A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (26 page)

In a gesture of great deference, Dutton declared the Baltimore FBI field office as the command center for the KSF operation. This gave Jackson the show of confidence that not only FBI agents took notice of, but the White House as well. Louis Dutton was throwing his support behind Walt Jackson and if there were going to be any political scapegoats, they were going to have to indict the entire agency, not just Walt.

Inside of the War Room, Jackson paced in front of the computer-generated images projected onto the white walls. There were twelve separate images of varying sizes. Some showed a constant satellite image of suspected KSF safe houses, while others displayed radar screens. At the end of the wall, sentences scrolled downward in a continuous display of real time Associated Press releases. The image getting most of the attention was the illustration of North America.

Jackson wore a sophisticated headset with a wireless transmission that contained seventy-five separate frequencies. In his left hand was a tiny control panel that he used to direct the traffic of information that he was constantly receiving. Feeding him the data were ten FBI analysts, twenty-two FBI terrorist specialists, three CIA operatives, and two NSA analysts who were furiously feeding information into the multi-million dollar computer link-up between all three agencies’ database. A merging of information the intelligence agencies had never seen before.

The analysts wore headsets of their own and sat in cubicles set up in the War Room, each one with his or her own assignment. Once their information became significant, they buzzed Jackson and updated him on any modifications.

Jackson strolled across the front of the room, a maestro conducting a symphony of data. Dutton caught up to Jackson, both of them with unbuttoned collars and loosened ties. Dutton scanned a printout of the latest KSF arrests while Jackson stared at the immense visual of the United States.

“According to our best estimates,” Dutton said, peering down at his information, “we’ve been able to capture sixty percent of their force.”

Jackson nodded. “That leaves three hundred or so still on the loose.”

“And the names that aren’t on this list include the top twenty soldiers in their arsenal. So we’ve gotten their pawns, but their upper echelon remains intact.”

Jackson pushed a button on his remote. “Janice, exactly how many KSF remain unaccounted for?”

He turned to Dutton, “Two hundred and ninety four to be precise.”

Dutton’s focus remained on the data sheet. “You know, Walt, this kid in Colorado was talking way too much to—” he looked up at Jackson and saw him holding up his finger, requesting silence while he listened intently to an analyst talking in his earpiece.

“Okay,” Jackson said, nodding, agreeing with the analyst who sat in front of a computer screen less than twenty feet away. “I understand.”

Jackson clicked a button on his control panel, then slid half of his headset down so he converse with his boss. “The Navy has five subs scouring the shoreline. The Army is scoping every lake, stream and pond within fifty miles of the White House.”

“This KSF guy could’ve been blowing smoke.”

“I think it’s the best juice we have to go on. He had no reason to fabricate a story like that. Especially when he believed the man he’s talking to was going to be dead in a few seconds. If he wanted the guy to leave this world with a dire outlook for the future, he could’ve said they were going to detonate a nuclear weapon and destroy the eastern seaboard. But no, he specifically said a missile would hit the White House from underwater. That’s too precise to be made up.”

A young analyst handed Jackson a sheet of paper. “The computer confirms our hypothesis.”

Jackson scanned the sheet, then examined the map with narrowed eyes. Dutton looked over his shoulder. “Makes sense,” he said.

Jackson took a swig of cold coffee. “I believe the info our friend ascertained in the restroom was genuine. I think Kharrazi probably is thousands of miles from here, and if you figure how much scrutiny the borders are receiving, well . . . it’s only logical.”

Jackson placed his mug down. “Tolliver, Downing,” he barked.

A moment later, two disheveled men with droopy eyelids lumbered up to their boss.

“You guys look like crap,” Jackson said. He got a perfunctory shrug from Tolliver while Downing just stared back.

Looking past them, over their shoulders, Jackson said, “I want you to take Farnworth, Curtin and Chambers with you to Las Vegas.”

“Vegas? Where they kidnapped Nick’s brother?”

“That’s right. We suspect that’s where their headquarters is stationed. We’ll get the National Guard and local authorities to assist you.”

“Las Vegas is a big town, Walt. You want us to go door to door?”

Dutton stuck his nose in the circle. “You’re right,” he sneered. “Let’s just call it a day and grab some donuts.”

Jackson regarded his men with raised eyebrows, the Director of the FBI next to him with his hands on his hips. Power like that money couldn’t buy.

“Yeah, yeah, we got the message,” Tolliver responded wearily. Both men shuffled off like they were being sent to the gas chamber.

A light flashed on Jackson’s remote designating an incoming call. He pushed the appropriate button and said, “Jackson.”

“I just read the paper,” Samuel Fisk’s voice was somber.

Jackson looked at his watch. Was it almost 6 AM already? “You’re working early this morning, Mr. Secretary.”

“Actually, I’m working late. I took a break to read the Post and found an interesting story about a homicide in a nightclub down on Thames. Supposedly the victim was Kurdish. Anything I should know?”

“Nothing you should know, Sir.”

“Is this for my own good?”

“Nothing you should know, Sir,” Jackson repeated.

A pause. “I see. Well I hope this nothing afforded us some valuable information.”

“You’re an insightful man, Mr. Secretary.”

“Walt?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The President refuses to vacate the White House. We’re going to stash him down in the bunker. He’ll be safe there unless there’s reason to suspect this thing could be nuclear.”
“There is not a shred of evidence that suggests that. However, I would still do everything I could to get him out of there.”

A frustrated voice came back, “Shit, Walt, is the White House going to be ground zero tonight, or not?”

Jackson hesitated. If he waffled about his ability to prevent the White House bombing, he may as well hand in his resignation right then. “Not on my watch, Mr. Secretary.”

