by Gary Ponzo
Julie examined her husband’s face. “Is that true?” she asked. “Are you close to getting Kharrazi?”
Nick winced. “Well,” he began. Then his eyes met hers and he saw the hope that lingered there.
Julie pointed a finger at him. “You remember your promise?”
“What promise?” Matt asked, watching the president leave the podium.
“Nick is going to quit being a field agent after the KSF is through terrorizing the country,” Julie said.
“Really?”
“Really,” Nick answered firmly.
“You mean I’m going to have to find a new partner?” Matt asked.
“It looks that way,” Nick said.
Matt crushed his empty beer can and frowned. “I’m not so sure I want to stick around without you.”
“What are you talking about?” Nick scoffed. “You love your job. You couldn’t do anything more gratifying.”
“That’s true, but the reason I love it so much is because we work so well together. I don’t want to have to go through that whole breaking in process again. I could find investigative work in the private sector and probably double my salary.”
“See,” Julie said. “Everybody wins.”
Nick decided to change the subject. “How’s Tommy?”
“When I left the hospital this afternoon, the doctors felt like he was out of the woods,” she said.
“Good.” Nick checked his watch. “We’d better get going.”
“Now where?” Julie said.
“We have a meeting downtown.”
“At the office?”
Nick glanced at Matt. “Not exactly.”
Julie tossed the washcloth playfully at her husband. “I swear Nick Bracco, living with you is like living with a—”
“A spy?” Nick finished for her.
“That’s right, a spy. I can’t wait until you get a regular job and come home and tell me every boring detail about your day.”
Matt went over and gave Julie a peck on the forehead. “Thanks for the chow, Jule.”
She smiled at Matt. “All I ask is that you take care of him. He hasn’t far to go.”
“Don’t worry,” Matt said heading for the door, “I can see his pot belly growing already.”
Chapter 19
Huseyn Yildiri was surrounded by thirty of the KSF’s most powerful soldiers. They stood around him sharpening their knives and cleaning the barrels of their rifles. A conference table was wedged into the corner of the room where a computer and three small televisions continuously displayed news and information. He was the only one seated at the folding table in the middle of the room. He sipped his cup of water with shaky hands while they all waited for Kemel Kharrazi to speak.
Kharrazi paced opposite the table with his hands behind his back. His face screwed up into a tight, pained expression.
Huseyn prayed for Kharrazi to say something, but his leader simply stalked the cellar where they assembled and listened to Huseyn explain his ordeal. Huseyn didn’t dare delve too deeply into the explanation of his exit from their safe house. It was one thing to run from bullets, yet another to leave a brave KSF soldier behind, dead. He tried to paint his escape as necessary. “I knew that you must learn of this situation. That is why I came here immediately, Sarock.”
Huseyn wiped his brow and studied the smooth cement floor. He thought about the look the FBI agent had given him. The man was walking to his death when he glanced over his shoulder and gave Huseyn a deliberate warning. It was as if the agent knew something and he was trying to caution Huseyn. He was trying to get Huseyn to run off. It had worked.
Kharrazi stopped in front of Huseyn and crouched down, so he was looking up at the man. He spoke to the young soldier as if he were speaking to one of his children, soft and calm. “He told you that his partner was in the refrigerator and somehow you were surprised when he turned up there?”
Huseyn’s body was shuddering so powerfully that he simply willed his torso to remain still and allowed his head to bobble itself into a nod. “Yes, Sarock. The door blinded me from viewing the inside of the machine, but I barely escaped when the shots were fired.”
Kharrazi looked skeptical as he stood and made another pass by the table. “So then, Mr. Bracco is still alive?”
Huseyn remained paralyzed with fear. He could think of nothing to say.
A roomful of muttering soldiers echoed off of the bare concrete walls. He shook his head like a shameful principal and knelt next to Huseyn. Kharrazi’s fingers caressed the young boy’s face and sent icy streaks of panic down Huseyn’s neck. He knew that Kharrazi had the quickness of a leopard, whose hands were capable of tearing his face apart before he could flinch.
