Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Kharrazi knew that Mustafa was a hot head, so it didn’t surprise him when his Baltimore crew was arrested last night and that Mustafa was the only one who ended up dead. He realized that an officer of the law must have gotten to Mustafa, and shot him after he became an unproductive suspect.

Satisfied, Kharrazi browsed further and tingled with excitement when he came to the story of Tansu’s deadly visit to the Bracco residence. The story confirmed the death of an FBI agent, but fell short of declaring Julie Bracco dead. It simply stated that she was at Johns Hopkins in critical condition. His grip on the paper tightened as he considered the possibility of Nick Bracco’s wife surviving an encounter with one of his best soldiers. He read the story again and began to fume.

He stood, hunched over, and shuffled to the back of the plane, where he pushed a button on one of the four cell phones that he would use just once, then dispose of after the flight.

“Yes,” a voice said.

“You told me that you were successful,” Kharrazi seethed in a low boil of a voice.

“I was.”

“Then why am I not reading about it this morning? I am leaving now, I have to ignite our operation, or I would deal with you personally.”

“Sarock. .uh. . we are being tricked. There is no other explanation. I am certain of the shot. .I hit her directly in the back of her-”

“Enough already. I want you to check and make sure there is no doubt. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sarock.”

Kharrazi clicked off the phone and returned to his seat. The pilot was holding a hand to his headset as if he was receiving an incoming transmission. He turned to Kharrazi and said, “Mr. Henning?”

Kharrazi leaned forward. “Yes.”

“Airport security needs to speak with you.”

Kharrazi mentally became aware of his hidden weapons, tucked inside of his padded torso. “What is the problem?”

The pilot continued touching dials and flicking switches on the instrument panel in a practiced manner. “Just routine, they’re required to ask you a couple of standard questions before we take off. It will only take a few minutes and we’ll be on our way.”

Kharrazi looked at his watch. “But I have a very important meeting to make. That is why I chose to charter, rather than fly commercially. I was guaranteed to be on time.”

Now the pilot took a moment to look at Kharrazi. In his reluctance to speak with security, Kharrazi could see a spark of suspicion flicker in the pilot’s eye. “Mr. Henning, it will only take a few minutes and I promise I can make it up in the air.”

Kharrazi slowly came to his feet. “Of course, of course,” he said, hobbling toward the exit. He kept his peripheral vision on the pilot and noticed him return his attention to his clipboard.

When he entered the small building, a man in a blue uniform was waiting for him. He wore patches that reminded Kharrazi of Boy Scout accomplishments and he showed no signs of owning a gun. The only other person visible was the same young woman who checked him in the day before. She stood behind the counter and looked busy. The only thing sitting on the counter was a single computer terminal, and there was a metal file cabinet with just two drawers behind her. The place was so sparse, it looked like they were moving out in a couple of hours.

“Mr. Henning?” the slightly graying man asked.

Kharrazi shuffled toward the man with an outstretched hand. “Walter Henning. How can I help you?”

“Max Reynolds,” the man said, clasping hands with Kharrazi. “I just have a few routine questions to ask. You know we’re all at a heightened state of security ever since those KSF cowards began bombing our citizens. Those spineless bastards.” He looked at the girl behind the counter. “Sorry, Tina. Pardon my French.”

Reynolds couldn’t see Kharrazi clench his teeth; he was busy writing on a notepad.

“Mr. Henning-”

“Please, call me Walter.”

“Of course, Walter.” He wrote Kharrazi’s fake name at the top of the form. “Where exactly are you traveling to today?”

“Payson, Arizona.”

“Payson? What a coincidence, I’m from Phoenix myself.”

Kharrazi forced a smile. “Small world.”

Reynolds took his pen and pointed to the plane idling outside. “Does Payson have an airfield long enough for a small jet like that?”

“Just barely.”

Reynolds nodded, thoughtfully. “Anyway, how long was your stay in Maryland?”

“Just overnight. I had a quick sales call.”

Reynolds wrote on his pad as he spoke. “What kind of sales?”

“I work for a custom boat builder.”

“Really?” Reynolds looked up with a smile. “Which company?”

“A small firm out of Payson.”

Reynolds held his eyebrows up and Kharrazi realized that he was expecting a name.

“Klein Brothers,” Kharrazi came up with.

“Never heard of them.”

“It’s a small family company,” Kharrazi said with an understanding lilt to his voice.

“I see,” Reynolds had his head down, scribbling on his form. Kharrazi used every muscle in his face to read what Reynolds was writing, but either the man was being deliberately discreet, or Kharrazi was trying too hard at the art of subtlety.

Reynolds broke off the writing and acted like he’d forgotten something important. “Do you have any children?"

“Yes, two. Twelve and fourteen.”

Reynolds shook his head. “Teenagers. I don’t envy you.”

Kharrazi had forgotten about his disguise. He must have looked a bit old for teenagers. He knew that the more questions asked, the more chance there was for a mistake.

“Are we almost done?” Kharrazi asked, turning his body toward the door.

“Almost, Mr. Hen-” he stopped himself, then gave an overly thick smile. “I mean, Walter.”

The man was either trying to be smooth or he was genuinely a nice person. Kharrazi couldn’t tell which, but either way he was running short on patience.

Reynolds placed the tip of his pencil on top of a row of boxes to the left of some sentences on his form, ready to check them off. “Did you pack your own luggage today?”

“Yes.”

“Has anyone had possession of your luggage after being packed?”

“No.”

“Has anyone asked you to transport any items for them?”

“No.”

Each time Kharrazi answered a question, Reynolds checked a box with his pencil.

“Have you come in contact with anyone who’s asked peculiar questions about airline security?”

Kharrazi scowled. “You mean besides you?”

Reynolds looked up. “That’s good, Walter.” Then pointing the pencil at Kharrazi, he said, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

The security guard peeked down at his form and said, “Last question. Are you carrying anything on board the plane that could be construed as dangerous?”

Reynolds stared at Kharrazi like a biological lie detector. Kharrazi did his best not to flinch, but the question took him off guard.

“No,” Kharrazi’s voice jumped at the word. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Reynold’s stare lingered a moment before he looked down at his form and checked off the last question. But it wasn’t the usual check mark. This time the man circled the box instead of checking it. It was the only time he’d done that. Finally, after an uncomfortable gap in the conversation, Reynolds placed the pad behind his back and said. “That’s all, Walter. You’re free to go. Have a safe trip.”

Kharrazi hesitated a moment, wondering what had just happened there. He turned to leave and when he placed his hand on the handle to the glass door, he heard Reynolds over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, Walter, has that new high school on Ponderosa been built yet?”