A Touch of Deceit nb-1

by Gary Ponzo

  A few older heads nodded, giving Nick the impression that Professor Bandor had orated more than a few White House meetings over the years.

  “Since the end of the cold war,” he began, “the United States has no more important ally in NATO than Turkey. This year, Turkey will receive three hundred and twenty million dollars in military loans from the United States. That’s three hundred and twenty million U.S. taxpayer dollars going directly to the Turkish government for the unequivocal purpose of killing their own citizens. Of course these citizens I speak of are Turkish Kurds. There are twenty million Kurds in the region of Turkey, Iraq and Iran, making them the largest ethnic group in the world without a country.

  “In the past ten years the U.S. has provided Turkey with no less than six billion dollars worth of military firepower- F-4 fighter jets, M-60 tanks and Cobra helicopters. It’s unfortunate, but every time a Kurd is killed it’s with an American weapon.”

  President Merrick had become visibly uncomfortable with this portion of the dissertation and when he made eye contact with Bandor, the old man said, “Of course, these funds were all allocated two administrations ago. However, it doesn’t alleviate us from the dilemma we now face as a consequence of those past decisions. In southeastern Turkey there were an estimated 2,500 Kurdish villages destroyed by the Turkish Security Force, the military muscle of the Turkish government. It stands to reason that the Kurds would feel obligated to fight back and they have-firing at government troops at every opportunity. The numbers of the Kurdish Security Force is much lower than that of the Turkish Security Force, but their atrocities are no less brutal. The KSF was caught retaliating and the world became outraged. And since Turkey is such an important ally, we had no choice but to send our troops over there to try and settle things down.”

  “And therein lies the dilemma,” President Merrick added. “Since the Kurds have no country, they have no voice. They have no diplomats or embassies for us to appeal to. We can’t threaten them with anything, because they have nothing for us to threaten. We can’t deny them resources because the Turkish government has already milked them dry.”

  President Merrick leaned forward. “Walt, this is our war. We have to fight it here in the states. The Kurds have overreacted and if we’re going to stop them, it’d better be soon. Public outcry has become so loud that our airwaves are flooded with nothing but impeachment and withdrawal discussions. And we all know what happens if we back down from the KSF and withdraw our troops from Turkey. Every two-bit terrorist organization on the planet will be on the next flight to America and threaten to blow up our schools unless we serve free ice cream with every meal at McDonalds. There will be no end to it.”

  Jackson asked, “If the KSF has a substantial amount of soldiers here in the U.S., what’s happening over in Kurdistan?”

  “That’s a good question,” Professor Bandor said, then pointed to CIA director Ken Morris.

  “As you would suspect,” Morris stated. “They’re vulnerable. However, our troops are instructed to prevent violence from both sides and it seems to have tempered the bloodshed.” He turned to Jackson, “Now if we could only find Kharrazi. .”

  The President looked at Jackson.

  Jackson pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. He nodded, as if he was agreeing with something that someone had said. But nobody spoke.

  Finally, Jackson said, “I could tell you that we have fresh leads and we’re only hours away from capture, but I’d be lying. The fact is, I have every warm body with a badge scouring the landscape for this guy, and so far every lead has led to a dead end. I haven’t slept for more than a couple of hours a night in weeks and if I thought it would help our situation, I’d hand in my resignation right now.”

  The President held up his hand, “Hold on, Walt. There’ll be plenty of time for scapegoats after this is over. You’re taking this the wrong way.”

  “No, he’s not,” Louis Dutton said, teeth clenched. “He’s taking it exactly the right way.” The FBI Director pointed at Ken Morris. “You’re the one who kept all of this tucked safely in a Top Secret file. Only when one of my agent’s brothers was kidnapped did we even find out there’s been KSF movement out of Turkey. If anyone deserves to be the scapegoat it’s you.”

  The President slammed his fist on the hardwood table. “That’s enough!”

  The room became still. Some thirty professional government employees sat in total silence, while the president admonished them with his eyes.

  Professor Bandor stood with his hand covering his face. It was only when President Merrick asked him to continue that the professor’s reticence became conspicuous.

  “Professor?” Merrick said.

  “You don’t deserve to be fighting like this,” Bandor mumbled.

  Nick wondered what he’d missed. He looked at his partner and Matt simply shrugged.

  Louis Dutton stood and approached the old man. “Professor, we fight like this all the time. This is what our forefathers did when they were faced with matters of national concern. It may seem ugly, but it works.”

  He helped the old man to a seat at the table. When Dutton returned to his seat, President Merrick stood. He walked away from the gathering to an oversized map of Turkey. With his arms folded he said, “Professor Bandor is upset because he feels a sense a responsibility with this entire KSF mess.”

  Bandor nodded with his head down.

  “Tell them,” President Merrick said.

  Bandor pulled at a loose piece of cuticle from his left thumb. “I believe Kemel Kharrazi has killed my sister. I’ve suspected for some time and now I am certain of it.”

  He seemed reluctant to continue until the president said, “Go on, Malik.”

