by Gary Ponzo
Nick said, “Ruth, there couldn’t be a better place for Tommy to be right now. These guys are the best in the world at this kind of stuff. Have hope.”
“Hope?” His Uncle Victor flicked the back of his hand from under his chin. “There’s your stinking hope. They better not take these terrorists to trial, because I’ll be outside with my Remington. They’ll never see the inside of a courthouse. I’m telling you right now, Nicky, it ain’t ever happening in a courtroom.”
Nick allowed his uncle to vent. There was no sense trying to calm him down, especially when Nick felt exactly the same as Victor.
Silk made eye contact with Nick and anger flashed across their eyes like lightening bouncing between two mirrors.
“Victor,” Nick said, “I’ll make this right.”
“How are you going to do that? You gonna bring my boy back to me?” Cause if you can’t do that, then you can’t make it right.” Victor’s lips twitched. His mouth acted like it wanted to continue, but his heart seemed too damaged for the job.
Silk gently tugged on Nick’s coat jacket and gestured to the opposite corner of the room. Nick saw his partner having an animated conversation with husky Sal Demenci. Sal was surrounded by five of his men, who regarded Matt with dubious expressions. Nick heard Matt say something about justice and this brought Sal to his feet. He pointed a finger at Matt, “You have the audacity to come in here and talk about justice. Do you have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about?”
Nick immediately wedged himself between the two men and patted Sal’s shoulders with baby taps. “Come on, Sal, settle down.” He looked into Sal’s eyes with compassion. “This isn’t a contest to see who cares about Tommy the most. Everyone in this room is hurting-including Matt. You know that, Sal. You know that.”
Sal took a breath and sat down, muttering obscenities.
“Did they give you any indication how bad he was?” Nick asked.
Sal shook his head. “I got a glimpse of him when they were moving him around. He’s burned all over. They’re keeping their mouths shut, so they don’t hedge any bets.” He looked up at Nick as if he’d forgotten something. “Hey, by the way, how’s Phil?”
“He’s good, Sal.”
“Good. Listen, I think maybe we need to talk.”
“What about?”
Sal stood and examined the crowd. He gestured toward the door and Nick followed. Sal’s men fell into step behind them until Sal turned and said, “It’s okay. Me and Nick are going to have a little chat.” He looked at Matt and said, “We’ll be right outside.”
Nick nodded to his partner and Matt grimaced.
Sal walked out of the hospital and led Nick to a bench under the canopy of the entrance. Nick sat next to him at arm’s length.
Sal stared at Nick like he was waiting for him to say something.
Nick shrugged. “What?”
An Army Jeep rolled by, patrolling the street next to the hospital. It was full of soldiers with M-16’s strapped to their shoulders. They scrutinized the terrain with stern expressions.
“This country’s in bad shape,” Sal lamented.
Nick saw something in Sal’s eyes he wasn’t familiar with. Sincerity. He’d known Sal back when Sal was merely a Captain with the Capelli family. Nick avoided any law enforcement that involved family business, an easy chore from within the counterterrorism division of the Bureau. Besides, Nick was Sicilian and something deep inside always held a certain understanding for the Sicilian ways, as perverted as they were.
“You’re right,” Nick said. “The country is hurting right now.”
Sal moved his hands in a circular motion. “Your boss, I’ll bet he would love to know where this Kharrazi guy is, wouldn’t he?”
The smile vanished from Nick’s face. “Is there something you want to tell me, Sal?”
Sal leaned back into the bench and crossed his legs. “What if I told you a story? A story about a friend of mine who happened to figure out where they’re making these bombs. I mean we’re talking strictly fiction here, you understand?”
Nick nodded, knowing that nothing was further from the truth. “Go on.”
“Well, these terrorists have to get their supplies from somewhere-I mean, hey, they didn’t just check it in with their luggage on the plane-right?”
“Right.”
“So this friend of mine gets wind of a large underground purchase of blasting caps, big enough to blow up, oh, say, a house or something. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
“Anyway, my friend finds the guy who makes these bombs and he confronts him. Well, of course, the bomb maker, he’s not so happy to see my friend and my friend-in self-defense, mind you-shoots the bomb maker and kills him.”
