A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (11 page)

He was imagining himself lobbing a wedge shot into the middle of the Senator’s yard when the detonation occurred. A flash of bright fire erupted from the Williams’ house, instantly illuminating the quiet neighborhood and engulfing the home. A thunderous blast shook the ground and Lamar braced himself as he watched the house explode into a huge fireball. The deafening crash propelled misshapen debris with such velocity that a fragment of the front door screamed through Lamar’s kitchen window, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him to the floor. He gasped for air while flicking off shards of glass. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled up his tee shirt to inspect the wound. A flap of skin hung open and exposed a raw sliver of his ribcage. Blood seeped from the opening like an undercooked steak. Just before he passed out, he heard sirens wailing in the distance.

* * *

Julie Bracco stared at the ringing phone with contempt. She had just spent two quiet weeks with her husband following his return from Las Vegas. Two weeks uninterrupted by stakeouts, overnight flights or middle of the night phone calls. Two weeks of therapy with Dr. Morgan and a prescribed break from action. It was difficult, but Nick managed to get by on just a couple of phone calls a day to the office, always hanging up shaking his head.

Nick was in the shower and couldn’t hear his tiny phone bleating for attention on the bedroom dresser. She was hugging a load of laundry and hesitated for a moment before tapping the shower door with her foot. “Phone,” she called.

Nick shut off the water and sprang from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Julie stepped into the hall and lingered for a moment to eavesdrop.

“Shit,” was the only thing she heard. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Nick turned on the television. The urgent tone of a tremulous female voice caused her to re-enter the bedroom.

In bold letters across the bottom of the screen were the words, “Breaking News.” A blonde reporter with a hint of mascara trickling down her cheek stood in front of the charred skeleton of a large house. The morning sun unveiled ripples of smoke drifting across the enormous ruin. Wooden frames leaned awkwardly in unnatural positions. A stubborn portion of a smoldering wall wavered in the slight morning breeze. Two men in yellow raincoats huddled over a pile of ashes.

Nick turned up the volume. The reporter held a hand to her chest and spoke to the camera like a mother gasping out the horrors of her murdered child. “The Senator and his family were all at home,” she panted. “Senator Williams was forty-seven.” She shifted sideways to give the camera a fuller view of the wreckage. “As you can see, there is very little left of the . . .” she choked.

Nick switched the channel. Through the miracle of a satellite dish another reporter in a different city stood in front of a house in a similar condition. Nick switched the channel again and saw that all across the country reporters with somber faces stood in front of the premeditated destruction of different households. Random assaults had devastated individual homes in each of the fifty states.

“What’s happening?” Julie cried.

“It’s begun.”

“What’s begun?”

Nick stood in front of the television, tight-lipped, his jaw clenched, his eyes distant. He turned and seemed to look through her as if she was invisible. Not the same man she had just made passionate love with twenty minutes earlier.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, and disappeared into the closet.

* * *

The Baltimore field office housed the largest War Room in the country. It was built during the cold war era and was bunkered in the basement, where the only access was through an elevator fronted by an iris-scan entry. The room itself was more like an auditorium. It had an elevated podium, which stood above rows of wooden booths that resembled church pews. Surrounding the seats were four stark white walls with assorted maps and diagrams tacked to them, An occasional poster of Marilyn Monroe or Mickey Mantle remained behind, mementos from the patriotic souls who first used the bunker during the Cuban missile crisis.

Walt Jackson stood at the podium, his massive frame looming over the seventy-five FBI agents seated in front of him. Behind him stood the Director of the CIA and next to him, drawing the attention of every man and woman in the room, sat a telephone with one line conspicuously blinking. Nick sat in the front row next to Matt.

Jackson pushed the blinking button activating the speakerphone. “Mr. President?”

The unmistakable voice of the President John Merrick said, “Yes, Walt, I’m here.”

“Mr. President,” Jackson turned to make eye contact with the Director of the CIA, “I have Ken Morris with me. We’re all assembled, Sir.”

“Good,” said President Merrick. “Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies—Senator Williams was a close personal friend of mine. Some of you may know he was the best man at my wedding.” He sighed. Everyone sat at attention and listened as if the principal was addressing his students.

“Unfortunately, he was only one of fifty families that are grieving this morning as a result of the brutal attack on our nation.

“We received an E-mail from the Kurdish Security Force. Walt, I know your people follow this stuff closely, so the message won’t come as a shock. They will bomb one home in each of the fifty states every week that we don’t withdraw our troops from Turkey. The same message was sent to the Washington Post. The American people are going to know of their demands. It’s a shrewd tactic, folks. The occupation of Turkey wasn’t popular to begin with. Now it appears as if it will cost innocent citizens their lives if we don’t cave in.”

The President’s voice grew harsh, “Walt, you know damn well I can’t withdraw our troops under these conditions. Our presence was mandated once the Kurds began slaughtering hundreds of Turkish civilians. I know I don’t have to sell you on my decision, but now every time an American is killed, it’s my fault. I’ll accept the responsibility, but I need answers and I need plausible options and I need them quick.”

President Merrick stopped abruptly and it seemed to take Jackson by surprise, as if he expected the longwinded political statement that usually came from a White House conference call.

“Walt?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. President.”

“Walt, how many KSF do we have in custody now?”

“As of thirty minutes ago we have nine, Sir.”

“Nine KSF members—how many do you suspect are directly or indirectly related to the bombings?

“All of them.”

“That’s good. What have we learned from them?”

