by Gary Ponzo
“Done,” Walt interrupted.
“Okay, good,” Nick said. “Why the change of heart?”
“Because I just got off the phone with the President and he told me to get my ass over to Payson and get you whatever help you need.”
“So maybe going over Ken’s head wasn’t such a bad move after all,” Nick said with a grin.
“As long as I stay out of D.C. I might have to run for sheriff of Payson.”
A roar of multiple engines began to grow in the distance. It sounded eerily incongruous with the serene setting around them. As the engines approached, a trio of men riding Harley Davidson motorcycles slowed and turned into the gravel drive of the sheriff’s office. A couple of American soldiers standing guard in the drive looked at Nick for instruction.
“What’s that?” Walt asked.
“I’ve got to go,” Nick said. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He shut his phone and waved the group in. The soldiers spread apart to allow the approaching riders to make their way to Nick.
Nick nudged Matt. “Why don’t you head inside, check your emails.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
All three Harley riders shut off their engines and dismounted. The silence was palpable. They all wore jeans, tee shirts, bandannas and sunglasses. The rider in the middle pulled off a pair of riding gloves as he approached.
Nick stepped down from the porch.
“Sheriff,” the man said with a nod of reverence.
Nick nodded back.
“Sarge wanted you to know he appreciated your visit … I mean the way you handled yourself. He said to tell you he’s sorry he mistook your motive. It wasn’t until you were gone that he fully understood your intentions.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s understandable.”
The leader looked around before he spoke again. His wing men stood with their hands behind their backs.
“The fact is,” the leader said, “Sarge is as American as apple pie.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
This put a smile on the man’s face. “So, he wanted you to know the Harley Mafia had nothing to do with any cigarette heist you two had spoken about.”
Nick waited.
“But he did a little research and discovered a coincidence in his gambling books. A little while back, a local resident came by to pay up his debt. This was someone who’d owed Sarge over three thousand dollars for most of the past two years. Sarge has a soft heart, so he let this guy run a tab longer than most. The guy’s a compulsive gambler and Sarge feels a little guilty taking his money, like he’s an enabler.”
Nick let that one go. What else would you call a bookie except an enabler?
“So,” the man continued, holding his gloves in both hands, “Sarge checked his dates correctly to be sure and discovered that the day this man paid off his debt was precisely one day after the cigarette robbery came down.”
Now the man smiled hard, as if he’d just offered Nick the key to the city.
“I see,” Nick said. “Has the man come back since then to place more bets?”
“Yes. He’s down over a thousand dollars already and six hundred of it is sitting on the books awaiting payment.”
Nick nodded. “That’s valuable,” he said. “Care to offer the man’s name?”
“Sarge told me to get a read on you, to decide whether you could be trusted to keep his name away from the connection.” He stared through his sunglasses at Nick as if he were trying to search Nick’s soul. After a few seconds, he said, “I trust you.”
“You should.”
The man began to put on his gloves. “Eddie Lister,” the man said. “They call him Fast Eddie. Mostly because he loses his shirt so quickly.”
Nick reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Tell Sarge America owes him.”
The man mounted his bike along with his two friends. As they sat back in their seats about to push the start button, the man smiled from behind the sunglasses and said, “I’ll have him put it on the tab.”
Chapter 20
Anton Kalinikov sat by the small window and watched the horizon darken as the plane headed west. His final job, he thought. He’d never allowed himself the luxury of thinking past his next assignment, it was too dangerous. But ever since he’d heard the staggering amount he was getting paid, his retirement plans became an irresistible reality.
“You traveling for business?” the voice next to him said. Kalinikov turned to see a middle-aged man with a pot-belly and a bookmarked copy of “The Iliad” on his lap.
Kalinikov smiled amiably and spoke with a tremendous mid-western accent, “Yes, I am,” Kalinikov said. “How about you?”
The man grinned. “Just coming back from a sales trip to Philadelphia. I’ve lived in Phoenix for almost forty years, so I’m practically a native.”
Kalinikov extended his hand. “Norm Jennings,” Kalinikov said.
The man shook his hand. “Marv Sinter.”
“What kind of sales?” Kalinikov asked.
“Medical supplies. You?”
“Insurance.” The word alone always put a damper on any conversation, so it was no surprise when the he spent the next ten minutes reading the airplane magazine. He’d achieved the desired effect.
The plane began to descend and the airline attendant made all of the necessary announcements. As Kalinikov was moving his seat into an upright position, Marv nudged him and gestured out the window.
“Look,” Marv said, pointing to a long line of headlights below them. The row of cars were at a virtual standstill and seemed to continue on for eternity. They were all going in the same direction away from the mountains and toward the desert.
“What is that?” Kalinikov asked.
“That’s the road out of Payson,” Marv said. “My brother is in one of those cars with his family. They’re all heading to Phoenix.”
“How long of a drive is it?”
“An hour and a half if you step on it. But the way that looks, it’ll be four or five hours.”
Kalinikov noticed no traffic going the opposite direction toward Payson.