Sal stopped talking when two men wearing blue scrubs and stethoscopes draped around their necks walked past them into the hospital. Nick wanted to slap the story out of Sal, but he remained calm. When the traffic around them quieted, Nick couldn’t resist any longer, “Sal, are you going to finish?”
Sal appeared to be taking in the sights from the park bench, as if the sun and the clouds were a new experience for him. He waved at a group of birds fluttering around the crown of an oak in the median of the parking lot. “You know what kind of birds those are?”
Nick lowered his forehead into his hand and used his thumb and middle finger on either side of his face to massage his temples. “Tell me, Sal. What kind of birds are they?”
“Those are what you call Orchard Orioles. They’re rare this time of year. Very pretty coloring, but very fragile. They don’t do well in cold weather.”
Nick wasn’t sure whether Sal was speaking metaphorically. “Are you a bird lover, Sal?”
Sal seemed content listening to the birds chirping. He nodded to the question as if in a trance. “I’m a charter member of the Chesapeake Audubon Society.”
Nick couldn’t help but follow Sal’s gaze to the large oak tree. He tried for a moment to focus on the birds, their musical cadence, and their sense of community. The country was slowly being destroyed, house by house, and these creature didn’t seem to notice. Apparently none of them read the USA Today or they’d be starting a block-watch program like everyone else in the nation. Neighborhoods were taking shifts sleeping and yet the birds kept singing. Nick realized that Dr. Morgan was right. If Sal hadn’t brought the loud chirping to Nick’s attention, he never would have noticed. Still, he couldn’t last thirty seconds on the birds without shifting his thoughts back to the KSF and Kemel Kharrazi.
Nick watched Sal withdraw a Plastic bag of breadcrumbs from his pants pocket, dip his hand into the mix and toss it onto a patch of grass next to the bench. A moment later, a black bird with a sliver of purple on its chest landed on the far edge of the newly-discovered banquet and pecked at a couple of breadcrumbs. After another moment, two more birds braved the trip down to Sal’s buffet line. Sal’s eyes gleamed with delight.
“Manga,” he said losing himself in the ceremony. “Manga.”
“Sal,” Nick said. “If you know something that would help us find these terrorists, we would be very grateful. Maybe even rewardingly grateful.”
This seemed to get Sal’s attention. He quickly dispensed the remainder of his baggie and turned to Nick with a somber expression. He smoothed Nick’s arm with his hand, as if he were ironing out imaginary wrinkles from the sleeve of his jacket. “I have a proposition for you.”
Nick knew right away it wasn’t anything he was going to like.
Chapter 16
The Oval Office sat on the southeast corner of the White House, overlooking the Rose Garden. During their tenure each President got to choose the decor inside of the office. President John Merrick decided to use the Oval Office to memorialize his brother. Paul Merrick was killed on September 11th, 2001, when a suicide terrorist crashed a commercial jet into the office where he worked in the Pentagon.
Directly across from the rosewood desk hung a large framed photo of Paul Merrick in his lieute
nant’s uniform, taken just a week before the attack. Other photos of his brother, his wife, and their two daughters intermingled with portraits of Harry Truman and JFK. His brother’s favorite putter leaned against the wall next to a couple of golf balls. Whenever Merrick got the nerve, he gripped the club and felt the indentations where his younger brother’s hands had worn down the leather. His fingers wound around the grip and rekindled the warmth that his brother’s hands left behind. Merrick would lean over, aim a golf ball at the leg of his desk and stroke the putter. Like a magic wand it conjured up teenage memories of Saturday afternoons sneaking over to the local public course and playing golf with his brother deep into the darkness. In more recent years, with the finances to back him, Paul would constantly tinker with new equipment. Somehow the latest technology always ended up in his golf bag, but the putter was the only club that Paul would never replace no matter how old and worn.
