A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (20 page)

Again the old man peeked at his wrist. He pointed to one of the soldiers in the doorway and said, “You go with Nhikad here and take Mr. Bracco to the kitchen. You will find his partner there. Use Mr. Bracco to lure him out and kill both of them. Then get out of here quickly and meet us at the other location.”

The old man gestured to the other soldier and said, “Let’s go, we must leave now.”

As Nick began his death march to the kitchen, he heard a door close behind him, then a car start up and leave. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw both of the soldiers with their weapons pointed at him. The lead one still held the machine gun tight to his chest and he shoved Nick with it.

Nick realized that the second soldier was merely a kid. In just a flash of eye contact, the kid seemed to stiffen. He appeared more afraid of Nick, and Nick was weaponless and outnumbered.

Somehow this awareness gave Nick a glimmer of hope and it made him even more nervous. He actually had a slim chance of surviving and began to tremble.

When they entered the kitchen, Machine Gun grabbed Nick around the neck and jabbed the weapon into the base of his skull, using Nick as a shield. “Now where is he?”

Nick searched the small room and found what he was looking for. Two metal racks were standing between the refrigerator and the adjoining cabinet. He knew he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He pointed to the refrigerator, “He’s in there.”

Machine Gun sneered. “You’re a bad liar.”

Nick stretched his eyes to the right and noticed something peculiar about the second soldier. He was backpedaling, frantically searching the room, as if he expected Matt to come flying out of a cabinet.

Speaking to the skittish soldier, Nick said, “If you two don’t believe me, open it and find out.”

The man simply shook his head.

Machine Gun gave Nick a shove and crouched into a combat position. “You open it.”

Nick deliberately stepped in front of the refrigerator, keeping his eyes trained on Machine Gun. But his peripheral view was on the more important component. The retreating accomplice.

“I’m losing my patience,” Machine Gun said. “Open the refrigerator.”

Nick knew he had stretched his luck to the limit. He placed his hand on the refrigerator door and gave it a concise tug, allowing it to open no more than an inch. The interior light did not come on and Nick anxiously searched for a sign. Machine Gun was directly behind him now and he heard him say, “All the way.”

Finally, Nick could barely make out the tip of a blue piece of metal about naval high. Without opening the door any further, Nick stepped to the side as if he needed the room to pull open the door the rest of the way. Machine Gun was a second too late. Nick watched in amazement as the bullet penetrated directly into the center of the soldier’s forehead. For a disgustingly awkward moment, Machine Gun appeared to develop a third eye, then he dropped hard onto the linoleum floor. Nick was diving and rolling across the floor as a defensive maneuver, but it was unnecessary. The second soldier had already fled the kitchen and was on his way out the door.

Nick chased after the man for a couple of steps, then remembered that he was weaponless. He turned to see Matt McColm sitting in the open refrigerator in a curled position, knees to his chest, and a small light bulb clenched between his teeth. Matt delicately stretched one arm out of the confined space, then the other. He rolled forward and made a controlled fall onto the floor, his legs still wound into a tight knot. He spit out the light bulb and began the process of stretching his legs. “Just like Hartford,” Matt said.

Nick’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I heard the voices. I figured I’d use the element of surprise.”

“I thought the element of surprise was overrated.”

Matt smiled. “It’s making a comeback.”

Necmetin Ciller had been the Turkish Ambassador for only six weeks when he was summoned to the White House for the first time. Ciller was a thin man with short black hair and displayed a nervous tic that was common among first time visitors to the Oval Office—he tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

President Merrick listened to Ciller, a consummate diplomat, and was growing weary of the political courtship. It was late afternoon, though, and that meant nightfall was just around the corner. The U.S. was about to face another round of random bombings and the intelligence agencies weren’t capable of stopping every one of them. Innocent citizens were going to lose their lives tonight and Merrick was finding it hard to get past that fact.

Merrick looked across his desk at the ambassador. “Mr. Ciller, I’ve been listening to you for the better part of an hour now, and I have yet to hear one reason why the Kurds can’t live peacefully in Turkey.”

Ambassador Ciller gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Mr. President, these people are ruthless killers. Our country has endured devastating losses due to these creatures. I think your country is now seeing the true nature of their malevolence.”

Merrick nodded, his eyes glazing over with disinterest. He wasn’t going to create a diplomatic solution to the Hatfields and the McCoys in the short time he had.

“Sir,” Ambassador Ciller explained, “we are in complete sympathy with your situation and we’ll do anything in our power to help rid the Kurds from your peaceful nation.”

Merrick rubbed his eyes. “I’m sure you would, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Mr. President, if I may say, you look very tired.”

“No, you may not say,” Merrick snapped.

The door to the Oval Office opened and Press Secretary Fredrick Himes hustled to Merrick’s side without a glance at the ambassador.

“What is it, Fredrick?” Merrick asked.

Himes grabbed the remote control sitting on Merrick’s desk and clicked on the widescreen television. It was tuned to CNN, as usual.

“You need to see this, Sir,” Himes said.

The camera showed a dark, wild-eyed man using a young woman as a shield. He had his arm around her neck and a knife pressed firmly under the tender skin of her jaw. The man stood in the middle of a crowd that was frantically dispersing around him. “Breaking News,” was displayed at the bottom of the screen.

“Oh, no,” Merrick muttered. The camera was zoomed onto the man’s face. Merrick couldn’t tell where the scene was, but they appeared to be at some sort of outdoor festival.

“Where is this?” Merrick asked.

“Right here,” Himes answered. “Washington Square.”

Policemen could be heard yelling orders to the man, but the angry face spat out foreign words. He kept moving the young woman to position her between him and the nearest threat. It took a moment for Merrick to recognize the woman’s terrified face. It was Professor Bandor’s daughter, Isabel.