The assemblage of agents knew the answer before it ever left Jackson’s mouth.

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Nothing?”

“No, Sir, they’d rather die first. As a matter of fact two of them have attempted suicide.”

“I see.” In the silence a deep breath could be heard.

Ken Morris stepped closer to the speakerphone. “Mr. President, this is Ken.”

“Yes, Ken,” the frustrated voice said.

“Sir, this is similar to stomping on roaches as they crawl across the floor. We can’t protect every citizen in the country. We have to find the source. That’s the only way we’ll put an end to it. The scheme is too elaborate not to have a leader dictating the details of the mission.”

“And you’re sure who that leader is?”

“Yes, Sir. It’s Kemel Kharrazi. We find him and we can end the terrorist acts.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t we found him yet?”

“Sir . . . uh, there are some leads, but—“

“Ken, we have satellites circling the Earth that could read the date on a dime sitting in the road between two parked cars. Are you telling me we can’t find the most infamous terrorist in the world, in our own backyard?”

Ken opened his mouth, but only to take a large breath.

The President exploded. “Gentlemen, I want Kemel Kharrazi’s picture on every television, every newspaper, every magazine cover. I want you to burn up every favor you have with every informant you’ve ever used. Offer immunity, offer pardons, offer money, whatever you want, I’ll approve it. Bottom line—I want Kharrazi! Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” came the collective answer.

President Merrick hung up.

Walt Jackson stood tall, his long arms leaning on the podium in front of him. In one slow sweep of the congregation he seemed to make eye contact with every individual in the bunker. “Well then,” he said, “let’s get started.”

* * *

In the aftermath of the two-hour briefing that followed the President’s call, Walt Jackson lumbered into his office, walked behind his desk, and dropped onto his leather chair. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the stubble on the side of his unshaven face. When he looked up, Nick and Matt were seated across from him.

Jackson’s finger tapped a staccato cadence on his desk. “The President thinks we dropped the ball,” he said.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Walt,” Matt said. “You made all the right moves. Don’t second guess yourself now.”

“Fact is,” Walt grimaced, “we can protect our national monuments. We can make provisions for all of our federal buildings, our courts. But we simply can’t cover every single household in the United States. It’s just not possible.”

“Kharrazi is shrewd,” Nick said. “He knows America doesn’t have the stomach for this type of warfare. Not here at home. Not with the media flashing the faces of our dead neighbors on every news channel. This isn’t some distant operation in the jungles of Asia. The political pressure will eventually become so great, we won’t have a choice but retreat from Turkey.”

Jackson nodded. He smiled at the two agents, coming to support him. He sat upright and pointed a finger at Nick, who was already glancing down at digital pictures he pulled from a stack on Jackson’s desk. “What do you make of those photos?”

“These bombs have Rashid’s signature all over them,” Nick said, scrutinizing the close-ups of bomb parts already partially re-assembled. “The design of the circuitry is identical to the White House bomb. No matter how sophisticated he gets, he always uses the same configuration.”

“Yes, but where does he get the material?” Matt said. “Find the place he gets the parts and you’ll find Rashid.”

“And if you find Rashid,” Nick added. “You find Kharrazi.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair, enjoying the rhythm of the banter between his two agents. “All right,” he said. “I want you two to follow the bomb trail. All of the bombs were Semtex, therefore massive amounts of RDX were made for the explosions. Stop by the Explosive Unit on your way out and talk with Norm Boyd. He knows more about RDX than anyone we have. Find an ingredient, a chemical, a blast cap, anything you can that might be hard to find in normal retail stores and zone in on that item. Since RDX is a fairly stable compound, my guess is that Rashid is making the stuff in quantity, then transporting the devices to the appropriate city. It makes more sense than risking fifty different chemical labs.”

Jackson looked at his watch. “I suggest you gentlemen get going. I have to decide whether to re-write my will, or my resume.”

* * *

Nick was bent on getting home that evening, even if it was just for a nap and a change of clothes. Julie would be worried about him and he’d try to disarm her concern with a smile and a hug. He would show her no visible signs of stress. She wouldn’t see the neurons firing back and forth across his brain, pressing for the answers that would lead him to Kharrazi, and ultimately, refuge for his overactive mind.

When he turned on his car radio, he heard the Washington Post story about the KSF demands heading every newsbreak. As he drove home, talk radio was having a field day with the subject. A paranoid America tuned in to hear the news, rumors, or anything else that could keep them even the tiniest bit safer than their next-door neighbor. The President was getting hammered from both sides of the political aisle. One right-wing commentator even suggested impeachment. A poll had already been taken and sixty-two percent of the American public wanted troops out of Turkey immediately. That number skyrocketed to eighty-seven percent when they polled anyone who lived within twenty miles of a bombed house.

The Associated Press reported that most of the bombs had been planted for some time before they were detonated. In a few cases they were fired from passing cars. A delivery method that was harder to defend, yet easier to track down. Out of the nine KSF members in custody, eight had been involved with the drive-by method of bombing. Nick marveled at the accuracy of the information. It was almost as if AP had a reporter inside the War Room that afternoon.

* * *

Nick arrived home late and hugged Julie so tightly, he felt the breath surge from her diaphragm.

When he finally released her, she delicately swept a tuft of hair from his forehead with the back of her index finger, “Rough day at the office, Sweetie?”

Nick smiled for the first time since he’d left her arms that morning. “I can’t slip anything by you, can I?” They both laughed and released whatever pressure their tense bodies would allow.