by Gary Ponzo
From the corner of his eye, Merrick could see Budarry grip the arms of his chair as if it were moving.
They spoke for another twenty minutes, then agreed to meet in the Map Room for a photo opportunity where the President would show deference to the Prime Minister’s visit. Their meeting was cordial and tidy, but contained very little eye contact.
When Budarry left the Oval Office, he could be seen whispering harshly with his aide. He was clearly upset about something.
Merrick looked over at Fisk and received a well-deserved wink.
Chapter 18
Nick sat at his desk and pecked at his keyboard, searching the FBI databank for something, anything which could get him closer to Barzani. Every few minutes he’d turn on the tiny TV on his desk and watch the local news. Payson citizens were reacting predictably. A heavy flow of people were causing a traffic jam leaving town for the safety of Phoenix. The remaining citizens were creating community block watch programs at a rapid pace. Nick wanted to reassure the residents of Gila County they were safe, but he couldn’t.
His cell phone chirped and he picked it up from his desk. He froze when he saw the name on the screen. Luke Fletcher. Nick had expected this call ever since they’d discovered Luke’s cell phone missing from his corpse.
Nick touched his cell and put it to his ear. “Yes.”
“You seem a little worried,” said the baritone voice.
Nick abruptly stood. He looked around for someone to help trace the call, but of course it was futile. He was alone. “What do you want, Barzani?”
“I was wondering what it felt like to be hunted like an animal.”
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “I was just asking Semir the same question about you.”
“Semir is a dunce. You will learn nothing from him.”
“He’s a good soldier who would take a bullet for you,” Nick said. “He’s just misguided is all.”
Silence. As if Barzani didn’t expect the comment.
“Have you seen the news?” Nick said. “Prime Minister Budarry is at the White House right now visiting with the President.”
“Yes.”
“He’s there to discuss the possibility of reserving a portion of Kurdistan for the Kurdish people. Your fight here may now be pointless.”
There was a pause while Nick waited for a response. His knees buckled unexpectedly and he needed to sit down again. The pain in his chest reminded him of the medication he’d forgotten to take that morning.
“I see the President has scheduled a press conference for tomorrow tonight,” Barzani said.
“Yes,” Nick said, scrambling through the drawer on his desk for a vial of pills. His stitched up shoulder pinched as he stretched his left hand from the arm sling to grab the bottle.
“Then, he will be announcing the withdrawal of troops from Turkey?”
Nick pulled up the cap from the vial and slid a couple of tablets onto his desk, his face growing numb with anxiety.
“Did you hear me?” Barzani asked in a menacing tone.
Nick was slowly dissolving into a Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder attack. Dr. Morgan tried to warn him of the possibility, but he’d been symptom free for six months.
“I hear you,” Nick managed to say as he threw the two anti-anxiety pills into his mouth and chewed. “I’m just not in the habit of lying. Not even to you, Barzani. I don’t know what will come of this meeting for certain, but the President would hope for a reprieve until his press conference.”
There was another long pause while Nick watched his left hand develop a tremor.
“That is only one day,” Barzani said. “We will wait. But if there is no announcement … well, let us say, Arizona could look very different the next morning.”
Nick had a question on his mind, but his anxiety-filled brain struggled to get it out. “And me?”
“Unfortunately, Agent Bracco, your fate is sealed. You will not be allowed to survive under any circumstance.”
Nick forced his hand into a fist, then unclenched it, trying desperately to control the adrenalin coursing through his bloodstream.
“You now, Barzani, I will find you.”
“I’m certain you will.”
“Then you know I’m close.”
“Oh yes.”
“Then why not come in and we’ll talk. Maybe we can find some common ground.”
A slow chuckle came from the receiver, bellowing into a full out laugh. “Tell me Agent Bracco, are you suggesting we become friendly?”
“No,” Nick said. “I’m suggesting you accomplish the goal you were sent here for and you have a better chance of succeeding with my help.”
“I see,” Barzani said. “And how is your wife?”
Nick slammed his fist onto his desk and immediately writhed from the piercing jolt of pain in his shoulder.
“Don’t you ever try to hurt her again, or I swear, I’ll go to Turkey myself and find every one of your family members and have them tortured. Do you understand me?”
The silence seemed to go on for a couple of minutes. Finally, Barzani left Nick with the most frightening words he’d ever heard.
“Tell me, Agent Bracco … how good is your Russian?”
Anton Kalinikov sat back in his seat on the Amtrak train and enjoyed the scenery passing by. Trees and open fields were interrupted by the occasional railroad crossing where several cars lined up to wait out the passing train. He’d always preferred public transportation to rental cars. Probably a European thing, he supposed. The train was headed to Pittsburgh where he would fly out to Edmonton, Canada. These were very soft target airports with little scrutiny from the authorities. Once in Canada he would be free to fly home and pack his gear. His dream house was waiting to be built in South Bimini in the Bahamas. It’s where Ernest Hemingway lived back in the 1930s. Kalinikov had bought property on the beach almost a decade ago in preparation for his retirement. The time had finally come for him to relax and relish the fruits of his labor. He was imagining the sand between his toes when his phone chirped. He checked the number. Not surprisingly, it was blocked.
