Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Huseyn prayed for Kharrazi to say something, but his leader simply stalked the cellar where they assembled and listened to Huseyn explain his ordeal. Huseyn didn’t dare delve too deeply into the explanation of his exit from their safe house. It was one thing to run from bullets, yet another to leave a brave KSF soldier behind, dead. He tried to paint his escape as necessary. “I knew that you must learn of this situation. That is why I came here immediately, Sarock.”

Huseyn wiped his brow and studied the smooth cement floor. He thought about the look the FBI agent had given him. The man was walking to his death when he glanced over his shoulder and gave Huseyn a deliberate warning. It was as if the agent knew something and he was trying to caution Huseyn. He was trying to get Huseyn to run off. It had worked.

Kharrazi stopped in front of Huseyn and crouched down, so he was looking up at the man. He spoke to the young soldier as if he were speaking to one of his children, soft and calm. “He told you that his partner was in the refrigerator and somehow you were surprised when he turned up there?”

Huseyn’s body was shuddering so powerfully that he simply willed his torso to remain still and allowed his head to bobble itself into a nod. “Yes, Sarock. The door blinded me from viewing the inside of the machine, but I barely escaped when the shots were fired.”

Kharrazi looked skeptical as he stood and made another pass by the table. “So then, Mr. Bracco is still alive?”

Huseyn remained paralyzed with fear. He could think of nothing to say.

A roomful of muttering soldiers echoed off of the bare concrete walls. He shook his head like a shameful principal and knelt next to Huseyn. Kharrazi’s fingers caressed the young boy’s face and sent icy streaks of panic down Huseyn’s neck. He knew that Kharrazi had the quickness of a leopard, whose hands were capable of tearing his face apart before he could flinch.

“Tell me something,” Kharrazi whispered. The room became still. At first Huseyn thought that fear had caused him to become deaf. He couldn’t hear anything but Kharrazi’s voice. He suddenly realized that even the televisions had been turned down so that every soldier could eavesdrop on the proceedings. “How many rounds did you fire at the agents?”

Huseyn wasn’t prepared for such a refined interrogation. He hadn’t thought through all of the details. How many shots? Why did he want to know? Wasn’t it enough that he was shot at?

“Uh, I think two,” Huseyn hesitated. “It happened so fast, I can’t remember exactly.”

Kharrazi held out his hand. “May I have your gun?”

Crazy thoughts ran through Huseyn’s mind. He couldn’t possibly shoot his way out of the cellar. He considered turning the gun on himself. It would be quick and ease his tension. But a glimmer of hope lingered in his mind. The way Kharrazi was touching him, gently, and speaking so softly. Maybe he had pity for his soldier?

Huseyn removed the gun from his belt strap and with trembling fingers he handed Kharrazi the fully loaded weapon.

Kharrazi didn’t examine the gun. He looked straight into Huseyn’s eyes and seemed to be measuring his reaction while his hands roamed over the exterior of the weapon, searching for any evidence of a recent firing.

A voice from behind them urgently said, “Sarock, the American President is speaking on television.”

Kharrazi didn’t turn right away. He lightly patted Huseyn’s cheek. A momentary reprieve.

The KSF soldiers fell in around their leader and watched as President Merrick announced the imminent capture of Kemel Kharrazi. The raucous crowd of soldiers hollered their disproval at the TV screen, but Kharrazi gestured for them to stop. He listened as the president made false promises to the American people. When the president left the podium, Kharrazi switched off the TV and turned to address his followers.

“This is exactly what I had hoped for,” Kharrazi said. His words stunned the group.

Nihad Tansu elbowed his way to the front and said, “Sarock, they must know something. Maybe we should change our location.”

Kharrazi stared out over the heads of his soldiers, deep in thought. “No, that is what he wants. He’s desperate. He is trying to force us into a mistake.”

“What about the White House?” Tansu asked. “Are we still going to follow the original plan?”

Kharrazi nodded slowly. “Yes, tomorrow night, as planned.”

He pointed to a short bearded soldier to his right, “Jihite, send a fax to the President. Tell them about the bombing of the White House tomorrow night. Also send the same information to the Washington Post, the same reporter as last time. He will have credibility.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Tell them about our plan ahead of time? Is that wise, Sarock?”

Kharrazi seemed amused at his own idea, as if struck by how brilliant it was. “Yes, it’s perfect. It will force the President to remain in the White House. If he leaves now, he will appear as a coward. Besides, it’s too late. They can’t stop the bombing. Especially with our detonator in a bunker three thousand miles away. It’s the perfect plan.”

Nihad Tansu stepped forward, directly into Kharrazi’s path. Kharrazi had to look up at the much taller man. “Yes, Nihad?”

Tansu stood firm, his muscular frame seemed anxious to flex its muscles. “Sarock, allow me to take the White House.”

Kharrazi regarded his soldier with a partial smile. He placed a hand on Tansu’s shoulder, “You make me proud, Nihad. However, I have another chore for you. A more important chore.”

“Sarock, what could be more important?”

Kharrazi folded his arms.

Tansu’s face fell.

“Good,” Kharrazi grinned. “Would you like to know what I have for you?”

Tansu nodded.

“You must kill the wife of this FBI agent. She is very important to him. I want him to lose something as important as our independence is to us. I want him to feel our pain as no one else could.”

Huseyn observed the conversation with eager eyes. He was grateful for the distraction and wondered if his mishap might be forgotten altogether. He watched as the KSF soldiers listened intently to their leader. It was apparent that Kharrazi’s objectives seemed to have become much more personal. He wondered if Kharrazi was simply losing perspective of their overall goals, or just blind with revenge. Either way Huseyn was going to stay quiet and pray for the continued lapse of attention.

Kharrazi met Tansu’s eyes. “This is no trivial task, I assure you. If you succeed, this will take one of the FBI’s finest brains out of commission. Bracco will never be the same man. Once again, one of our small targets will become a significant factor to our success.”

Kharrazi regarded his soldier with an air of wariness. “You will not fail me, will you, Nihad?”

Nihad Tansu appeared to stand taller now. He looked around at the other soldiers, the center of attention. “This woman is already a corpse, Sarock. That much is certain.”

“Good,” Kharrazi smiled. Then the smile faded as he turned and pointed to Huseyn, alone, still sitting at the folding table. “First, get rid of this coward.”

Huseyn became lightheaded and his body lost its ability to hold itself upright. He saw the wicked expression on Tansu’s face and he surrendered to a wave of nausea. There was nothing in his stomach to purge, so he bent his head down and shuddered with his mouth open, gagging on pure fear itself. When he looked up, he saw Tansu over him with his knife gleaming in his hand. “Please,” he begged. “Make it quick.”

Just north of Little Italy in Baltimore on a narrow dead end street, sat a group of abandoned warehouses. To the naked eye they appeared as innocuous as negligent businesses harboring a tax write-off. To a select few in the FBI, they were known as ten acres of training ground for new recruits. On select occasions it became a perfect meeting place for the seedier activities of the Bureau. Whenever an informant had information to exchange and couldn’t afford to be seen strolling through the front door of the FBI building, or sharing a booth in a local restaurant with a man in a blue suit, the warehouse district was used.