A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (29 page)

She shook her head.

“A sister or a brother?”

“Two sisters.”

“Do the pilots know them?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Tell them that you’re leaving. Your sister was in an accident and you have to go to the hospital, but that they’re clear for take-off. Understand?”

She nodded. Her voice cracked when she spoke to the pilots; she seemed noticeably upset. The pilots certainly must have thought her sister’s accident was the cause of her behavior.

“Go on, Tina. We’ll take it from here. I hope your sister’s going to be okay,” came back the pilot.

Kharrazi smiled. “Do you have a key to the door?”

She handed him a key ring with a set of wings attached. “It’s this one.”

“You’ve been a good girl, Tina. Just do me a favor and sit down right here.”

She stared at him warily as she crouched down below the counter.

“Turn toward the wall please,” Kharrazi said.

Slowly, she shifted her body away from Kharrazi, facing the wall, but her head strained to keep Kharrazi in her sights.

“Tina, it’s okay. I’m just going to tie you up. Turn around.”

The girl listened to her assassin just long enough for Kharrazi to draw his knife over her head and grab a handful of hair with his free hand. He pulled the sharp blade across her exposed neck with a quick, forceful jerk. Her hands scratched at his arms for a few desperate seconds, breaking every last nail until finally they fell to her side. When the weight of her dead body gave way, Kharrazi was struck with how light her head felt without her torso dragging it down.

“You must understand, Tina,” he whispered. “No one person should stop the persecution of thousand of innocent Kurds. Not even you.”

He peered over the counter and saw nothing to alarm him. He stood all the way and examined himself for any blood. A few spots, but his clothes were dark enough that they could be mistaken for a sloppy cup of coffee. He didn’t have time to do anything with the bodies. They were out of viewing distance from the front door and once the office was eventually opened up, it wouldn’t take long to figure out what had happened. He went to the door and left the building. While locking the door with Tina’s keys, he assured himself that he had at least three or four hours head start. And that was all he needed.

He hobbled back into the jet where the pilots were still preoccupied checking and double-checking instruments.

“See,” the pilot said to him, as they taxied to the runway. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Kharrazi smiled. “Not at all.”

By the time Nick and Matt arrived at the Baltimore Field Office, the press had already reported that President Merrick wouldn’t be leaving the White House that night. It was a bold political move, even if Merrick was tucked safely into the bunker beneath the mansion. It only tightened the noose around the FBI’s neck. Specifically, Walt Jackson. If the White House was bombed after receiving advanced warning, everyone at the Bureau may as well dust off the old resume.

Nick and Matt made their way through the security locks and retina scans guarding the elevators down to the War Room. As they exited the elevator, Nick was startled at how cramped the otherwise large room looked. Matt was right, it bordered on computer geekdom. The walls were illuminated with huge, flat screen video monitors silently displaying satellite feeds from around the world. The room was packed with low partitions separating small, plain looking metal desks. Each desk was occupied with an analyst wearing a headset, staring into a computer monitor. The hum of low voices and keyboard tapping filled the air.

The biggest change Nick noticed was the lighting. The big overhead fluorescents were shut off, giving the wall monitors a sharper image. The room had a movie theatre feel to it. The bulk of the illumination came from the images flashing across all four walls. The only other lights were tiny goosenecks with a narrow beam that attached to each of the analyst’s desks.

The front of the room contained a long narrow shelf with two fax machines, three computer terminals, and a series of devices that played cassettes, DVDs, and CDs.

Nick’s attention was drawn to a round wooden table in the corner of the room, next to the shelf. A makeshift ceiling light hung too low and the four men at the table had to lean forward slightly to make eye contact. Three of the men had rolled up sleeves, ties that were pulled down to their sternum, and the wrinkled shirt look of an all-night poker game. They were Walt Jackson, FBI Director Louis Dutton, and the Director of the CIA Kenneth Morris. The fourth man appeared fresh and neatly dressed.

“Shit,” Nick said, when he saw who it was. “What’s he doing here?”

