Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “Give it to me, Sal. All of it.”

  Sal held up his hand like a traffic cop. “Hold it right there. I want something for this information. I ain’t just givin’ it away for nothin.’”

  Nick took a breath, “What do you want this time, Sal?”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I’m offended by the attitude. I’m being all patriotic and everything and you treat me like I’m a schnook. Forget I said anything.” Sal began to walk away.

  “Sal.”

  Sal turned, “What?”

  Nick swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Tell me what you want from me.”

  Sal smiled. “That’s better.” He looked over his shoulder, then pulled Nick even farther away from Julie’s bed. “All I’m asking for is an opportunity for revenge. That’s all. If I tell you where this shooting took place, I want a guarantee that I can send a few of my men to this place to sort of . . . you know—” He pointed his index finger and cocked his thumb. “Take care of some business.”

  Nick placed his hand over Sal’s protruding fingers. “Please, don’t point that thing at me.”

  Sal laughed. “What are you worried about—it ain’t loaded.” Then his expression changed. His eyes narrowed to slits. “We’re talking about what they did to your cousin. Are you forgetting about that? And what about this?” He pointed to Julie, her head tilted to the side, in the midst of an exhaustive sleep.

  “I’m not forgetting anything, Sal. That’s why it’s important that you tell me where the shooting took place.”

  “Not until I get your word.”

  “You know I need to get this approved.”

  “Listen, Nick, your word is gold. You tell me what I want to hear, and I tell you what you want to hear.”

  Nick stared at his wife. “All right. I promise I’ll take one of your men. Just one. But it has to be Silk.”

  “You gotta let him stay with you. What you know, he knows. And he gets the whole immunity thing like we’ve been getting.”

  Suddenly, the door opened. Matt walked up to Nick. “Walt called. He needs me. Take care of your sweetie over there.”

  “Where are you going?” Nick asked.

  Matt furrowed his brow, sneaking a sideways nod toward Sal.

  “It’s all right,” Nick said. “You’re not going there anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re going with me to . . .” he looked at Sal and held out an open palm.

  “Payson, Arizona,” Sal relented.

  “Arizona? Why there?”

  “Because,” Sal said, proudly, “that’s where we got rid of Rashid Baser.”

  “What do you mean? Rashid Baser is dead?” Matt asked.

  “Apparently,” Nick said. “And if it’s true. That’s where we’ll find the bomb-making facility.”

  Matt glanced over at Julie. “What about her?”

  Nick looked at the woman he loved, mangled in bandages and tubing. He still felt the chill that ran down his neck when she’d used the word kill in a sentence with only one other word in it. It was the subject of the sentence that bothered Nick, not the verb. If she wanted to kill time, or kill a volleyball, he didn’t have a problem. But ‘kill him?’ She was sleeping now, but he hoped that he would be able to pull her out of her trauma, just like she did for him every day of their lives together. “The quicker I find Kharrazi,” he said, “the quicker she’ll begin the healing process.”

  Matt nodded.

  Sal said, “While you’re gone, you want maybe we give your wife a little . . . you know . . .” the finger gun returned, “protection?”

  “What, you going to poke someone in the eye?” Matt deadpanned.

  “Very funny Mr. G-man. You notice over in Sicily this kind of stuff doesn’t happen.”

  “Don’t get me started, Sal.”

  Nick stepped between the two men. “That’s enough. C’mon Matt, we’ve got to get going.”

  “Don’t forget about Silk,” Sal said, reminding Nick of their agreement.

  Matt followed Nick to the door. “Silk?”

  As he passed Julie’s bed, Nick stopped for a moment to give her a peck on the bridge of her nose; the only bare spot between the tube in her nose and the bandage on her forehead.

  She surprised him by whispering with her eyes shut, “Get him.”

  Bending over her, he said, “Just try and stop me.”