  “My sister told me in confidence that Kharrazi was coming to America to exact revenge on the United States for interfering with their defense against the Turkish Security Force. This was months ago. I don’t know how, but I suspect Kharrazi found out about our conversation and killed her.”

  “How can you be sure?” Dutton asked.

  The professor continued his fascination with his cuticles. “She was allowed to leave a note saying goodbye to my brother-in-law and her other children.”

  “Her other children?”

  “Yes. . you see, Kemel. . well, he’s my nephew. And my sister is his mother.”

  A collective gasp seemed to fill the room.

  “Kharrazi killed his own mother?” Vice President Hearns asked. It became evident that he was the lone person in the room who didn’t know the Kharrazi legend and he immediately sank back in his chair.

  The professor nodded. “You have no idea how sick I am about this. He is not what you think. He is much, much worse. His only loyalty is to the Kurdish people and their struggle for a separate nation of their own. Other than that, everyone and anyone is expendable. Even me.”

  “Which brings us to the real reason the professor came to me with his dilemma,” President Merrick said. “He knows what a hothead Kharrazi is and he feels there’s a good chance we can use the professor as bait to lure Kharrazi out of hiding.”

  “You can’t be serious?” Dutton said.

  But the remainder of the room hoped he was. They were desperate for Kharrazi’s shoe size, never mind a trap that could actually help capture him.

  “Tell us about it,” Jackson said.

  President Merrick stood behind the professor and placed a hand on his shoulder. “In a few minutes I’ll leave the White House and address the media and the nation about the latest series of bombings. As I’m leaving the White House I’ll be seen shaking the professor’s hand and thanking him. The camera set up insures that every television station with a news department will see us. Later, there will be a leak to the Washington Post about intelligence we’ve received from a Kurdish relative of Kharrazi’s. Our office will confirm the allegation and add that the information is extremely helpful in our pursuit of the madman known as Kemel Kharrazi. We will not name any names, but that will be a moot p
oint. Kharrazi will know who we’re talking about.”

  “Kemel is a news junkie,” Bandor added. “He monitors cable news stations all day long. He will come after me without question.”

  Dutton rubbed the side of his face. “It’s risky. And there’s no guarantee that Kharrazi will make the attempt himself. He could send one of his soldiers to do the job.”

  The President nodded. “Professor Bandor feels strongly that Kharrazi would be compelled to bring him down personally. There’s been bad blood between them for some time.”

  “I can only apologize for not coming forward sooner,” Bandor said.

  Nick said. “You realize if we keep close tabs on you, he’ll spot us. And if we leave even the slightest gap. .”

  “He’s right,” Dutton said. “Kharrazi will be disguised. An old woman, a homeless person, you’ll never be able to walk down the street without wondering who’s around you.”

  There was no reaction from Bandor. Dutton lowered his head to meet the professor’s eyes. “What Nick is suggesting is. .” still no recognition of fear showed in Professor Bandor’s face. “It’s a suicide mission.”

  President Merrick patted the professor’s back as he stared down at the old man.

  “He knows, Louis. He knows.”

  Chapter 15

  Kemel Kharrazi exited the private jet and waddled across the tarmac toward a small brick building just south of the runway. His padding had come loose during the flight and was beginning to bunch up inside of his jacket. A suspicious eye might’ve noticed his unbalanced appearance, so he decided to adjust himself in the men’s room. But the second he opened the glass door to the building, an overzealous young woman standing behind an abbreviated counter accosted him.

  “You must be Mr. Henning,” she said cheerfully.

  By instinct Kharrazi headed directly toward the woman. His training commanded the response. Growing up on the streets of Istanbul, he’d learned to never allow a possible threat catch you avoiding their attention. A sure sign of weakness.

  Kharrazi dropped his leather suitcase, leaned over the counter and smiled. “Yes, that would be me.”

  The woman tapped her long, purple fingernails onto a keyboard and said, “Well, let’s see what the computer says, Mr. Henning.”

  For a brief moment Kharrazi was startled. What was this woman going to find on the computer? He was about to feel for his Beretta when she said, “It looks like everything’s all set. I’m just checking on your rental car now.”

  Kharrazi’s nerves were frayed and he chastised himself for being so jumpy. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Kharrazi noticed a stack of USA Today newspapers on the counter next to him. On the cover was the headline, “America Under Siege.” Below the headline was a surveillance photo of Kharrazi taken last year. He had a snarl on his face and it reminded him how important it was for him to smile. With puffy cheeks and a bald head, Kharrazi was certain he was unrecognizable, but the smile made him practically invisible.

  Kharrazi scanned the parking lot. It was vacant. A couple of men stood in front of a hanger across the runway, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, engaged in conversation. The airfield was chosen carefully. Even though it was scarcely used, it was only forty minutes from Ronald Reagan airport, which was certain to be infested with federal agents.

  “So, Mr. Henning, what brings you to Maryland?” the woman asked, still scanning her computer screen.

  “Business,” Kharrazi said.

  “Business? How come so far away from the metropolitan area?”