“Tell me something,” Kharrazi whispered. The room became still. At first Huseyn thought that fear had caused him to become deaf. He couldn’t hear anything but Kharrazi’s voice. He suddenly realized that even the televisions had been turned down so that every soldier could eavesdrop on the proceedings. “How many rounds did you fire at the agents?”
Huseyn wasn’t prepared for such a refined interrogation. He hadn’t thought through all of the details. How many shots? Why did he want to know? Wasn’t it enough that he was shot at?
“Uh, I think two,” Huseyn hesitated. “It happened so fast, I can’t remember exactly.”
Kharrazi held out his hand. “May I have your gun?”
Crazy thoughts ran through Huseyn’s mind. He couldn’t possibly shoot his way out of the cellar. He considered turning the gun on himself. It would be quick and ease his tension. But a glimmer of hope lingered in his mind. The way Kharrazi was touching him, gently, and speaking so softly. Maybe he had pity for his soldier?
Huseyn removed the gun from his belt strap and with trembling fingers he handed Kharrazi the fully loaded weapon.
Kharrazi didn’t examine the gun. He looked straight into Huseyn’s eyes and seemed to be measuring his reaction while his hands roamed over the exterior of the weapon, searching for any evidence of a recent firing.
A voice from behind them urgently said, “Sarock, the American President is speaking on television.”
Kharrazi didn’t turn right away. He lightly patted Huseyn’s cheek. A momentary reprieve.
The KSF soldiers fell in around their leader and watched as President Merrick announced the imminent capture of Kemel Kharrazi. The raucous crowd of soldiers hollered their disproval at the TV screen, but Kharrazi gestured for them to stop. He listened as the president made false promises to the American people. When the president left the podium, Kharrazi switched off the TV and turned to address his followers.
“This is exactly what I had hoped for,” Kharrazi said. His words stunned the group.
Nihad Tansu elbowed his way to the front and said, “Sarock, they must know something. Maybe we should change our location.”
Kharrazi stared out over the heads of his soldiers, deep in thought. “No, that is what he wants. He’s desperate. He is trying to force us into a mistake.”
“What about the White House?” Tansu asked. “Are we still going to follow the original plan?”
Kharrazi nodded slowly. “Yes, tomorrow night, as planned.”
He pointed to a short bearded soldier to his right, “Jihite, send a fax to the President. Tell them about the bombing of the White House tomorrow night. Also send the same information to the Washington Post, the same reporter as last time. He will have credibility.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Tell them about our plan ahead of time? Is that wise, Sarock?”
Kharrazi seemed amused at his own idea, as if struck by how brilliant it was. “Yes, it’s perfect. It will force the President to remain in the White House. If he leaves now, he will appear as a coward. Besides, it’s too late. They can’t stop the bombing. Especially with our detonator in a bunker three thousand miles away. It’s the perfect plan.”
Nihad Tansu stepped forward, directly into Kharrazi’s path. Kharrazi had to look up at the much
taller man. “Yes, Nihad?”
Tansu stood firm, his muscular frame seemed anxious to flex its muscles. “Sarock, allow me to take the White House.”
Kharrazi regarded his soldier with a partial smile. He placed a hand on Tansu’s shoulder, “You make me proud, Nihad. However, I have another chore for you. A more important chore.”
“Sarock, what could be more important?”
Kharrazi folded his arms.
Tansu’s face fell.
“Good,” Kharrazi grinned. “Would you like to know what I have for you?”
Tansu nodded.
“You must kill the wife of this FBI agent. She is very important to him. I want him to lose something as important as our independence is to us. I want him to feel our pain as no one else could.”
Huseyn observed the conversation with eager eyes. He was grateful for the distraction and wondered if his mishap might be forgotten altogether. He watched as the KSF soldiers listened intently to their leader. It was apparent that Kharrazi’s objectives seemed to have become much more personal. He wondered if Kharrazi was simply losing perspective of their overall goals, or just blind with revenge. Either way Huseyn was going to stay quiet and pray for the continued lapse of attention.
