A Touch of Deceit (Nick Bracco Series #1) (28 page)

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?”

Kharrazi stopped. He looked down, thoughtfully. Which way to go here? “I’m not sure. I thought I heard something about that, but now, my recollection is foggy.”

“Of course,” Reynolds said, appearing satisfied with the response.

Kharrazi left the building and took a couple of steps before looking over his shoulder. Through the glass door, he locked eyes with Reynolds. Kharrazi couldn’t read the old guy. If Reynolds had asked that last question to trick him, then he would be trapped once he entered the plane. It could have been an innocuous attempt at small talk, but Kharrazi was almost out the door.

Kharrazi decided he couldn’t afford to risk it. He turned back. His mind was flooded with ideas, but only one made the best sense. When he reentered the building, Reynolds was standing in exactly the same spot.

“Can I ask you a question?" Kharrazi said.

Reynold’s shrugged. “Of course.”

“If I did hear something suspicious here at the airport—how would it be handled?”

“It depends on what you heard and how serious it was.”

“Well, I don’t know how to put this,” Kharrazi looked over at the girl behind the counter, then back to Reynolds. “Can she be trusted?”

Reynolds laughed. “Tina? She’s family. Her dad actually owns Apex Field.”

Tina had short, dark hair with a hint of spike to it. She was busy working the mouse on her computer and barely acknowledged the mention of her name.

“All right, then,” Kharrazi said. He looked around, suspiciously. “Are you two the only employees working today?”

“Walter, if you have something to say—say it. Tina and I are the only employees here, period. I’m the janitor, the maintenance man and head of security. Tina does all of the operational stuff: flight plans, billing, just about everything else. If there’s something I should know, come out with it.”

Suddenly, Kharrazi knew what he had to do. He looked at Tina. “Can you radio the pilots and ask them to hold up for five minutes?”

With a bored expression, Tina picked up a small wireless transmitter and communicated the delay. Kharrazi heard the pilot mutter back an acknowledgement.

“Good,” Kharrazi said, walking away from the glass door and deeper into the small waiting area. There was a row of hard plastic chairs against the wall. Kharrazi dropped his weighted-down body on a seat farthest from the door and virtually undetectable from the outdoors. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his head down. He heard Reynolds sit down two seats away to his right.

“What is it, Walter?” Reynolds asked with sincere concern.

Kharrazi looked up. “Do you know anything about Kurds?”

Reynolds shrugged. “Just what I read in the paper.”

“What if I told you that the Kurds were the only ethnic group in the world without a nation of their own? And that they’ve been persecuted by the Iraqi and Turkish government for more than twenty years, with nowhere to run and call home. Can you imagine not having a place to call home?”

Reynolds looked confused.

“Then,” Kharrazi continued, “when the Kurds finally have enough financial backing to fight back, the United States sends its soldiers to Kurdistan to prevent them from defending themselves. Could you understand how frustrating that must have been for these poor people?"

Reynolds was nodding, but with a vacant stare. “Why are you telling me this?”

Kharrazi leaned close to Reynolds as if he was going to whisper the answer. His hand was already grasping the handle of his knife under his jacket. Reynolds turned his head to allow Kharrazi to get to his ear. Kharrazi said softly, “Because I want you to understand us before you die.”

Reynolds jumped back, but it was too late. The long blade had already punctured his heart as Kharrazi had shoved and twisted the knife under his ribcage. Kharrazi pressed his face up against Reynold’s face and watched closely as his eyes went from shocked to lifeless. Reynolds slumped to the floor and Kharrazi called to Tina. “Come here, quick.”

Tina looked startled. She rushed from behind her counter until she was close enough to see the blood saturate Reynold’s shirt. She stopped ten feet from Kharrazi, who already had his Beretta aimed at the girl. “If you scream or move, I’ll kill you.”

The girl anxiously stepped in place, her long, purple fingernails fluttering in the air. “Don’t hurt me, please.”

“I won’t, if you do exactly what I tell you.”

The girl was shaking. Her arms and elbows flapped like a chicken attempting flight. “Please,” she begged, “please, please. I’ll do anything.”

“You’re going to have to get a hold of yourself,” Kharrazi demanded. “You’re no good to me unless you calm down.” He yanked the knife from Reynold’s chest and swiped it clean on the dead man’s sleeve. He replaced his knife and gun to their holsters hidden under his jacket. Standing up he held out both hands. “Now, I want you to write a note on a blank sheet of paper.”

She started toward her counter.

“Stop,” Kharrazi said.

She turned to face him.

“If you make even the slightest gesture to signal anyone, I can remove my gun from its holster and have a fresh bullet inside of your body in less than three seconds. Do you understand me?”

She nodded.

“Good. Now, I want you to write in large letters, ‘Gone until 4 o’clock’, then tape it to the inside of the glass door.”

She pulled a sheet of paper from the copy machine and began to write the message. She stopped halfway through and looked at Kharrazi.
“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, there’s a charter flight due to leave here at 3:45. They may wonder—” she hesitated. As if she might be giving more information than she should have. Then, with a nervous wince, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m going to tie you up and place you in the women’s room.”

“But I could be there for days. I’m the only one left with a key.”

“Relax. Once I get where I’m going, I’ll make an anonymous call and tell them to get you. I’m not as bad a person as you think, Tina.” He gave her a fatherly smile, then nodded toward the note. “Let’s put this on the door, as it is.”

She stretched a piece of scotch tape from her dispenser and taped the note to the glass door.

“Now, tell me about flight plans.”

“What do you need to know?”

Kharrazi heard the jet engines rev and knew his time was running short. “Where do you keep them?”

“In the computer.”

“Show me.”

She walked behind her counter and tapped a few keys on her computer. Kharrazi stood behind her. A moment later a screen displayed that days schedule. There were only two flights scheduled. “We only do flight plans for charters, the locals come and go with their props whenever they want.”

Kharrazi pointed to the screen. “Can you delete the flight plan for my charter?”

She looked at him skeptically. “Why?”

“Please, just do as I say.”

Her fingers worked tentatively, as if there was an internal struggle going on in her brain. Kharrazi hoped that she wouldn’t recognize her fate until she was finished with her task.

“There,” she said, “It’s done.”

“Good. Now, do you have to signal the pilots before they take off?”
“Yes.”

“What do you tell them?”

“I let them know they’re cleared for take-off. But it’s mostly ceremonial. We don’t have any control tower or anything.”

“Tell them that you have to leave—you have to go home. Do you have any kids?”