  Chapter 24

  As Kemel Kharrazi pulled up in his rental car, he could see the gravel parking area that stretched all the way to the bottom of the brick building that housed the airfield’s office. There were only two cars in the lot and they were parked an abnormal distance from the front door. Kharrazi assumed these were employees’ vehicles. He parked his car along a chain link fence in between the only two rental cars remaining.

  It was a small complex with little security, yet he still scrutinized the facility for any sign of irregularity. There was none. Past the brick building, sitting on the solitary runway, was his chartered jet with the engine running and the door open. The airfield was so small that the diminutive jet was only thirty yards from the front door to the office.

  While making his way on the cracked cement path toward the building, he reminded himself to hobble. He was a plump, old businessman and he had to walk the part. His right shoulder developed an exaggerated sag from the weight of his suitcase. As he approached the glass door to the office, he could see that it appeared vacant. He stopped. Why did he even have to bother going in? He’d prepaid for the return trip already. All he had to do was board the plane.

  He walked the short distance to the idling plane and lumbered up the steps. He felt a presence as he got halfway and looked up to see a uniformed pilot reaching out to get his suitcase. The man said something to Kharrazi, but the loud drone of the jet engines drowned out his voice. Once inside, he plopped himself down onto a wide, leather chair and huffed from exertion. The pilot secured his suitcase in an upright closet and returned to his seat in the cockpit. He took the copilot’s seat on the right, while the pilot on the left was busy with a pencil and a clipboard. He seemed to be marking off a preflight checklist and paid no attention to Kharrazi, which soothed any concern Kharrazi had about his identity being discovered.

  Settling back in his seat, he found a copy of the Baltimore Sun laying open on the secure tray next to him. It was nearly 9AM and he hadn’t had the time to scour the newspapers as he normally would. The front page displayed pictures of burning buildings from several states still suffering from the nightly bombings. A story about President Merrick’s approval ratings spiraling downward was below the fold. He flipped the pages impatiently until he saw the story about a Turkish National who was shot to death in the bathroom of a downtown bar. Kharrazi scrutinized every word searching for anything that could suggest the man was Kurdish, but there was nothing. The fake identification seemed to have satisfied the authorities and once the victim was dead they probably had no motivation to investigate further.

  Kharrazi knew that Mustafa was a hot head, so it didn’t surprise him when his Baltimore crew was arrested last night and that Mustafa was the only one who ended up dead. He realized that an officer of the law must have gotten to Mustafa, and shot him after he became an unproductive suspect.

  Satisfied, Kharrazi browsed further and tingled with excitement when he came to the story of Tansu’s deadly visit to the Bracco residence. The story confirmed the death of an FBI agent, but fell short of declaring Julie Bracco dead. It simply stated that she was at Johns Hopkins in critical condition. His grip on the paper tightened as he considered the possibility of Nick Bracco’s wife surviving an encounter with one of his best soldiers. He read the story again and began to fume.

  He stood, hunched over, and shuffled to the back of the plane, where he pushed a button on one of the four cell phones that he would use just once, then dispose of after the flight.

  “Yes,” a voice said.

  “You told me that you were success
ful,” Kharrazi seethed in a low boil of a voice.

  “I was.”

  “Then why am I not reading about it this morning? I am leaving now, I have to ignite our operation, or I would deal with you personally.”

  “Sarock . . . uh . . . we are being tricked. There is no other explanation. I am certain of the shot . . . I hit her directly in the back of her—”

  “Enough already. I want you to check and make sure there is no doubt. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sarock.”

  Kharrazi clicked off the phone and returned to his seat. The pilot was holding a hand to his headset as if he was receiving an incoming transmission. He turned to Kharrazi and said, “Mr. Henning?”

  Kharrazi leaned forward. “Yes.”

  “Airport security needs to speak with you.”

  Kharrazi mentally became aware of his hidden weapons, tucked inside of his padded torso. “What is the problem?”

  The pilot continued touching dials and flicking switches on the instrument panel in a practiced manner. “Just routine, they’re required to ask you a couple of standard questions before we take off. It will only take a few minutes and we’ll be on our way.”

