The laughter continued. “A specialist, eh?”
“And your mother was simply a tool.”
The laughter abruptly ended.
Nick waited this time. He was trying to understand his adversary. Was Kharrazi a cold-blooded killer with demented motives, or was he a calculated leader without the restraints of morals or ethics to get in his way?
“You think you know something-what is it?” Kharrazi snapped.
Like a clever tactician, Kharrazi wasn’t giving anything away. But it was too late. Nick had already struck the chord he was looking for.
“You held your mother at knifepoint in the middle of your village. As the crowd multiplied, you explained that she had given information about your combat plans to the Turkish government. You were going the make an example of her in front of hundreds of people. Kemel Kharrazi, the man who decapitated his own mother for squealing on him. The word spread throughout Kurdistan and you became an instant folklore legend. No one would ever cross the great Kemel Kharrazi. Only problem is, your mother never gave you up, did she?”
Nick could hear Kharrazi breathing.
“No, of course not,” Nick churned forward. “You used her like a tool. Once your father died, you plotted for years, waiting for the perfect opportunity to get back at her. Your mother, the woman who stood there and watched as little Kemel was repeatedly molested by his father. Doing nothing to stop him. She was going to pay for her complicity.”
Nick looked up and saw a stunned expression on his partner’s face. Nick felt his heart racing while he fought the urge to go any further. He doodled furiously on the legal pad, making jagged lines around the word ‘Sarock.’
“You never answered my question,” Kharrazi finally said. “How is your wife?”
Nick strangled his pen with the palm of his hand. “She’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“When I tell you she’s fine, you can trust that it’s true. Now Nihad Tansu on the other hand isn’t doing so well.”
There was a pause. “Is that so?”
“He’s dead, you twisted fuck. He couldn’t even finish off my wife like you commanded. That’s why I’m telling you, your plan won’t work. Too many incompetents under your rule.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What don’t you believe, that you’re a twisted fuck, or that Tansu’s dead?”
“Tansu didn’t die without completing his mission.”
“Oh, really. Then how do you think I got this phone number-directory assistance?”
There was silence while Kharrazi put it together. In a stern, but restrained voice, he said, “We should meet, you and I.”
“I agree.”
“Face to face.”
“Absolutely. Tell me when.”
“I’ll surprise you.”
“I hate surprises. Tell me when and I’ll have coffee made.”
Kharrazi forced a laugh. “I must go, Mr. Bracco. I’d be walking with one eye over your shoulder if I were you.”
Nick looked at Matt. “I have someone covering my back. Do you?”
“You’d be surprised what protection I command. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll phone you when it’s time to meet.”
Nick hesitated, then decided there was nothing Kharrazi could do with the number but call him.
“Please,” Nick said, “call me when you’re ready to surrender. I’ll make sure you’re protected.” He gave Kharrazi his secure phone number. The second he finished the last digit, the connection went dead.
Nick pushed the end button and found Matt with a proud expression usually reserved for first-time fathers. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” Matt said.
Nick felt a trickle of moisture drop onto his wrist. He wiped his sideburns dry with clammy fingers. “It’s hot in here.”
Chapter 29
Miles Reese had been Washington Post’s White House Correspondent for the past twelve years. Before that he was the Post’s Bureau Chief in Moscow. Somewhere between the Berlin Wall crumbling and the impeachment of President Clinton, Moscow’s bud had lost its bloom and he came home to claim the paper’s most prestigious prize-covering the White House.
With the threat of an attack on the White House now just 8 hours away, Miles was hunkered down in his office hammering furiously on his computer’s keyboard. A tap on his open office door didn’t deter him and he said, “Go away,” with his eyes glued to his monitor.
“I know you don’t want to be disturbed,” his secretary’s voice said from behind him, “but you’ve got a call from someone saying it’s urgent.”
“Who is it?”
“He wouldn’t say, but he assured me that you would want the exclusive. He says he knows where the terrorists are.”
Reese stopped typing. He looked over his shoulder. “What line?”
“Four.”
The reporter snapped up the receiver. “Reese,” he said.
“Are you interested in knowing where the KSF are hiding?” a man’s voice said.
“Bill? Is that you?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Reese grabbed a pen from his penholder. “Of course I want to know where they are.”
“Good. Then I will tell you under one condition. This is going to be an anonymous source-not an anonymous source from the White House, or a high ranking official, or even a government employee. This is going to be an anonymous source-period. Understand?”
“Gotcha, boss. Let me have it.”
There was a hesitation as Reese thought he heard the man murmuring to himself about whether it was the right thing to do.
“Look,” Reese stoked the flame of free-flowing information, “I’m not sure what your concern is, but I can not only guarantee your anonymity, I can assure you that-if the information is accurate-you’d be doing the country a tremendous service. The more people who know where to look, the better chance we have of finding them.”
Reese didn’t hear anything for thirty seconds. The line was still open and he didn’t want to hard sell the guy, so he kept quiet. Finally, after a minute of silence, the man’s voice said, “Payson, Arizona,” then hung up.
Reese scribbled the name down, then pulled a map of Arizona from the bottom drawer of his desk. He groped through the state of Arizona with his finger until he found the tiny dot that was Payson. He circled it with a pencil. Tapping the pencil on his desk, he considered the call. Reese’s suspicious nature kicked in. He’d received White House leaks all the time, but usually they came from an intern, or somebody completely expendable.
He looked up at his clock and picked up his phone. Regardless of President Merrick’s motives, Reese had to move on the story.
“Fredrick Himes’ office,” a man’s voice answered.
“This is Miles Reese with the Post. I’d like to have the Press Secretary comment on a story I’m about to put on our website. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not. I’m sure you understand that-”
“I’m publishing the location of the Kurdish terrorists headquarters in the United States.” Reese paused for effect. “Now is the Press Secretary available, or should I run with this story?”
There was a brief interval in the conversation. Although it was obvious that the man’s hand was now covering the phone, Reese could hear his voice speaking urgently through the muted mouthpiece. A moment later the man said, “I’ll put you through to him now.”
A clicking sound, then, “Himes.”
“Fredrick, this is Miles. I’ve got a source telling me the general location of the KSF headquarters. Would you care to comment?” Reese always blurted out the leak quickly and listened carefully for the response. All too often the reply was practically scripted.
This time, however, the Press Secretary seemed genuinely dazed by the call. “Uh, are you saying that you know the actual state they’re located?”
“And city.”
“How certain are you?”
“I’m certain that my source is credible.”
Himes hesitated, then sheepishly asked, “Who is your source?”