by Gary Ponzo
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, listen there’s been something happening here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a visitor that came by to see your beautiful bride.”
“Who?” Nick asked, not liking the sound of Tommy’s voice.
“One of those fucking towel-heads stopped by dressed like a doctor. He wasn’t here to bring flowers, if you know what I mean.”
Nick squeezed the phone. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“Relax, Julie’s unharmed. Fortunately old Tommy boy was here to put the kabosh on the whole thing.”
“Tommy,” Nick said trying to control himself. “Let me speak with her.”
“She’s been sleeping. She slept through the whole thing. You want I should wake her up?”
Nick sighed. “No, let her sleep. Just have her call me when she’s up.”
“You got it, boss.”
“What happened to the perp?”
“Perp?”
“The piece of crap who tried to kill my wife. Where is he now?”
There was a pause, then, “Well, uh, you see, the guy—he’s in the parking lot right now.”
“What’s he doing there? Is he being arrested?”
“Actually, he’s resting. As a matter of fact, he’s going to be resting for a really long time.”
Nick understood the term. “Tommy, by any chance did he stumble upon an open window?”
Tommy laughed. “Yeah, well, I told the guy to take a flying leap, and you know how these foreigners are, they take everything so literally.”
Nick squeezed his eyes shut. His next call would be to Walt to add protection for Julie. There wasn’t enough protection in the world for her.
“Nick?” Tommy said, “you still there?”
“I’m here. Are you in trouble with the police?”
“I just witnessed a KSF soldier attempt to murder an FBI agent’s wife. He tried to escape out the window and lost his footing on the windowsill. They’re bound to hand me a medal before they handcuff me.”
“Who was it—do you know?”
“Nihad Tan-something.”
“Nihad Tansu?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, I got a hold of this guy’s cell phone,” Tommy said, conspiratorially.
“You have his cell phone? How?”
“It must have fallen out of his pocket when he ran to the window.”
“Tommy, that’s important evidence. You have to give that to the police, or the FBI right away.”
“Yeah, yeah, anyway, I pushed a couple of buttons and discover only one phone number locked into the redial mode.”
“You called it?”
“No. I figured I’d give you the pleasure. Want the number?”
Nick hesitated, but he wasn’t sure why. “Yes.”
Nick scribbled the number on his notepad. “Thanks, Tommy . . . for everything.”
“No problem. I’ll be here from now on. No one’s gonna touch her. Just do me a favor and get this bastard, will ya.”
“Count on it.”
Nick hung up and saw Matt point to the phone number Tommy had just given him.
“Who’s number?”
“Don’t know. I’m going to find out in a minute. Tommy caught Tansu trying to dust Julie in the hospital. He grabbed Tansu’s cell phone and found this phone number in his call log.”
“All this is because you busted Rashid? Kharrazi is still pissed over that?”
Nick shrugged. He called Walt Jackson and secured enough protection for Julie to rival that of a sitting president.
Matt hung up his cell phone at the same time. “I’ve got the house sales being faxed over to Gila County Sheriff’s office in Payson.”
“Good,” Nick said, staring at his cell phone.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking it’s time to find out whose number this is.”
“Shouldn’t you call Stevie and get a trace going first?”
Nick shook his head. “We’re an hour from Phoenix, there’s no time.”
Nick dialed the number and let his thumb rest on the send button while he put his thoughts together. Who would be on the other end of this phone number? Kemel Kharrazi? What if it was Kharrazi? What information could he get from Kharrazi without him knowing about it? And if it wasn’t Kharrazi, how could he parlay the call into information leading to the terrorist?
Nick felt Matt staring at him as he took in a deep breath.
“Oh, for crying out loud, do it already,” Matt blasted.
Nick positioned his legal pad on the table in front of him and flipped to an empty page. As his thumb flexed to push the send button, he realized that his hand was shaking. He pushed the button. It rang once, then twice. “Yes,” a man’s voice said.
“Sarock?”
“Ye—” the man stopped. “Who is this?”
Nick scribbled the word ‘Sarock’ on his legal pad and circled it several times with nervous energy. Nick could feel Matt staring at him, knowing exactly whom he was talking to. Matt leaned up against Nick’s ear and eavesdropped on the conversation. “I think you know,” Nick said.
