by Gary Ponzo
Riggs slammed his fist onto the oak table and the War Room turned deathly still. The whir of the computers filled the silence as analysts found their way back to their desks, and their seemingly futile assignments.
Nick looked up in time to see Bali hopping over a fence. Eventually, Bali would be caught, or more likely, killed-but not until he took as many lives as possible; none more important to the agents in the War Room than the man who lay motionless on the ground. The police car finally reached the agent and the officer jumped from the vehicle and ran to the fallen agent. The satellite camera focused back on Bali who jerked open a side entrance door to a large office complex. Screeching police cars suddenly surrounded the building. It was only a matter of time, but Nick knew that nothing good would happen inside of that building. Bali killed one of their own. He would never be allowed to leave the structure alive.
Nick waited for Riggs to resume his questioning about the identity of his informant. Instead, Riggs placed a hand over his mouth and slowly rubbed, as if he was measuring the precise amount of stubble his face could sprout after pulling an all-nighter. He appraised everyone at the table, eventually settling on Nick.
“Payson, huh?” Riggs said. He circled the small town on the map with his pencil, then looked at Jackson. “Now, we can go in heavy or go in silent. Which do you think would be more effective?”
To his credit, Jackson blew by the informant issue at light speed, “With such a short window I think silent might be more effective. If we go bullying our way into such a small arena, the KSF will hear us coming and dig in. Maybe even detonate the missiles early.”
Riggs nodded his head. “That’s right. If they think they’re secure, they’re more likely to make a mistake. Maybe even get a little careless.”
The Chief of Staff seemed unable to restrain himself. “What are you talking about? Are you saying that we don’t send every available resource to that town immediately? That’s insane.”
Riggs did something that brought a huge grin to Matt McColm’s face. He turned to Jackson and continued the discussion unabated. “We send a small, tactical team of agents. Nick’s team. Have them work with the local Sheriff’s Department-with plainclothes.” He looked at his watch. “If we hustle we can get the team on the ground in five hours. That puts them there by three o’clock Pacific time, and gives them six hours to find Kharrazi’s headquarters.” He made straight lines across every road that passed through Payson. “In the meantime, set up roadblocks, here, here and here. If we don’t succeed in finding them tonight, then we can always have ground troops there by morning.”
Jackson took the map and pushed a button on his transmitter. A minute later, he was speaking with a deputy in the Gila County Sheriffs Department in Payson, Arizona.
Hatfield shook a fist at Riggs. “Listen here, Martin, I’m not telling the president that we know where they are, but we’re going to be clandestine about it. We should get the media involved, have them broadcast that reward money promo all over the networks. We’ll get information, fast. Send in the damn military now for crying out loud.”
Riggs glared at Hatfield’s fist and it melted to the table like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Riggs scrolled his eyes right up into the Chief of Staff’s face. “You can tell the president that we’re doing our jobs to the best of our ability. With all of the years of experience putting our lives on the line defending our nation from domestic and foreign enemies, we feel that this tactic has the best chance to succeed. Unless you have some law enforcement training, or military service in your background that I’m not familiar with-we’re not taking any requests.”
Hatfield pursed his lips, but stopped there. Nick could see the frustration in Hatfield’s face. Riggs knew that Hatfield was a former corporate attorney, who stepped in a pile of good fortune by marrying President Merrick’s sister back when he was still a senator in Indiana. Still, Hatfield could make everyone’s life miserable, adding pressure from the executive branch that no one wanted to deal with. He sat back in his seat with a childish frown on his face. With one final act of misguided authority, he said, “Proceed.”
Riggs stood at attention. He pointed to Nick, then Matt. “You two need to get going. Gather the team and head down to Dulles. There will be a Defense Department plane waiting for you. My plane.” He looked at Jackson almost as an afterthought. “That okay with you, Walt?”
Jackson nodded. “Of course. They’re our best assets.”
Riggs looked at Hatfield, who sat rigid, attempting to appear important. Riggs said “Don’t you have some shoes to shine or something?”
For a moment Nick thought Matt might stick his tongue out at Hatfield. Instead, he motioned to the door and said to Nick. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 26
Nihad Tansu entered the hospital wearing green surgical scrubs and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He strode into the lobby with a confident swagger and leaned over the half-circle reception desk, both hands on the white countertop. “I’m Doctor Marshall,” he announced to the white-haired woman sitting behind the desk. He managed to transform his Kurdish accent into a Latin-flavored mixture of Italian and Greek. Just enough to add mystery without being mysterious. “I was called down to see a new patient-Julie Bracco. Could you please direct me to her room?”
The woman scrolled a finger down a laminated sheet of paper hanging from the upper portion of the countertop. “Dr. Marshall?” she said, curiously. “I’m sorry, I’ve never seen your name before. Do you have privileges here?”
Tansu smiled. “Of course, it’s just that I only moved here a couple of days ago and the administrator hasn’t gotten around to adding me to the roster yet.”
The woman nodded her head, but continued to follow her finger up and down the sheet, even turning it over to scan names posted on the opposite side. “I see,” she said.
“I’m a plastic surgeon,” he said. “I’m only here to meet the patient and confer with Dr. Williams about her case.”
