A Touch of Deceit nb-1

by Gary Ponzo

  “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?"

  Reynolds was nodding, but with a vacant stare. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Kharrazi leaned close to Reynolds as if he was going to whisper the answer. His hand was already grasping the handle of his knife under his jacket. Reynol
ds turned his head to allow Kharrazi to get to his ear. Kharrazi said softly, “Because I want you to understand us before you die.”

  Reynolds jumped back, but it was too late. The long blade had already punctured his heart as Kharrazi had shoved and twisted the knife under his ribcage. Kharrazi pressed his face up against Reynold’s face and watched closely as his eyes went from shocked to lifeless. Reynolds slumped to the floor and Kharrazi called to Tina. “Come here, quick.”

  Tina looked startled. She rushed from behind her counter until she was close enough to see the blood saturate Reynold’s shirt. She stopped ten feet from Kharrazi, who already had his Beretta aimed at the girl. “If you scream or move, I’ll kill you.”

  The girl anxiously stepped in place, her long, purple fingernails fluttering in the air. “Don’t hurt me, please.”

  “I won’t, if you do exactly what I tell you.”

  The girl was shaking. Her arms and elbows flapped like a chicken attempting flight. “Please,” she begged, “please, please. I’ll do anything.”

  “You’re going to have to get a hold of yourself,” Kharrazi demanded. “You’re no good to me unless you calm down.” He yanked the knife from Reynold’s chest and swiped it clean on the dead man’s sleeve. He replaced his knife and gun to their holsters hidden under his jacket. Standing up he held out both hands. “Now, I want you to write a note on a blank sheet of paper.”

  She started toward her counter.

  “Stop,” Kharrazi said.

  She turned to face him.

  “If you make even the slightest gesture to signal anyone, I can remove my gun from its holster and have a fresh bullet inside of your body in less than three seconds. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Now, I want you to write in large letters, ‘Gone until 4 o’clock’, then tape it to the inside of the glass door.”

  She pulled a sheet of paper from the copy machine and began to write the message. She stopped halfway through and looked at Kharrazi.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s a charter flight due to leave here at 3:45. They may wonder-” she hesitated. As if she might be giving more information than she should have. Then, with a nervous wince, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”

  “I’m going to tie you up and place you in the women’s room.”

  “But I could be there for days. I’m the only one left with a key.”

  “Relax. Once I get where I’m going, I’ll make an anonymous call and tell them to get you. I’m not as bad a person as you think, Tina.” He gave her a fatherly smile, then nodded toward the note. “Let’s put this on the door, as it is.”

  She stretched a piece of scotch tape from her dispenser and taped the note to the glass door.

  “Now, tell me about flight plans.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  Kharrazi heard the jet engines rev and knew his time was running short. “Where do you keep them?”

  “In the computer.”

  “Show me.”

  She walked behind her counter and tapped a few keys on her computer. Kharrazi stood behind her. A moment later a screen displayed that days schedule. There were only two flights scheduled. “We only do flight plans for charters, the locals come and go with their props whenever they want.”

  Kharrazi pointed to the screen. “Can you delete the flight plan for my charter?”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Why?”

  “Please, just do as I say.”

  Her fingers worked tentatively, as if there was an internal struggle going on in her brain. Kharrazi hoped that she wouldn’t recognize her fate until she was finished with her task.

  “There,” she said, “It’s done.”

  “Good. Now, do you have to signal the pilots before they take off?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you tell them?”

  “I let them know they’re cleared for take-off. But it’s mostly ceremonial. We don’t have any control tower or anything.”

  “Tell them that you have to leave-you have to go home. Do you have any kids?”

  She shook her head.

  “A sister or a brother?”

  “Two sisters.”

  “Do the pilots know them?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good. Tell them that you’re leaving. Your sister was in an accident and you have to go to the hospital, but that they’re clear for take-off. Understand?”

  She nodded. Her voice cracked when she spoke to the pilots; she seemed noticeably upset. The pilots certainly must have thought her sister’s accident was the cause of her behavior.

  “Go on, Tina. We’ll take it from here. I hope your sister’s going to be okay,” came back the pilot.

  Kharrazi smiled. “Do you have a key to the door?”

  She handed him a key ring with a set of wings attached. “It’s this one.”

  “You’ve been a good girl, Tina. Just do me a favor and sit down right here.”

  She stared at him warily as she crouched down below the counter.

  “Turn toward the wall please,” Kharrazi said.

  Slowly, she shifted her body away from Kharrazi, facing the wall, but her head strained to keep Kharrazi in her sights.

