“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 to 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 closeups of bomb parts already partially reassembled. “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 Explosives 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 rewrite 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 leading 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.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nicky, I know you’ve been busy today, but did you happen to catch the name of the family that was killed this morning in Baltimore? You know, the terrorist’s pick for the state of Maryland.”
“I saw the list.”
“The name was Capelli. Joseph and Mary Capelli. Ring a bell?”
“Aw shit, Tommy. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, well… now I need a favor from you.”
Nick flinched. “I’m listening.”
“The Capellis have given me the responsibility of finding the monster who killed their family. I’m talking three gorgeous little kids, Nicky. I need your help and I need information. Don’t let me down.”
Nick was about to react by rote. Normally, he would dismiss Tommy with the standard policy and be done with it. But this was different. The President had said as much that afternoon. Technically, Tommy was an informant. Informants exchange information with the government and almost always receive more information than they give. It was the quality of the information that counted, not the quantity.
Tommy waited patiently while Nick sorted things out. He could sense Tommy’s rebuttal about to commence.
Finally, Nick said, “How much do you know about Semtex?”
Chapter 10
Rashid Baser stepped into the pawnshop, flipped over the open sign to read “closed” and locked the door. Behind the counter, Fred Wilson offered him a sheepish smile while running a cloth over the barrel of a gun. When he glimpsed the manila envelope in Rashid’s left hand, he set the gun on the glass counter in front of him and nodded toward a doorway. Rashid followed him into a dark room, where guns and cameras mingled together on the warped wooden shelves that covered all four walls. To one side of the room a large mound was covered conspicuously with a canvas tarp. Fred sidestepped his way to the mound, mumbling apologies about the condition of his storage room. Rashid understood the maneuver very well. He recognized it from his native Turkey. It was the dance of the intimidated. Back home his reputation had grown to such proportions, he could move through the crowded streets of an entire village without ever viewing the back of a head. The Red Sea of fear would part before him. But not in America. At first he was disturbed by the absence of respect, but he grew to revel in the anonymity. Blending in made his missions that much easier. That’s why Fred’s demeanor was so troubling. He didn’t even know Rashid’s name.