  Kharrazi grew irritable at the line of questioning, but he could see that she was making the silence between them go away. This was something that Americans were known for-their trivial conversations. The weather, sports, traffic, all harmless topics that Americans were compelled to whittle away their lives talking about.

  He smiled. “I sell custom boats. Most of my customers live here at the south end of the bay.”

  This seemed to satisfy the woman’s curiosity, which coincided with the end of her search. “Here you go, Mr. Henning,” she handed Kharrazi a folded pamphlet and a set of keys. “Just go through that door and hang a left. Your rental car is the third one in, the green Taurus. Just bring it back tomorrow with a full tank and leave the keys in the ignition.”

  Kharrazi thanked the woman and hurried towards the men’s room, where he adjusted his padding. After he was rearranged, he found his car and left the complex. There was no need for a map since Kharrazi had the route committed to memory. Once he reached the D.C. area, he would call upon his college days at Georgetown to assist his recollection of the district.

  He switched the radio to an all-news station, where he heard an aggressive dialog between a journalist and a civilian caller. The caller wanted the President impeached and the journalist countered with talk of rounding up all non-American civilians from the Middle East. Kharrazi was fascinated with the grouping of all Middle-Eastern countries into one giant alliance. As if Iraq, Israel, Lebanon and Turkey all shared the same doctrine.

  At the top of the hour, a newscaster spoke of late-breaking news from the White House. Apparently President Merrick had addressed the nation earlier that morning and made reference to an informer who volunteered valuable information about the terrorist behind the bombings. Kharrazi turned up the volume and listened as the announcer confirmed a Washington Post report that the informer was a relative of Kharrazi’s who lived in the Washington D.C. area.

  Kharrazi slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Malik, the old fool! He tried to recall how much information his uncle could have known. How much did his mother know about his mission? He saw a sign directing Washington D.C. traffic to the left lane. He was disgusted with his meddling family and was determined to tie up any loose ends. Just then a large sport utility vehicle passed his Taurus on the passenger side and he caught the driver spying on him. Kharrazi realized that the driver was reacting to his temper tantrum and he forced a benevolent smile. The driver became uninterested and quickly moved ahead.

  Kharrazi steered the car into the left lane and drove toward the nation’s capital with an entirely new agenda.

  * * *

  Nick sat at his desk at the Baltimore Field Office clicking the mouse on different files on his computer screen. He’d been navigating through the maze of information in a slow methodical manner for the past two hours. In the top left hand corner of the screen were the names of every Kurd who had applied for a visa over the past year. The right side ran a program called Linksgate. It cross-referenced every possible connection between the names on his computer screen and any KSF sympathizers. As the individual names were linked to a possible association, they were highlighted. Once highlighted, Nick would click on the name and instantly identify the connection. Some were weak, like Assad Jihed, who went to school with a KSF member fifteen years earlier. Yet other connections made him feel that the CIA had dropped the ball. There were twelve eavesdropping and surveillance satellites continuously inundating the CIA with information without the proper manpower to keep up. They routinely intercepted two million phone calls, E-mails, and faxes daily, only to decipher the information months and sometimes years later.

  He was sifting through Rashid Baser’s file when the intercom beeped on his phone.

  “Nick?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes, Muriel.”

  “Fourteen thirty-two is for you. It’s Julie.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then pushed a button and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Sweetie.”

  “Nick I’m down here at Johns Hopkins. I think you’d better come.”

  Nick jumped from his seat. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s Tommy, he’s. . well, he’s in intensive care.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was a victim of the bombings. He’s not doing very well. There might not be much time.”

  “I’m on my way.” Nick hung up the phone and found Matt slapp
ing the side of a printer trying to get it to print. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  “The hospital. They got Tommy.”

  Johns Hopkins contained Maryland’s only regional burn center. Nick could sense the competence of its professionals the moment he entered the hundred-year-old building. He approached the information desk and introduced himself to an older woman. The woman pointed to a room with a narrow slit of a window in the door. “They’re all in there.”

  The room appeared to be a waiting area. “You don’t understand, I’m family,” Nick flipped open his FBI credentials as if this would be the magic pass to his cousin.

  The woman had a peculiar expression that held concern and curiosity. “Exactly how many family members-” she stopped herself. “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman frowned. “The staff is doing the best they can. I’ve already notified the doctor and as soon as he is available he promised to meet with you and all of your family.” Again she pointed to the room.

  “All of my family? How many family members are we talking about?”

  The woman took an exasperating breath. “A lot.”

  Nick opened the door slowly to avoid hitting anyone in the crowded room. The small room was intended for intimate conversations between doctors and family members of patients undergoing surgery. The architect didn’t have Tommy Bracco’s family in mind when he drew up the blueprints. Nick found Julie sitting in a corner with his Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth, who was openly sobbing. Julie rubbed Ruth’s back while Victor carried on a conversation with Don Silkari.

  Nick crouched down to his aunt’s eye level, “I’m sorry, Ruth,” he said, taking her hand into his. He looked at Julie, “What do you know?”

  Julie shrugged. “Nothing. The doctors are still working on him.”