A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (17 page)

Kharrazi slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Malik, the old fool! He tried to recall how much information his uncle could have known. How much did his mother know about his mission? He saw a sign directing Washington D.C. traffic to the left lane. He was disgusted with his meddling family and was determined to tie up any loose ends. Just then a large sport utility vehicle passed his Taurus on the passenger side and he caught the driver spying on him. Kharrazi realized that the driver was reacting to his temper tantrum and he forced a benevolent smile. The driver became uninterested and quickly moved ahead.

Kharrazi steered the car into the left lane and drove toward the nation’s capital with an entirely new agenda.

* * *

Nick sat at his desk at the Baltimore Field Office clicking the mouse on different files on his computer screen. He’d been navigating through the maze of information in a slow methodical manner for the past two hours. In the top left hand corner of the screen were the names of every Kurd who had applied for a visa over the past year. The right side ran a program called Linksgate. It cross-referenced every possible connection between the names on his computer screen and any KSF sympathizers. As the individual names were linked to a possible association, they were highlighted. Once highlighted, Nick would click on the name and instantly identify the connection. Some were weak, like Assad Jihed, who went to school with a KSF member fifteen years earlier. Yet other connections made him feel that the CIA had dropped the ball. There were twelve eavesdropping and surveillance satellites continuously inundating the CIA with information without the proper manpower to keep up. They routinely intercepted two million phone calls, E-mails, and faxes daily, only to decipher the information months and sometimes years later.

He was sifting through Rashid Baser’s file when the intercom beeped on his phone.

“Nick?” a woman’s voice said.

“Yes, Muriel.”

“Fourteen thirty-two is for you. It’s Julie.”

“Thanks,” he said, then pushed a button and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Sweetie.”

“Nick I’m down here at Johns Hopkins. I think you’d better come.”

Nick jumped from his seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s Tommy, he’s . . . well, he’s in intensive care.”

“What happened?”

“He was a victim of the bombings. He’s not doing very well. There might not be much time.”

“I’m on my way.” Nick hung up the phone and found Matt slapping the side of a printer trying to get it to print. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where to?”

“The hospital. They got Tommy.”

* * *

Johns Hopkins contained Maryland’s only regional burn center. Nick could sense the competence of its professionals the moment he entered the hundred-year-old building. He approached the information desk and introduced himself to an older woman. The woman pointed to a room with a narrow slit of a window in the door. “They’re all in there.”

The room appeared to be a waiting area. “You don’t understand, I’m family,” Nick flipped open his FBI credentials as if this would be the magic pass to his cousin.

The woman had a peculiar expression that held concern and curiosity. “Exactly how many family members—” she stopped herself. “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman frowned. “The staff is doing the best they can. I’ve already notified the doctor and as soon as he is available he promised to meet with you and all of your family.” Again she pointed to the room.

“All of my family? How many family members are we talking about?”

The woman took an exasperating breath. “A lot.”

Nick opened the door slowly to avoid hitting anyone in the crowded room. The small room was intended for intimate conversations between doctors and family members of patients undergoing surgery. The architect didn’t have Tommy Bracco’s family in mind when he drew up the blueprints. Nick found Julie sitting in a corner with his Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth, who was openly sobbing. Julie rubbed Ruth’s back while Victor carried on a conversation with Don Silkari.

Nick crouched down to his aunt’s eye level, “I’m sorry, Ruth,” he said, taking her hand into his. He looked at Julie, “What do you know?”

Julie shrugged. “Nothing. The doctors are still working on him.”

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.

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 décor 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 lieutenant’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.