Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

“Please,” Nick said, “call me when you’re ready to surrender. I’ll make sure you’re protected.” He gave Kharrazi his secure phone number. The second he finished the last digit, the connection went dead.

Nick pushed the end button and found Matt with a proud expression usually reserved for first-time fathers. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” Matt said.

Nick felt a trickle of moisture drop onto his wrist. He wiped his sideburns dry with clammy fingers. “It’s hot in here.”

Miles Reese had been Washington Post’s White House Correspondent for the past twelve years. Before that he was the Post’s Bureau Chief in Moscow. Somewhere between the Berlin Wall crumbling and the impeachment of President Clinton, Moscow’s bud had lost its bloom and he came home to claim the paper’s most prestigious prize-covering the White House.

With the threat of an attack on the White House now just 8 hours away, Miles was hunkered down in his office hammering furiously on his computer’s keyboard. A tap on his open office door didn’t deter him and he said, “Go away,” with his eyes glued to his monitor.

“I know you don’t want to be disturbed,” his secretary’s voice said from behind him, “but you’ve got a call from someone saying it’s urgent.”

“Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t say, but he assured me that you would want the exclusive. He says he knows where the terrorists are.”

Reese stopped typing. He looked over his shoulder. “What line?”

“Four.”

The reporter snapped up the receiver. “Reese,” he said.

“Are you interested in knowing where the KSF are hiding?” a man’s voice said.

“Bill? Is that you?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Reese grabbed a pen from his penholder. “Of course I want to know where they are.”

“Good. Then I will tell you under one condition. This is going to be an anonymous source-not an anonymous source from the White House, or a high ranking official, or even a government employee. This is going to be an anonymous source-period. Understand?”

“Gotcha, boss. Let me have it.”

There was a hesitation as Reese thought he heard the man murmuring to himself about whether it was the right thing to do.

“Look,” Reese stoked the flame of free-flowing information, “I’m not sure what your concern is, but I can not only guarantee your anonymity, I can assure you that-if the information is accurate-you’d be doing the country a tremendous service. The more people who know where to look, the better chance we have of finding them.”

Reese didn’t hear anything for thirty seconds. The line was still open and he didn’t want to hard sell the guy, so he kept quiet. Finally, after a minute of silence, the man’s voice said, “Payson, Arizona,” then hung up.

Reese scribbled the name down, then pulled a map of Arizona from the bottom drawer of his desk. He groped through the state of Arizona with his finger until he found the tiny dot that was Payson. He circled it with a pencil. Tapping the pencil on his desk, he considered the call. Reese’s suspicious nature kicked in. He’d received White House leaks all the time, but usually they came from an intern, or somebody completely expendable.

He looked up at his clock and picked up his phone. Regardless of President Merrick’s motives, Reese had to move on the story.

“Fredrick Himes’ office,” a man’s voice answered.

“This is Miles Reese with the Post. I’d like to have the Press Secretary comment on a story I’m about to put on our website. Is he available?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not. I’m sure you understand that-”

“I’m publishing the location of the Kurdish terrorists headquarters in the United States.” Reese paused for effect. “Now is the Press Secretary available, or should I run with this story?”

There was a brief interval in the conversation. Although it was obvious that the man’s hand was now covering the phone, Reese could hear his voice speaking urgently through the muted mouthpiece. A moment later the man said, “I’ll put you through to him now.”

A clicking sound, then, “Himes.”

“Fredrick, this is Miles. I’ve got a source telling me the general location of the KSF headquarters. Would you care to comment?” Reese always blurted out the leak quickly and listened carefully for the response. All too often the reply was practically scripted.

This time, however, the Press Secretary seemed genuinely dazed by the call. “Uh, are you saying that you know the actual state they’re located?”

“And city.”

“How certain are you?”

“I’m certain that my source is credible.”

Himes hesitated, then sheepishly asked, “Who is your source?”

“Jeez, Fredrick, what’s going on over there? Don’t you guys even talk with each other? This is not something that’s likely to miss your circle.”

“Who is your source?”

“Come on, you know I’m not going to tell you.”

Himes’ voice got dark. “If you publish this information, you’d better know what you’re doing. Otherwise, your career will be doing a tightrope act.”

“My source is credible. So, what’s your comment?”

“How can I respond without hearing where you think they are?”

Reese shook his head and leaned back into his chair. “You really don’t know do you?”

Silence.

“I’m told they’re in Arizona. What’s your comment?”

Reese could hear the man sigh. “No comment.”

“That’s all I needed to know. Thanks, Fredrick. Go introduce yourself to the President. He’ll be the one with the herd of Secret Service around him.”

Reese hung up. There was no sense trying to run down a second source to corroborate the story. After all, it came from the White House Chief of Staff. What more did he need?

As the helicopter breezed dangerously close to the ground, the treetops became larger and greener with every passing minute. They were heading from the desert of Phoenix, to the mountains of Payson. Nick had a death grip on one of the restraining straps while staring out of the front of the chopper.

“Isn’t this thing flying a little low?” Nick asked anyone.

“Relax,” Matt said. “Look at it this way-we’re close enough to survive a crash landing. You can’t say that about a commercial airliner.”

“Gee, I feel better already,” Nick said. He cupped his hand around his mouth and aimed at the pilot. “How much longer,” he yelled over the din of the rotor.

The pilot turned his head slightly, but kept his eyes on the landscape ahead. “Ten minutes.”

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago,” Nick muttered to himself.

“What kind of assets do we have up here?” Matt asked.

“There’s an R.A. They didn’t give me a name.”

“That’s it-a resident agent?”

“We’re supposed to be running a clandestine operation. It’s up to us and whoever we can conjure up from the Sheriff’s Department.”

“Great,” Matt said.

The helicopter circled an open patch of grass near a paved road. A red pickup truck sat next to the opening and someone stood beside the truck with his hand protecting his face from the gusty assault of the rotors.

When the chopper finally settled down, Nick was the first to jump out. He was followed by the rest of the team and Don Silkari. They’d gone from the desert to the mountains and the fall air had a crisp chill to it. Nick waved off the pilot and watched as the helicopter hovered out of the opening, then tilted forward and surged back to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix.

By the time Nick reached the local FBI agent, Matt was already shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. He was surprised to find an attractive woman dressed in jeans and dark nylon vest. She wore her long brunette hair in a ponytail, which was pulled tight through the opening of the back of her baseball cap. It wasn’t lost on Nick that Matt was the one who was doing the introductions, but with an awkward look on his face.