Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Revenge

“Professional what? Murderer? Those men you killed were loyal followers of your corrupted schemes. They had brothers and sisters and wives and children back home.”

“You know nothing about my home or you would have convinced the President to back out of Kurdistan already. We would have secured a place for our people to call their own by now. Instead, your meddling government has decided to play the watchdog for the world’s troubles. It is not your planet to control, Agent Bracco, so do not question my tactics when it comes to the security of my homeland.”

“Fuck you, Barzani. I don’t give a crap about your homeland or your pathetic struggles with the Turkish government. The first sign of a dispute, you pick up a gun. That’s your answer to everything. All I care about is my homeland. So get the fuck out of my backyard or I’ll rip that gun from your hand and shove it down your throat.”

There was silence for a moment, then Barzani said in a low, controlled voice. “It’s not a gun I have in my hand. It’s a detonator.”

Nick felt a sense of helplessness come over him. He had no leverage at all with Barzani and although spewing empty threats might lower his blood pressure, it would do nothing to help save the country from disaster. In fact, it might even accelerate it.

He was about to say something when Barzani said, “Good luck, Agent Bracco.”

Nick put the phone away and watched his world glow with flames, flashing lights and fire hoses. He had eighteen hours to capture a terrorist who had six months to prepare for this moment. And he had a Russian assassin zeroing in on him as well. He wanted to go home to hug his wife and tell her everything was going to be okay, but for the first time in his life-he didn’t think he’d live long enough to tell her that lie.

President Merrick started his morning as he did most, sitting on the couch in the Oval Office with his tablet computer in his lap. He’d just cleared up his e-mail messages when the door opened without a knock.

“Hey, Tiger,” Merrick said with a grin.

Samuel Fisk sat on the couch across from Merrick and began pouring his coffee while making a plate out of the fruit and miniature muffins sitting on the coffee table between them.

Merrick scrolled across his CIA briefing without finding anything of consequence.

“Any word from the War Room yet?” Fisk asked, while stirring his coffee.

“Not yet.”

“You get any sleep last night?”

“Nope. I spoke with four new widows and a life partner. I’m getting tired of apologizing.”

Fisk seemed to want to say something, then stopped. He slid the Washington Post on the table toward him and examined the headlines.

“It happened too late to make the paper,” Merrick said while watching video of an overnight bombing campaign in southern Zimbabwe.

While still scanning the newspaper, Fisk asked, “Is the final draft done?”

“Somewhat. I’m having the group in the basement look it over for any language issues.”

“Can I see it?” Fisk said.

Merrick nodded, then pushed the print button on his screen. He pointed to the printer behind him as the hum of the machine purred to life. “It’s coming up right now.”

Fisk went over to the printer and pulled a few pages from the unit.

There was a knock on the door and Press Secretary Fredrick Himes poked his head inside.

“Sir?” Himes said. “The Prime Minister will be able to join you for an early lunch before he leaves. Around ten-thirty.”

“That’s fine,” Merrick said, shaking his head as the door closed. “It’s all Turkey, all of the time around here,” Merrick added to no one but Fisk.

The Secretary of State returned to the couch and took a sip of coffee while reading a copy of Merrick’s speech for that evening.

“Well?” Merrick said.

Fisk didn’t look up. “So far, so good.”

“Stop, you’re going to make me blush.”

Fisk put the papers down on his lap and looked out the window. “I don’t know how we’re going to stop this disaster from happening, John.”

Merrick placed his tablet on the coffee table and leaned forward. “Walt has me convinced it’s not the nuclear power plant, so they’re fortifying Hoover Dam.”

“Did you hear, they ran all the data through the computer last night,” Fisk said. “Everything. Barzani’s history, his men’s experience, their past missions, their tendencies.”

“And?”

“The computer came up with Hoover Dam as well,” Fisk said.

“What does Nick think?”

“He’s on board. Stevie Gilpin, their techie, came up with chlorine in some of the terrorist’s shoes, so they think it’s from moisture near the dam.”

A female voice came over the round speakerphone built into the coffee table. “The War Room is ready for you, Sir.”

“Put them through, Rose.”

A moment later, the speakerphone came to life with a series of background noises, mostly low voices and key taps from computer terminals.

“Mr. President,” came the voice of CIA Director Ken Morris, “we’re ready.”

“Good,” Merrick said. “Can anybody explain to me what happened last night in Payson?”

Two voices battled for the response, one male, one female.

“Lynn?” Merrick said. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” Lynn Harding answered.

“Will you answer my question please?”

“Of course. First of all, Barzani is still alive. The moment our team stormed their safe house, the bomb was detonated. At first there was some confusion as to how and why, but Nick and Matt figured out pretty quick that Barzani was the one who destroyed the place.”

“Do they know why?”

“The feeling is, Barzani knew his crew was overmatched and decided to make sure there was no one around to give up his plans.”

“Which are?”

There was an awkward silence as Merrick imagined different department heads pointing to each other.

Finally, Harding admitted, “We don’t know.”

“So we’re guessing Hoover Dam?” Merrick said, disgusted.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are there any other targets we should be pursuing?” Merrick asked.

“Very little. That part of the country is spread out so without a nuclear device, it’s hard to mount any major population fatalities.”

“And you’re certain they do not have a nuclear device?”

“Yes, Sir. That much we are certain of, they do not have a nuclear device.”

Merrick sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. He was relieved and infuriated all at once. “What about the profilers? What do they have to say?”

Harding hesitated. “Well, Sir, they’re suggesting Barzani has a chip on his shoulder. They feel he wants revenge for what happened to Kemel Kharrazi and he won’t stop until he gets it.”

Fisk sat there with his coffee in his left hand and scribbling notes with his right. When there was a lull in the conversation, he glanced at his notes and said, “Tell me about overnight troop movement in Turkey.”

Now there was no hesitation. The CIA was the lead department of the overseas activities, so it was CIA Director Ken Morris who spoke up.

“There’s been troop movement away from Kurdistan,” Morris said. “The government troops seem to be moving out and securing the perimeter.”

“And what does that mean?” Merrick asked out loud while looking at Fisk.

His Secretary of State seemed satisfied to let the team in the War Room answer.

“It means one of two things,” Morris said. “Either Prime Minister Budarry is offering you an olive branch while he’s your guest at the White House …”

“Or?”

“Or, the ground troops could be leaving Kurdistan to prepare for major air strikes and they want to be out of harm’s way.”