Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Revenge

Renton knew they were going to scour the shoreline for hours and he also knew they weren’t going to find a thing. The Russian had a thirty minute head start. He was long gone.

President Merrick was reading “Goodnight Moon” to his daughter Emily when her bedroom door opened and his wife’s face came into view. Her blank expression told him everything. Whenever she didn’t have her patented smile, something was wrong. She approached the bed and took the book from Merrick. The smile made a forced return.

“I’d like to finish reading this if I could,” his wife said to Emily.

“Aw.” Emily pouted as her dad lifted himself from the edge of her bed and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“But Daddy never gets to read to me anymore,” the young girl cried.

“Now, Sweetie,” Merrick said. “I’ll be reading that same book to you tomorrow night. I promise.”

Merrick closed the bedroom door and found a male aide anxiously waiting for him, holding out a cell phone.

“There’s been an explosion, sir,” the aide said.

Merrick put the phone to his ear.

“We need to talk,” Samuel Fisk said.

The FBI’s Baltimore field office held the most extensive antiterrorist war room in the nation. It was fifty feet below the building and required an iris scan and an elevator to get there. The room was lined with slim computer monitors ranging from forty to ninety inches long. Each screen displayed a satellite image from different parts of the globe and was monitored twenty-four hours a day by thirty-five information technicians. These technicians sat behind a long, narrow tabletop which extended continuously throughout the entire perimeter of the rectangle room. Each technician had their own laptop computer and moved around the room constantly searching for answers to data received from different field agents.

These technicians worked long hours and sometimes got so lost in their assignments, they would lose track of time and even become disoriented. That’s why the war room was designed to emulate the outdoors. The ceiling displayed a real time image of the sky, piped in from a camera on the roof. When it was raining, the employees saw the rain coming down, when it was sunny out, it was sunny inside the war room. Now it was nighttime and there were stars up above, with a few scattered clouds.

In the center of the room was a round mahogany table with over twenty leather chairs available. Right now the tension in the room had escalated to a new level. Sitting around the table were FBI Director Louis Dutton, CIA Director Kenneth Morris, Defense Secretary Martin Riggs, Secretary of State Samuel Fisk and ASAC Lynn Harding.

Lynn Harding had just finished her brief on the bombing of Sylvio’s. Most people around the table had been in the war room since breakfast so the conversations were becoming more spirited as fatigue set in and patience wore down.

“So tell me what you know about The Russian?” FBI Director Louis Dutton asked the ASAC.

Harding crossed her legs, her pant suit was solemn black and her demeanor even darker. She fished through some notes she’d scribbled down while getting briefed from a European colleague with the MI-6 in London.

“His name is Anton Kalinikov,” she said, scanning her chicken-scratch shorthand. “He’s ex-KGB. Tall. Left-handed.” She looked up. “He’s very capable. No one has ever taken a surveillance image of him while he operated. His last known photo was taken almost twenty years ago.”

“That’s it?” Defense Secretary Martin Riggs asked. “That’s all you have on the guy?”

Harding understood Riggs’s frustration. He was an ex-marine and saw most things as black and white. She looked down at her notepad. “That’s all we know for sure. Everything else is conjecture.”

Harding looked over at CIA Director Ken Morris. The FBI dealt mostly with domestic terrorism while the CIA handled much of the collection of global information. Morris pulled down on his tie and unbuttoned his first shirt button.

“Shit,” Morris said. “I’m still not sure how we came up with The Russian for this stuff. My sources tell me he’s still in the Ukraine.”

Morris looked back to Harding, lobbing the question of shared information into Harding’s lap.

Harding was fine with the volley. Her boss, Walt Jackson, had given her the name without providing a source, which was code for, “Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answers to.”

She took in Morris with an even expression. “Your intelligence is quality-challenged.”

Morris seemed ready to enter attack mode when the chime announcing the elevator’s arrival rang. The doors opened and two secret service agents with navy blue suits entered the room and separated to allow President Merrick to pass between them. He was followed by his press secretary, Fredrick Himes.

Everyone at the table stood up while Merrick immediately waved them down. Himes found a seat on the far end of the table, while Merrick took the chair between Lynn Harding and Louis Dutton. He was the ultimate diplomat, knowing all too well the acrimony between the FBI and CIA when it came to domestic terrorism. The FBI was the leading agency, yet the CIA had most of the overseas resources which could and should anticipate some of the events.

Merrick had his white shirt rolled to his elbows. He placed his hands on the table and looked around at his department heads. His gaze landed on Dutton.

“Well?” Merrick said. “Tell me what we know.”

The FBI Director told him. Hitting on the facts while not including any subjective opinions. Harding was impressed with the report. She couldn’t have done it better herself and she was the one who’d briefed Dutton.

Merrick glanced around, seemingly searching for something. “Where’s Walt?”

“Payson, Arizona, sir,” Dutton replied.

Merrick first nodded, then shook his head. He pointed to the dome-shaped speaker in the center of the table. “Get him on the phone.”

Dutton twisted his head and gestured to a nearby agent who waited for just such requests.

Merrick tapped Harding on the leg as he stood up. “You want some coffee?”

Harding grinned. “That would be great. Just black and a couple of sugars.”

Merrick disappeared into a nearby alcove where the refreshments were kept. He returned a few minutes later with two mugs and handed one to Harding.

“Thanks,” she said. “What are you drinking?”

“It’s a combination of crystal meth and herbal tea.” He smiled. “Except we’re out of crystal meth right now.”

“I know,” Harding said. “I used the last of it this afternoon.”

Walt Jackson’s voice came over the speakerphone and Merrick rubbed his hands together and said, “Now we can proceed.”

It made Harding feel good knowing President Merrick had so much respect for her boss.

“Walt,” Dutton said, “Who’s there with you?”

“Nick and Matt.”

“Evening gentlemen,” President Merrick said.

“Evening, sir” came the two voices.

“Walt, this is Lynn,” Harding said. “You’ve been briefed on Carl?”

“Yes,” Walt said. “What about Mel?”

“It was just confirmed to be Ricin poisoning,” Lynn said somberly. “He won’t make it through the night.”

“Shit,” someone said over the speakerphone, but Harding couldn’t tell whom.

“This is all The Russian?” Merrick asked.

“Yes,” Walt said. “But Barzani’s paying the bill. The KSF has deep pockets. They can offer obscene amounts of money to get people to do his work for him. It’s the reason that Iron Mountain squad was compelled to make an attempt on Nick’s wife.”

President Merrick frowned. “How is she, Nick?”