“Yes,” Kalinikov said.
“You have one more job before you leave,” said a man with a thick Turkish accent.
Kalinikov was almost expecting the call so he knew precisely how to answer. “No, thank you. I am done here.”
“But you have not heard the offer.”
Kalinikov had to sigh. This was always the tough part for him. He knew this day would come when money would be offered and he would have to refuse. He’d come from a very poor upbringing, so turning down money had always been a weakness.
“I am sorry,” Kalinikov said. “You will just have to find another person for the job.”
“I have two million reasons why you’re just the right person.”
Kalinikov actually glanced around the train to see if anyone could possibly have heard what he’d just heard. “Two million?”
Kalinikov’s beach house had just gotten bigger. Even his fantasies were becoming obsolete.
“Yes,” the voice said. “Two million.”
Kalinikov took a breath. He tried to find a loophole, anything to convince himself it wasn’t worth it. “American dollars?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Kalinikov finally leaned back and closed his eyes. Although he’d already known the answer, he asked, “Where am I going?”
“Payson, Arizona.”
Chapter 19
Nick slowed his car on the unpaved road as it led him to the back of a brick building where four Harley Davidson motorcycles and three worn pickup trucks sat in a dirt lot. He parked between a couple of the trucks, took his gun from his holster and placed it in the glove box.
He went up a set of brick steps where a large plaque on the wall said, “Loyal Order of the Moose.”
Nick approached the wooden door and knocked. Cobwebs hung from the overhang above him. The sound system inside was loud enough for The Allman Brothers Band to bleed through the door. Duane
Allman was ripping his slide guitar during one of their live performances. Nick couldn’t recall the song. In Memory of Elizabeth Reed?
A sliding peephole opened and a pair of eyes examined him. It was late afternoon, but there was enough light to make Nick completely visible.
“I was hoping to speak with Sarge, if that was convenient for him.”
The peephole scraped closed and Nick waited.
A minute later the door opened. He stepped inside and held up his right arm, while his slinged arm stayed by his side. A scraggly middle-aged man with a “Hog Heaven” t-shirt patted him down, then nodded him in.
The place looked like an old cowboy bar you’d see in the movies. Round wooden tables were spread unevenly across the uneven floor. A long bar took up the back wall with a ceiling-to-floor mirror behind it. A bartender wiped glasses with a brownish towel. There were a dozen men wearing jeans and a variety of tee and flannel shirts. The two men playing pool stopped to stare at Nick. As a matter of fact, every eye in the place was now on him. The Allman Brothers were still cooking on the jukebox, but nothing else in the room made a sound.
Nick found Sarge sitting at a round table playing poker with a few of the boys, his back against the wall. One by one the poker players dropped their hands on the table and slowly stood up, leaving the table for Nick.
Sarge had a big belly, a long beard and hair that hung well past his shoulders. He’d had a cigarette in his mouth and was shuffling the cards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Nick wasn’t halfway to the table before the smell hit him and he realized the cigarette was marijuana.
“How’s it going, Sheriff?” Sarge said while flipping the cards between his stubby fingers with the skill only years of practice could provide.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Sarge put the deck of cards down, then took a huge drag on the joint and blew it out just above Nick’s head.
Nick worked hard to control himself. He took his seat across from the large man.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Nick looked around at the roomful of eyes taking in the scene, then looked back across the table.
“Sarge,” he said in a low voice. “I realize this is a private club, but I came here and showed you the ultimate respect. I asked for permission for a sit down. I allowed a pat down. I even asked permission for a seat.” Nick nodded to the joint in Sarge’s hand. “I think the least you could do is allow me the dignity of not smoking that in front of me.”
Sarge gave him a steely glare. He took a long drag, then blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. With a yellow-toothed smile he snuffed out the joint into a half-full metal ashtray.
Sarge lowered his head, then said, “I’m listening.”
Nick’s heart paced a little quicker than he’d hoped. Composure was a key when dealing with the Harley Mafia. They were mostly ex-soldiers, patriots who’d found a home transporting marijuana across the Arizona border and running a gambling racket. A bunch of misfits who would normally have trouble working in an office, but found the freedom of self employment.
Nick cleared his throat. “All the months I’ve been Sheriff I’ve never once paid you a visit or even spoken with anyone in your club.”
“What club would that be?” Sarge said with an antagonizing tone. “The order of the Moose?”
Nick rubbed his temple, then took a breath. “The reason I let it go is because it’s mostly harmless stuff in my world. I’m a big picture kind of guy. Marijuana should probably be legal. I don’t care about it. You book football, basketball … I don’t give a crap. Shit, I’ve been known to throw down a dime or two on a game myself.”
The bearded man sat still and waited.
“What I need to know is, what’s that sticker doing in the back window of your pickup truck?”
Sarge looked baffled. His eyes roamed in thought. “The only thing I got on my back window is an American Flag.”
Nick pointed his index finger. “Exactly. Why would you do something like that?”
Sarge’s face lightened up. He seemed amused now. “Because I’m a fucking patriot,” he bellowed, causing a few chuckles from men at the nearby tables.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Nick said. “Because my next subject concerns your patriotism.”