With the introduction of Dr. Williams name, the woman seemed to perk up. “Oh,” she said, “well, yes. Dr. Williams just operated on her last night. Poor thing, got a bullet right in the back of the head.” She pointed for effect.
Tansu cringed, but not for the same reason the woman thought it was for. He grimaced at the knowledge that Julie Bracco had somehow survived his gunshot. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s not good.”
The woman looked at him. “But, you must know all about it already?”
He froze.
“I mean if you’ve spoken with Dr. Williams already.”
“Actually,” Tansu breathed relief, “I only received a voice mail from him. He just told me to meet him here at ten-thirty.”
The woman appeared to be checking her computer screen for something. Tansu feared she was checking to see if Dr. Williams was even there. Tansu got his name from the newspaper that morning, but he hoped that would be enough of a password. He cupped his hand under her chin, holding it there as if he were framing her face for a portrait. “I hope you don’t think me rude,” he said, “but I only started seeing patients on Tuesday, and. . um. .”
This got her full attention-a plastic surgeon actually examining her face. “Yes?” she said, anxiously.
“Well, it’s just that, being new and all. . I could use some work to keep me fresh.”
Her eyes widened as he moved around her, touching her cheek ever so softly. She sat perfectly still, as if the slightest movement could cause a miscalculation.
“If you are at all interested, uh-”
“Marie,” she blurted.
“Yes, Marie,” he said, gazing at her bone structure as if it was a fine diamond. “I’d be glad to do a little work on you, maybe a little around the eyes,” he said, gently pulling her skin toward her ear, then using both thumbs to get the symmetrical effect. “It wouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours. I could do it right across the street in my new office. And, of course, I would waive my fee. Like I said,
I could use the work. At least until I develop my practice. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she said. What’s to understand, he was offering her every American woman’s dream come true. Free plastic surgery.
“That sounds great,” she beamed.
Tansu looked at his watch. “Uh oh. I’d better get back there. Could you-” he pointed to the door that he hoped led to the patient rooms.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she held her index finger up against the computer screen. “Mrs. Bracco is in room 406.” She stood, then pointed down a long corridor. “Take the second set of elevators to the third floor.”
Tansu was already walking away. “Thank you, Marie. I’ll stop by on my way out and give you my office number.”
She was smiling like a high school girl on her prom night. Tansu couldn’t help but smile back at her. A very helpful woman, he thought. He was almost to the corridor when he heard her yell, “Dr. Marshall.”
He turned.
“There’s a police officer standing guard in front of that room,” she said. They both stood there looking at each other. Tansu held up his hands, unsure what to say. He was prepared to kill a half a dozen people to get to Julie Bracco, one unsuspecting police officer didn’t pose much of a threat.
Marie finally picked up a phone and said, “I’ll call up there and tell him you’re coming.”
Tansu blew her a mock kiss. “Thank you, thank you.”
He made his way down the corridor, searching for a storage room for medical supplies. He came unarmed in case he needed to pass through a metal detector. He knew that a hospital had more than enough weapons for him to choose from.
He wondered why Kharrazi had such a fixation for this Bracco person. It seemed that half of their time was spent attempting to put to death this FBI agent or some family member of his. Tansu tried not to doubt his leader, but sometimes personal reprisals seemed to get in the way of their ultimate goal: to force U.S. troops out of Turkey and allow his people to defend themselves properly. Tansu himself had a cousin who was shot by a Turkish soldier. His cousin was simply escorting his wife to the river for water, when a band of soldiers came driving by in an open jeep, waving their machine guns in the air. They were drunk with hatred and didn’t stop to ask questions. If you were Kurdish and lived in Kurdistan, you had a target on your back at all times.
Now, all Tansu wanted to do was kill this woman as quickly as possible and get back to the business of pressuring the White House for a withdrawal. He saw the elevators he needed, but decided to find something sharp first. A nurse carrying a tray with glass tubes and packages of wrapped needles was walking toward him. He held up his hand to get her attention. “Pardon me, I’m new and a little lost here, could you direct me to the supply room?”
“Sure,” the nurse said. She turned back where she had come from and pointed. “See that sign that says, ‘Emergency Room?’”
“Yes.”
“Follow that sign until you go past the cafeteria, then make your first right. About halfway down that hallway you’ll find the supply room. Just tell Mitch what you need, he’ll help you out.”
“Thanks,” Tansu said. These Americans were wonderful hosts, he thought. Very helpful.
He followed the directions and found the room he was looking for. Under a sign reading, “Supply Room,” was a wooden door split in half. The top portion was swung inward and open, while the bottom half was closed. Tansu leaned in and called, “Anybody here?”
A thin, elderly black man with a close-cropped white beard slowly rose from behind a small metal desk. The room appeared dim, but for the miniature gooseneck lamp illuminating the old man’s desk. “Can I help you?” the man asked.
Tansu extended his hand and the man shook it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Marshall. You must be Mitch. I’m new here. I was told to come down and get some scalpels.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Marshall. Do you have a requisition form?”
Tansu was perplexed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was just up in the operating room, and they told me to come down and get some more scalpels.”
