Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  He stroked the golf ball and watched it hit the leg of his desk square-on with a tiny thud. “Bull’s eye.”

  * * *

  Nick Bracco was parked over a quarter of a mile away from a suspected KSF hideout. The building was in an area of the city that featured crowded residential streets and row houses that lined the narrow passages like giant dominos. Nick had been holding binoculars to his eyes for so long his arms ached. The afternoon was beginning to wane and so were his hopes of discovering anything of value from the stakeout.

  Matt sat next to him fingering a stack of documents on his lap. “So, do you think the president knows about Sal’s little proposition?”

  “What do you think?” Nick said, his left eye beginning to tear up.

  “He’ll make the call, but the trail will end at Fisk’s desk.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “What did Fisk think about it?”

  “I’m sure he thought I was more than a little goofy.”

  “Oh, so then he’s spoken with Dr. Morgan.”

  “Very funny.” Nick put the binoculars on his lap and rubbed his eyes. “Give me those files again.”

  Matt handed him four manila folders with the word “classified” stamped across the top. Nick examined the files for the third time in the past three hours. “It’s incredible. How could all four of these guys get student visas? For crying out loud, Nihad Tansu is pushing forty.”

  “Can’t blame Homeland Security; most of these guys had never been outside of Turkey before. They’re not your traditional international terrorists.”

  Nick flipped the files back to Matt and began another stint with the binoculars. “One more hour. That’s all I’m giving this lead.”

  “It could be worse. We could be digging through KSF garbage cans like Tolliver.”

  Nick saw a red sedan slowly making its way down the street toward him. Nick didn’t recognize the male driver. The man seemed to be searching for an address.

  Matt said, “All of this overtime is putting a real crimp in my social life.”

  “Crimp?”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s crimping my style.”

  “You mean cramp. It’s cramping your style.”

  “That too.”

  Nick watched as the sedan stopped in front of the KSF safe house. He was clutching the binoculars with a death grip and Matt must have noticed the tension.

  “What do you see?” Matt asked.

  “A car stopped in the street in front of the house and the driver seems to be looking for spectators.”

  Matt squinted with futility. “What’s he look like?”

  “Male, dark hair, mustache, blue collared shirt.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “No.”

  Nick noticed the driver staring intently toward the house. Nick switched his view to the front door and saw four dark-haired men exit the house and head toward the car. The last one hesitated and looked around before he got in.

  “They’re leaving. Get down,” Nick said as the sedan began to move.

  The two men slumped below the dashboard. As soon as Nick heard the car pass, he peeked into his side-view mirror and nabbed the license plate. He recited the number out loud and Matt called it in.

  When Matt finished the call to the office, he stared at Nick, who had a sudden urge to examine the magazine of his pistol.

  “What are you doing?” Matt asked.

  “Just checking out the equipment.”

  “I mean, why aren’t you following those guys?”

  Nick snapped his holster shut and opened his car door. “Let’s go see what we can find out.”

  Matt beamed, as he jumped out of the car and fell into step next to Nick. “Finally my partner has moved to the dark side.”

  “Relax, all we’re going to do is talk with some neighbors.”

  “Maybe we could knock on the door and see if anyone’s home?”

  “And lose the element of surprise?”

  “The element of surprise is overrated. It pales in comparison to old-fashioned bullying and intimidation. Maybe they’ll think twice before they get bomb-happy.”

  Nick found himself following Matt up the steps to the KSF safe house. Before he could object, Matt rang the doorbell. Nick winced, placing a hand on his holster for comfort.

  They waited for a few minutes and several more rings before Matt played with the doorknob.

  “What are you doing?” Nick asked.

  “I’m seeing if they need a carpet cleaning.”

  To Nick’s surprise, the doorknob turned enough to hear a click and they looked at each other. “Don’t,” Nick said.

  “Why not.”

  “First of all, it’s against the law.”

  “C’mon, Nick, do you think there’s any way we’re going to get these guys without bending the rules a bit?”

