Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

“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.”