Matt followed his gaze and shut his eyes tight for an instant. “Fuck.”

The guy Matt was referring to was President Merrick’s Chief of Staff, William Hatfield. Last summer Matt caught the man slapping his wife with the back of his hand. Matt was staying at a resort up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, when his girlfriend at the time suggested a romantic evening stroll along a tree-lined pathway around a small pond. The Chief of Staff was walking in front of them with his wife when Matt heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin. It wasn’t until Matt ran up to defend the woman that he discovered who the attacker was. Matt squeezed Hatfield’s throat with one hand and simply said, “Don’t.” Nick understood there was more to the story, but Matt never revealed his inner thoughts on the matter. On the surface Matt appeared to be the epitome of a free spirit. He was single going well into his thirties, and never pretended that he was anything but on the prowl most all of the time. But ever since his indiscretion with a stripper the night before his wedding, Matt despised married men who cheated. He even hated married men who told stories about cheating, even if he knew they were lying. It contradicted everything that Matt appeared to be, but Nick knew him better than anyone. There was only one type of man Matt hated more than an adulterer. Wife-beaters.

Nick saw that everyone at the large oak table but Hatfield had dark circles around their eyes. Hatfield had the uncanny ability to look as if he’d just gotten a full night of sleep. He sat with his suit still intact, and his hair sprayed into a permanent structure. His right hand played with the presidential seal cufflink on his left sleeve, in case there was someone left in the building who didn’t know where he worked.

When Jackson saw Nick, he did a double take. “What are you doing here? I sent for Matt, not you.”

“It’s okay,” Nick said, approaching the table. “Julie’s going to recover. I’m much better off working.”

“I didn’t come all the way down here for small talk, gentlemen,” Hatfield bristled.

Nick and Matt looked at him as if he spoke a foreign language, but the men sitting around the table with Hatfield didn’t even act surprised. It looked like they’d been hearing a lot worse from the Chief of Staff. Although Hatfield held absolutely no authority at the table, everyone understood who he represented.

When Nick and Matt stood there unsure of their welcome status, Hatfield boomed. “Either sit down and help, or get the fuck out of here.”

Nick saw Matt’s face getting flush. He shot Matt a look and Matt tightened his lips, while he and Nick found seats opposite each other. Matt sat directly to Hatfield’s left.

Nick wasn’t sure how to introduce the subject of Sal’s information. Hatfield’s presence made it almost impossible to explain his source. Hatfield wasn’t privy to any deals made with Sal’s crew, and his proximity to the president precluded him from being briefed.

In a slow beaten voice, Jackson said, “Here’s where we are.” He said it in a reviewing tone, but Nick knew he was recapping for his and Matt’s benefit. “We have Mustafa revealing Kharrazi’s plan to attack the White House with an underwater missile. We have Kharrazi flying somewhere out west to detonate the missile. We also have every Naval vessel searching the coastline for anything suspicious, and we’re scoping every body of water inside of five miles of the White House.”

Jackson turned toward an electronic map of the United States on the near wall, pointed to Ohio and clicked a button on his remote control. The city of Cleveland lit up with a small green light. “After interrogating a KSF soldier in Cleveland, we discover that Kharrazi is still in America, and will remain here until his mission is accomplished.” Another click and Las Vegas lit up, “Here is where Kharrazi kidnapped Phil Bracco. It took months for the KSF to prepare a safe house the way they did.” Another click, and another light. “Henderson, Nevada. A tip at a local gun show nets us another three KSF soldiers. Yet we still have no big names. The way we see it, their headquarters is out west, probably in Nevada, more specifically, Las Vegas.”

Jackson turned to Dutton and handed him the remote. Dutton clicked a button and a series of red lights sprung up in a circle surrounding the Washington, DC area. “Here’s where we have the Sentinel Radars stationed. If a missile is launched anywhere outside of this perimeter, we have anti-missile launchers in place.”

“What if the missile is launched inside the perimeter?” Hatfield asked.