  Nick shook his head. “Don’t do it, Matt. Besides, anything you find in there will be inadmissible in court and permanently protected from any further searches.”

  “Not if we leave unnoticed.”

  Nick folded his arms. “I am not breaking and entering.”

  “You don’t have to. Wait right here and I’ll be right back.”

  Matt opened the door and Nick grabbed his arm. “I can’t let you.”

  Matt shook off his partner’s grip. “This is my choice. You had nothing to do with it.”

  Nick unholstered his pistol and chambered a round.

  Matt froze.

  Nick said, “You’re an asshole for doing this, but I can’t let you go in there by yourself.”

  “Good.” Matt smiled, took a step inside the house, then pulled back and faced Nick. “Listen, should something go wrong, we need a play.”

  “A play?”

  “Yeah, remember the Hartford raid?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll use that one.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, we almost got killed in that bust.”

  Matt nodded, “Yeah, that’s why I like it—it worked.”

  Guns drawn, Nick followed Matt into the tiny foyer and surveyed the unremarkable interior. The fake wood-paneled walls gave the place a dark, dreary atmosphere. The living room had an old tan couch, a mid-sized TV with rabbit ears, and wooden coffee table with a TV guide in the middle of it.

  “Looks like Ozzie and Harriet’s place,” Matt whispered. He pointed toward an archway leading down a hallway. “Go check out the bedrooms and I’ll visit the kitchen.”

  Nick felt uncomfortable on so many levels. He placed one foot in front of the other and balanced his step like a cat burglar. The first door on the right was closed and he opened it slowly, gun first. The room was just as banal as the rest of the house. A small bed was neatly made and the dresser showed off a display of swimming trophies. Nick suspected the place was inhabited by KSF soldiers and the décor disturbed him.

  He opened a dresser drawer and saw children’s clothes, Batman underwear, and Snoopy tee-shirts. He thought he heard a noise, but when he peeked out of the room, there was nothing.

  He silently crept down the corridor to the next bedroom. This time the door was already open and he saw a much larger room with a big bed. The room had the clinical feel of a hotel room right after the maid’s visit.

  Nick was beginning to think they had bad information, when he opened the closet door and froze. Stacked up past eye level was a row of surveillance monitors. Each one captured a different section of the exterior of the house. When he examined the monitor that was aimed in the direction of his car, he realized that it was parked too far away to tell if it was occupied. His mind raced with all kinds of wishful thoughts. Maybe they’d gotten lucky and went unnoticed.

  Nick moved closer to the monitor and saw a green button with the symbol of a magnifying glass stamped in the middle of it. He pushed the button and was startled to see his car zoom into view. It became so large so quickly that Nick withdrew his finger before it had even reached its maximum capability. Nick
blinked. He stared at the closeup and was able to distinguish a crevice in the headrest of the passenger seat. What bothered him the most was that his car seemed to be centered in the camera lens.

  Suddenly, he felt it get warmer in the house. He’d seen enough, and he wanted out. Before he could turn to leave, a male voice said, “Drop the weapon.”

  Nick didn’t move. He wondered how many there were, when a second voice said, “So nice of you to join us, Mr. Bracco.”

  Nick turned to see a young man pointing an automatic machine gun at him. The second man was older and a bit plump. He didn’t fit the description of a KSF soldier, yet the way he stood, weaponless, casual, Nick could tell he was in charge. Nick dropped his pistol on the bed. A rush of adrenalin shot up the back of his neck. He knew then that not only was he dead, but there was a good chance his death might be preceded by a considerable amount of pain. Nick wanted to tell him that the place was surrounded, that the FBI had an entire battalion of agents training their weapons on the hideout. He couldn’t say a word.

  “It’s just the two of you isn’t it, Mr. Bracco?” the man asked.

  Nick stood motionless. His heart pounded fiercely, every labored breath a miserable prelude to death. The blood left his brain and he wobbled on numb legs.