Sarge leaned back in his chair and placed his chubby hands on his belly.
“I’ve spoken with Clark over at Nelson’s,” Nick said, “and he told me about a delivery of cigarettes which were stolen from a van outside of Payson about three months ago. It was an insignificant robbery as far as I was concerned. Cigarettes are bad for your health anyway.”
Sarge didn’t appear pleased about the subject.
Nick continued. “Someone with your connections would know who’d done this job. I mean, this is your turf. I can’t imagine someone would be allowed to work in your own backyard without permission.”
“Sheriff if you think-”
Nick held up his hand. “Please. Wait.”
Sarge glanced down at his joint, as if he considered lighting it up again.
“I’m sure you know there’s a terrorist cell in the area. These are people who hate patriots like yourself. I track these people for a living. Or at least I did. But now I’ve discovered a cabin here in Payson where they’ve been holding up and low and behold we discover a Turkish cigarette butt. The same brand cigarette which was stolen just a few weeks back. Sarge, if you really are a true patriot, then tell me where I can find the bastards who’re trying to kill Americans. People like Devon Grabowski, whose house was bombed by this group. Devon was in the Navy during the-”
“I knew Devon,” Sarge said, his jaw tense now as he leaned forward onto the table. “You’re certain the KSF killed the Grabowski’s?”
Nick nodded.
Sarge sat upright and began pulling on his scraggly beard while mulling things over. Nick understood Sarge wasn’t exactly a friend of the law, so this was a tough spot for him. He couldn’t afford to look as if he were assisting the authorities.
Nick leaned over and spoke in a whisper. “Should you feel the need to talk, I’ll instruct the dispatch at the sheriff’s office to put you through to my cell phone anytime, twenty-four hours a day.”
Nick pushed away from the table and stood. He raised his eyebrows and received a subtle nod in agreement.
As he walked to the door, Nick heard Sarge call him.
Nick turned.
“Tell your cousin Tommy to stop by and have a drink with me,” Sarge said. “On the house.”
Nick smiled. Was there a place on the planet where Tommy wasn’t welcome?
Nick stood on the front porch of the sheriff’s office staring through the stand of trees to the main road. He was there for five minutes before a car went by. A couple of minutes later a green Humvee slowly drove by, patrolling the area. Soldiers casually showed their assault rifles as they examined their surroundings. Payson was down to twenty-five percent occupancy.
A white van came speeding up the gravel entrance and stopped short in front of Nick. A large man with a blue cap and blue uniform hopped from the vehicle and pulled opened the back door. He yanked a giant cardboard box from the back of the truck and carried it toward Nick.
“Looking for Steven Gilpin,” he said, holding the box on his knee for a rest.
“Stevie,” Nick called through the open door.
A moment later Stevie came out and smiled. “Great,” he said, signing the invoice and grabbing the box. He hauled it up the steps into the open door and plopped it down on the vacant receptionist’s desk.
“What is it?” Nick asked, following him in.
“It’s a Keating 7600,” Stevie beamed like a proud parent. When Nick didn’t say anything Stevie looked at him and said, “It’s an analytical chemistry analyzer. Before you sent Semir down to the Phoenix Field Office, I took samples from his shoes and fingernails. I thought I might be able to find out where he’s been lately.”
Nick slappe
d him on the shoulder and said, “That’s why I asked for you Stevie. You’re always a step ahead of me.”
Stevie smiled, then began tearing open the cardboard box.
Nick returned to the porch and tried to clear his mind. The silence of the normally busy road gave him a creepy feeling. “What are you up to Barzani?”
“He’s making you crazy,” Matt said from behind him, stepping out onto the deck. “That’s what he’s doing.”
“He told me on the phone, ‘Arizona will be a very different place,’” Nick said. “Not Payson will be a very different place, not America will be a very different place. Arizona.”
“Maybe he wanted to spread you out so you don’t focus on just Payson.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe it’s a mistake.”
Nick turned to face Matt. “See, it’s my job to know that. To be able to read him and know the difference. But I’m coming up empty.”
“So, we do what we do best,” Matt reminded him. “Start with what we know.”
“And what do we know?” Nick said.
“We know Barzani is a bomb-loving fiend.”
“And he’s had six months to plant a bomb somewhere in Arizona,” Nick said. “If you were trying to create the most destruction, what would you bomb?”
“Palo Verde?” Matt asked.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Nick said. “A nuclear power plant. But with a group his size? What’s he got ten, twelve soldiers?”
“A Sun’s game?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “I keep leaning toward a soft target. Something not so conspicuous.”
Nick’s phone chirped. He looked at the screen. “Hey Walt,” he said. “How’s L.A.?”
“I’m done here,” Walt said. “We had dogs sniffing everything but the pilot’s butt crack and there’s no Semtex to be found anywhere near LAX.”
“You sure about this?”
“Positive.”
Nick smiled. “Good, because I could really use some help.”
“I’m bringing a team over there with me,” Walt said.
“Hey, Matt and I are thinking Palo Verde might be a target. Can you get some-”