  Kharrazi looked at his watch. “But I have a very important meeting to make. That is why I chose to charter, rather than fly commercially. I was guaranteed to be on time.”

  Now the pilot took a moment to look at Kharrazi. In his reluctance to speak with security, Kharrazi could see a spark of suspicion flicker in the pilot’s eye. “Mr. Henning, it will only take a few minutes and I promise I can make it up in the air.”

  Kharrazi slowly came to his feet. “Of course, of course,” he said, hobbling toward the exit. He kept his peripheral vision on the pilot and noticed him return his attention to his clipboard.

  When he entered the small building, a man in a blue uniform was waiting for him. He wore patches that reminded Kharrazi of Boy Scout accomplishments and he showed no signs of possessing a gun. The only other person visible was the same young woman who checked him in the day before. She stood behind the counter and looked busy. The only thing sitting on the counter was a single computer terminal, and there was a metal file cabinet with just two drawers behind her. The place was so sparse, it looked like they were moving out in a couple of hours.

  “Mr. Henning?” the slightly graying man asked.

  Kharrazi shuffled toward the man with an outstretched hand. “Walter Henning. How can I help you?”

  “Max Reynolds,” the man said, clasping hands with Kharrazi. “I just have a few routine questions to ask. You know we’re all at a heightened state of security ever since those KSF cowards began bombing our citizens. Those spineless bastards.” He looked at the girl behind the counter. “Sorry, Tina. Pardon my French.”

  Reynolds couldn’t see Kharrazi clench his teeth; he was busy writing on a notepad.

  “Mr. Henning—”

  “Please, call me Walter.”

  “Of course, Walter.” He wrote Kharrazi’s fake name at the top of the form. “Where exactly are you traveling to today?”

  “Payson, Arizona.”

  “Payson? What a coincidence, I’m from Phoenix myself.”

  Kharrazi forced a smile. “Small world.”

  Reynolds took his pen and pointed to the plane idling outside. “Does Payson have an airfield long enough for a small jet like that?”

  “Just barely.”

  Reynolds nodded, thoughtfully. “Anyway, how long was your stay in Maryland?”

  “Just overnight. I had a quick sales call.”

  Reynolds wrote on his pad as he spoke. “What kind of sales?”

  “I work for a custom boat builder.”

  “Really?” Reynolds looked up with a smile. “Which company?”

  “A small firm out of Payson.”

  Reynolds held his eyebrows up and Kharrazi realized that he was expecting a name.

  “Klein Brothers,” Kharrazi came up with.

  “Never heard of them.”

  “It’s a small family company,” Kharrazi said with an understanding lilt to his voice.

  “I see,” Reynolds had his head down, scribbling on his form. Kharrazi used every muscle in his face to read what Reynolds was writing, but either the man was being deliberately discreet, or Kharrazi was trying too hard at the art of subtlety.

  Reynolds broke off the writing and acted like he’d forgotten something important. “Do you have any children?"

  “Yes, two. Twelve and fourteen.”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Teenagers. I don’t envy you.”

  Kharrazi had forgotten about his disguise. He must have looked a bit old for teenagers. He knew that the more questions asked, the more chance there was for a mistake.

  “Are we almost done?” Kharrazi asked, turning his body toward the door.

  “Almost, Mr. Hen—” he stopped himself, then gave an overly thick smile. “I mean, Walter.”

  The man was either trying to be smooth or he was genuinely a nice person. Kharrazi couldn’t tell which, but either way he was running short on patience.

  Reynolds placed the tip of his pencil on top of a row of boxes to the left of some sentences on his form, ready to check them off. “Did you pack your own luggage today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has anyone had possession of your luggage after being packed?”

  “No.”

  “Has anyone asked you to transport any items for them?”

  “No.”

  Each time Kharrazi answered a question, Reynolds checked a box with his pencil.

