Now, all Tansu wanted to do was kill this woman as quickly as possible and get back to the business of pressuring the White House for a withdrawal. He saw the elevators he needed, but decided to find something sharp first. A nurse carrying a tray with glass tubes and packages of wrapped needles was walking toward him. He held up his hand to get her attention. “Pardon me, I’m new and a little lost here, could you direct me to the supply room?”
“Sure,” the nurse said. She turned back where she had come from and pointed. “See that sign that says, ‘Emergency Room?’”
“Yes.”
“Follow that sign until you go past the cafeteria, then make your first right. About halfway down that hallway you’ll find the supply room. Just tell Mitch what you need, he’ll help you out.”
“Thanks,” Tansu said. These Americans were wonderful hosts, he thought. Very helpful.
He followed the directions and found the room he was looking for. Under a sign reading, “Supply Room,” was a wooden door split in half. The top portion was swung inward and open, while the bottom half was closed. Tansu leaned in and called, “Anybody here?”
A thin, elderly black man with a close-cropped white beard slowly rose from behind a small metal desk. The room appeared dim, but for the miniature gooseneck lamp illuminating the old man’s desk. “Can I help you?” the man asked.
Tansu extended his hand and the man shook it. “Hi, I’m Dr. Marshall. You must be Mitch. I’m new here. I was told to come down and get some scalpels.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Marshall. Do you have a requisition form?”
Tansu was perplexed. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was just up in the operating room, and they told me to come down and get some more scalpels.”
“Who told you?”
“Well, uh, Dr. Williams.”
The man broke into a soft, wide grin. “That rascal. He hasn’t filled out one of those forms in twenty years. I guess that’s what happens when you have his kind of clout.”
“I guess,” Tansu said. He was ready and willing to snap the old man’s head like a stale pretzel if he resisted, but the man appeared ready to hand him the weapon he required.
“Which kind would you like, Dr. Marshall?” the man said, his shoulders already turning toward the shelves behind him.
“Oh, how about a big one?” Tansu said, casually.
The man stopped abruptly. He looked at Tansu with a leery expression. “Excuse me?”
Tansu shrugged. “They really didn’t tell me which size. I just assumed they wanted a large one.”
“A large one,” the man repeated. He seemed to examine Tansu more closely. “Where did you do your residency, Dr. Marshall?”
That was Tansu’s cue to take the man out. He looked up and down the corridor and noticed nobody in the immediate vicinity. He motioned for the man to come closer. And as everyone else he’d met lately, the man cooperated. Tansu reached over the doorway and grabbed the man’s throat with his right hand. With his left hand he gave a short, powerful jab directly into the man’s nose. It was enough to cause the man’s vision to blur with tears, and he fell straight backward holding both hands over his broken nose. The man’s head bounced on the cement floor hard and he appeared to lose consciousness.
Tansu reached over the ledge and twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. He hopped over the half-door and jumped onto the man’s chest. It took only a couple of seconds to snap the old man’s frail neck, the bones clicking as they twisted sideways, unnaturally.
Tansu lifted the dead man’s frame and dragged him into a nearby walk-in refrigerator. There were four rows of metal shelving with vials and bottles of medicine neatly organized on each shelf. Tansu dragged the corpse by his shirt collar and dropped him face down on the floor in the back corner of the refrigerator. Without some serious investigative work, the old man would appear to have fallen to his death. And that would buy Tansu plenty of time to accomplish his mission.
Once out of the refrigeration unit, Tansu explored the rest of the supply room. Tansu wondered why the large windowless room was so dim for a hospital. He was searching for a switch to illuminate the overhead fluorescent lights, when he found the shelf that contained the scalpels. He looked at the side of the boxes, which displayed an actual life size illustration of the blade for the various scalpels. He now understood why the old man found it curious that Tansu simply asked for a big scalpel. Each scalpel had a numerical value for the type of blade that it contained. Tansu assumed that a physician would always request a specific numbered scalpel depending on their needs. The old man must have sensed something was wrong right away.
Tansu had spent countless hours over the past months practicing his English. He didn’t, however, know very much about medicine. He pulled a scalpel from a box marked with a number 11 blade. He unwrapped the plastic sheath that kept the product sterile. He examined the blade, gently tracing it across the palm of his hand. It was sharp, but too pointed to cut long deep lacerations. He put it back, then pulled one from a box marked with a number 15 blade. This was what he was looking for. The blade was sharp, but beveled. This was the kind of blade that could slice a neck right down to the bone. He put two of them into his pocket and smiled. I’m on my way, Mrs. Bracco. Enjoy your last few breaths.
Chapter 27
President Merrick sat on a sofa down in the bunker fifty feet below the White House. Even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning, his lead secret service agent began quoting statutes about his authority to protect the President of the United States. He had actually convinced Merrick that he could, and would, physically escort Merrick to the bunker himself if necessary. Merrick didn’t see the need to dig in on that point, so he settled in at his new command post. Everything he needed to run the country was right there with him. Technology would allow him to be in constant contact with every branch of military, FBI, NSA and CIA.
The bunker had an unusual brightness to it, as if the windowless basement was trying to make up for its absence of sunlight. Overhead fluorescent lights flooded stark white walls and tan Berber carpet. Covering over five thousand square feet, the bunker consisted of three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a large multipurpose room that included five pullout sofas. The ventilation system assured that the inhabitants received the purest of oxygen, and the kitchen was stocked with enough dry goods and distilled water to support a dozen people for almost a year. Longer if rationed.
The bunker was initially constructed during the Cold War. Its initial purpose was to protect a sitting president, his family and a few choice aides throughout a nuclear attack. Other than a monthly maintenance check, the bunker had never been occupied, and rarely discussed.
Merrick’s wife and two kids were away with his mother-in-law surrounded by secret service agents. If he was going to be a target, there was no reason to put his family in harms way also.
Merrick sat on the sofa next to Bill Hatfield, who was hunched over a lap top computer with the presidential seal displayed on the back. The computer sat on a coffee table that competed for space with ten different newspapers layered between manila files marked ‘Confidential’, ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret.’ Bob Dylan’s voice twanged sarcastically from the built-in speakers. Merrick had been stressed for so long that he was beginning to feel a bit numb.
Samuel Fisk sat in a leather chair across the coffee table from Merrick and Hatfield with folded arms. He listened while Bill Hatfield attempted to gain the President’s attention for a briefing. The three of them were temporarily alone while the remainder of Merrick’s staff noisily discovered the challenges of cooking powdered eggs and potatoes in the kitchen.