Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Nick tossed the idea around in his head. If Phil ended up dead he’d gladly throw Kemel Kharrazi to the wolves. If his brother lived it would more than likely be because of Tommy’s help. Either way, he could live with the trade-off. “Okay.”

Nick handed him a blank business card with a handwritten name and phone number on it. “I’m flying to Vegas tonight, but I want you to call this number if you find out anything. It’s the number of an FBI agent in Vegas. He won’t ask questions, just tell him anything you can that might help us track down the limo.”

Tommy placed the card in his pocket, “Done.”

Nick saw the horses approach the starting gate. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got rush hour traffic to deal with.”

“Hey, Nicky,” Tommy said, pointing to the Racing Form. “What about this four horse? I got three large on her nose. You think I should change my bet?”

“Nah,” Nick said, “she’s the only speed in the race. She’s liable to steal it.”

Tommy winked. He loved asking questions he already knew the answer to.

By the time Nick reached the parking lot he could hear the track announcer’s voice rise with excitement as he described the final furlong of the race. The crowd roared as he declared the only filly in the field a wire-to-wire winner.

Nick smiled. Just like riding a bike, he thought.

“Will you look at this beauty,” Matt McColm said, holding up a magazine at arms length. He sat at the window seat while Nick sat on the aisle, an empty seat between them.

Nick gave a furtive glance for spectators, then leaned toward Matt for an eyeful.

“Oh, baby, the places I could take you,” Matt said, his eyes racing up and down the glossy photo.

Nick followed Matt’s stare. He took a long moment examining the image, finally squinting for confirmation. “It’s a gun.”

“That,” Matt said, “is no gun. It’s a Slimline Glock 36. She’s so sleek, she just begs you to wrap your fingers around her.”

Nick rolled his eyes.

While Matt flipped pages of Gun Magazine, Nick sifted through files of terrorists known to have any link to the KSF. He groped for something, anything that might give him a clue why so many of them were spreading themselves across America’s landscape. Why would they appear to be moving in such a diverse pattern? He found himself staring at pictures of Kurdish rebels as if the power of his glare could evoke an answer from them.

The flight was long and the closer they got to Las Vegas, the quieter the conversation became. Both agents readied themselves as the night closed around them and reduced their world to the few dozen people on board the jet. Finally, Nick broke the silence. He held up a surveillance photo of a grizzly looking man with bad teeth and wild eyes. “They should lock this guy up just for taking a picture like this.”

Matt placed his forehead up against the window. Flying west at such a rapid pace extended twilight unnaturally, suppressing nightfall as the plane chased the setting sun. Looking down at a tiny sprinkling of lights covering the Midwest, he said, “It looks so peaceful down there.”

“Why can’t we have that?” Nick asked.

“Have what?”

“A peaceful, uneventful life. Go to work, punch the clock, type up a few reports and drive home. It sounds so calming.”

“You mean boring.”

“Yeah, boring. I like boring.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried it. Boring could be good for you. I hear the survival rate at AT amp;T is very high. A lot less stressful too.”

Matt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s just as much stress working for a big corporation as there is with the Bureau. Just a different type of stress, that’s all.”

“You’re probably on to something there,” Nick mused.

“Besides,” Matt said, “you had it a lot worse when you were trolling West Baltimore in a cruiser five nights a week.”

Nick knew he was right, of course. He wondered if he would find the world so pressing if he were a bank teller or a teacher, like Julie. Her concerns must seem just as disturbing to her, yet she rarely showed it. Apparently it wasn’t the profession so much as the professional. He looked over at Matt, who was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed. The picture of serenity. He respected Matt’s composure. He was cool, placid, skillfully poised.

As if Matt felt the weight of Nick’s stare, he said, “I know what they’re doing.”

“Who?”

“The Kurds,” Matt said, head back, hands folded on his lap.

“Tell me about it.”

“Obviously they’re planning a bombing. That’s why it’s so important for them to spring Rashid. He’s the best bomb expert they have. Probably the best in the world. They’re inundating us with enough riff-raff so we can’t cover them all. My guess is, most of them are decoys. Spread us thin so we can’t possibly give them the attention they deserve. A good tactic.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “And all this time I thought you were focusing on your next trip to the shooting range.”

“Hey, I’m not just another pretty face.”

Nick considered the theory. “Then why take my brother? You think Jackson’s right? You think it’s personal?”

“I don’t know. That part bothers me. There are too many other options that make more sense.”

Nick continued studying files until he became weary. He lay back and rested his eyes. It seemed like only a moment had passed before he awoke abruptly to the bouncing of clear air turbulence and the whining of landing gear deployment. When he looked out the window he saw the lights from the Vegas strip disrupting the Nevada sky like a neon bonfire.

Nick placed the documents into his portfolio and tucked it under his arm. He noticed Matt tapping his heel as he edged forward in his seat.

“Showtime,” Matt said.

It was a smooth landing and as the aircraft taxied to the gate, it stopped momentarily to allow another plane to pass. As he sat there on the tarmac, Nick saw people moving inside the terminal. The gate had a bay window that jutted out toward the runway. He fixed his stare at a familiar face in the crowd. His eyes narrowed to a slit. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone waiting for them. Anxiously, he shuffled through photos from the files he’d been reviewing. He pulled one from a file marked “classified” and examined it closely. When he peered back into the gate crowd, the man was gone.

Matt saw the grim expression on his partner’s face. “What is it?” he asked.

“Probably nothing,” Nick said.

* * *

Abdullah Amin Shah waited impatiently for the plane to arrive. He had purchased a ticket for a departing flight to have access to the gate. The flinty plastic knife, razor sharp, jabbed him from under his coat, reminding him just how lethal his assignment was. He leaned against the wall where the passengers deplaned. He only needed a moment to recognize the FBI agent. His face was burned into his memory, Kemel Kharrazi had made certain of that. He would surprise the FBI agent from behind and slit his throat to the bone. After that, it didn’t matter if he were caught. He would have accomplished his mission.

The agent, Nick Bracco, posed a problem for Kharrazi. It was not good to have an American law officer with strong convictions in Kharrazi’s path. Especially an extremely clever one. Especially now.

Kharrazi spoke of revenge, eye for an eye. He claimed that Bracco had to pay for what he did to Rashid, but Abdullah knew better. For the first time in all the years he’d known Kharrazi, he sensed fear. Something about the American bothered Kharrazi. That’s why Abdullah was at the airport with an undetectable knife waiting to slit Bracco’s throat.