location?”
“Yeah,” Matt said, turning toward his partner with a smirk. “Why don’t you tell us that, Dad?”
Nick looked over his shoulder and saw the team appearing to be taking in the scenery from the back of the truck, but he knew better. Each set of eyes was rummaging the countryside, searching for anything suspicious. “It gets complicated.”
Steele gave Nick a sideways glance. “Is that another way of saying get lost?”
“Not at all. It’s just that some of the people involved aren’t the type to . . . uh . . . be associating with law enforcement types.”
She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “You mean like the one with the purple toothpick?”
Nick looked back and rolled his eyes at the sight of Silk in his long, black, wool coat, and pointy black boots sticking out from the bottom of his perfectly creased jeans. He looked like he belonged on the sidelines of a college football game. “Yes, like him,” Nick said.
“I see.”
This seemed to satisfy her curiosity for the moment. She slowed even further and made a left hand turn at the first traffic light. After a few minutes they were rolling into the f
reshly asphalted parking area in front of the Gila County Sheriff’s Office. Like most buildings in Payson, it was made of wood and topped with a shingled roof. Parked in front of the building was a sparkling new Ford pickup truck with temporary plates demonstrating its adolescence.
Nick pointed to the vehicle. “That’s the Sheriff’s?”
Steele nodded. “It’s his baby. He’s practically showing it off door-to-door.”
The group unloaded duffle bags full of gear and followed Steele through the front door and into the administrative office. Three older women were busy behind the counter. Two were on the phone, and the third was heaving a cardboard box full of files across the room. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and the floor was an aging linoleum that curled slightly at the perimeter.
Steele removed her baseball cap and waved a thumb over her shoulder at the small crowd behind her. “Afternoon, Lorraine. This is the crew of agents from Baltimore that Sheriff’s been waiting for. Is he in?”
The woman had the unimpressed look of someone who’d seen too much reality TV. She placed the box on her desk and picked up her phone. “They’re here,” she said.
After a moment she placed the phone down and pointed toward a hallway. “You know where to go.”
Nick trailed the field, taking it all in. The agents all nodded at Lorraine as they passed and Silk pulled the toothpick from his mouth in a hat-tipping gesture.
Once inside the Sheriff’s personal office, linoleum gave way to a brown, industrial-grade carpet. A giant picture of Geronimo loomed on the wall across from the Sheriff’s desk, which was flanked by the United States flag and the state flag of Arizona. The Sheriff wore a tan uniform with a gold star on his sleeve. He sat with his legs crossed as if he were a guest on a talk show and his hands cradled a Styrofoam cup on his slight potbelly.
“Well, well,” the Sheriff smiled, “look what the cat drug in. The federal government has graced me with their finest men.” He quickly nodded at Agent Steele, “And women.”
“Sheriff Skrugs,” Steele said, hat in hand, “This is Agent Bracco.”