  “Tina, it’s okay. I’m just going to tie you up. Turn around.”

  The girl listened to her assassin just long enough for Kharrazi to draw his knife over her head and grab a handful of hair with his free hand. He pulled the sharp blade across her exposed neck with a quick, forceful jerk. Her hands scratched at his arms for a few desperate seconds, breaking every last nail until finally they fell to her side. When the weight of her dead body gave way, Kharrazi was struck with how light her head felt without her torso dragging it down.

  “You must understand, Tina,” he whispered. “No one person should stop the persecution of thousand of innocent Kurds. Not even you.”

  He peered over the counter and saw nothing to alarm him. He stood all the way and examined himself for any blood. A few spots, but his clothes were dark enough that they could be mistaken for a sloppy cup of coffee. He didn’t have time to do anything with the bodies. They were out of viewing distance from the front door and once the office was eventually opened up, it wouldn’t take long to figure out what had happened. He went to the door and left the building. While locking the door with Tina’s keys, he assured himself that he had at least three or four hours head start. And that was all he needed.

  He hobbled back into the jet where the pilots were still preoccupied checking and double-checking instruments.

  “See,” the pilot said to him, as they taxied to the runway. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Kharrazi smiled. “Not at all.”

  Chapter 25

  By the time Nick and Matt arrived at the Baltimore Field Office, the press had already reported that President Merrick wouldn’t be leaving the White House that night. It was a bold political move, even if Merrick was tucked safely into the bunker beneath the mansion. It only tightened the noose around the FBI’s neck. Specifically, Walt Jackson. If the White House was bombed after receiving advanced warning, everyone at the Bureau may as well dust off the old resume.

  Nick and Matt made their way through the security locks and retina scans guarding the elevators down to the War Room. As they exited the elevator, Nick was startled at how cramped the otherwise large room looked. Matt was right, it bordered on computer geekdom. The walls were illuminated with huge, flat screen video monitors silently displaying satellite feeds from around the world. The room was packed with low partitions separating small, plain looking metal desks. Each desk was occupied with an analyst wearing a headset, staring into a computer monitor. The hum of low voices and keyboard tapping filled the air.

  The biggest change Nick noticed was the lighting. The big overhead fluorescents were shut off, giving the wall monitors a sharper image. The room had a movie theatre feel to it. The bulk of the ill
umination came from the images flashing across all four walls. The only other lights were tiny goosenecks with a narrow beam that attached to each of the analyst’s desks.

  The front of the room contained a long narrow shelf with two fax machines, three computer terminals, and a series of devices that played cassettes, DVDs, and CDs.

  Nick’s attention was drawn to a round wooden table in the corner of the room, next to the shelf. A makeshift ceiling light hung too low and the four men at the table had to lean forward slightly to make eye contact. Three of the men had rolled up sleeves, ties that were pulled down to their sternum, and the wrinkled shirt look of an all-night poker game. They were Walt Jackson, FBI Director Louis Dutton, and the Director of the CIA Kenneth Morris. The fourth man appeared fresh and neatly dressed.

  “Shit,” Nick said, when he saw who it was. “What’s he doing here?”

  Matt followed his gaze and shut his eyes tight for an instant. “Fuck.”

  The guy Matt was referring to was President Merrick’s Chief of Staff, William Hatfield. Last summer Matt caught the man slapping his wife with the back of his hand. Matt was staying at a resort up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, when his girlfriend at the time suggested a romantic evening stroll along a tree-lined pathway around a small pond. The Chief of Staff was walking in front of them with his wife when Matt heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin. It wasn’t until Matt ran up to defend the woman that he discovered who the attacker was. Matt squeezed Hatfield’s throat with one hand and simply said, “Don’t.” Nick understood there was more to the story, but Matt never revealed his inner thoughts on the matter. On the surface Matt appeared to be the epitome of a free spirit. He was single going well into his thirties, and never pretended that he was anything but on the prowl most all of the time. But ever since his indiscretion with a stripper the night before his wedding, Matt despised married men who cheated. He even hated married men who told stories about cheating, even if he knew they were lying. It contradicted everything that Matt appeared to be, but Nick knew him better than anyone. There was only one type of man Matt hated more than an adulterer. Wife-beaters.

  Nick saw that everyone at the large oak table but Hatfield had dark circles around their eyes. Hatfield had the uncanny ability to look as if he’d just gotten a full night of sleep. He sat with his suit still intact, and his hair sprayed into a permanent structure. His right hand played with the presidential seal cufflink on his left sleeve, in case there was someone left in the building who didn’t know where he worked.