A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (15 page)

He continued his slow advance to the front of the house. He peeked out from the corner of his one-story home and saw a black sedan with the passenger window open and a hand tossing a newspaper into the neighbor’s driveway. It rolled gradually past his house and another newspaper was flung into his driveway. Tommy grinned. Sheba was usually pretty accurate when it came to sensing danger. But even she was allowed an error every now and again, he thought.

As he turned to go back, he heard a faint clang, a metal on metal sound that seemed out of place. When he glanced back he saw the sedan still lingering in front of his house. Tommy looked down at his attire, as if maybe he’d grown a pair of pants since leaving the back door. When he looked up he caught a flash from the open window of the sedan and realized he had only a moment to react. He dove to the ground just before the blast ignited the house, propelling debris and waves of flames that rushed over his body as he covered his head for protection. He wasn’t sure if the blast had physically moved him or if he was simply disoriented. He thought he began on his stomach, but now he was on his back, his legs kicking in the air.

The explosion deafened him so he couldn’t know how loud he was cursing as he frantically brushed live embers from his bare skin. He also couldn’t hear his wooden-framed home teetering like a house of cards. When he finally managed to extinguish himself, he braved a peek back just in time to see his roof collapsing. A segment of exterior wall began to drop and before Tommy could scramble away from the structure, it toppled towards him and landed flush across his back. His head was jolted down into the earth. The last thing he remembered thinking was, “Sheba.”

“It’s happening,” Matt McColm said. “See you at the office.”

Nick hung up the phone and noticed it was four-thirty in the morning.

Julie rolled over, rubbing her eyes. “Who was that?”

Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he flipped on the TV. He and Julie watched a split-screen image of two different CNN reporters in two separate states. One talked over the commotion of fire trucks and police evidence-collector’s vans. The other, waiting his turn with the details of another grizzly terrorist attack. The camera showed the incongruous picture of neatly manicured lawns and gardens with the devastated ruins of houses abruptly destroyed by the KSF. One home in each of the fifty states.

Julie held her hand over to her open mouth, “Oh my gosh. Nick this can’t be happening.”

Nick flipped channels. A woman in South Carolina was screaming, “My baby! They killed my baby!”

The camera followed the woman as she was led away from her smoldering home by a couple of firemen. The distraught woman fought with the two men who were trying to pry something from her grasp. In the dim light of early morning, the camera operator maintained the woman’s battle as she was twisted and maneuvered away from the two men. The camera zoomed in on the focal point. The woman held her hand up high playing keep-away with the firefighters. In her hand was the mangled remains of a child’s arm. “It’s mine!” she shouted. “You can’t take my baby, it’s all I have left.”

Nick felt queasy while Julie dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Nick sat on the edge of the bed and mindlessly flipped up one channel at a time, barely noting where the carnage had taken place. Virginia, Kentucky, Texas. His grip on the remote tightened until his hand began to cramp.

Finally, a still image of Kemel Kharrazi was displayed on NBC, while commentators spoke about the terrorist’s history. It was a photo of Kharrazi that Nick himself had picked out. He felt it was the clearest shot of the killer’s eyes. Kharrazi could change his appearance by altering the shape of his face, or even manipulating his facial hair, but he couldn’t disguise the lifeless depth of his eyes.

Nick had studied those eyes for hours, trying to understand what lurked beneath the surface. Kharrazi must have had a personal investment in this mission. He wouldn’t have come all the way to America to hide behind the scenes and watch the music play before him like an orchestral conductor. That wasn’t his style.

Julie opened the bathroom door wiping a small towel across her face. “Isn’t there anything you can do? Certainly there’s a way to stop them, isn’t there?”

Nick turned off the TV and flung the remote against the headboard. “Shit, Jule, we need help, I can tell you that. We need lots of help.”

Julie moved to Nick. She stood next to him and caressed the hair over his ear. “Please be safe, Sweetie.”

Nick grabbed her around the waist and tugged her closer. “I’m going to find an answer. It may not be pretty, but one way or another I’ll put an end to it.”

* * *

The basement of the KSF cabin had three rooms. One was used strictly for manufacturing bombs. Twenty soldiers kept the Semtex, blasting caps, and detonators all separated. In the corner, a sturdy wooden shelf cradled the finished product. There were already enough explosives stockpiled for the next three bombings. A van tucked away out back would be loaded and driven west on a dirt road, over the mountain that shielded the cabin from any discernable population. It would then meet up with a series of vehicles that would carry the devices to their ultimate destinations. Each state had a hideout where instructions were given as to when to detonate the bomb. The timing was precise and thanks to the Internet and wireless connections, the coded messages were easily attained, and untraceable.

The main room held the communications center. This was the brain trust of the operation. Hasan oversaw all aspects of this room, including a section dedicated to monitoring all news media broadcasts. He was amazed at the information that America freely dispersed among its civilians. It was as if they didn’t care who retrieved the information as long as it was readily available. The competition between media agencies was such that each one spent tireless energy trying to outdo the other. If one broadcaster claimed that a KSF member was arrested, another would profile the soldier’s career, and yet another would indicate how the terrorist was captured and by whom. If one of their men were captured, a replacement would be sent out immediately to a new hideout in the same state that lost its soldier.

Hasan monitored the media coverage of the bombings carefully. So far NBC had the most accurate assessment of the explosions. Their experts closely matched the damage of a home in Vermont with the precise amount of Semtex used in the pre-set planting. Hasan couldn’t keep the grin from his face as he watched a dozen TV monitors display the domination of interest with the nationwide bombings. America was in a frenzy and President Merrick was receiving full responsibility for the calamity.

