“Any casualties?”
“No,” Nick said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Nick felt queasy standing up, but by the time he reached the house, the tunnel had already been discovered. The primary team was moving cautiously and Evans let everyone hear his radio transmissions from the team. When the lead group made it to the garage, the house search was over and the area search began.
An aggressive search of the Vegas area commenced. The airport and bus terminal were staked out and highway roadblocks ensued, but none of Kharrazi’s men were found.
At the hospital, Phil pointed out three Kurdish Security Force members out of a stack of eight-by-ten glossies from Nick’s files, including Kemel Kharrazi. For Kharrazi it was a remarkably bold appearance in the United States which caused consternation among all law enforcement agencies, including America’s most interested citizen-the President of the United States.
By the time Nick and Matt flew back to Baltimore, the reward for any information leading to the arrest of Kemel Kharrazi was upped to forty million dollars. To the discerning eye it would appear like an act of desperation. It was.
Chapter 9
Lamar Kensington was suffering from insomnia at three-thirty in the morning, when he decided to inspect the fridge for a snack. With just the dim light of the moon to guide him, he salted a piece of leftover pizza, stood over the sink, and stared out the window. As he chewed groggily, he fixed his gaze on the neighbors’ house across the street. A majestic Victorian stood on the crest of a hill, overlooking tightly mowed grass that meandered through the manicured landscape like a poet’s version of a putting green. He marveled at the tiny spotlights that accented trees at precise angles, causing a warm, dreamy effect that Lamar longed for in his own yard. He had neither the fervor nor the funds that Senator Williams possessed, yet he could never view the yard without the urge to grab his putter.
He was imagining himself lobbing a wedge shot into the middle of the Senator’s yard when the detonation occurred. A flash of bright fire erupted from the Williams’ house, instantly illuminating the quiet neighborhood and engulfing the home. A thunderous blast shook the ground and Lamar braced himself as he watched the house explode into a huge fireball. The deafening crash propelled misshapen debris with such velocity that a fragment of the front door screamed through Lamar’s kitchen window, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him to the floor. He gasped for air while flicking off shards of glass. Almost as an afterthought, he pulled up his tee shirt to inspect the wound. A flap of skin hung open and exposed a raw sliver of his ribcage. Blood seeped from the opening like an undercooked steak. Just before he passed out, he heard sirens wailing in the distance.
Julie Bracco stared at the ringing phone with contempt. She had just spent two quiet weeks with her husband following his return from Las Vegas. Two weeks uninterrupted by stakeouts, overnight flights or middle of the night phone calls. Two weeks of therapy with Dr. Morgan and a prescribed break from action. It was difficult, but Nick managed to get by on just a couple of phone calls a day to the office, always hanging up shaking his head.
Nick was in the shower and couldn’t hear his tiny phone bleating for attention on the bedroom dresser. She was hugging a load of laundry and hesitated for a moment before tapping the shower door with her foot. “Phone,” she called.
Nick shut off the water and sprang from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Julie stepped into the hall and lingered for a moment to eavesdrop.
“Shit,” was the only thing she heard. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Nick turned on the television. The urgent tone of a tremulous female voice caused her to re-enter the bedroom.
In bold letters across the bottom of the screen were the words, “Breaking News.” A blonde reporter with a hint of mascara trickling down her cheek stood in front of the charred skeleton of a large house. The morning sun unveiled ripples of smoke drifting across the enormous ruin. Wooden frames leaned awkwardly in unnatural positions. A stubborn portion of a smoldering wall wavered in the slight morning breeze. Two men in yellow raincoats huddled over a pile of ashes.
Nick turned up the volume. The reporter held a hand to her chest and spoke to the camera like a mother gasping out the horrors of her murdered child. “The Senator and his family were all at home,” she panted. “Senator Williams was forty-seven.” She shifted sideways to give the camera a fuller view of the wreckage. “As you can see, there is very little left of the. .” she choked.
Nick switched the channel. Through the miracle of a satellite dish another reporter in a different city stood in front of a house in a similar condition. Nick switched the channel again and saw that all across the country reporters with somber faces stood in front of the premeditated destruction of different households. Random assaults had devastated individual homes in each of the fifty states.
“What’s happening?” Julie cried.
“It’s begun.”
“What’s begun?”
Nick stood in front of the television, tight-lipped, his jaw clenched, his eyes distant. He turned and seemed to look through her as if she was invisible. Not the same man she had just made passionate love with twenty minutes earlier.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, and disappeared into the closet.
The Baltimore field office housed the largest War Room in the country. It was built during the cold war era and was bunkered in the basement, where the only access was through an elevator fronted by an iris-scan entry. The room itself was more like an auditorium. It had an elevated podium, which stood above rows of wooden booths that resembled church pews. Surrounding the seats were four stark white walls with assorted maps and diagrams tacked to them, An occasional poster of Marilyn Monroe or Mickey Mantle remained behind, mementos from the patriotic souls who first used the bunker during the Cuban missile crisis.
Walt Jackson stood at the podium, his massive frame looming over the seventy-five FBI agents seated in front of him. Behind him stood the Director of the CIA and next to him, drawing the attention of every man and woman in the room, sat a telephone with one line conspicuously blinking. Nick sat in the front row next to Matt.
Jackson pushed the blinking button activating the speakerphone. “Mr. President?”
The unmistakable voice of the President John Merrick said, “Yes, Walt, I’m here.”
“Mr. President,” Jackson turned to make eye contact with the Director of the CIA, “I have Ken Morris with me. We’re all assembled, Sir.”
“Good,” said President Merrick. “Gentlemen, and, of course, ladies-Senator Williams was a close personal friend of mine. Some of you may know he was the best man at my wedding.” He sighed. Everyone sat at attention and listened as if the principal was addressing his students.
“Unfortunately, he was only one of fifty families that are grieving this morning as a result of the brutal attack on our nation.
“We received an E-mail from the Kurdish Security Force. Walt, I know your people follow this stuff closely, so the message won’t come as a shock. They will bomb one home in each of the fifty states every week that we don’t withdraw our troops from Turkey. The same message was sent to the Washington Post. The American people are going to know of their demands. It’s a shrewd tactic, folks. The occupation of Turkey wasn’t popular to begin with. Now it appears as if it will cost innocent citizens their lives if we don’t cave in.”
The President’s voice grew harsh, “Walt, you know damn well I can’t withdraw our troops under these conditions. Our presence was mandated once the Kurds began slaughtering hundreds of Turkish civilians. I know I don’t have to sell you on my decision, but now every time an American is killed, it’s my fault. I’ll accept the responsibility, but I need answers and I need plausible options and I need them quick.”