“They really think this terrorist is going to destroy the town?” Kalinikov asked.
Marv shrugged. “After what happened a few months back, I wouldn’t blame them if they never returned. That sheriff up there is just inviting trouble.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, he’s a target, that’s why. If he left town, the place would be safe again.”
Kalinikov grinned. “Is that what you would do? Run away? You would spend your entire life chasing bad guys, then one of them threatens you and your community and you’d run? Is that the kind of sheriff you would be?”
Marv grinned back at him. “You bet your ass. Especially if I had kids. I’d run like a little girl.”
Kalinikov stared down at the huge traffic jam below them. “Does he have children?”
“I don’t think so,” Marv said. “That’s probably part of the problem right there. Give a guy kids and their entire philosophy on life changes.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“You don’t have kids?”
Kalinikov shook his head as the plane bounced on clear air turbulence. “I have two nephews however. Does that count?”
“Sorry,” Marv said. “I can’t let you into the club unless you have one of your own.”
“I see,” Kalinikov turned to face his new friend. “And this Sheriff doesn’t have any children, so that’s the main problem?”
“Yes,” Marv said with a grin threatening to break out. “That’s the issue. He’s got too much testosterone. Give him some young ones and he’d soften up a little.”
“Let the terrorist do what he wants with the city as long as his kids are safe, right?”
Marv looked over at Kalinikov incredulously. “You’re actually having fun with this, aren’t you?”
Kalinikov smiled. “Of course.�
��
“What about you, tough guy?” Marv asked. “What would you do?”
Kalinikov gave it some thought. “Me? I’d probably track the terrorist down and kill him.”
Marv appraised Kalinikov as if seeing him for the first time. “You’ve got some years on you, Norm, but I’ll bet you could kick some butt when you wanted.”
Kalinikov gave him a paternal smile. “You have the wrong guy, Marv.” He gazed back out the window toward the tail of the spiraling line of cars. Toward Payson.
“I don’t even like watching hockey on TV,” Kalinikov added. “Too much violence.”
Lynn Harding was sleep-deprived and she knew it. Three straight days without more than a two hour nap. As the ASAC of the Baltimore Field Office, she’d just lost four of her fellow FBI agents to a Russian assassin hired by Temir Barzani. All of this led to a nervous stomach and bags under her eyes.
She sat in a booth along the side of the War Room, fifty feet below ground and tried to catch her breath. There were three separate booths along the perimeter of the room set up for officials to make and take calls without interrupting the flow of conversation around the table in the middle of the room. The booth looked very much like an old fashioned telephone booth with a much more comfortable seat and a soundproof glass door which allowed private conversations.
Her hand trembled from both physical and mental anguish as she pushed the button on her cell phone.
“Hey, Lynn,” Nick Bracco said in her receiver.
Just hearing his voice calmed her nerves. “Nick, how’s it going?”
“I’m still breathing, so I’ve got that going for me.”
Harding gazed out the booth window at the circle of men hunched over the round table with varying degrees of ugly expressions. Most hadn’t left the building in days and their ties were dangling from the back of their chairs while their shirts were opened to the third button or more.
“Nick,” Harding said, “it’s getting rough down here.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ken is pissed that Walt went over his head to the President.”
“Of course.”
“Well, now Ken has intelligence from Switzerland that a half a million dollars has been wired from Kharrazi Construction Company in Istanbul to a Swiss bank account.”
“Sure, payment for the murders of our team,” Nick said bluntly, putting it together quicker than even she’d expected.
“Yes, however that’s not how Ken is spinning this. He’s suggesting this is payment for an assassination of President Merrick. He suggests we focus our attention on the D.C. area and find this Russian before he gets to Merrick. He wants everyone to return back home to track him down.”
“Oh, so now all of a sudden he believes The Russian is in America?”
“Yes.”
“And if he’s wrong about this, he can say he was just protecting the President.”
“Uh huh.”
There was silence while Nick seemed to think it over.
“He doesn’t like Walt sending support my way, does he?” Nick said.
“No. Once this LAX thing blew up, he wanted everyone back here.”
“Boy.” Nick breathed out a long breath. “I knew the guy hated me for bagging Kharrazi, I just never knew how much.”
Harding said nothing. She waited to hear something she could use. Information was the most potent currency an intelligence agency could traffic. Those with it had the leverage. The average civilian had no idea how much the FBI and CIA used this leverage to maintain their status. Each one fighting for their own budget survival.
“I’ve got hunches, Lynn,” Nick said, “that’s all.”
Lynn glimpsed out the window and saw CIA Director Ken Morris glaring at her as if she’d just poured sour milk in his coffee.
“I’ll take it,” Lynn said, desperate for something to use against the CIA director’s power play.
“Well, Barzani’s still here for sure,” Nick said. “He called to threaten me, maybe hoping to rattle me, I don’t know. But he said if the President didn’t announce a reduction in troops in Turkey at his press conference tomorrow night, Arizona was going to look very different. Not America. Arizona. I think he’s planning something big here. He’s had months to prepare.”
“What have you come up with?”
