Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Now Merrick stood over a golf ball, his hands duplicating his brother’s position on the putter. With memories of his brother resurfacing, he stared intently at the ball as if he might see his brother’s face when his head came up. He didn’t. Instead he saw the stern expression of his Chief of Staff, William Hatfield sitting on a leather chair scrolling down the screen on his laptop.

Situated in various chairs and sofas fronting Merrick’s desk were five of Merrick’s aides who’d pulled an all-nighter with him collecting data and discussing options. A tray of cut fruit and vegetables sat on a coffee table in the middle of the room. Secretary of State Samuel Fisk interrupted his pacing to take a celery stick and nervously chew it to down his fingertips. Fisk had the longest running relationship with Merrick, going back to eighth grade, and he always had the last word on serious issues. Everyone in the room knew this, so Merrick would sometimes catch his staff addressing Fisk instead of him. This was of no concern to him. Merrick was as no nonsense as they came, and everyone who worked for him understood his loyalties. The Presidency was one of the few occupations where cronyism was not only allowed, but practically a necessity. Merrick surrounded himself with people he trusted and in return, his people trusted him.

Standing behind Hatfield and looking over his shoulder, Press Secretary Fredrick Himes craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the overnight polls.

Hatfield scrolled down the computer screen with his index finger. “Do you want the bad news, John, or the worse news?”

“Just give it to me, Bill.” Merrick hunched over the putter, eyeing the golf ball.

“Your approval rating has dropped again. It’s down from forty-three to thirty-nine per cent.”

Merrick felt the room tighten up. A lame duck president not only lost the support of his political constituents, but could indelibly tarnish a staff member’s career. The captain might go down with the ship, but the crew didn’t escape unscathed.

Hatfield scrolled further until he found what he was looking for. “When asked whether the President was handling the KSF attacks properly, sixty-five per cent said no. Only twenty-five per cent said yes. Ten per cent were undecided.”

Merrick looked up at the faces before him. They were long, tired and confused. They’d spent the past week performing masterful acts of damage control and it seemed to be paying little dividends.

Hatfield said, “Then there’s the people who were asked whether-”

“That’s enough,” Merrick announced. He didn’t need to hear any more, especially from his Chief of Staff, who was the White House’s version of Chicken Little. Hatfield was a good, loyal man, but the pressure associated with the everyday dealings of a sitting president was becoming too much for the man. Nobody wanted to hear bad news from the panic-stricken voice of Bill Hatfield.

Merrick leaned the putter against the wall and walked to the front of his desk. “I want to remind all of you, this is not a permanent condition. We will ultimately succeed in finding Kharrazi and we will put a stop to the bombings, and our approval rating will go up.”

This inspired a few nods of sympathetic agreement. Merrick could sense the disingenuous consent to his appraisal and wondered how long he had before he’d lost even his own staff.

“Sir,” Press Secretary Himes said, “if you don’t mind me asking-how close are we to accomplishing our goals?”

This, of course, was the real question. Merrick could tell a story and buy an extra day or two, but eventually it would come back to bite him. He knew better than to fabricate scenarios that didn’t exist. He received confidential information from the FBI three or four times a day, and each briefing was more frustrating than the last. Apparently, Kharrazi had cultivated a team of Kurds whose only purpose was to act suspicious enough to be brought in for questioning. Hundreds of decoys were sent out into the streets of America asking hardware storeowners for large amounts of fuses and other curious materials. They would linger long enough for the clerk to contact the FBI and get themselves dragged into custody without any possibility of furnishing information about Kharrazi. It cost the Bureau precious man-hours of investigative time, which they desperately needed.

“Fredrick, I’ll have a full report available to you for the three o’clock press conference. I’ll know more when I get my briefing from the Bureau this morning.” He gave Himes a trust me look, but his clout was wearing thin and he knew it.

Merrick pointed to his Defense Secretary, Martin Riggs, “Marty, what about that other option?”

This drew some few flinches in the room. It was the option that no one wanted to consider. The eight hundred pound gorilla that sat on Merrick’s desk in the form of an order to withdraw troops from Turkey.

Martin Riggs was an ex-marine, ex-CIA, and exceptional at finding a middle ground in almost every situation. He knew the terrors of war intimately and Merrick took him on as Defense Secretary for that very reason. Merrick wanted someone who understood the consequences of combat, and therefore would be more agreeable to alternatives. Riggs wasn’t afraid of confrontation, just aware of the costs.

“Sir,” Riggs said, dropping a clipboard onto the coffee table and leaning over, elbows on his knees. “We’re prepared to release military footage from Turkey showing Turkish Security Forces in Kalar raising the Turkish Flag and shouting cheers as they pump their guns into the air. Kalar was the Kurds last stronghold and this should be enough evidence to show that the United States is no longer needed. It could allow us the dignity to leave on our own terms, without pressure from the KSF.”

“Bullshit,” came a voice from the back of the room.

Merrick saw Samuel Fisk shaking his head, looking down at the wood floor. “Sam,” Merrick said, “you think the public will buy it?”

“Fuck no-would you?” Sam snorted.

Merrick laughed for the first time in so long that his cheeks hurt from the unused muscles. “You shouldn’t pull any punches, Sam.”

Fisk muttered a few words under his breath and returned to a contemplative posture.

Merrick tugged down on his tie and pulled a melon ball out of a crystal bowl with a frilled toothpick. Before he finished chewing, he said, “Marty, thanks for the report.”

The intercom buzzed to life and Merrick’s secretary said, “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President. Nick Bracco is on the line. He says it’s urgent that he speak with Mr. Fisk right away.”

“Put him through on the speaker phone, Hanna,” Merrick said.

There was a pause. “Uh. . Mr. President, Mr. Bracco insists that it is for Mr. Fisk’s ears only.”

Merrick raised an eyebrow at Fisk. They both understood the move. Bracco obviously had information that flirted with unethical, immoral or illegal operations and he wanted to allow the president deniability. Merrick waved a hand at Fisk and watched him hurry out of the room.

Defense Secretary Martin Riggs stood, retrieved his charcoal gray jacket from the brass coat rack and slipped it on. “Mr. President, I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in twenty minutes. Which of these options do you prefer we discuss?”

Any large-scale military action attempting to wipe out the KSF within the United States would end badly and Merrick knew it. He felt as if his body was crawling with poisonous ants and he needed to suppress the urge to stab them with a knife.

Merrick frowned. “Marty, I want you to tell the Chiefs we’re not leaving Turkey. Not today, not tomorrow, not as long as we’re being blackmailed by Kharrazi. Tell them I want more options. I don’t like the corner we’re in, and I want out.”