Now Merrick stood over a golf ball, his hands duplicating his brother’s position on the putter. With memories of his brother resurfacing, he stared intently at the ball as if he might see his brother’s face when his head came up. He didn’t. Instead he saw the stern expression of his Chief of Staff, William Hatfield sitting on a leather chair scrolling down the screen on his laptop.
Situated in various chairs and sofas fronting Merrick’s desk were five of Merrick’s aides who’d pulled an all-nighter with him collecting data and discussing options. A tray of cut fruit and vegetables sat on a coffee table in the middle of the room. Secretary of State Samuel Fisk interrupted his pacing to take a celery stick and nervously chew it to down his fingertips. Fisk had the longest running relationship with Merrick, going back to eighth grade, and he always had the last word on serious issues. Everyone in the room knew this, so Merrick would sometimes catch his staff addressing Fisk instead of him. This was of no concern to him. Merrick was as no nonsense as they came, and everyone who worked for him understood his loyalties. The Presidency was one of the few occupations where cronyism was not only allowed, but practically a necessity. Merrick surrounded himself with people he trusted and in return, his people trusted him.
Standing behind Hatfield and looking over his shoulder, Press Secretary Fredrick Himes craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the overnight polls.
Hatfield scrolled down the computer screen with his index finger. “Do you want the bad news, John, or the worse news?”
“Just give it to me, Bill.” Merrick hunched over the putter, eyeing the golf ball.
“Your approval rating has dropped again. It’s down from forty-three to thirty-nine per cent.”
Merrick felt the room tighten up. A lame duck president not only lost the support of his political constituents, but could indelibly tarnish a staff member’s career. The captain might go down with the ship, but the crew didn’t escape unscathed.
Hatfield scrolled further until he found what he was looking for. “When asked whether the President was handling the KSF attacks properly, sixty-five per cent said no. Only twenty-five per cent said yes. Ten per cent were undecided.”
Merrick looked up at the faces before him. They were long, tired and confused. They’d spent the past week performing masterful acts of damage control and it seemed to be paying little dividends.
Hatfield said, “Then there’s the people who were asked whether-”
“That’s enough,” Merrick announced. He didn’t need to hear any more, especially from his Chief of Staff, who was the White House’s version of Chicken Little. Hatfield was a good, loyal man, but the pressure associated with the everyday dealings of a sitting president was becoming too much for the man. Nobody wanted to hear bad news from the panic-stricken voice of Bill Hatfield.
Merrick leaned the putter against the wall and walked to the front of his desk. “I want to remind all of you, this is not a permanent condition. We will ultimately succeed in finding Kharrazi and we will put a stop to the bombings, and our approval rating will go up.”
This inspired a few nods of sympathetic agreement. Merrick could sense the disingenuous consent to his appraisal and wondered how long he had before he’d lost even his own staff.
“Sir,” Press Secretary Himes said, “if you don’t mind me asking-how close are we to accomplishing our goals?”
This, of course, was the real question. Merrick could tell a story and buy an extra day or two, but eventually it would come back to bite him. He knew better than to fabricate scenarios that didn’t exist. He received confidential information from the FBI three or four times a day, and each briefing was more frustrating than the last. Apparently, Kharrazi had cultivated a team of Kurds whose only purpose was to act suspicious enough to be brought in for questioning. Hundreds of decoys were sent out into the streets of America asking hardware storeowners for large amounts of fuses and other curious materials. They would linger long enough for the clerk to contact the FBI and get themselves dragged into custody without any possibility of furnishing information about Kharrazi. It cost the Bureau precious man-hours of investigative time, which they desperately needed.
“Fredrick, I’ll have a full report available to you for the three o’clock press conference. I’ll know more when I get my briefing from the Bureau this morning.” He gave Himes a trust me look, but his clout was wearing thin and he knew it.
Merrick pointed to his Defense Secretary, Martin Riggs, “Marty, what about that other option?”
This drew some few flinches in the room. It was the option that no one wanted to consider. The eight hundred pound gorilla that sat on Merrick’s desk in the form of an order to withdraw troops from Turkey.