Dutton hesitated. “Well, we’re fairly certain—”

“Fairly certain isn’t going to cut it,” Hatfield huffed. “If I wanted fairly certain I would have phoned you instead of coming to meet with you personally. The President—shit, the country can’t afford for us to be fairly certain any more. We need certainty and effectiveness.”

Hatfield seemed to compose himself for a moment. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward, as if he were going to let everyone in on a secret. “I have a direct quote from the President. Would you like to hear it?” He didn’t wait for their nods. “If the White House even gets egged tonight, his quote is, ‘Tell them to find new careers, because theirs will be over.’ Now, I don’t have to tell you that President Merrick doesn’t bluff, do I?”

It was a lie. Merrick was too polished to make such a crude threat, but Hatfield wasn’t. In years past, Chiefs like Leon Panetta and Andrew Card would embrace their domain and stay perfectly happy within the walls of the White House. But Hatfield was of a different ilk. He spread his tentacles into places he had no business being, and as a consequence, he had few political allies. And in a place like Washington D.C., allies were a potent currency.

Regardless of the veracity of Hatfield’s statement, everyone at the table commenced a slow squirm. Almost everyone. Matt McColm casually removed a stick of gum from its wrapper, and giving it his full attention, slid it into his mouth and began a leisurely chew. He was using the most powerful weapon he had to counteract an overbearing authority figure. Apathy. He wasn’t about to give Hatfield the satisfaction.

Nick understood the move. Everyone knew the Chief of Staff had the President’s ear, but he wasn’t Matt’s boss. Matt’s boss sat directly across from him, and by the look on his face, Jackson was enjoying every minute of it.

Hatfield glared at Matt. “Do you understand me?”

Matt folded his gum wrapper with methodical precision.

“I’m talking to you, Mr. Sharpshooter.”

Nick braced himself for the collision.

Matt took the empty wrapper, folded it, and carefully placed it in his breast pocket like it was a rare jewel. “Tell me something, Bill,” he said. “When are you going to show us how to wipe our ass?”

The table smoldered with stifled laughter.

Hatfield’s eyes tightened into penetrating beams of malevolence. He pointed a manicured finger at Matt. “Start reading the classifieds, asshole.”

Matt leaned into Hatfield’s finger. “What the fuck do you know about—”

“That’s enough!” a voice boomed from behind them. Defense Secretary Martin Riggs loomed over the table. He still had on his suit jacket, but his tie was pulled down, and a portion of his collar was stuck on the outside of his jacket. Even though the ex-Marine looked as if he hadn’t seen a bed in a week, his stature alone made you think twice before challenging him. Riggs dropped a large stack of manila files onto the table and strategically sandwiched himself in a seat between Matt and Hatfield. “After this is over they’ll be plenty of blame to go around. Right now we need to focus on the enemy.”

Matt and Hatfield gave each other malicious glares, but nothing more.

Riggs thumbed through his stack of files. Without looking up he said, “To answer your question, Mr. Chief of Staff,” he glanced at Matt for effect, “there is no guarantee we can shoot this missile down whether it’s inside or outside the perimeter.”

Hatfield folded his arms. Riggs opened a file marked, “Classified” and continued. “We have twenty F-16’s armed with the newest generation of Sidewinders dedicated to safeguard the White House. Even so, hitting a missile with a Sidewinder is tantamount to a bullet hitting a bullet. It’s not easy.”

Riggs placed the file on the table in front of him and addressed Hatfield. “There’s also the issue of countermeasures. Our intelligence tells us that if Kharrazi does have missiles off of our shore, they’ll almost definitely be Russian technology. If that’s true, the missile will come supplied with decoys.”

Hatfield had a confused look on his face, so Riggs took a deep breath. “Decoys, Mr. Hatfield. Sometime during the flight the missile will drop off large aluminum coated balloons. To our laser-guided radar system they will appear as metal objects, no different than the missile itself. It will give us too many targets to choose from. Mistakes will be made, I assure you.”