Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Kharrazi scanned the parking lot. It was vacant. A couple of men stood in front of a hanger across the runway, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, engaged in conversation. The airfield was chosen carefully. Even though it was scarcely used, it was only forty minutes from Ronald Reagan airport, which was certain to be infested with federal agents.

“So, Mr. Henning, what brings you to Maryland?” the woman asked, still scanning her computer screen.

“Business,” Kharrazi said.

“Business? How come so far away from the metropolitan area?”

Kharrazi grew irritable at the line of questioning, but he could see that she was making the silence between them go away. This was something that Americans were known for-their trivial conversations. The weather, sports, traffic, all harmless topics that Americans were compelled to whittle away their lives talking about.

He smiled. “I sell custom boats. Most of my customers live here at the south end of the bay.”

This seemed to satisfy the woman’s curiosity, which coincided with the end of her search. “Here you go, Mr. Henning,” she handed Kharrazi a folded pamphlet and a set of keys. “Just go through that door and hang a left. Your rental car is the third one in, the green Taurus. Just bring it back tomorrow with a full tank and leave the keys in the ignition.”

Kharrazi thanked the woman and hurried towards the men’s room, where he adjusted his padding. After he was rearranged, he found his car and left the complex. There was no need for a map since Kharrazi had the route committed to memory. Once he reached the D.C. area, he would call upon his college days at Georgetown to assist his recollection of the district.

He switched the radio to an all-news station, where he heard an aggressive dialog between a journalist and a civilian caller. The caller wanted the President impeached and the journalist countered with talk of rounding up all non-American civilians from the Middle East. Kharrazi was fascinated with the grouping of all Middle-Eastern countries into one giant alliance. As if Iraq, Israel, Lebanon and Turkey all shared the same doctrine.

At the top of the hour, a newscaster spoke of late-breaking news from the White House. Apparently President Merrick had addressed the nation earlier that morning and made reference to an informer who volunteered valuable information about the terrorist behind the bombings. Kharrazi turned up the volume and listened as the announcer confirmed a Washington Post report that the informer was a relative of Kharrazi’s who lived in the Washington D.C. area.

Kharrazi slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Malik, the old fool! He tried to recall how much information his uncle could have known. How much did his mother know about his mission? He saw a sign directing Washington D.C. traffic to the left lane. He was disgusted with his meddling family and was determined to tie up any loose ends. Just then a large sport utility vehicle passed his Taurus on the passenger side and he caught the driver spying on him. Kharrazi realized that the driver was reacting to his temper tantrum and he forced a benevolent smile. The driver became uninterested and quickly moved ahead.

Kharrazi steered the car into the left lane and drove toward the nation’s capital with an entirely new agenda.

* * *

Nick sat at his desk at the Baltimore Field Office clicking the mouse on different files on his computer screen. He’d been navigating through the maze of information in a slow methodical manner for the past two hours. In the top left hand corner of the screen were the names of every Kurd who had applied for a visa over the past year. The right side ran a program called Linksgate. It cross-referenced every possible connection between the names on his computer screen and any KSF sympathizers. As the individual names were linked to a possible association, they were highlighted. Once highlighted, Nick would click on the name and instantly identify the connection. Some were weak, like Assad Jihed, who went to school with a KSF member fifteen years earlier. Yet other connections made him feel that the CIA had dropped the ball. There were twelve eavesdropping and surveillance satellites continuously inundating the CIA with information without the proper manpower to keep up. They routinely intercepted two million phone calls, E-mails, and faxes daily, only to decipher the information months and sometimes years later.

He was sifting through Rashid Baser’s file when the intercom beeped on his phone.

“Nick?” a woman’s voice said.

“Yes, Muriel.”

“Fourteen thirty-two is for you. It’s Julie.”

“Thanks,” he said, then pushed a button and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Sweetie.”

“Nick I’m down here at Johns Hopkins. I think you’d better come.”

Nick jumped from his seat. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s Tommy, he’s. . well, he’s in intensive care.”

“What happened?”

“He was a victim of the bombings. He’s not doing very well. There might not be much time.”

“I’m on my way.” Nick hung up the phone and found Matt slapping the side of a printer trying to get it to print. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where to?”

“The hospital. They got Tommy.”

Johns Hopkins contained Maryland’s only regional burn center. Nick could sense the competence of its professionals the moment he entered the hundred-year-old building. He approached the information desk and introduced himself to an older woman. The woman pointed to a room with a narrow slit of a window in the door. “They’re all in there.”

The room appeared to be a waiting area. “You don’t understand, I’m family,” Nick flipped open his FBI credentials as if this would be the magic pass to his cousin.

The woman had a peculiar expression that held concern and curiosity. “Exactly how many family members-” she stopped herself. “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman frowned. “The staff is doing the best they can. I’ve already notified the doctor and as soon as he is available he promised to meet with you and all of your family.” Again she pointed to the room.

“All of my family? How many family members are we talking about?”

The woman took an exasperating breath. “A lot.”

Nick opened the door slowly to avoid hitting anyone in the crowded room. The small room was intended for intimate conversations between doctors and family members of patients undergoing surgery. The architect didn’t have Tommy Bracco’s family in mind when he drew up the blueprints. Nick found Julie sitting in a corner with his Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth, who was openly sobbing. Julie rubbed Ruth’s back while Victor carried on a conversation with Don Silkari.

Nick crouched down to his aunt’s eye level, “I’m sorry, Ruth,” he said, taking her hand into his. He looked at Julie, “What do you know?”

Julie shrugged. “Nothing. The doctors are still working on him.”

Nick said, “Ruth, there couldn’t be a better place for Tommy to be right now. These guys are the best in the world at this kind of stuff. Have hope.”

“Hope?” His Uncle Victor flicked the back of his hand from under his chin. “There’s your stinking hope. They better not take these terrorists to trial, because I’ll be outside with my Remington. They’ll never see the inside of a courthouse. I’m telling you right now, Nicky, it ain’t ever happening in a courtroom.”

Nick allowed his uncle to vent. There was no sense trying to calm him down, especially when Nick felt exactly the same as Victor.

Silk made eye contact with Nick and anger flashed across their eyes like lightening bouncing between two mirrors.

“Victor,” Nick said, “I’ll make this right.”

“How are you going to do that? You gonna bring my boy back to me?” Cause if you can’t do that, then you can’t make it right.” Victor’s lips twitched. His mouth acted like it wanted to continue, but his heart seemed too damaged for the job.