“Really?”
“It’s the man who’s chasing you. Now do you know who this is?”
“Yes, I think I do. How is your wife? I understand she had a terrible accident.” Kharrazi’s voice sounded guarded, but confident. It was as if a professor was asking a student to show his work.
Nick gritted his teeth. “You’re not trying to weasel out of the country, are you?”
“Because you have to be careful these days,” Kharrazi continued. “You never know when tragedy could strike.”
“I doubt an incompetent crew such as yours will be able to pull off any White House bombing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kharrazi finally acknowledged Nick. “Do you know why I’m so confident of this?”
Nick didn’t respond, so Kharrazi answered his own question. “Because the detonator was designed and created by the great Rashid Baser. The finest bomb expert the world’s ever seen.”
There it was, Nick thought. The Rashid factor.
Both men were silent. Two chess players thinking three moves ahead.
Finally, Kharrazi said, “Where are you?”
“I’m on my way to you. Can you see me?”
“How do you know where I am?”
“I’m good at my job.”
“It sounds like you’re in an airplane. Are you?”
“Yes,” Nick admitted.
“It’s too late, Kharrazi sneered, arrogantly. “You can’t stop the White House from exploding tonight.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
“But I have, Mr. Bracco. I’ve wagered the lives of my family, and my friend’s families, and every Kurd back in Kurdistan. If I fail, their lives are through. With America’s support, the Turkish Security Force will perform the vilest form of genocide on my people.”
Kharrazi let it sit there, while Nick absorbed the message. “But I will not fail,” he said, resolutely. “Whether I am dead or alive, the White House will disintegrate at midnight tonight. That is not a threat, simply a fact. Even if you found the detonator in time, you couldn’t do a thing about it. Rashid’s legacy will endure. When you wake up tomorrow, you will be living in a very different country.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
Nick considered what he had just read in Kharrazi’s file. The sick, twisted mind of the worlds leading terrorist had fertile ground to grow up in. It was time to find out who he was dealing with. “It must have been awful,” Nick said, softly.
“What?”
“When your own father raped you. The man you trusted more than anyone.”
There was a stillness across the airwaves. Matt jerked away from the phone and looked at Nick with wide eyes.
“You weren’t even ten years old,” Nick prodded.
More sil
ence.
“Now I understand why I’m the target. Everything you see in me, the honesty, the integrity—all things you wish your father was, but wasn’t. By killing me, you erase his sins. Without me you can continue to rationalize that everyone is the same all over the world, but I fly in the face of that theory.”
A long pause hung there, then finally Kharrazi began a low guttural laugh. “Are you trying to save me, Mr. Bracco?”
“It’s a form of transference,” Nick continued, “I’m seeing a specialist who helps me with certain issues. You could keep his schedule full all by yourself.”
The laughter continued. “A specialist, eh?”
“And your mother was simply a tool.”
The laughter abruptly ended.
Nick waited this time. He was trying to understand his adversary. Was Kharrazi a cold-blooded killer with demented motives, or was he a calculated leader without the restraints of morals or ethics to get in his way?
“You think you know something—what is it?” Kharrazi snapped.
Like a clever tactician, Kharrazi wasn’t giving anything away. But it was too late. Nick had already struck the chord he was looking for.
“You held your mother at knifepoint in the middle of your village. As the crowd multiplied, you explained that she had given information about your combat plans to the Turkish government. You were going the make an example of her in front of hundreds of people. Kemel Kharrazi, the man who decapitated his own mother for squealing on him. The word spread throughout Kurdistan and you became an instant folklore legend. No one would ever cross the great Kemel Kharrazi. Only problem is, your mother never gave you up, did she?”
Nick could hear Kharrazi breathing.
“No, of course not,” Nick churned forward. “You used her like a tool. Once your father died, you plotted for years, waiting for the perfect opportunity to get back at her. Your mother, the woman who stood there and watched as little Kemel was repeatedly molested by his father. Doing nothing to stop him. She was going to pay for her complicity.”
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’ll 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’d 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 8 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 heading 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.”
