“Well, terrorists are normally pursuing an immediate reaction. They want to deliver the most damage in the quickest amount of time. They’re not after the long-term effect of a radioactive spill. I would suggest they are attempting to create more psychological harm than physical damage. Mass panic and terror are normally what they are after.”
Merrick could see Fisk nodding his head and liking what he was hearing.
“So, in your opinion, Doctor,” Merrick said, “a dirty bomb wouldn’t carry enough radioactive material to cause major long-term fatalities?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President. Decontaminating the affected area would require considerable time and expense, but no, I would doubt there would be a cluster of fatalities.”
Merrick tapped the top of his desk with his index finger. “Okay,” he said. “I think that tells me what I need to know.”
Peterson got to his feet. “Sir, I don’t want to trivialize the danger involved with a dirty bomb. They are extremely dangerous, especially in a crowded space. Depending on its size, anyone within one hundred yards probably wouldn’t survive such an explosion. But if you could control where it’s detonated, you could contain its fallout.”
Merrick stood and shook Peterson’s hand. “Thank you again, Doctor. You’ve been a great help.”
When Peterson left, Fisk took his seat and crossed his legs. “So? Are you feeling better about my suggestion?”
“You mean your clever tactic of doing nothing?” Merrick said.
“Ingenious, isn’t it?”
“What was that explanation of ‘salted’ all about? I know what the fuck ‘salted’ means.”
“You looked at me like you didn’t know.”
“I looked at you because I hadn’t heard it used in our conversations with the War Room.”
“Oh.”
Merrick picked up his tablet computer and handed it to Fisk. It was opened to a page on the BBC’s website. The headline read, “The United Palestinian Force a New Player in the Terrorist Game.”
Fisk read through the article with a scowl on his face. When he was finished, he placed it on Merrick’s desk and slid it back to him. “It’s what I’ve been telling you,” he said. “These punks want attention in the worst way. Who do you think was the anonymous source they quoted?”
Merrick clasped his hands together and tapped his chin. “So how much of a player are they?”
“Look, it took them eighteen months to get a dirty bomb into Mexico. They paid millions just to get Garza to transport the thing over the border. From what I understand, they’re tapped out on funds. They put all their chips into this venture. If Garza gets this thing into our country and they are able to detonate the device anywhere near a populated area, the gamble will pay off. They’ll immediately become a new player. The funds will start rolling in and membership will thrive.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They’re done. Finito. Never to be heard from again.” Fisk put his index finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word.”
Merrick leaned back in his chair. “All right, buddy. I’m trusting you here.”
“It’s Garza we need to stop. He gets this done and he’ll expose a major weakness to our border defense. Every terrorist organization on the planet will be paying him a visit.” With a distant stare, Fisk said, “Give Nick and the boys a chance to get this done.”
Merrick cocked his head. “When you say, ‘the boys,’ exactly whom do you mean?”
Fisk smiled knowingly and returned his finger to his lips.
Merrick shook his head. He knew Fisk was protecting him, keeping him from being culpable with whatever Nick’s ‘family’ may be doing without law enforcement compliance. He also knew their involvement had saved many American lives in the past.
Merrick swiveled his chair around to face the South Lawn behind his desk. A hummingbird was flapping its wings furiously while pecking at a flower petal. “You ever wonder about the consequences of our choices, Sam?”
Fisk said nothing.
“Sometimes my choices allow a family to afford a new home or a schoolchild to afford a smaller classroom.” The hummingbird dipped and rose erratically, until it flew off in a fury. “Then other times my choices cause a homeless person to lose a meal.”
Merrick turned to face Fisk. “Sometimes I wonder if that homeless person knows I took that meal away from him so I could pay for us to capture a Mexican terrorist and save hundreds, or maybe thousands of lives. You ever wonder about that, Sam?”
“I try not to swim that deep,” Fisk said.
“Well, if this country has a beating heart, it’s because of people like Nick Bracco and Matt McColm.”
“Hallelujah,” Fisk said. “Now. . can we find something to eat around here?”
Chapter 13
Just one look at the outside of the off-track betting place and Tommy knew he wasn’t in Baltimore anymore. There was a large patch of desert with some sort of beat-up cactus and a few wilted shrubs along the front wall. Along the side of the building an asphalt parking lot had a half-dozen pickup trucks and a couple of small foreign cars. Tommy parked in the back by himself, giving the rental a chance to survive a door ding.
As soon as he stepped inside, however, he felt right at home. It was a struggling sports bar whose owner probably decided to lure degenerate gamblers to bolster his lunch business. The rectangular bar was centered in the middle of the room with a scattering of round tables around the perimeter. To the right was the restaurant with booths and tables. To the left was the wall of OTB tellers.
Tommy took a seat at the bar and gestured to the bartender. “I’ll take a bottle of Bud and a Form please,” he said.
The guy behind the bar seemed bored as he placed the beer on the bar and handed Tommy the Racing Form.
“Seven-fifty,” the guy said.
Tommy gave the bartender a ten and told him to keep it. He took a swig of beer and examined the room. He spotted his mark instantly. The guy was sitting in a booth on the restaurant side, a pretty girl snuggled up next to him wearing the shortest shorts he’d ever seen. The guy stuck out because the crowd was mostly gray-haired men straining to see one of the dozen TV monitors hanging from the ceiling. He also stuck out because he was pushing three hundred pounds of pure fat.
Tommy glanced at a TV and discovered it was seven minutes to post time for the third race at Hollywood Park. He opened his Form and studied the charts. After a minute he glanced back up at the TV and said, “Shit.”
There was an older guy sitting two stools down from him who noticed Tommy’s mild outburst. He was a burly guy with a two-day stubble and a pair of reading glasses hanging around his neck.
“You okay?” the man asked.
“Aw, sure,” Tommy said, pointing to the TV, disgusted. “It’s just that the four horse is scratched.”
The guy looked down at his Form on the bar in front of him. “Of course he’s scratched, he’s a pig. Should be pulling a plow out in a field.”
Tommy nodded at the old-timer. “Yeah, but he’s the only other speed in the race. Who’s gonna wear down the chalk?”
The guy kept reading the paper in front of him. “What about the eight?”
“The eight?” Tommy laughed. “Shit, I could outrun that horse to the first turn.”
The guy put his reading glasses on and placed his index finger on the Form next to the eight horse’s past performances. While staring at the Form, the guy’s face broke out into a sheepish grin.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “So I shouldn’t bet on the five to close up on him, huh?”
“Not without the four to force the pace.”
Tommy noticed the man’s beer glass was nearly empty. He waved at the bartender and said, “Please pour another beer for my friend here.”
The guy looked over to be certain Tommy was talking about him. “You sure?”
“Of course.” Tommy slid over one stool to sit next to the guy. He held out his hand. “Tommy Bracco.”