A Touch of Greed

by Gary Ponzo

  The jail cell doors opened and an older man with a full head of white hair strolled in without any cuffs or chains. He wore a freshly ironed orange jumpsuit and had freshly manicured nails. Tommy held out his hand to greet the man and smelled expensive Chardonnay on his breath.

  Frank DeRosa didn’t lift his hand to return the gesture; he simply sat down across from Tommy and stared vacantly.

  Tommy sat as well. “Mr. DeRosa, my name is Tommy Bracco. I used to work for Mr. Capelli back in Baltimore.” Tommy looked up and made the sign of the cross over his torso. “May he rest in peace.”

  DeRosa didn’t move a muscle.

  Tommy felt like he was being timed, so he quickened his pitch before he’d lost the guy’s attention altogether.

  “Mr. DeRosa,” Tommy said, “my cousin is with the FBI. He chases terrorists. It’s the only thing he does. Anyway, he’s trying to get to a particular terrorist down in Mexico who’s about to transport a nuclear device into the United States.”

  So far the only thing DeRosa found interesting was a fly which flew around his head.

  “Anyway, I was hoping you could help us out. I told my cousin you might be able to inspect a phony bill and tell us where we might find the printer of such a thing. In return, he would have you released within forty-eight hours.” Tommy showed the palms of his hands. “Mr. DeRosa, if this phony bill was created by a friend of ours, then I wouldn’t expect you to ever roll over on such a person. But if he were just an independent contractor, someone we’re not close with, well, you might be interested in the offer.”

  DeRosa remained still. He stared at Tommy as if waiting for the punch line of a joke. After a moment he found the fly again and watched it land on the table between them.

  Tommy waited for a full minute before he’d realized he was wasting his time. He stood up and nodded. “I appreciate you taking the time to listen to me, Mr. DeRosa. I won’t be bothering you anymore. And I’ll be sure to tell my cousin to leave you alone as well.”

  Tommy was two steps from the door when he heard something which made the hair stand up on the back of his head.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Tommy turned to face his accuser and held up his hands. “Mr. DeRosa, I can assure you, if we had met before I would certainly have remembered that meeting.” Now he was feeling the temperature rise in the room. He may have stepped over some line which he shouldn’t have crossed.

  DeRosa pointed to the chair across from him. “Sit,” he ordered.

  Tommy wasted no time taking his seat.

  DeRosa raised his head and looked down at Tommy as if examining him. “It was a long time ago, Christmas Eve,” DeRosa said. “You came to my daughter’s home back in Baltimore. She lived in the same neighborhood as you.”

  Tommy’s mouth became dry. He didn’t like stories which he couldn’t remember the ending.

  “You came over dressed as Santa, carrying a gigantic stuffed lion for my granddaughter.”

  Tommy waited for the knockout.

  “Anyway, my daughter says you were a nice guy and brought the local kids gifts every year.”

  Tommy shrugged, hoping for a reprieve. “She’s not lying about that.”

  “Maybe not,” DeRosa said. “But me, I’m a suspicious guy. Some casual acquaintance happens over the house while I’m staying there, and I’m not comfortable. Especially someone who works for another family.” DeRosa raised his eyebrows. “Right?”

  “I agree. There’s no other way to look at that.”

  “Of course not,” DeRosa said. “So, once my granddaughter went to bed that night, I had that stuffed animal torn apart. Every inch of that thing was inspected for bugs. Know what I found?”

  “A bunch of cotton?”

  DeRosa broke out into an all out laugh. He slapped his hands together, the memory seeming to keep his demeanor light and Tommy was all for that.

  “I spent the entire night having that thing stitched back together. Piece by piece. Boy, what a long Christmas Eve.”

  “So I met you?” Tommy asked.

  “Naw, I watched your visit from the back of the room.” DeRosa cocked his head. “Do you remember who my daughter is now?”

