Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Once out of the refrigeration unit, Tansu explored the rest of the supply room. Tansu wondered why the large windowless room was so dim for a hospital. He was searching for a switch to illuminate the overhead fluorescent lights, when he found the shelf that contained the scalpels. He looked at the side of the boxes, which displayed an actual life size illustration of the blade for the various scalpels. He now understood why the old man found it curious that Tansu simply asked for a big scalpel. Each scalpel had a numerical value for the type of blade that it contained. Tansu assumed that a physician would always request a specific numbered scalpel depending on their needs. The old man must have sensed something was wrong right away.

Tansu had spent countless hours over the past months practicing his English. He didn’t, however, know very much about medicine. He pulled a scalpel from a box marked with a number 11 blade. He unwrapped the plastic sheath that kept the product sterile. He examined the blade, gently tracing it across the palm of his hand. It was sharp, but too pointed to cut long deep lacerations. He put it back, then pulled one from a box marked with a number 15 blade. This was what he was looking for. The blade was sharp, but beveled. This was the kind of blade that could slice a neck right down to the bone. He put two of them into his pocket and smiled. I’m on my way, Mrs. Bracco. Enjoy your last few breaths.

President Merrick sat on a sofa down in the bunker fifty feet below the White House. Even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, his lead secret service agent began quoting statutes about his authority to protect the President of the United States. He had actually convinced Merrick that he could, and would, physically escort Merrick to the bunker himself if necessary. Merrick didn’t see the need to dig in on that point, so he settled in at his new command post. Everything he needed to run the country was right there with him. Technology would allow him to be in constant contact with every branch of military, FBI, NSA and CIA.

The bunker had an unusual brightness to it, as if the windowless basement was trying to make up for its absence of sunlight. Overhead fluorescent lights flooded stark white walls and tan Berber carpet. Covering over five thousand square feet, the bunker consisted of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a large multipurpose room that included five pullout sofas. The ventilation system assured that the inhabitants received the purest of oxygen, and the kitchen was stocked with enough dry goods and distilled water to support a dozen people for almost a year. Longer if rationed.

The bunker was initially constructed during the Cold War. Its initial purpose was to protect a sitting president, his family and a few choice aides throughout a nuclear attack. Other than a monthly maintenance check, the bunker had never been occupied, and rarely discussed.

Merrick’s wife and two kids were away with his mother-in-law surrounded by secret service agents. If he was going to be a target, there was no reason to put his family in harms way also.

Merrick sat on the sofa next to Bill Hatfield, who was hunched over a lap top computer with the presidential seal displayed on the back. The computer sat on a coffee table that competed for space with ten different newspapers layered between manila files marked ‘Confidential’, ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret.’ Bob Dylan’s voice twanged sarcastically from the built-in speakers. Merrick had been stressed for so long that he was beginning to feel a bit numb.

Samuel Fisk sat in a leather chair across the coffee table from Merrick and Hatfield with folded arms. He listened while Bill Hatfield attempted to gain the President’s attention for a briefing. The three of them were temporarily alone while the remainder of Merrick’s staff noisily discovered the challenges of cooking powdered eggs and potatoes in the kitchen.

“They know where he is, John. Doesn’t that bother you?” Hatfield bristled.

Merrick dug through files of the latest arrests stacked on the table in front of him. “Listen, Bill, I trust Marty to make the right moves. He’s no dummy. If he thinks that surprising them is better than tipping them off, I’ll buy it.”

Hatfield looked at his watch. “We’ve barely more than thirteen hours to go. Why are we being coy here?”

Merrick understood Hatfield’s tendency to panic, but he was tired and wanted to be certain of his judgment, so he glanced at Fisk for reassurance.

“He’s right, Bill,” Fisk said. “We’ve got to give Marty and Louis and Walt their opportunity to clean up this mess.”

Hatfield looked back and forth between Merrick and Fisk. “I can’t believe you two are taking this so calmly. Don’t either of you understand the ramifications of the White House going up in flames? Even if it’s abandoned it will symbolize the extent of our vulnerability and encourage all kinds of terrorist attacks. Anyone with a slingshot will try picking off government employees going to their cars.”

While Merrick reviewed his latest E-mail from the FBI War Room, he said. “I’m not real eager to make a mistake here, Bill. Let these guys do their job. I just spent the past three hours with that damn phone stuck to my ear and I’m getting briefed every thirty minutes. I believe Walt knows what’s at stake.”

Hatfield grimaced but said nothing.

Merrick read from his E-mail. “Walt’s got a task force on its way to Payson already. Apparently, the Gila County Sheriff’s Department has set up roadblocks disguised as sobriety checkpoints so they don’t raise any suspicions, but they’ll scrutinize everything they see. He feels confident that we’re closing in.”

“John, you’re making a mistake,” Hatfield said, with a restrained voice. “This is a golden opportunity to-”

Merrick reached behind the sofa to a button on the wall. He turned the button to the right and Bob Dylan’s nasally voice boomed over the ceiling speakers. Dylan was pining about some cryptic burden that Merrick was sure even the CIA couldn’t decipher. It did, however, drown out Hatfield’s ineffectual argument and that’s all that mattered.

Hatfield stood, pointed to Merrick, and yelled over the dirge of harmonicas and steel guitars. “This is a flagrant miscalculation!”

Merrick held his hand to his ear and shrugged. A few aides poked their head into the doorway to see what the commotion was all about. They got there soon enough to see Hatfield throw up his arms and storm out of the room.

Fisk hopped up and took a seat on the sofa next to Merrick. He centered the laptop in front of him and continued opening E-mail messages in Hatfield’s absence.

“Do you think I’m being too hard on him, Sam?” Merrick asked.

“You know how I feel about him. I plead the fifth.”

Fisk checked the final E-mail. It was forwarded from FBI Headquarters where Kharrazi had been sending his demands. “Look at this,” Fisk elbowed Merrick.

The message was preceded with a note from the Assistant Special Agent in Charge. It read, “This seems legitimate. The trace came back with a dead end. A pre-paid server with a P.O. Box address, never been used before, like the others.”

Merrick scrolled down to the body of the E-mail:

President Merrick,

We both know that your time is running out. You don’t have the support of the American people any longer. I realize that you are hiding in your bunker like the coward you are. Tonight, when the White House explodes into a beautiful fireball, the United States will no longer be under your command. The media will disembowel you publicly and there will be nothing to prevent the impeachment process. Congress will not allow America to be destroyed over the tepid support for a country that means little to its citizens. It’s only your ego that precludes you from doing the right thing and saving your presidency and the nation you swore to defend. Order your troops out of Turkey before midnight, and you will be safe. It is the only logical thing to do.