There was silence. When Fisk finally spoke, his voice seemed to contain a smile. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. How’d you know that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Jackson said. “And I know you always want the truth.”

“Nick.”

Nick woke up startled. Matt stood in front of him, holding a Styrofoam cup with steam escaping from the lid. The waiting room was bright with sunlight and beginning to buzz with activity.

Nick wiped his mouth dry. He was slumped back in an uncomfortable position for how long? He looked at his watch. Almost 8 AM.

“There’s a woman who’d like to speak with you.” Matt said, slipping Nick’s cup of coffee into the beverage holder at the end of the armrest.

“How long have you been here?” Nick said, rubbing his eyes.

“A couple of hours. Julie’s been sleeping, so I told the nurse to let you snore for a while. But she’s up now and for some strange reason she wants to see your ugly mug.”

Nick massaged a cramp from his neck. “Where is she?”

“Room 406. She may not look too good, but she’s going to be fine."

Nick got to his feet and lagged a half-step behind Matt, following his lead. He opened the lid to coffee and took a sip. “What happened to Ford?”

Matt pushed the button in the middle of two shiny, stainless steel elevators. He looked at Nick and shook his head. “Nihad Tansu was waiting for him at your house. He got the jump on him.”

They stepped into the elevator with a couple of nurses who were carrying on their own conversation. Nick spoke softly. “Tansu was at my house?”

“We think it was a coincidence that Ford happened to show up to take her to the safe house. Probably saved her life.”

Nick shook his head. Matt kept speaking to him and he nodded at seemingly appropriate moments, but his mind was already two career changes ahead. He couldn’t possibly put his family at risk any longer. His obsession to rid every terrorist from the nation had gotten his brother kidnapped and his wife hospitalized. He was prepared to hand over his badge and gun to Walt Jackson and flee for the serenity of a simpler life. He looked forward to seeing Julie’s face when he finally told her of his decision.

“Anyway,” Matt continued, as they exited the elevator and Nick followed him down a busy corridor, “Walt’s turned the War Room into a computer geeks wet dream. They’ve got the NSA, CIA, and FBI’s mainframes all linked together. Every tech who can type is down there banging keyboards and scrambling for info on KSF members in the U.S."

Standing at attention in front of room 406 was a stocky police officer. His eyes caught Nick and Matt heading in his direction and he slid his wide body in front of the door. He ignored Matt, but he held up a hand to Nick. “He’s been cleared, but I need to see some identification from you, Sir.”

Nick showed the officer his credentials and the uniformed policeman examined a clipboard with a list of names written across it. He saw what he was looking for and stepped aside. “Sorry, Agent Bracco, I’ve got my orders.”

“Don’t apologize, Officer. That’s my wife in there you’re protecting.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Nick opened the door with the precarious manner of a tipped-off recipient to a surprise party. Nick saw Dave Tanner and Carl Rutherford milling around Julie’s bed. They blocked Nick’s view of a couple of other people behind them. He thought one of them was Sal Demenci sitting on the only chair in the room.

The room was small and seemed eerily dark. A vital signs monitor sat next to Julie with one wire going to a probe attached to her fingertip, and black tubing extending down to a blood pressure cuff around her left arm. Julie sat upright with the aid of several pillows. Her head was wrapped with white rolled gauze and a clear tube hung from an IV bag which gravity fed sodium chloride to the vein in the crook of her elbow. Her left eye was dark and it looked like someone with long nails had scratched the side of her face.

Through it all there was a smile on Julie Bracco’s swollen face. With her good eye she managed a wink and Nick nearly wept. He was next to her instantly, holding her hand, mining her body with his eyes. “How are you?” he whispered.

When she spoke, her words were muffled, as if she had a mouth full of cotton. “I’ve been better.”

“Have you seen the doctor?”

“He just left. He said the surgery went well, and that I should make a full recovery.” She spoke evenly, but her eyes were distant.

“Nick?” she said.

“Yes.”

“He said I was shot in the back of the head.”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head slowly, as if she might grab a piece of the incident before she finished her answer. “No.”

Nick felt a rush of sorrow hit his nervous system and he had to look away from Julie to gather himself.

She clutched his hand. “Don’t be sad, Nick. I’m going to be all right. All I remember is running from the car.”

He wanted to run himself. Right out the door to rip Kemel Kharrazi’s heart from his chest with his bare hands. But he’d already decided. He hung his head in resignation. “I’m handing in my credentials, Jule. Enough is enough.”

“Don’t you dare,” she uttered in a clear, forceful tone.

Nick looked up. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I did, but now it’s different. I’m not going to be able to sleep knowing someone like Kharrazi is out there, maybe sending someone back to finish the job. No, Nick, now is not the time for you to quit.”

It was a peculiar attitude for her to acquire and it alarmed him. “Are you sure?”

Julie licked her lips. “Nick, I want you to do something for me.”

Nick quickly glanced down and found the nurses button. “Of course. Anything.”

She pulled Nick tight to her chest and stretched forward until her lips delicately nestled up to his ear. She whispered, “Kill him.”

Nick lurched back and examined his wife, as if to be certain that it was her that spoke those words.

Julie’s bandaged head nodded confirmation. Her hands were wound into fists and her jaw seemed to lock her face into a maddening scowl.

Nick sighed. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the attempted murder of his wife or the pilfering of her benevolent heart. He looked down at the woman who’d taken in stray cats and fed them organic milk. Julie, the kindhearted wife who would find a cricket in the corner of the closet and cup it in her hands until she could free it outside onto the lawn. The same woman who was now ordering hits on fellow human beings like she was Don Corleoni.

Julie’s wounds were much deeper than could be seen on an MRI. Kharrazi had damaged the one thing that Nick loved more than her shiny, happy eyes, or her contagious smile. He’d broken her spirit.