  “I apologize, Mr. DeRosa. I don’t have any children of my own, so I’ve been delivering toys to kids in the neighborhood for probably fifteen years. I simply don’t recall which one was your daughter. I am so sorr—”

  “Stop,” DeRosa held up his hand. “You don’t owe me any apologies.” He looked around the room, then grabbed the microphone in front of him. “This thing on?”

  “I doubt it,” Tommy said. “I haven’t touched a thing.”

  DeRosa flicked a switch at the base of the microphone a couple of times to assure it was off, then he rested his elbows on the table and gave Tommy a reflective look. “I hear you’re coming to see me and I’m wondering what’s this guy up to. So I had you checked out. Everyone I talk to says the same thing. This guy plays it straight. He don’t talk out of both sides of his mouth.” DeRosa nodded to himself. “So what’s the first thing you tell me? Your cousin is with the feds. You don’t bullshit me with some cockamamie story about helping our country or being with my family. No, you tell me straight out, your cousin needs help. See, I understand wanting to help out family.”

  “Mr. DeRosa—”

  “Frank,” DeRosa corrected. “Please call me Frank.”

  “Sure, Frank. I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting you by playing games.”

  “I know,” DeRosa said. He appraised Tommy with a paternal smile. “You like kids, huh?”

  “I do.”

  DeRosa nodded. “Me too.” Then his expression changed. His face became sullen. “So, tell me about this guy your cousin is after.”

  “His name is Antonio Garza,” Tommy said. “He’s a Mexican assassin who transports drugs over the border for the cartels.”

  “And now he’s expanding his business to include nuclear devices?”

  “Something like that. He also killed a friend of mine. She was also an FBI agent who helped catch terrorists as well.”

  DeRosa nodded.

  “Plus, he’s kidnapped a Border Patrol agent’s teenage daughter. Heaven knows what he’s done with her.”

  DeRosa cringed at the notion. “I’ve heard enough,” he said. “Tell me how I can help.”

  Tommy pulled the one hundred dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to DeRosa. At first, the man seemed to examine the paper with his fingertips more than his eyes; then he held it up to the overhead light and squinted. After a few seconds a grin spread across his face. He handed the bill back to Tommy and placed his hands on the table in front of him.

  “Okay, so let me understand,” DeRosa said. “If I tell you who made this, I get out of here in forty-eight hours?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’re not talking about needing a conviction or anything, right?”

  “No. You give us the name and that’s it, you’ve held up your end of the bargain.”

  “And what happens if the guy denies it, or you can’t find him?”

  “Let’s put it this way,” Tommy said, spreading his hands over the table like he was smoothing sand at the beach. “Forty-eight hours from the minute we locate the guy, you’re out of here.”

  That put a gleam into DeRosa’s eyes. He held out a perfectly manicured hand and Tommy shook it. “I trust you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  DeRosa leaned back in his chair and said, “I can tell you his name and where you can find him almost every day of the week.”

  “Fantastic. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  Then DeRosa folded his arms across his chest. “I can even do you one better.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I can round up a crew to help you tackle this creep. One phone call and I could have an entire army of friends ready to follow your instructions.”

  Tommy sat up straight and placed a hand over his heart. “Oh, F
rank. I think you’re gonna make me blush.”

  Chapter 12

  President Merrick sat behind his desk in the Oval Office with a video image of the CIA Director on his computer monitor. Ken Morris appeared uneasy as he tried to answer some of Merrick’s questions. Simple questions which needed answers before Merrick made certain decisions to protect US citizens.

  Merrick felt his blood pressure mounting an attack. He leaned closer to the screen to drive home his point. “Ken, I allocated a large sum of funds this afternoon in return for information and so far I’m not getting any return on my investment.”

  “Well, the problem is, we can’t control when the intel will be retrieved. When someone is embedded like this, they might be on top of the situation and yet not be able to make contact in fear of compromising their identity.”

  “Is this what your team believes?”

  “Yes.”