Kharrazi met Tansu’s eyes. “This is no trivial task, I assure you. If you succeed, this will take one of the FBI’s finest brains out of commission. Bracco will never be the same man. Once again, one of our small targets will become a significant factor to our success.”
Kharrazi regarded his soldier with an air of wariness. “You will not fail me, will you, Nihad?”
Nihad Tansu appeared to stand taller now. He looked around at the other soldiers, the center of attention. “This woman is already a corpse, Sarock. That much is certain.”
“Good,” Kharrazi smiled. Then the smile faded as he turned and pointed to Huseyn, alone, still sitting at the folding table. “First, get rid of this coward.”
Huseyn became lightheaded and his body lost its ability to hold itself upright. He saw the wicked expression on Tansu’s face and he surrendered to a wave of nausea. There was nothing in his stomach to purge, so he bent his head down and shuddered with his mouth open, gagging on pure fear itself. When he looked up, he saw Tansu over him with his knife gleaming in his hand. “Please,” he begged. “Make it quick.”
* * *
Just north of Little Italy in Baltimore on a narrow dead end street, sat a group of abandoned warehouses. To the naked eye they appeared as innocuous as negligent businesses harboring a tax write-off. To a select few in the FBI, they were known as ten acres of training ground for new recruits. On select occasions it became a perfect meeting place for the seedier activities of the Bureau. Whenever an informant had information to exchange and couldn’t afford to be seen strolling through the front door of the FBI building, or sharing a booth in a local restaurant with a man in a blue suit, the warehouse district was used.
The warehouses were topped with six foot walls around their perimeter. Stingy slits in the walls allowed just enough room for snipers. It was dusk and a group of dark clouds threatened overhead. Nick thought he saw a shadow cross one of the slits on the roof as he maneuvered his car through the minefield of potholes. He was comforted to know it was one of his own up there. Someone almost as good as the guy sitting next to him, and that would have been plenty good enough. Nick turned into what looked like a dead end alley. At the end of the alley a steel door yawned open as they approached.
“I guess they know we’re here,” Matt said.
Nick drove into the warehouse and found a huge parking lot taking up the bottom floor. There were already several cars there. He parked next to the familiar sedan of Walt Jackson.
Their shoes echoed on the cement floor as they made their way to the elevators. Matt pushed the third floor button and waved at the undetectable miniature camera above the doors.
When they got out on the third floor, they found themselves before the only room in the entire building with a padlock and silent alarm. Now, however, the door was open and Nick could smell the coffee brewing before he saw the strange inhabitants.
Along the left wall, sitting on an odd array of army cots and folded chairs were Jimmy Ferraro, better known as Jimmy Fingers, Don Silkari, and several other Italian-Americans. At the end of the row, sitting in the only leather chair in the building, Sal Demenci picked lint from the sleeve of his jacket.
Across the room from them sat Walt Jackson and FBI Director Louis Dutton. The room was noiseless, save for the humming of a second hand refrigerator, copy machine and computer that occupied the far wall. The only things the two sides of the room had in common were the Styrofoam cups of coffee they drank.
Nick and Matt grabbed a couple of folded chairs and diplomatically sat in the middle of the congregation.
Nick nodded to Sal, “I hear Tommy’s going to make it.”
Sal smiled faintly. “He’s a fighter, that kid.”
Louis Dutton sat behind a worn wooden desk and scribbled notes on a legal pad, while Jackson sat next to the desk, elbows on his knees, foot tapping the linoleum floor.
Just as Dutton glanced at his wristwatch, the elevator dinged and a slow-moving pair of footsteps grew louder. The large angular frame of Samuel Fisk filled the doorway. He stopped for a dramatic moment and looked over the incongruous crowd, his hands by his side like he was there for a high noon shootout.
The long, awkward silence continued as Fisk made his way to the desk and withdrew a bottle of scotch from the bottom draw. As if by slight of hand, a shot glass appeared and he filled it to the brim. Fisk managed to appear professional while downing the booze with one quick gulp.