Merrick’s stomach cramped into a tight ball. “Dear Lord,” Merrick uttered. He remembered something that wasn’t obvious from the blown-up images on the screen. Isabel was four months pregnant.

It was all his fault. He was the one who rubber-stamped the idea of using Professor Bandor as bait. He had taken every precaution. A team of professionals shadowed the professor around the clock, yet his worst fears were being realized right in front of his eyes. Khemel Kharrazi was exposing every weakness available to him. He was picking indefensible targets that were small in quantity, but enticing enough for the media to eagerly display every treacherous episode. Kharrazi was one step ahead of him, beating him with the one weapon that garnered more value than any nuclear device. The power of public opinion.

Merrick heard other staff members enter the Oval Office, but his eyes remained focused on the monitor. His thoughts ran wild with retaliatory actions that went far beyond the limits of the law. Rage mounted inside of him as he watched the man shout in plain English, “This is the President’s burden. If he didn’t insist on meddling in other country’s affairs, we would never need to resort to such tactics.”

The staff that crammed into the Oval Office clamored with outrage at the accusation. Merrick held a hand up to quiet the chatter.

“Do you see what monsters these people are?” the Turkish Ambassador declared.

Merrick took a moment to glare at the Ambassador. Without a word spoken, Ciller sank back in his chair.

Merrick returned his attention to the TV. Police sirens screamed while S.W.A.T. team, military, and local authorities cornered the man. His head swiveled from side to side taking in the sheer number of law enforcement that he was up against. He dragged Isabel backwards with the knife snug under her chin.

“Get him,” Merrick murmured.

As if the man could hear the President’s words, he took his knife and slashed it ruthlessly across Isabel’s throat, twisting her head to the left as he tore the knife to the right. The screen showed the disgusting image of a wide-open neck and blood gushing from the gash. Isabel dropped to the ground.

The screams inside the Oval Office drowned out the audio, but Merrick clearly heard the shots fired. The man’s exposed body jerked spastically from all of the incoming shots he’d received. At first he fell to his knees, but the barrage of bullets relentlessly sustained their assault on the man’s limp frame until he collapsed face down onto the asphalt.

An officer approached the corpse with his weapon pointed at the back of the man’s head. He bent over the man and blasted two more rounds from close range. A soldier in camouflage grabbed the officer around the waist and pulled him away from the dead man.

A rush of police and soldiers surrounded the bodies and shooed the cameraman away from the scene. As the camera retreated, an ambulance skidded to a stop next to the crowd of uniforms. From off-camera, a newscaster began a running commentary on the tragedy that America had just witnessed live on CNN.

Merrick’s hand closed into a fist. “Shut it off,” he ordered.

Himes clicked the remote. The crowded room fell into a vacuum of silence.

Merrick knew he needed to react quickly. He examined his staff thoughtfully. “Fredrick, schedule a 6 PM press conference.”

The Press Secretary looked at his watch. “Sir, that’s only forty minutes from now.”

The President looked up with weary eyes, dark circles like the rings inside of an old tree. “I know what time it is, Fred.”

“Should I announce the subject matter?”

Merrick shook his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

National Security Advisor, Bob Rankin, spoke up, “Mr. President, I recommend a cooling off period. I suggest you take a few hours to consider your thoughts. Under the circumstances, I’d hate to see you do or say anything rash.”

Merrick leaned over his desk. He knew what Rankin was afraid of. He’d recognized the anger brewing in his gut and it was hard to ignore its affect. He took a deep breath and said, “I appreciate your concern, Bob. You don’t have to worry about my temper.” He pointed to his secretary, “Hanna, find Marty. We’ve got a statement to compose.”

His staff lingered, waiting for direction. Merrick grimaced, “Folks,” he said, as serenely as possible, “I need some time alone here please.”

The room emptied, but as Secretary of State Fisk reached the doorway, Merrick called, “Sam.”

Fisk stopped and allowed the remaining staffers to exit. Merrick motioned for him to close the door and he did. He stood in front of Merrick’s desk with raised eyebrows.

President Merrick came to his feet and leaned over his desk, palms flat on the polished wood, every muscle in his face straining to maintain control. His voice was low and powerful. “All right, Sam, I want these guys eradicated. I don’t care how. I’m willing to sacrifice my eternal soul for this. Just make it happen.”

Fisk stood across from the President, his eyes studying Merrick’s face as if to determine his state of mind. Finally, after an uncomfortable moment of consideration, Fisk’s expression appeared to show satisfaction with his inquiry. He gave one nod and said, “Done.”

* * *

Julie Bracco tenderly wiped her husband’s forehead with a damp washcloth. He’d bumped his head when he hit the floor in the KSF safe house and it was throbbing. She was doting over him as always, picking away loose strands of hair from his face.

Nick made it home in time for Julie to prepare dinner for him and Matt. Even though he appreciated her reticence, her silence concerned Nick. He didn’t want their conversations to grow so economical that it affected their marriage. Sure he needed to keep most of his work confidential, but at what cost.

They were both sitting on the couch now, while Matt leaned back in the recliner and drank a beer.

“I’ve gotta get me one of these things,” Matt said, playing with the handle that lifted the footrest.

“How can you be so glib after what just happened?” Julie asked. Her anger finally surfaced. Nick realized he’d done the right thing by bringing Matt home with him. Matt was the antidote to fear and trepidation. It was as if he’d become so acquainted with death that he could sit in its lap and ask it to tell him bedtime stories.

“We’re fine,” Matt shrugged. “I’ve had scarier moments on a first date.”

Nick was grateful for Matt’s euphemisms. Something he couldn’t imagine grappling with in his current state of mind.