  Merrick put a stranglehold on the neck of his monitor. “Ken, I want you to e-mail me hourly updates. Do you understand me? I want to hear from you every sixty minutes, even if it’s just to tell me you don’t know anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And with every hour you don’t have something of value to tell me, you’re that much closer to finding a new career in the private sector. Am I clear on this point?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Merrick slammed his keyboard which disconnected the transmission. At the same moment, and without coincidence, a brief knock came on the door followed by the arrival of Secretary of State, Sam Fisk, and a man Merrick had never met before. The man was thin with a trim beard, a blue shirt and red tie. Merrick could tell by the knot, the man hadn’t worn a tie in years.

  Fisk guided the gentleman over to the desk while Merrick stood and held out his hand.

  “Doctor Jake Peterson,” Fisk said to Merrick.

  Peterson shook Merrick’s hand with wide eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Have a seat, Doctor,” Merrick said, pointing to the chair across the desk from him.

  Fisk remained standing beside the visitor, his hand resting on the back of the man’s chair. “Dr. Peterson holds a PhD in Nuclear Physics from Georgetown University,” Fisk said.

  “He also has Top Secret Clearance.”

  Merrick sat back down. “Very nice of you to come down here on such short notice.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Sam told you why you were needed, correct?”

  It seemed to take Peterson a moment to realize that Sam was the Secretary of State standing next to him. “Oh, yes, sir,” he said, smoothing out his pant legs with nervous energy. “He explained the situation.”

  “Good,” Merrick said. “Well, as far as we know, this dirty bomb is on the verge of crossing the border into the United States. We don’t know the size of the bomb, nor the potency of the material inside. What I’m looking for is some rudimentary understanding of the danger our nation might face should this crossing occur. Can you help me?”

  Peterson seemed to anticipate the question. “Of course. Do you know if the word ‘salted’ has ever come up?”

  Merrick tilted his head. “Salted?” He looked up at Fisk.

  “A salted bomb has more radioactivity,” Fisk explained. “It’s much more dangerous.” He paused a moment. “No, I don’t think that word has ever come up.”

  Peterson edged forward in his seat. “Mr. President,” he said anxiously, “is there any way I could get a glass of water?”

  Merrick smiled and gestured toward a small refrigerator on the west wall where Fisk was already reaching down and acquiring a cold bottle of water. He handed it to Peterson and watched the doctor take an ample drink.

  Peterson let out a big breath and twisted the cap back onto the bottle. “Thank you.” He looked around the room. “It really is oval, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Merrick said. “First time I entered this room, my mouth dried up as well. Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” Peterson said. “Sir, without any data regarding dimensions of the bomb, it will be difficult to give you solid information.”

  “Understood. Maybe you could give me some insight as to the dangers of a typical dirty bomb?”

  “Of course,” Peterson said. “I must tell you, however, the overwhelming majority of these devices don’t carry nearly enough radioactive material to cause major fallout. Because of the nature of this weapon, it’s meant to disperse the radioactive material over a large area rendering its potency rather unproductive.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, a nuclear weapon uses fission to provoke an enormous explosion of radiation, whereas a dirty bomb is normally created with conventional weaponry which then scatters the radioactive material.” Peterson hesitated, glanced at Fisk, then back to Merrick. “Mr. President, do you want my opinion, or do you want just the factual data?”

  “Yes,” Merrick said. “That’s a great point. I want your opinion. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Well, terrorists are normally pursuing an immediate reaction. They want to deliver the most damage in the quickest amount of time. They’re not after the long-term effect of a radioactive spill. I would suggest they are attempting to create more psychological harm than physical damage. Mass panic and terror are normally what they are after.”

  Merrick could see Fisk nodding his head and liking what he was hearing.

  “So, in your opinion, Doctor,” Merrick said, “a dirty bomb wouldn’t carry enough radioactive material to cause major long-term fatalities?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President. Decontaminating the affected area would require considerable time and expense, but no, I would doubt there would be a cluster of fatalities.”