  Two more soldiers appeared in the doorway. One of them said, “The other one must’ve ran out the back door. The coward.”

  The old man seemed skeptical. “Did you see him leave?”

  “No,” the man said, “but the door was left open.”

  The old man looked at Nick. “Is your partner still in the house?”

  Nick heard the question, just barely. He nodded. There was something about the man’s eyes that caught Nick’s attention. Could it be?

  The man with the machine gun scoffed at the response. “I wouldn’t believe him. He is just trying to save his life.”

  The old man looked at his watch. “We don’t have time to play games, Mr. Bracco. Tell us where your partner is and I’ll promise you a quick death.”

  Nick gasped for air, wondering how many seconds he had left. A surge of blood hit his brain and he remembered something important. “He’s in the kitchen.”

  “Good,” the old man said.

  “We’ve searched the kitchen,” one of the soldiers said. “He is not there.”

  Again the old man peeked at his wrist. He pointed to one of the soldiers in the doorway and said, “You go with Nhikad here and take Mr. Bracco to the kitchen. You will find his partner there. Use Mr. Bracco to lure him out and kill both of them. Then get out of here quickly and meet us at the other location.”

  The old man gestured to the other soldier and said, “Let’s go, we must leave now.”

  As Nick began his death march to the kitchen, he heard a door close behind him, then a car start up and leave. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw both of the soldiers with their weapons pointed at him. The lead one still held the machine gun tight to his chest and he shoved Nick with it.

  Nick realized that the second soldier was merely a kid. In just a flash of eye contact, the kid seemed to stiffen. He appeared more afraid of Nick, who was weaponless and outnumbered.

  Somehow this awareness gave Nick a glimmer of hope and it made him even more nervous. He actually had a slim chance of surviving and began to tremble.

  When they entered the kitchen, Machine Gun grabbed Nick around the neck and jabbed the weapon into the base of his skull, using Nick as a shield. “Now where is he?”

  Nick searched the small room and found what he was looking for. Two metal racks were standing between the refrigerator and the adjoining cabinet. He knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He pointed to the refrigerator, “He’s in there.”

  Machine Gun sneered. “You’re a bad liar.”

  Nick stretched his eyes to the right and noticed something peculiar about the second soldier. He was backpedaling, frantically searching the room, as if he expected Matt to come flying out of a cabinet.

  Speaking to the skittish soldier, Nick said, “If you two don’t believe me, open it and find out.”

  The kid simply shook his head.

  Machine Gun gave Nick a shove and crouched into a combat position. “You open it.”

  Nick deliberately stepped in front of the refrigerator, keeping his eyes trained on Machine Gun. But his peripheral view was on the more important component. The retreating accomplice.

  “I’m losing my patience,” Machine Gun said. “Open the refrigerator.”

  Nick knew he had stretched his luck to the limit. He placed his hand on the refrigerator door and gave it a concise tug, allowing it to open no more than an inch. The interior light did not come on and Nick anxiously searched for a sign. Machine Gun was directly behind him now and he heard him say, “All the way.”

  Finally, Nick could barely make out the tip of a blue piece of metal about naval high. Without opening the door any further, he stepped to the side as if he needed the room to pull open the door the rest of the way. Machine Gun was a second too late. Nick watched in amazement as the bullet penetrated directly into the center of the soldier’s forehead. For a disgustingly awkward moment, Machine Gun appeared to develop a third eye, then he dropped hard onto the linoleum floor. Nick was diving and rolling across the floor as a defensive maneuver, but it was unnecessary. The second soldier had already fled the kitchen and was on his way out the door.

  Nick chased after the man for a couple of steps, then remembered that he was weaponless. He turned to see Matt McColm sitting in the open refrigerator in a curled position, knees to his chest, and a small light bulb clenched between his teeth. Matt delicately stretched one arm out of the confined space, then the other. He rolled forward and made a controlled fall onto the floor, his legs still wound into a tight knot. He spit out the light bulb and began the process of stretching his legs. “Just like Hartford,” Matt said.

