President Merrick stopped abruptly and it seemed to take Jackson by surprise, as if he expected the longwinded political statement that usually came from a White House conference call.
“Walt?”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President.”
“Walt, how many KSF do we have in custody now?”
“As of thirty minutes ago we have nine, Sir.”
“Nine KSF members-how many do you suspect are directly or indirectly related to the bombings?
“All of them.”
“That’s good. What have we learned from them?”
The assemblage of agents knew the answer before it ever left Jackson’s mouth.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Nothing?”
“No, Sir, they’d rather die first. As a matter of fact two of them have attempted suicide.”
“I see.” In the silence a deep breath could be heard.
Ken Morris stepped closer to the speakerphone. “Mr. President, this is Ken.”
“Yes, Ken,” the frustrated voice said.
“Sir, this is similar to stomping on roaches as they crawl across the floor. We can’t protect every citizen in the country. We have to find the source. That’s the only way we’ll put an end to it. The scheme is too elaborate not to have a leader dictating the details of the mission.”
“And you’re sure who that leader is?”
“Yes, Sir. It’s Kemel Kharrazi. We find him and we can end the terrorist acts.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t we found him yet?”
“Sir. . uh, there are some leads, but-“
“Ken, we have satellites circling the Earth that could read the date on a dime sitting in the road between two parked cars. Are you telling me we can’t find the most infamous terrorist in the world, in our own backyard?”
Ken opened his mouth, but only to take a large breath.
The President exploded. “Gentlemen, I want Kemel Kharrazi’s picture on every television, every newspaper, every magazine cover. I want you to burn up every favor you have with every informant you’ve ever used. Offer immunity, offer pardons, offer money, whatever you want, I’ll approve it. Bottom line-I want Kharrazi! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir,” came the collective answer.
President Merrick hung up.
Walt Jackson stood tall, his long arms leaning on the podium in front of him. In one slow sweep of the congregation he seemed to make eye contact with every individual in the bunker. “Well then,” he said, “let’s get started.”
In the aftermath of the two-hour briefing that followed the President’s call, Walt Jackson lumbered into his office, walked behind his desk, and dropped onto his leather chair. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the stubble on the side of his unshaven face. When he looked up, Nick and Matt were seated across from him.
Jackson’s finger tapped a staccato cadence on his desk. “The President thinks we dropped the ball,” he said.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Walt,” Matt said. “You made all the right moves. Don’t second guess yourself now.”
“Fact is,” Walt grimaced, “we can protect our national monuments. We can make provisions for all of our federal buildings, our courts. But we simply can’t cover every single household in the United States. It’s just not possible.”
“Kharrazi is shrewd,” Nick said. “He knows America doesn’t have the stomach for this type of warfare. Not here at home. Not with the media flashing the faces of our dead neighbors on every news channel. This isn’t some distant operation in the jungles of Asia. The political pressure will eventually become so great, we won’t have a choice but retreat from Turkey.”
Jackson nodded. He smiled at the two agents, coming to support him. He sat upright and pointed a finger at Nick, who was already glancing down at digital pictures he pulled from a stack on Jackson’s desk. “What do you make of those photos?”
“These bombs have Rashid’s signature all over them,” Nick said, scrutinizing the close-ups of bomb parts already partially re-assembled. “The design of the circuitry is identical to the White House bomb. No matter how sophisticated he gets, he always uses the same configuration.”
“Yes, but where does he get the material?” Matt said. “Find the place he gets the parts and you’ll find Rashid.”
“And if you find Rashid,” Nick added. “You find Kharrazi.”
Jackson leaned back in his chair, enjoying the rhythm of the banter between his two agents. “All right,” he said. “I want you two to follow the bomb trail. All of the bombs were Semtex, therefore massive amounts of RDX were made for the explosions. Stop by the Explosive Unit on your way out and talk with Norm Boyd. He knows more about RDX than anyone we have. Find an ingredient, a chemical, a blast cap, anything you can that might be hard to find in normal retail stores and zone in on that item. Since RDX is a fairly stable compound, my guess is that Rashid is making the stuff in quantity, then transporting the devices to the appropriate city. It makes more sense than risking fifty different chemical labs.”
Jackson looked at his watch. “I suggest you gentlemen get going. I have to decide whether to re-write my will, or my resume.”
Nick was bent on getting home that evening, even if it was just for a nap and a change of clothes. Julie would be worried about him and he’d try to disarm her concern with a smile and a hug. He would show her no visible signs of stress. She wouldn’t see the neurons firing back and forth across his brain, pressing for the answers that would lead him to Kharrazi, and ultimately, refuge for his overactive mind.
When he turned on his car radio, he heard the Washington Post story about the KSF demands heading every newsbreak. As he drove home, talk radio was having a field day with the subject. A paranoid America tuned in to hear the news, rumors, or anything else that could keep them even the tiniest bit safer than their next-door neighbor. The President was getting hammered from both sides of the political aisle. One right-wing commentator even suggested impeachment. A poll had already been taken and sixty-two percent of the American public wanted troops out of Turkey immediately. That number skyrocketed to eighty-seven percent when they polled anyone who lived within twenty miles of a bombed house.
The Associated Press reported that most of the bombs had been planted for some time before they were detonated. In a few cases they were fired from passing cars. A delivery method that was harder to defend, yet easier to track down. Out of the nine KSF members in custody, eight had been involved with the drive-by method of bombing. Nick marveled at the accuracy of the information. It was almost as if AP had a reporter inside the War Room that afternoon.
Nick arrived home late and hugged Julie so tightly, he felt the breath surge from her diaphragm.
When he finally released her, she delicately swept a tuft of hair from his forehead with the back of her index finger, “Rough day at the office, Sweetie?”
Nick smiled for the first time since he’d left her arms that morning. “I can’t slip anything by you, can I?” They both laughed and released whatever pressure their tense bodies would allow.
“Do you have time for a meal? I’ve got sauce warming on the stove. I could boil some pasta real quick.”
“Sure,” he said, jogging up the stairs to their bedroom.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Julie said. “Tommy’s been calling all day. He said he needs you to call him on his cell, right away.”
Nick grimaced. “Like I needed to hear that.”
Tommy picked up on the first ring. “Yo.”
“It’s me,” Nick said.
“I think you owe me a favor,” Tommy said.
“Of course. You want the name of the person who kidnapped Phil- right?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. You see, I know the name you’re gonna give me, and that’s not quite enough.”