Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  “She’s been asleep for almost an hour, Doc,” a voice came from corner of the room behind him. A man dressed in a white robe sat cross-legged in a shiny, padded chair scrutinizing the inside of a newspaper. The man had gauze dressing covering half of his face and a long cast on his left leg. A wooden cane leaned against the wall beside him. The man never took his attention away from the newspaper.

  “I’m Dr. Marshall,” Tansu said.

  The man grunted something that sounded like, “‘Nice seeing ya.’”

  The newspaper had a full-length picture of a horse on the cover. The horse posed for the picture with a bouquet of flowers across his back where the saddle normally went. Next to the horse was a tiny midget of a man with a pink shirt.

  “Nasty break you got there,” Tansu said, looking at the man’s leg, trying to decide who he should kill first.

  “Snapped my metacarpal,” the man said from behind the newspaper.

  Tansu shook his head. The man was far too preoccupied to care what he was doing. He turned toward Julie Bracco and made sure the man’s view was blocked. He removed the scalpel from his pocket and palmed it as he leaned over her limp frame. Her face was turned away from him leaving her neck exposed. Tansu felt like a vampire in an old black-and-white movie, approaching his victim with much the same passion for blood. He quickly glanced back at the man who was still buried deep behind the newspaper. He raised his right hand with the scalpel while his left hand held her head in place. “Mirdin, Mrs. Bracco,” he whispered in her ear.

  Suddenly, Tansu found himself lunging for the floor. His head bounced hard on the linoleum. He quickly turned to his side to see what happened. The man in the robe was wagging a finger at him. The straight part of his cane was in the palm of his hand. He had yanked the curved end around Tansu’s ankles and pulled his feet from under him.

  “What are you doing?” Tansu said.

  “The metacarpal bone is in my hand,” the man said, standing over him, holding up his free hand. “The metatarsal is in my foot. Capisce?”

  Tansu saw the man favoring his good leg and realized that he could easily overtake him. The man reached down and picked up the scalpel from the floor.

  The man looked at it with amusement. “Doing a little emergency surgery, Doc?”

  Tansu slowly got his legs under him and remained in a crouch position, ready to strike. He was about to jump when he noticed that the man was now holding a gun. A gun with a silencer attached. Tansu was beginning to understand that this man was no ordinary patient. The man held a finger to his mouth. “Shhh, be real still. I’m not going to turn you in.”

  Tansu was listening. He knew the man wasn’t a police officer, so maybe he could make a deal with him. In reality, all Tansu wanted was an opening. Just one little mishap or lax moment. He felt the outside of his pocket to make sure the other scalpel was still there. It was.

  The man motioned Tansu to get to his feet. “You and I have a lot in common, Mohammed, or whatever your name is. By the way, if you’re from Turkey, does that make you an Arab?”

  Tansu didn’t answer.

  “Oh shit, you turds are all the same—talk, talk, talk. Can’t shut you guys up.”

  Tansu had his hand in his coat pocket now and was removing the plastic sheath from the tip of the scalpel blade.

  “Anyway,” the man said, “all I want is a few answers to some simple questions and I’ll have you back on the street in no time.” The man smiled at Tansu. He smiled like a fool without any knowledge of Tansu’s physical abilities. Still, Tansu wished he knew who the man was.

  ***

  Marie Clarendon sat at her reception desk facing the front door of Johns Hopkins Hospital. She was going back and forth between typing an admittance form for a new patient and sneaking glances at her pocket mirror. She kept pulling her skin back on the side of her face the way Dr. Marshall had done. She was imagining how many years her face could have back, when a man in a green sweatshirt walked through the automatic sliding glass door.

  Marie snapped her compact shut and immediately returned to her paperwork. The man walked with a slight limp and went directly to the receptionist’s desk.

  “Marie?” the man said.

  Marie had been told by the hospital’s attorneys not to engage the man in conversation. He had filed a lawsuit against one of their doctors for negligence and was using discreet interviews with hospital personnel to incriminate the young internist. He’d already pilfered information from a couple of unsuspecting nurses while pretending to be waiting for a family member in the emergency room. He was a farmer from the south somewhere, and his good-old-boy accent lured them into believing he was harmless.

  “Marie,” the man said urgently.

  Without looking up, Marie said, “I’m not talking to you, Charlie. You already got me in too much trouble.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use you like that, it’s just that—”

  “Go away, Charlie. I’m not listening to you.”

  “You don’t understand, one of your doctors is in real trouble.”

  Marie tapped away at her keyboard.

  “It’s not what you think,” he explained.

  Marie stopped and pointed at the man. “I’m telling you for the last time, if you have a complaint, take it up with the administrator. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

  “I don’t have any complaint. I’m talking about one of your employees being in trouble. Don’t you care about him?”

  “Who?”

  “The doctor—that’s who I’m talking about.”

  “Which doctor?”

  “I don’t know his name exactly.”

  “Then how do you know he’s in trouble?”

  “Because,” he said, pointing toward the parking lot, “I just saw him jump out of one of your windows.”

  Chapter 28

  At thirty-five thousand feet, the 747 ate up the sky in large chunks. Nick could hear the urgency in the four engines as clouds whipped by the windows.

  “How fast you think we’re going?” Nick asked Matt, who was scrolling through a Globe, Arizona, phone directory on his laptop.

  “Huh?”

  “How fast do you think we’re going?” Nick repeated.

  “Uh, six hundred miles an hour,” Matt said, pointing at the screen with his finger.

  “Hmm,” Nick said, already forgetting the question. He was also on a laptop navigating through the FBI’s private website. He’d just receive a new level of security clearance and was now viewing information that had previously been unavailable to him. The most intriguing was the data pertaining to Kemel Kharrazi’s renegade childhood. As he read the gruesome details of Kharrazi’s upbringing, he actually found himself feeling sympathy for the man.

  “I’ve got the Gila County Recorder’s office,” Matt said, scribbling down a phone number on a legal pad.

  “Good. Get a listing of all houses bought in the Payson area over, say, the past twelve months. Have them fax it to the Sheriff’s Office in Payson.”

  Matt pressed buttons on his cell phone and Nick could hear him getting right down to business. The seats in the 747 resembled a steakhouse restaurant; there were crescent-shaped, leather booths surrounding round, freshly-polished mahogany tables, all fastened to the floor. In the center of each table was the emblem of the Secretary of Defense—a bald eagle with its wings spread, proudly exposing red, white, and blue stripes on its chest.

  Sitting at a similar setting behind them were agents Ed Tolliver, Carl Rutherford, Mel Downing and Dave Tanner. All four agents began the flight shuffling through files and writing notes. Now, they each seemed to be staring at the ceiling of the jet, until you noticed that their eyes were shut. They looked as if they had been the victims of chemical warfare instead of a simple deterioration of their sleep schedule over the past week. Behind them, sipping on a bottle of Diet Coke by himself, sat Silk. He was reading Forbes magazine with his feet propped up on the table.

  Silk looked up an
d gave Nick a mock salute. Nick shook his head and smiled. He could use an army of Silks right about now.

  Nick’s phone rang and saw that it was Johns Hopkins Hospital. He pushed a button. “Julie?”

  “No, it’s me.”

  “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 the 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 world’s 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 silence.

  “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.”