The third room in the basement, adjacent to the main room, was Kemel Kharrazi’s private quarters. The suite contained a bedroom, a bathroom, an office with a large desk, and several chairs along the perimeter ready to be aligned in front of Kharrazi’s desk for continuing instructions.

The door to the Kharrazi’s quarters opened and a strange man emerged from the private residence. The man was bald and wore dark sunglasses. He had large puffy cheeks that matched his oversized waistline. Several soldiers reached for their weapons, ready for the stranger to make a move. The man stood still, then a grin spread across his face as he removed his sunglasses. There was no mistaking the eyes.

“Sarock?” Hasan said. “What is it you are doing?”

“My name is Walter Henning,” Kharrazi said, holding up a phony driver’s license from his wallet. “I’m going to Baltimore on business.”

Hasan’s mouth became dry. “Business? Please tell me this business.”

“Don’t be alarmed, I am not recognizable. I will bring extra hairpieces and makeup. You forget how easy it is to move about in America.”

“This business you speak of—what could it possibly be at this particular time?”

Kharrazi’s face grew severe. “The American who shot Rashid, he is still alive. Those fools allowed him to live, at least for a little while longer. I am going to personally defend Rashid’s honor. This is something I must do myself.”

Hasan was concerned with Kharrazi’s passion for revenge. He feared the minute they discovered the last name of Rashid’s assassin, Kharrazi’s thoughts would become distorted. It was as if the entire mission was secondary to acquiring retribution. “The man who shot Rashid,” Hasan said, “he is definitely related—”

“Yes, he is the cousin of the government agent. The one who arrested Rashid. He will also be eliminated. Don’t worry Hasan, I’ll be back in less than forty-eight hours. The private jet is waiting for me. It is effortless to move about this country through chartered airplanes. There are no checkpoints to avoid. Simply have money and the nation is yours to travel unbridled. Capitalism at its finest. You have all my instructions and if you need me . . .” Kharrazi held up a small mobile phone. Months ahead of time a series of mobile phones were purchased with cash, along with pre-paid calling minutes. Each one was purchased in a different state with phony names. In case the FBI had tapping abilities that the KSF wasn’t aware of, each phone was disposed of after every call.

Kharrazi placed a hand on Hasan’s shoulder. “Do not worry, Hasan, I am not Rashid. I will be discreet. Deadly, but discreet.”

It was barely daybreak when Nick pulled into the parking lot of the Baltimore field office. A black limousine idled in front of the employee entrance. An American flag hung limp from the antenna. Nick glanced into the open door as he passed by.

“Nick,” a voice came out of the back of the limo. Matt poked his head out and waved him inside.

Crammed into the long bench seating were ten agents from domestic terrorism on their way to a field trip. Nick sidled onto a seat next to Matt.

“We’re going to the White House,” Matt said. “Shit’s going to hit the fan.”

“I’d imagine so.”

Walt Jackson eased into the back of the limo and shut the door. The silence was funereal as he signaled for the driver to go. Walt closed his eyes and rubbed his neck. When he opened them, he realized he was the center of attention. “What are you looking at?” he said. “You’ve never seen a man have a nervous breakdown before.”

It was classic Walt—deflecting the fear and absorbing the blame. It was never anyone else’s fault but his own, and only the most self-conscious agent would feel an ounce of responsibility for anything that went wrong under Jackson’s regime.

A gray sky threatened to conceal the suns affect for the duration of the day. Nick didn’t think the Bureau deserved the sunshine and wondered if he was the only one who felt that way. The silence lingered as the limo rolled towards Pennsylvania Avenue. America was waking to a new world. A world where no one was safe: not the affluent, the privileged, the famous. The prosperous shared vulnerability with their penurious counterparts. For the first time that Nick could remember, America was becoming a community. A very frightened community.

The limo slowed and entered a gated driveway just west of the White House. In the distance Nick could see a podium set up on a grassy area near the front of the building. There were bright, reflective lights hanging from booms and a crowd of journalists huddled in front of the podium waiting for an official response from the president on the bombings.

From the guard station, a uniformed attendant approached the limo and made a thorough examination of its contents. After an exchange with the driver where code words and signals were exchanged, he waved the limo through the opening gates. Once around back, the limo stopped in front of a burgundy awning and a group of secret service officers in suits and headsets ushered the agents into the secured entrance.

Once inside, the pack of terrorist specialists was led into a conference room on the first floor. It was a large room with bare white walls and a long table in the middle. At the head of the table with his arms folded was President Merrick. To his right was CIA Director, Ken Morris, to his left, FBI Director, Louis Dutton. Dutton had an exhausted look on his face as he motioned Walt Jackson to take the seat next to him. The assemblage of agents filled in the remaining seats.

Nick recognized a couple of members of the Joint-Chiefs-of-Staff, the Vice President and Secretary of State, but he didn’t recognize the elderly man who stood next to President Merrick with an expectant look on his face. He wore a suit like everyone else in the room, but his was an older style, as if he’d been forced to dig deep into his closet earlier that morning and came up with that solitary option.

President Merrick stood and placed an arm around the man. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said. He addressed the group around the table. “This is Malik Bandor. He is a retired professor of Middle-Eastern studies from Georgetown University. He has a wealth of knowledge on the plight of Kurds in Turkey. He is also my personal guru on the subject and has been for years, therefore he is privy to information that most civilians are not.” President Merrick swept his hand towards the professor in introductory fashion and sat back down.

“Thank you, Mr. President.” The old man in the old suit smiled. He seemed to assess the gathering of minds assembled before him. “It’s kind of early in the morning to be giving a history lesson, so I’ll present you with only the information that we feel is vital to your mission. And please, feel free to ask any questions as I go along. I’ve always thought that was the best way to distribute intelligence.”