  Nick’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I heard the voices. I figured I’d use the element of surprise.”

  “I thought the element of surprise was overrated.”

  Matt smiled. “It’s making a comeback.”

  Chapter 18

  Necmetin Ciller had been the Turkish Ambassador for only six weeks when he was summoned to the White House for the first time. Ciller was a thin man with short, black hair and displayed a nervous tic that was common among first time visitors to the Oval Office—he tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  President Merrick listened to Ciller, a consummate diplomat, and was growing weary of the political courtship. It was late afternoon, though, and that meant nightfall was just around the corner. The U.S. was about to face another round of random bombings and the intelligence agencies weren’t capable of stopping every one of them. Innocent citizens were going to lose their lives tonight and Merrick was finding it hard to get past that fact.

  Merrick looked across his desk at the ambassador. “Mr. Ciller, I’ve been listening to you for the better part of an hour now, and I have yet to hear one reason why the Kurds can’t live peacefully in Turkey.”

  Ambassador Ciller gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Mr. President, these people are ruthless killers. Our country has endured devastating losses due to these creatures. I think your country is now seeing the true nature of their malevolence.”

  Merrick nodded, his eyes glazing over with disinterest. He wasn’t going to create a diplomatic solution to the Hatfields and the McCoys in the short time he had.

  “Sir,” Ambassador Ciller explained, “we are in complete sympathy with your situation and we’ll do anything in our power to help rid the Kurds from your peaceful nation.”

  Merrick rubbed his eyes. “I’m sure you would, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Mr. President, if I may say, you look very tired.”

  “No, you may not say,” Merrick snapped.

  The door to the Oval Office opened and Press Secretary Fredrick Himes hustled to Merri
ck’s side without a glance at the ambassador.

  “What is it, Fredrick?” Merrick asked.

  Himes grabbed the remote control sitting on Merrick’s desk and clicked on the widescreen television. It was tuned to CNN, as usual.

  “You need to see this, Sir,” Himes said.

  The camera showed a dark, wild-eyed man using a young woman as a shield. He had his arm around her neck and a knife pressed firmly under the tender skin of her jaw. The man stood in the middle of a crowd that was frantically dispersing around him. “Breaking News” was displayed at the bottom of the screen.

  “Oh no,” Merrick muttered. The camera was zoomed onto the man’s face. Merrick couldn’t tell where the scene was, but they appeared to be at some sort of outdoor festival.

  “Where is this?” Merrick asked.

  “Right here,” Himes answered. “Washington Square.”

  Policemen could be heard yelling orders to the man, but the angry face spat out foreign words. He kept moving the young woman to position her between him and the nearest threat. It took a moment for Merrick to recognize the woman’s terrified face. It was Professor Bandor’s daughter, Isabel.

  Merrick’s stomach cramped into a tight ball. “Dear Lord,” Merrick uttered. He remembered something that wasn’t obvious from the blown-up images on the screen. Isabel was four months pregnant.

  It was all his fault. He was the one who rubber-stamped the idea of using Professor Bandor as bait. He had taken every precaution. A team of professionals shadowed the professor around the clock, yet his worst fears were being realized right in front of his eyes. Kemel Kharrazi was exposing every weakness available to him. He was picking indefensible targets that were small in quantity, but enticing enough for the media to eagerly display every treacherous episode. Kharrazi was one step ahead of him, beating him with the one weapon that garnered more value than any nuclear device. The power of public opinion.

  Merrick heard other staff members enter the Oval Office, but his eyes remained focused on the monitor. His thoughts ran wild with retaliatory actions that went far beyond the limits of the law. Rage mounted inside of him as he watched the man shout in plain English, “This is the President’s burden. If he didn’t insist on meddling in other country’s affairs, we would never need to resort to such tactics.”