  “Have you come in contact with anyone who’s asked peculiar questions about airline security?”

  Kharrazi scowled. “You mean besides you?”

  Reynolds looked up. “That’s good, Walter.” Then pointing the pencil at Kharrazi, he said, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  The security guard peeked down at his form and said, “Last question. Are you carrying anything on board the plane that could be construed as dangerous?”

  Reynolds stared at Kharrazi like a biological lie detector. Kharrazi did his best not to flinch, but the question took him off guard.

  “No,” Kharrazi’s voice jumped at the word. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Reynold’s stare lingered a moment before he looked down at his form and checked off the last question. But it wasn’t the usual check mark. This time the man circled the box instead of checking it. It was the only time he’d done that. Finally, after an uncomfortable gap in the conversation, Reynolds placed the pad behind his back and said. “That’s all, Walter. You’re free to go. Have a safe trip.”

  Kharrazi hesitated a moment, wondering what had just happened there. He turned to leave and when he placed his hand on the handle to the glass door, he heard Reynolds over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, Walter, has that new high school on Ponderosa been built yet?”

  Kharrazi stopped. He looked down, thoughtfully. Which way to go here? “I’m not sure. I thought I heard something about that, but now, my recollection is foggy.”

  “Of course,” Reynolds said, appearing satisfied with the response.

  Kharrazi left the building and took a couple of steps before looking over his shoulder. Through the glass door, he locked eyes with Reynolds. Kharrazi couldn’t read the old guy. If Reynolds had asked that last question to trick him, then he would be trapped once he entered the plane. It could have been an innocuous attempt at small talk, but Kharrazi was almost out the door.

  Kharrazi decided he couldn’t afford to risk it. He turned back. His mind was flooded with ideas, but only one made the best sense. When he reentered the building, Reynolds was standing in exactly the same spot.

  “Can I ask you a question?" Kharrazi said.

  Reynold’s shrugged. “Of course.”

  “If I did hear something suspicious here at the airport—how would it be handled?”

  “It depends on what you heard and how serious it was.”

  “Well,
I don’t know how to put this,” Kharrazi looked over at the girl behind the counter, then back to Reynolds. “Can she be trusted?”

  Reynolds laughed. “Tina? She’s family. Her dad actually owns Apex Field.”

  Tina had short, dark hair with a hint of spike to it. She was busy working the mouse on her computer and barely acknowledged the mention of her name.

  “All right, then,” Kharrazi said. He looked around, suspiciously. “Are you two the only employees working today?”

  “Walter, if you have something to say—say it. Tina and I are the only employees here, period. I’m the janitor, the maintenance man and head of security. Tina does all of the operational stuff: flight plans, billing, just about everything else. If there’s something I should know, come out with it.”

  Suddenly, Kharrazi knew what he had to do. He looked at Tina. “Can you radio the pilots and ask them to hold up for five minutes?”

  With a bored expression, Tina picked up a small wireless transmitter and communicated the delay. Kharrazi heard the pilot mutter back an acknowledgement.

  “Good,” Kharrazi said, walking away from the glass door and deeper into the small waiting area. There was a row of hard plastic chairs against the wall. Kharrazi dropped his weighted-down body on a seat farthest from the door and virtually undetectable from the outdoors. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his head down. He heard Reynolds sit down two seats away to his right.

  “What is it, Walter?” Reynolds asked with sincere concern.

  Kharrazi looked up. “Do you know anything about Kurds?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “Just what I read in the paper.”

  “What if I told you that the Kurds were the only ethnic group in the world without a nation of their own? And that they’ve been persecuted by the Iraqi and Turkish government for more than twenty years, with nowhere to run and call home. Can you imagine not having a place to call home?”

  Reynolds looked confused.

  “Then,” Kharrazi continued, “when the Kurds finally have enough financial backing to fight back, the United States sends its soldiers to Kurdistan to prevent them from defending themselves. Could you understand how frustrating that must have been for these poor people?"