Martin Riggs was an ex-marine, ex-CIA, and exceptional at finding a middle ground in almost every situation. He knew the terrors of war intimately and Merrick took him on as Defense Secretary for that very reason. Merrick wanted someone who understood the consequences of combat, and therefore would be more agreeable to alternatives. Riggs wasn’t afraid of confrontation, just aware of the costs.
“Sir,” Riggs said, dropping a clipboard onto the coffee table and leaning over, elbows on his knees. “We’re prepared to release military footage from Turkey showing Turkish Security Forces in Kalar raising the Turkish Flag and shouting cheers as they pump their guns into the air. Kalar was the Kurds last stronghold and this should be enough evidence to show that the United States is no longer needed. It could allow us the dignity to leave on our own terms, without pressure from the KSF.”
“Bullshit,” came a voice from the back of the room.
Merrick saw Samuel Fisk shaking his head, looking down at the wood floor. “Sam,” Merrick said, “you think the public will buy it?”
“Fuck no-would you?” Sam snorted.
Merrick laughed for the first time in so long that his cheeks hurt from the unused muscles. “You shouldn’t pull any punches, Sam.”
Fisk muttered a few words under his breath and returned to a contemplative posture.
Merrick tugged down on his tie and pulled a melon ball out of a crystal bowl with a frilled toothpick. Before he finished chewing, he said, “Marty, thanks for the report.”
The intercom buzzed to life and Merrick’s secretary said, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President. Nick Bracco is on the line. He says it’s urgent that he speak with Mr. Fisk right away.”
“Put him through on the speaker phone, Hanna,” Merrick said.
There was a pause. “Uh. . Mr. President, Mr. Bracco insists that it is for Mr. Fisk’s ears only.”
Merrick raised an eyebrow at Fisk. They both understood the move. Bracco obviously had information that flirted with unethical, immoral or illegal operations and he wanted to allow the president deniability. Merrick waved a hand at Fisk and watched him hurry out of the room.
Defense Secretary Martin Riggs stood, retrieved his charcoal gray jacket from the brass coat rack and slipped it on. “Mr. President, I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in twenty minutes. Which of these options do you prefer we discuss?”
Any
large-scale military action attempting to wipe out the KSF within the United States would end badly and Merrick knew it. He felt as if his body was crawling with poisonous ants and he needed to suppress the urge to stab them with a knife.
Merrick frowned. “Marty, I want you to tell the Chiefs we’re not leaving Turkey. Not today, not tomorrow, not as long as we’re being blackmailed by Kharrazi. Tell them I want more options. I don’t like the corner we’re in, and I want out.”
Riggs nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
Attorney General Mitchell Reeves also reached for his jacket. “I’d better be going, too,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen defense attorneys screaming that I can’t keep their clients locked up for over a week without formerly charging them.”
Merrick pointed an accusing finger at Reeves. The Attorney General held up his hand, “Don’t worry, we’re not releasing anyone. I’ve just got to juggle with the Bill of Rights a little.”
Merrick watched the two men leave. He circled around behind his desk and sank into his high-back leather chair. He tugged even further on his tie, loosening it to the point of separation. One piece of silk now looped around his collar and hung down in two separate strands. He unbuttoned the top button of his starched white shirt, placed his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Even with two people left in the room and another seventy-five currently roaming the corridors of his residence, he’d never felt more alone.
Outside of the Oval Office, perched on a drooping tree branch, an oriole scrutinized the White House lawn for an easy meal. Three blocks west of the Oval Office, a construction worker peeled back the cellophane wrapper from his tuna fish sandwich and sighed at the long day still ahead of him. Less than a mile northwest of the Oval Office, a short, chubby, bald man waddled through the pedestrian traffic on the perimeter of Georgetown University. A Welsh Terrier pulled on the leash in front of him as he gleefully made his way down L Street NW, drinking in the worried faces of students and businesspeople as they passed him by. He wasn’t enjoying the anxious expressions because of some prurient thrill, but because he knew that his plan was working. The president was just blocks away receiving pressure from every imaginable sector of the public. He had virtually no other political choice but to withdraw U.S. troops from Turkey and Kemel Kharrazi beamed with satisfaction.