Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

The agent slowed slightly as he turned the corner, but he obviously expected Bali to be in a full sprint. By the time his momentum took him past the fence line it was too late. Bali was waiting for him, arms outstretched, gun trained on the man. The soundless picture added a creepy element to the inevitable shooting. The agent tried desperately to get down, but Bali was too quick. When the agent hit the ground he was already immobile. Bali moved closer. Someone shouted, “Let him be.” But Bali was ruthless. Even with the police car approaching, and maybe because the cruiser approached, Bali edged to within three feet of the fallen agent. He pointed his gun down at the man’s head.

Nick cupped his hand over his eyes. He heard the groans, first from the men around him, then from all four corners of the underground bunker.

Riggs slammed his fist onto the oak table and the War Room turned deathly still. The whir of the computers filled the silence as analysts found their way back to their desks, and their seemingly futile assignments.

Nick looked up in time to see Bali hopping over a fence. Eventually, Bali would be caught, or more likely, killed-but not until he took as many lives as possible; none more important to the agents in the War Room than the man who lay motionless on the ground. The police car finally reached the agent and the officer jumped from the vehicle and ran to the fallen agent. The satellite camera focused back on Bali who jerked open a side entrance door to a large office complex. Screeching police cars suddenly surrounded the building. It was only a matter of time, but Nick knew that nothing good would happen inside of that building. Bali killed one of their own. He would never be allowed to leave the structure alive.

Nick waited for Riggs to resume his questioning about the identity of his informant. Instead, Riggs placed a hand over his mouth and slowly rubbed, as if he was measuring the precise amount of stubble his face could sprout after pulling an all-nighter. He appraised everyone at the table, eventually settling on Nick.

“Payson, huh?” Riggs said. He circled the small town on the map with his pencil, then looked at Jackson. “Now, we can go in heavy or go in silent. Which do you think would be more effective?”

To his credit, Jackson blew by the informant issue at light speed, “With such a short window I think silent might be more effective. If we go bullying our way into such a small arena, the KSF will hear us coming and dig in. Maybe even detonate the missiles early.”

Riggs nodded his head. “That’s right. If they think they’re secure, they’re more likely to make a mistake. Maybe even get a little careless.”

The Chief of Staff seemed unable to restrain himself. “What are you talking about? Are you saying that we don’t send every available resource to that town immediately? That’s insane.”

Riggs did something that brought a huge grin to Matt McColm’s face. He turned to Jackson and continued the discussion unabated. “We send a small, tactical team of agents. Nick’s team. Have them work with the local Sheriff’s Department-with plainclothes.” He looked at his watch. “If we hustle we can get the team on the ground in five hours. That puts them there by three o’clock Pacific time, and gives them six hours to find Kharrazi’s headquarters.” He made straight lines across every road that passed through Payson. “In the meantime, set up roadblocks, here, here and here. If we don’t succeed in finding them tonight, then we can always have ground troops there by morning.”

Jackson took the map and pushed a button on his transmitter. A minute later, he was speaking with a deputy in the Gila County Sheriffs Department in Payson, Arizona.

Hatfield shook a fist at Riggs. “Listen here, Martin, I’m not telling the president that we know where they are, but we’re going to be clandestine about it. We should get the media involved, have them broadcast that reward money promo all over the networks. We’ll get information, fast. Send in the damn military now for crying out loud.”

Riggs glared at Hatfield’s fist and it melted to the table like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Riggs scrolled his eyes right up into the Chief of Staff’s face. “You can tell the president that we’re doing our jobs to the best of our ability. With all of the years of experience putting our lives on the line defending our nation from domestic and foreign enemies, we feel that this tactic has the best chance to succeed. Unless you have some law enforcement training, or military service in your background that I’m not familiar with-we’re not taking any requests.”

Hatfield pursed his lips, but stopped there. Nick could see the frustration in Hatfield’s face. Riggs knew that Hatfield was a former corporate attorney, who stepped in a pile of good fortune by marrying President Merrick’s sister back when he was still a senator in Indiana. Still, Hatfield could make everyone’s life miserable, adding pressure from the executive branch that no one wanted to deal with. He sat back in his seat with a childish frown on his face. With one final act of misguided authority, he said, “Proceed.”

Riggs stood at attention. He pointed to Nick, then Matt. “You two need to get going. Gather the team and head down to Dulles. There will be a Defense Department plane waiting for you. My plane.” He looked at Jackson almost as an afterthought. “That okay with you, Walt?”

Jackson nodded. “Of course. They’re our best assets.”

Riggs looked at Hatfield, who sat rigid, attempting to appear important. Riggs said “Don’t you have some shoes to shine or something?”

For a moment Nick thought Matt might stick his tongue out at Hatfield. Instead, he motioned to the door and said to Nick. “Let’s go.”

Nihad Tansu entered the hospital wearing green surgical scrubs and a stethoscope draped around his neck. He strode into the lobby with a confident swagger and leaned over the half-circle reception desk, both hands on the white countertop. “I’m Doctor Marshall,” he announced to the white-haired woman sitting behind the desk. He managed to transform his Kurdish accent into a Latin-flavored mixture of Italian and Greek. Just enough to add mystery without being mysterious. “I was called down to see a new patient-Julie Bracco. Could you please direct me to her room?”

The woman scrolled a finger down a laminated sheet of paper hanging from the upper portion of the countertop. “Dr. Marshall?” she said, curiously. “I’m sorry, I’ve never seen your name before. Do you have privileges here?”

Tansu smiled. “Of course, it’s just that I only moved here a couple of days ago and the administrator hasn’t gotten around to adding me to the roster yet.”

The woman nodded her head, but continued to follow her finger up and down the sheet, even turning it over to scan names posted on the opposite side. “I see,” she said.

“I’m a plastic surgeon,” he said. “I’m only here to meet the patient and confer with Dr. Williams about her case.”

With the introduction of Dr. Williams name, the woman seemed to perk up. “Oh,” she said, “well, yes. Dr. Williams just operated on her last night. Poor thing, got a bullet right in the back of the head.” She pointed for effect.

Tansu cringed, but not for the same reason the woman thought it was for. He grimaced at the knowledge that Julie Bracco had somehow survived his gunshot. “Ouch,” he said. “That’s not good.”

The woman looked at him. “But, you must know all about it already?”

He froze.

“I mean if you’ve spoken with Dr. Williams already.”

“Actually,” Tansu breathed relief, “I only received a voice mail from him. He just told me to meet him here at ten-thirty.”