Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Merrick looked at his Chief of Staff as if he’d spoken Japanese. “Really?”

Riggs gave Dexter a sympathetic grin. “We’ll figure something out, buddy.”

Dexter seemed to take that as a cue to leave the room. “Okay, well, I just wanted to get that info to you.”

As Dexter made his way to the door, Fisk placed the fork on his plate and held up his hand. “Hang on, Paul.”

Dexter paused.

Fisk took a deep breath. “There’s a debate tomorrow night between Salcido and Rodriguez in Mexico City. Tell Fredrick to make them aware that I’ll be attending.”

Merrick tilted his head. “I’m listening.”

“I think it’s important we stay close to the situation.”

Riggs seemed to understand something. He nodded. “And you’re going to endorse Salcido?”

“No,” Fisk said. “I’m merely going to show respect for the process. Let the Mexican people know the United States will support whoever wins the election.”

“And what does that get us?” Merrick asked.

Fisk grinned. “I have a plan.” He looked at Dexter. “And it doesn’t require sending a team of assassins to Mexico.” He looked at Riggs. “And it doesn’t require sending the Eighty-Second Airborne.” He looked at Merrick. “And it doesn’t require amnesty for cartel leaders.”

Merrick sighed. “Even if you go down there and throw our support around, how will it be spun by the media? Their newspapers are petrified of the cartels. We can’t afford Salcido to lose this thing, Sam. There’s too much at stake.”

“Trust me,” Fisk said, standing up and lifting a fortune cookie from the table. “I can fix this.”

It was dinner time and Walt Jackson was still behind his desk waiting for FBI analysts to come up with answers to the ‘Sandoval’ mystery. His wife had left him a snooty text message and his stomach was beginning to growl, but he was determined to give Nick and Matt something to work with.

His intercom beeped and his secretary’s voice came over the speaker. “Walt, I’ve got this call from somewhere in Mexico. Apparently the guy doesn’t care if we track his call.”

“What’s he want?”

“He wants to speak with you about a bomb.”

“Okay, have the call tracked and recorded, then put him through.”

Walt’s phone only rang once before he picked up. “This is Walt Jackson.”

“Mr. Jackson,” a Middle Eastern voice said. “You are about to have a nuclear explosion detonated on American soil.”

Walt pursed his lips. “I see.”

“Are you prepared to have such a devastating attack?”

As the head of the antiterrorist division of the FBI, Walt had read or heard dozens of threatening messages and he was experienced at assessing their legitimacy. This one seemed different somehow.

“Yes, we’re prepared,” Walt said.

There was a pause. Walt knew to keep his answers short and force the caller to show his cards.

“Your country will never be the same, Mr. Jackson.”

Walt finally figured out what was missing. The demand. Nobody called to threaten the FBI without a list of demands.

“Are we finished?” Walt asked.

“Don’t you want to know who I am?”

“Okay. Who are you?”

“The United Palestinian Force.”

Of course Walt knew exactly who this guy represented, but he still didn’t know why he called. And without demands, Walt didn’t see the reason to carry on. He was certain the tracking would end up with a cell phone in a trash can somewhere in Mexico.

“Okay,” Walt said. “Is there anything else?”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“Should I be?”

Another pause.

“The American people expect you to protect them, Mr. Jackson. This could prove to be your greatest failure.”

Something occurred to Walt. There was a sense of insecurity in the man’s voice. As if he was disappointed in Walt’s lack of reaction.

“Is there something you want?” Walt asked.

“How will you be preparing your civilians for this attack?”

So there it was. What the man wanted was some form of recognition.

“I won’t be doing anything,” Walt said. “We have our best people on this and they’ll find the bomb before it breaches our border.”

“The UPF is not an organization to be trifled with. Thousands of Americans will lose their lives over this. The President will not be happy if he knew we made contact with you and you didn’t alert the public.”

“Listen,” Walt said. “We lose thousands of lives on our highways every year, but I don’t see the President declaring war on our interstates.”

This didn’t seem to sit well with the man and his voice changed. It reached a new level of frustration. “We will take as many lives as we can, Mr. Jackson. And when you put your head on your pillow at night, you can know those lives were your responsibility.”

Walt let the anger boil up in the man’s heart. Then he said, “Good luck with that.” And he hung up.

He had to sit back in his chair and consider the wisdom of his reaction. After a few moments of gathering himself, he picked up his cell phone and pushed a button. When Sam Fisk answered, he said, “I received that call you anticipated.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t give him what he wanted.”

“Good.”

“Was that a smart choice, Sam? I mean, are we underestimating these guys?”

“There’s only two ways this can go. One of them will cost innocent lives and terrorize the country for an indefinite period of time. Of this, I’ll take full responsibility. The other way could reduce the UPF to a trivia question and maintain our dominance over domestic terrorism.”

“Seems like a big gamble.”

“Do you know who I’m gambling on?” Fisk said. “Nick Bracco. I’m putting all my chips on that guy, because I’ve never lost a bet doing that.”

Walt sighed. “It’s an awful lot of pressure to put on one person.”

“I’m going with my strengths, Walter. You guys find that bomb and I’ll take care of the politics. Either way, I’ll take the hit.”

“All right, Sam. I’ll keep you posted.” Walt hung up the phone. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

It was dark by the time Nick pulled into the apartment complex. He came alone hoping to mitigate any anxiety a visit from the FBI might bring. He found the visitor parking and roamed the grounds until he’d located the building Donald Sandoval resided. The complex was fairly rundown with dead patches of grass and rusted railings.

The apartments all faced an inside courtyard with a metal swing set and monkey bars which were missing half the bars. Nick discovered the man’s apartment on the first floor and knocked. He could hear the television blaring.

Nick knocked again, louder this time. Immediately the TV was shut off. A few seconds later the door opened and a man sitting in a wheelchair looked up with extreme caution.

“Yeah?” the man said.

“Don Sandoval?”

The man’s eyes darted around the courtyard, maybe for help, maybe for Nick’s backup. “Who’s asking?” the man said from the darkened room.

Nick showed the man his shield. “FBI.”

The man flipped on the porch light and examined Nick’s credentials until he seemed satisfied they were legit. He murmured something under his breath and with a click and a whir, the motorized wheelchair rolled back from the doorway.

“Come in,” he said.

Nick entered the apartment searching for light. Apparently when the TV went off so did all the light in the apartment.

The man swiveled around in the center of the room to face him. He pushed a button on his wheelchair and the interior lights illuminated the room. The man came into clear view. He was missing both of his legs and one arm. His lone arm sat on the armrest of the chair.