Silence.
“Nick?”
“Nothing. I’ve got a weak lead from a Turkish cigarette left behind at Barzani’s safe house, but otherwise … nothing.”
“What about tonight? Has Barzani got something planned?”
“I don’t think so. He knew about the Prime Minister’s visit to the White House. He seemed to allow a reprieve until the President’s speech.”
Harding closed her eyes and took long, deep breathes. She could almost feel Morris staring at her from the table. They had just twenty-four hours before the President’s speech.
“Nick,” she said, “your best guess. What’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
“The President isn’t removing troops, is he?”
“No.”
She could hear Nick breathing, but nothing else.
Harding twisted her back, which was stiffening from all the sitting. “Nick, I don’t want Walt’s job.”
“I know that, Lynn.” Nick snapped. “This is bigger than our careers.”
“So why don’t you give me something I can run with?”
After a few moments of silence, with a reluctant tone, Nick finally said, “Palo Verde is the country’s largest nuclear power plant.”
Harding smiled with relief.
“Is that enough to keep Walt safe?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it might be enough to save the country. I’ll take your instincts over Ken’s any day.”
Chapter 21
Tommy sat at the bar and picked at the stale peanuts while nursing down his beer. Special Forces, FBI and National Guard were scouring the town for this Lister guy while Tommy was stationed at the Sonoran Brewhouse. A local pub where Eddie Lister was known to hang out.
The place was a dingy pub with wood columns along the ceiling and booths along each side of the main room. At least it was quiet, making it easier for Tommy to inspect each individual as they entered. He watched a West Coast college football game on the TV while keeping an eye on the door.
A little after 10 P.M. a man came in and stood inside the doorway allowing his eyes time to adjust to the darkness of the dreary tavern. Tommy watched through the mirror behind the bar as the man headed his way. He was tall and athletic-looking, maybe early-fifties. Sitting a couple of stools down from Tommy, he ordered a draft beer. He wore a button down shirt and blue jeans. Too fancy to be a local. Since they were the only two people sitting at the bar, the man took notice of Tommy and raised his glass in a mock toast. Tommy returned the gesture.
It was the fourth quarter of the football game and UCLA was beating Oregon State by three touchdowns. Tommy was losing his patience waiting for this guy to show up, especially since he didn’t have any action on the game.
“You’re not from around here,” the man next to him said.
Tommy turned in his seat to face him. “You pick that up with just my clothes?”
“Naw,” the man said. He seemed to have a mid-western accent. “I’m good at reading people. Sort of a hobby of mine.”
Tommy placed his elbow on the bar and rested his head in his hand. “Really?”
“Sure,” the man said, picking up a peanut from the wood bowl and popping it in his mouth.
“Okay,” Tommy said. “Where am I from?”
Now the man swiveled to face him. He appraised Tommy with a pair of intense eyes. “From your attire, to your demeanor, to your accent … I’d have to say somewhere around the East Coast, maybe Washington D.C. area.”
Tommy smiled. “You’re good,” he said extending his hand. “I’m Tommy Bracco. Baltimore.”
The man shook his hand with a firm grip. �
��Norm Jennings. West Lafayette, Indiana.”
Tommy snapped his fingers. “I had you pegged for the mid-west,” he said. “West Lafayette. The home of the Purdue Boilermakers.”
“That’s the place,” Jennings said.
“How’s the basketball team doing this year?”
“Lousy.” Jennings said, then took a sip of his beer. “Just one and four so far.”
“I see,” Tommy said. He drank his beer, then returned his attention to the game. He pulled his phone out and checked the Purdue Boilermakers’ record, just for something to do. One and four, just like the guy said.
“Bracco?” Jennings said. “Any relation to the sheriff?”
Tommy nodded. “My cousin.”
“Really?” Jennings seemed to perk up. “You two must be close.”
“Very,” Tommy said. “Pretty much grew up together.”
“So are you in law enforcement as well?”
Tommy chuckled. “Hardly. I just came by for a visit after one of these terrorists took a shot at him. ”
“That’s right,” Jennings said, swirling his finger around in the bowl of peanuts until he found the one he wanted. “I read about that. Is he okay?”
“He’ll be fine,” Tommy said. “He’ll be even finer once we catch the rat bastard.”
“I see. So you’re helping him track this guy down?”
“Something like that,” Tommy said, suddenly realizing he’d been answering a lot of questions. “How about you? What brings you into a war zone like Payson?”
“My mom lives up here and refuses to leave. I thought I’d better keep an eye on her if she’s going to stay.”
“So you’re staying with her?”
“Yes. How about you? Are you staying with your cousin?”
“I am,” Tommy said, checking out the new arrivals as they entered the bar. Two girls and one guy. The guy fit the description. He watched the trio slide into a booth. The guy, maybe Eddie Lister, opened up the plastic menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and looked it over.
“People you know?” Jennings asked, following Tommy’s gaze.
“Maybe,” Tommy said. He returned to his beer trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation. A little patience might help him, but Tommy wasn’t so good with patience.
