Hasan Bozlak nodded, sitting upright at the edge of his chair.
The two men watched the small television monitor in the basement of the safe house, in Kharrazi’s private quarters. The walls were bare but for a detailed map of Arizona and a map of the United States littered with colored thumbtacks. The low ceiling gave the room a closed-in feeling. It bolstered the stillness that thrived in the basement. Thirty soldiers patrolled the grounds, protected the perimeter and secured the interior of the cabin with the professional quiet of a jewel thief. Kharrazi could barely hear their footsteps overhead as he enjoyed the scene on the monitor.
A lamp sat alone on an end table between the two men. Kharrazi twisted off the light, causing the TV to become the only source of illumination. The room became eerily dim.
On the screen, Matt McColm, Ed Tolliver, and Carl Rutherford attacked tortilla-wrapped food, while Nick Bracco spoke with his wife on his cell phone. From the camera angle hidden in the ceiling panels of the Sheriff’s office, Kharrazi could hear Bracco speaking with his back to the group. Even from behind it was obvious that the FBI agent was wiping his eyes.
Kharrazi mocked. “His entire world is about to explode and he’s worried about his female partner. What emotional weaklings these Americans are.”
Kharrazi had fiber optics installed inside of the Sheriff’s station weeks ago. He knew that once Payson became a focal point, the Sheriff’s station was the most likely place to set up a command center. His foresight was now paying huge dividends.
Like people waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square on New Years Eve, Kharrazi and Hasan were counting down the minutes until the White House exploded into rubble.
“One hundred and forty-two minutes, Sarock,” Hasan said. They both found the digital display atop the detonator irresistible. The detonator beamed the countdown from an open-doored wall safe. At the first sign of trouble Kharrazi would lock the safe, but he knew it was irrelevant. The detonator was foolproof and could withstand scrutiny from the world’s best bomb experts without deactivating. Any tampering would merely cause the missiles to deploy earlier than scheduled. A true Rashid Baser masterpiece.
Kharrazi noticed his number one soldier fidgeting in his chair. “Relax, Hasan. You worry too much.”
“Yes, Sarock,” Hasan replied, twirling his thumbs.
“What is your concern?” Kharrazi asked.
Hasan pointed to the detonator. “We should push the button now. It makes no sense to wait.” The second Hasan finished his statement he immediately appeared to regret it. He searched Kharrazi’s face for a reaction and squirmed with anticipation.
Kharrazi smiled. “Hasan, you are a warrior. I can’t expect you to understand the finer points of using political pressure to maximize our assets.” He patted his soldier on the knee. “You have a bulldog mentality, but sometimes all a bulldog need do is bare his teeth.”
This only added to the confusion on Hasan’s face. Kharrazi offered his plate of grapes and cheese to the young man and Hasan nodded, placing it on his lap. He picked a couple of grapes and flung them into his mouth.
Kharrazi rose to his feet. This caused Hasan to gulp down his partially chewed grapes.
Kharrazi’s stiletto was leaning up against the wall in the corner of the room. He reached down and retrieved his favorite blade. “You see, the American people do not have the backbone for a war on their turf. They will do anything necessary to avoid it, including impeaching their own President.”
With his stiletto behind his back, Kharrazi paced in the darkness. Hasan watched Kharrazi with hawk’s eyes.
“If we explode the White House early,” Kharrazi explained, “it could make the President a victim, which would draw sympathy from U.S. citizens. But if we give him the full opportunity, every possible chance, every minute we offered, and still he refused to remove his troops from Turkey, well, then he got what he deserved. And we did precisely what we said we would. And any threat that followed-” he swiftly dove his dagger into Hasan’s lap, stabbing a large chunk of cheese and drawing it to his mouth. Hasan nearly fainted at the maneuver.
“Would be treated with respect,” Kharrazi finished with a cheek full of cheese.
Hasan nodded enthusiastically, appearing grateful to be alive. “Yes, Sarock. You speak the truth.”
“Of course I do.” Kharrazi returned his attention to the T.V. screen. The FBI had no clue where he was. Even if they found him and overcame his squad of soldiers protecting the safe house, they couldn’t stop the missiles from deploying. In just over two hours, Kemel Kharrazi would harvest the fruits of his labor.
He watched as Nick Bracco turned toward the camera. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Bracco looked to be a beaten man. Kharrazi remembered his failed attempts at eradicating Bracco’s family. Bracco himself would not be so lucky. He had to be done away with. Kharrazi was going to put him out of his misery very soon.
Kharrazi thought about his own wife back home, and his children who counted on him to rid their country of the pestilent American soldiers. Soon he would be able to return to a hero’s welcome and rally his soldiers to victory over the Turkish Security Force. Statues would be erected in his image. Kemel Kharrazi was going to be a legend for all of eternity.
He found it hard to remove the smile from his face.
Headlights flashed across the front window of the Gila County Sheriff’s Office. Nick knew it was too soon for the SWAT team from Phoenix. A short burly man eased out of a Cadillac wearing a dark suit. Nick realized who he was. Silk went out to greet the man with a bear hug. Both of them pecked each other’s cheek. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then Silk pointed inside. He stood gesticulating this way and that. The squat man nodded repeatedly. The conversation ended with the two smiling and slapping one another on the back.
Silk led the man into the Sheriff’s office and the man strode in patting his generous stomach. “The veal scaloppini is to die for, Silk. They have-” the man looked up and noticed the group of short-haired FBI agents sitting behind receptionist’s desks shuffling papers and banging on laptop keyboards.
“Jeesh,” the man said, “some fancy deputies you got up here.”
Silk found Nick working a highlighter over a list of newly purchased homes in the area. “This is a friend of mine,” Silk motioned to the man. “Gasper Continelli, this is Nick Bracco.”
Nick shook the man’s hand, almost expecting to come away with a couple of hundred dollar bills. “Good to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Gasper said affably.
Silk gave Nick a conspiratorial nod toward the Sheriff’s personal office. Nick glanced at his watch wondering when reinforcements were coming. He waved the two men into Skrugs’ office.
The Sheriff’s private sanctuary seemed of keen interest to Gasper. His head circled the place as if admiring the decor. He gestured toward the tall portrait of Geronimo, “Hey, I know that guy. He used to play second base for the Indians.”
Nick pretended not to hear the remark as he took up a chair behind Skruggs’ desk. Silk laughed hard enough for the both of them.
Gasper sat down across from Skrugs’ desk and leaned back and crossed his legs.
Nick rocked anxiously in his chair, his hands folded to his chest. “You have something for me?” he asked.
Silk stood behind the plump man and patted his shoulders. “Gasper here knows something that you might find interesting.”
Nick lowered his head toward Gasper and raised his eyebrows.
Gasper looked about the room with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m a big fan of the police,” he announced, loudly.
Nick glanced at Silk, then back to Gasper. “Excuse me?”
“I donate a couple of dimes each year to the Police Athletic League.” Gasper was nodding as if to verify his own declaration.