There was a pause. “Uh. . Mr. President, Mr. Bracco insists that it is for Mr. Fisk’s ears only.”
Merrick raised an eyebrow at Fisk. They both understood the move. Bracco obviously had information that flirted with unethical, immoral or illegal operations and he wanted to allow the president deniability. Merrick waved a hand at Fisk and watched him hurry out of the room.
Defense Secretary Martin Riggs stood, retrieved his charcoal gray jacket from the brass coat rack and slipped it on. “Mr. President, I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in twenty minutes. Which of these options do you prefer we discuss?”
Any large-scale military action attempting to wipe out the KSF within the United States would end badly and Merrick knew it. He felt as if his body was crawling with poisonous ants and he needed to suppress the urge to stab them with a knife.
Merrick frowned. “Marty, I want you to tell the Chiefs we’re not leaving Turkey. Not today, not tomorrow, not as long as we’re being blackmailed by Kharrazi. Tell them I want more options. I don’t like the corner we’re in, and I want out.”
Riggs nodded, “Yes, Sir.”
Attorney General Mitchell Reeves also reached for his jacket. “I’d better be going, too,” he said. “I’ve got a dozen defense attorneys screaming that I can’t keep their clients locked up for over a week without formerly charging them.”
Merrick pointed an accusing finger at Reeves. The Attorney General held up his hand, “Don’t worry, we’re not releasing anyone. I’ve just got to juggle with the Bill of Rights a little.”
Merrick watched the two men leave. He circled around behind his desk and sank into his high-back leather chair. He tugged even further on his tie, loosening it to the point of separation. One piece of silk now looped around his collar and hung down in two separate strands. He unbuttoned the top button of his starched white shirt, placed his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Even with two people left in the room and another seventy-five currently roaming the corridors of his residence, he’d never felt more alone.
Outside of the Oval Office, perched on a drooping tree branch, an oriole scrutinized the White House lawn for an easy meal. Three blocks west of the Oval Office, a construction worker peeled back the cellophane wrapper from his tuna fish sandwich and sighed at the long day still ahead of him. Less than a mile northwest of the Oval Office, a short, chubby, bald man waddled through the pedestrian traffic on the perimeter of Georgetown University. A Welsh Terrier pulled on the leash in front of him as he gleefully made his way down L Street NW, drinking in the worried faces of students and businesspeople as they passed him by. He wasn’t enjoying the anxious expressions because of some prurient thrill, but because he knew that his plan was working. The president was just blocks away receiving pressure from every imaginable sector of the public. He had virtually no other political choice but to withdraw U.S. troops from Turkey and Kemel Kharrazi beamed with satisfaction.
Kharrazi made his way down a residential neighborhood with the innocent stroll of an old man walking his dog. He knew precisely which streets to turn down, so his moves lacked any unfamiliarity. The street where his uncle lived was tree-lined. The houses were mostly 19th century Victorian with sprawling mounds of grass and sidewalks that buckled from maturity. The terrier was a sturdy animal with a thick, wiry coat and when he pulled Kharrazi in a serpentine path, Kharrazi’s Beretta pinched the skin along his waist.
Kharrazi casually inspected every parked car, every conspicuous individual who looked like he didn’t belong. He hadn’t gone more than thirty yards, when he noticed a heavily-gabled house across from Professor Bandor’s with an upstairs window open. He continued his journey unabated when he discovered a windowless black Van parked a few doors down. Behind his benevolent smile, Kharrazi fumed. He kept walking, occasionally giving gentle tugs on the leash of the terrier he’d just purchased thirty minutes earlier. With his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of something metallic peeking out from the window across from his uncle’s.
Kharrazi couldn’t fathom his uncle’s betrayal. As a boy, the professor would drape his arm around young Kharrazi and tell him of the social immorality of the United States. Then he persuaded Kharrazi to attend Georgetown where he headed the Middle-Eastern studies program. What kind of person does that? If not for Professor Bandor, Kharrazi would have never come to see the corruptness firsthand. He would have dismissed it as the professor’s own personal issue. Now, the immorality surrounded him at every turn and it was disgusting.
Kharrazi left the neighborhood at a leisurely pace, taking side streets for about a quarter mile before he unleashed the dog and set him free. He found his rental car and with a stranglehold on the steering wheel, he merged into the mid-day traffic. So much adrenalin pumped through his veins, Kharrazi almost ran a red light. He steered toward the safe house where he would find seven KSF soldiers who were prepared to die for whichever order he gave them. And Kharrazi had a whopper for them.
Chapter 17
President Merrick woke up startled. He found himself leaning back in his chair in the Oval Office and was halfway through rubbing his eyes when he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting on a sofa reading the Washington Post was Samuel Fisk.
“Sam,” Merrick said, “how long have I been out?”
“About an hour and a half,” Fisk said, turning a page.
“You should have gotten me up.”
“I canceled your noon appointment with Stanton. He’d just waste more time pinching you for a withdrawal. Besides, you needed the sleep.”
Merrick opened a side door to a small bathroom, where he splashed water on his face, wiped dry, and began running an electric razor over the stubble. “I should be getting my briefing from the Bureau any time,” Merrick said, over the noise of the razor. “Has Walt called yet?”
“Not exactly,” Fisk answered.
Merrick clicked the razor off and faced Fisk from the bathroom doorway. Fisk continued as if he was reading the Sunday paper at his kitchen table. Merrick suddenly remembered Nick Bracco’s phone call. “Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“You have something you want to tell me?”
Fisk folded the paper neatly and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. He motioned to the sofa across the table from him. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
Merrick replaced the razor and began looping his tie into a knot as he approached the couch. Sitting down, he said, “Talk to me.”
“John, how long have we been friends?”
Merrick froze. “Oh shit, Sam. I don’t like the sound of this one bit.”
“There is an option that just became available to us and I can’t tell you very much about it.”
Merrick finished knotting his tie and secured it snugly around his neck. “Does it entail anything unethical?”
Sam looked at Merrick stone-faced. As the seconds passed and the silence grew conspicuous, Merrick nodded his head. “I see.”
“John,” Fisk said, “I’m going to do you the biggest favor anyone has ever done. I’m going to get rid of these fucking bastards and it’s not going to be pretty, and it’s not going to be fair, but we’ve been hogtied by the law for too long.”
Merrick gave his friend a sideward look. “Have we been hogtied by the Constitution as well?”
Fisk stood and turned to study the large photo of Paul Merrick on the south wall. He nodded his head toward the picture. “Do you think the terrorists that killed him cared about the Constitution?”
“Don’t, Sam.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too personal. I can’t carry that kind of baggage into a decision that involves our nations policy on. . on. .”
“On what?” Fisk said, turning to face Merrick. “Exactly which policy are you referring to? Is it our policy allowing foreigners to kill our civilians for political purposes? Or is it our policy involving innocent lives destroyed because we have to wait until there’s enough evidence to guarantee a conviction? I am sick and tired of surveilling terrorists who we know are plotting violent acts inside of our borders. Borders that are open to a myriad of criminals to play in our backyard, with our tools, and with our personal rights guaranteed by the Constitution. By the time we have the legal right to make an arrest, blood’s been spilled and alibis have been perfected for a jury of their peers.” Fisk pointed at the large picture. “I’m not only doing this for you, I’m doing this for him. He doesn’t have a voice anymore and I’m speaking for him.”