“Who told you?”
“Well, uh, Dr. Williams.”
The man broke into a soft, wide grin. “That rascal. He hasn’t filled out one of those forms in twenty years. I guess that’s what happens when you have his kind of clout.”
“I guess,” Tansu said. He was ready and willing to snap the old man’s head like a stale pretzel if he resisted, but the man appeared ready to hand him the weapon he required.
“Which kind would you like, Dr. Marshall?” the man said, his shoulders already turning toward the shelves behind him.
“Oh, how about a big one?” Tansu said, casually.
The man stopped abruptly. He looked at Tansu with a leery expression. “Excuse me?”
Tansu shrugged. “They really didn’t tell me which size. I just assumed they wanted a large one.”
“A large one,” the man repeated. He seemed to examine Tansu more closely. “Where did you do your residency, Dr. Marshall?”
That was Tansu’s cue to take the man out. He looked up and down the corridor and noticed nobody in the immediate vicinity. He motioned for the man to come closer. And as everyone else he’d met lately, the man cooperated. Tansu reached over the doorway and grabbed the man’s throat with his right hand. With his left hand he gave a short, powerful jab directly into the man’s nose. It was enough to cause the man’s vision to blur with tears, and he fell straight backward holding both hands over his broken nose. The man’s head bounced on the cement floor hard and he appeared to lose consciousness.
Tansu reached over the ledge and twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. He hopped over the half-door and jumped onto the man’s chest. It took only a couple of seconds to snap the old man’s frail neck, the bones clicking as they twisted sideways, unnaturally.
Tansu lifted the dead man’s frame and dragged him into a nearby walk-in refrigerator. There were four rows of metal shelving with vials and bottles of medicine neatly organized on each shelf. Tansu dragged the corpse by his shirt collar and dropped him face down on the floor in the back corner of the refrigerator. Without some serious investigative work, the old man would appear to have fallen to his death. And that would buy Tansu plenty of time to accomplish his mission.
Once out of the refrigeration unit, Tansu explored the rest of the supply room. Tansu wondered why the large windowless room was so dim for a hospital. He was searching for a switch to illuminate the overhead fluorescent lights, when he found the shelf that contained the scalpels. He looked at the side of the boxes, which displayed an actual life size illustration of the blade for the various scalpels. He now understood why the old man found it curious that Tansu simply asked for a big scalpel. Each scalpel had a numerical value for the type of blade that it contained. Tansu assumed that a physician would always request a specific numbered scalpel depending on their needs. The old man must have sensed something was wrong right away.
Tansu had spent countless hours over the past months practicing his English. He didn’t, however, know very much about medicine. He pulled a scalpel from a box marked with a number 11 blade. He unwrapped the plastic sheath that kept the product sterile. He examined the blade, gently tracing it across the palm of his hand. It was sharp, but too pointed to cut long deep lacerations. He put it back, then pulled one from a box marked with a number 15 blade. This was what he was looking for. The blade was sharp, but beveled. This was the kind of blade that could slice a neck right down to the bone. He put two of them into his pocket and smiled. I’m on my way, Mrs. Bracco. Enjoy your last few breaths.
Chapter 27
President Merrick sat on a sofa down in the bunker fifty feet below the White House. Even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, his lead secret service agent began quoting statutes about his authority to protect the President of the United States. He had actually convinced Merrick that he could, and would, physically escort Merrick to the bunker himsel
f if necessary. Merrick didn’t see the need to dig in on that point, so he settled in at his new command post. Everything he needed to run the country was right there with him. Technology would allow him to be in constant contact with every branch of military, FBI, NSA and CIA.
The bunker had an unusual brightness to it, as if the windowless basement was trying to make up for its absence of sunlight. Overhead fluorescent lights flooded stark white walls and tan Berber carpet. Covering over five thousand square feet, the bunker consisted of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a large multipurpose room that included five pullout sofas. The ventilation system assured that the inhabitants received the purest of oxygen, and the kitchen was stocked with enough dry goods and distilled water to support a dozen people for almost a year. Longer if rationed.
The bunker was initially constructed during the Cold War. Its initial purpose was to protect a sitting president, his family and a few choice aides throughout a nuclear attack. Other than a monthly maintenance check, the bunker had never been occupied, and rarely discussed.
Merrick’s wife and two kids were away with his mother-in-law surrounded by secret service agents. If he was going to be a target, there was no reason to put his family in harms way also.
Merrick sat on the sofa next to Bill Hatfield, who was hunched over a lap top computer with the presidential seal displayed on the back. The computer sat on a coffee table that competed for space with ten different newspapers layered between manila files marked ‘Confidential’, ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret.’ Bob Dylan’s voice twanged sarcastically from the built-in speakers. Merrick had been stressed for so long that he was beginning to feel a bit numb.
Samuel Fisk sat in a leather chair across the coffee table from Merrick and Hatfield with folded arms. He listened while Bill Hatfield attempted to gain the President’s attention for a briefing. The three of them were temporarily alone while the remainder of Merrick’s staff noisily discovered the challenges of cooking powdered eggs and potatoes in the kitchen.