He wiped one side of his mouth with his fist and looked over the Italian-Americans without judgment. He sat at the edge of the desk, his back to Dutton, and acknowledged Nick and Matt with a look.
The Italian-Americans sat with their legs crossed, checking their nails, the usual look of boredom fixed on their faces whenever in the presence of the law.
Fisk pointed the empty shot glass at Sal Demenci. “Sal, how much prison time have you done in your life?”
The opening line didn’t amuse the left side. They watched Sal frown. “I don’t remember,” Sal said. “Is it important I know the answer?”
Fisk grinned. “Now I know why they call you all wise guys. No it’s not important. What is important is how much evidence we have against you to send you back.”
“You threatening me?” Sal bristled.
Fisk shook his head. “Not at all.” He turned to Walt and the SAC handed him a manila file. Fisk opened the file and read silently. He looked up at Sal and said, “Hmm, racketeering, extortion, pretty impressive.”
“That why we’re here?” Sal snapped. “You gonna make me come all the way down here just to bust my chops? I thought we had a deal?”
Fisk’s face lightened. He leaned over and handed Sal the file. Sal took it from the Secretary of State warily, as if it were flammable. He perused the file with Silk hanging on his shoulder, and they both raised their eyebrows at what they saw.
“Pretty interesting stuff, huh?” Fisk said.
Sal closed the file and left it on his lap. “Why are you showing me this?”
A loud clap of thunder boomed overhead and Fisk went over and peeked through a slat in the horizontal blinds. The sky was dark now and rain pellets began to dance off of the bulletproof glass window.
Fisk turned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He said to Nick, “Do you know what Sal here is?”
Nick gave Fisk an are-you-kidding-me expression. He knew that there was no right answer, so he looked at Sal and said the first thing that popped into his head. “Italian.”
This got the room chuckling.
“That’s close,” Fisk said. “He’s Italian, but he’s also American. Like me, like you, like everyone in this room.”
Sal nodded. Silk nodded. Tony the Butcher nodded. They seemed to understand where Fisk was going and
they liked it.
Fisk splashed another pinch of scotch and downed it with a flip of his wrist. He pointed the empty shot glass, “You see, Sal, if you and your men help us out here,” he shrugged, “maybe these files get lost. I don’t know, maybe they go away permanently.”
“Maybe?” Sal asked.
“Definitely,” Fisk said. He looked back at Dutton and Jackson who reluctantly made agreeable expressions.
Now Fisk took a different stance. He seemed to be addressing the government employees in the room, while looking at Sal and the gang. “I’m not going to debate the constitutionality of this meeting. There’s no question that we’re . . . uh . . .I am trampling on certain amendments. And I am here to tell you that I am taking full responsibility for this arrangement. No one outside of this room is aware of any of this. Personally, I don’t think Thomas Jefferson wrote the Constitution with foreigners in mind. He was declaring an official document to protect the citizens of the United States against their own government. Assuring them their right to bear arms and speak freely against what could be a totalitarian regime in the future.
“There was no way these rights would have been afforded to the Redcoats, should they have needed them, and they will not be used to protect the invasion of Kurdish rebels in our country, killing our innocent population.”
Fisk sold the idea like an umpire selling a close third strike with an aggressive fist pump. No one seemed ready to challenge Fisk and Nick wondered how deep this mess was going to get.
Fisk turned to make eye contact with him and Matt. The only two men in the room who spent their days in the field tracking terrorists for a living. “We have data that suggests seven hundred Kurds have entered this country legally over the past eighteen months. They’ve got visas and they’re protected by our civil rights policies. As law enforcers you guys are forced to stand on the sidelines and wait for them to do something illegal before we can act. In most cases, after they kill Americans.” Fisk worked his hand into a fist, selling it again. “The time for waiting is over. I’m not going to ask you two to cross the line yourselves. It’s not fair. But these guys make a living on the other side of that line. I want you two to assist them with your knowledge of these terrorists and their behavior patterns. You know where they congregate, where they shop. We’ve run out of surveillance time. It’s time to get rough.”