  Merrick tapped the top of his desk with his index finger. “Okay,” he said. “I think that tells me what I need to know.”

  Peterson got to his feet. “Sir, I don’t want to trivialize the danger involved with a dirty bomb. They are extremely dangerous, especially in a crowded space. Depending on its size, anyone within one hundred yards probably wouldn’t survive such an explosion. But if you could control where it’s detonated, you could contain its fallout.”

  Merrick stood and shook Peterson’s hand. “Thank you again, Doctor. You’ve been a great help.”

  When Peterson left, Fisk took his seat and crossed his legs. “So? Are you feeling better about my suggestion?”

  “You mean your clever tactic of doing nothing?” Merrick said.

  “Ingenious, isn’t it?”

  “What was that explanation of ‘salted’ all about? I know what the fuck ‘salted’ means.”

  “You looked at me like you didn’t know.”

  “I looked at you because I hadn’t heard it used in our conversations with the War Room.”

  “Oh.”

  Merrick picked up his tablet computer and handed it to Fisk. It was opened to a page on the BBC’s website. The headline read, “The United Palestinian Force a New Player in the Terrorist Game.”

  Fisk read through the article with a scowl on his face. When he was finished, he placed it on Merrick’s desk and slid it back to him. “It’s what I’ve been telling you,” he said. “These punks want attention in the worst way. Who do you think was the anonymous source they quoted?”

  Merrick clasped his hands together and tapped his chin. “So how much of a player are they?”

  “Look, it took them eighteen months to get a dirty bomb into Mexico. They paid millions just to get Garza to transport the thing over the border. From what I understand, they’re tapped out on funds. They put all their chips into this venture. If Garza gets this thing into our country and they are able to detonate the device anywhere near a populated area, the gamble will pay off. They’ll immediately become a new player. The funds will start rolling in and membership will thrive.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “They’re done. Finito. Never to be heard from again.” Fisk put his index finger to his lips. “Mum’s the
word.”

  Merrick leaned back in his chair. “All right, buddy. I’m trusting you here.”

  “It’s Garza we need to stop. He gets this done and he’ll expose a major weakness to our border defense. Every terrorist organization on the planet will be paying him a visit.” With a distant stare, Fisk said, “Give Nick and the boys a chance to get this done.”

  Merrick cocked his head. “When you say, ‘the boys,’ exactly whom do you mean?”

  Fisk smiled knowingly and returned his finger to his lips.

  Merrick shook his head. He knew Fisk was protecting him, keeping him from being culpable with whatever Nick’s ‘family’ may be doing without law enforcement compliance. He also knew their involvement had saved many American lives in the past.

  Merrick swiveled his chair around to face the South Lawn behind his desk. A hummingbird was flapping its wings furiously while pecking at a flower petal. “You ever wonder about the consequences of our choices, Sam?”

  Fisk said nothing.

  “Sometimes my choices allow a family to afford a new home or a schoolchild to afford a smaller classroom.” The hummingbird dipped and rose erratically, until it flew off in a fury. “Then other times my choices cause a homeless person to lose a meal.”

  Merrick turned to face Fisk. “Sometimes I wonder if that homeless person knows I took that meal away from him so I could pay for us to capture a Mexican terrorist and save hundreds, or maybe thousands of lives. You ever wonder about that, Sam?”

  “I try not to swim that deep,” Fisk said.

  “Well, if this country has a beating heart, it’s because of people like Nick Bracco and Matt McColm.”

  “Hallelujah,” Fisk said. “Now . . . can we find something to eat around here?”

  Chapter 13

  Just one look at the outside of the off-track betting place and Tommy knew he wasn’t in Baltimore anymore. There was a large patch of desert with some sort of beat-up cactus and a few wilted shrubs along the front wall. Along the side of the building an asphalt parking lot had a half-dozen pickup trucks and a couple of small foreign cars. Tommy parked in the back by himself, giving the rental a chance to survive a door ding.