While making his way on the cracked cement path toward the building, he reminded himself to hobble. He was a plump, old businessman and he had to walk the part. His right shoulder developed an exaggerated sag from the weight of his suitcase. As he approached the glass door to the office, he could see that it appeared vacant. He stopped. Why did he even have to bother going in? He’d prepaid for the return trip already. All he had to do was board the plane.
He walked the short distance to the idling plane and lumbered up the steps. He felt a presence as he got halfway and looked up to see a uniformed pilot reaching out to get his suitcase. The man said something to Kharrazi, but the loud drone of the jet engines drowned out his voice. Once inside, he plopped himself down onto a wide, leather chair and huffed from exertion. The pilot secured his suitcase in an upright closet and returned to his seat in the cockpit. He took the copilot’s seat on the right, while the pilot on the left was busy with a pencil and a clipboard. He seemed to be marking off a preflight checklist and paid no attention to Kharrazi, which soothed any concern Kharrazi had about his identity being discovered.
Settling back in his seat, he found a copy of the Baltimore Sun laying open on the secure tray next to him. It was nearly 9AM and he hadn’t had the time to scour the newspapers as he normally would. The front page displayed pictures of burning buildings from several states still suffering from the nightly bombings. A story about President Merrick’s approval ratings spiraling downward was below the fold. He flipped the pages impatiently until he saw the story about a Turkish National who was shot to death in the bathroom of a downtown bar. Kharrazi scrutinized every word searching for anything that could suggest the man was Kurdish, but there was nothing. The fake identification seemed to have satisfied the authorities and once the victim was dead they probably had no motivation to investigate further.
Kharrazi knew that Mustafa was a hot head, so it didn’t surprise him when his Baltimore crew was arrested last night and that Mustafa was the only one who ended up dead. He realized that an officer of the law must have gotten to Mustafa, and shot him after he became an unproductive suspect.
Satisfied, Kharrazi browsed further and tingled with excitement when he came to the story of Tansu’s deadly visit to the Bracco residence. The story confirmed the death of an FBI agent, but fell short of declaring Julie Bracco dead. It simply stated that she was at Johns Hopkins in critical condition. His grip on the paper tightened as he considered the possibility of Nick Bracco’s wife surviving an encounter with one of his best soldiers. He read the story again and began to fume.
He stood, hunched over, and shuffled to the back of the plane, where he pushed a button on one of the four cell phones that he would use just once, then dispose of after the flight.
“Yes,” a voice said.
“You told me that you were successful,” Kharrazi seethed in a low boil of a voice.
“I was.”
“Then why am I not reading about it this morning? I am leaving now, I have to ignite our operation, or I would deal with you personally.”
“Sarock… uh… we are being tricked. There is no other explanation. I am certain of the shot… I hit her directly in the back of her—”
“Enough already. I want you to check and make sure there is no doubt. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sarock.”
Kharrazi clicked off the phone and returned to his seat. The pilot was holding a hand to his headset as if he was receiving an incoming transmission. He turned to Kharrazi and said, “Mr. Henning?”
Kharrazi leaned forward. “Yes.”
“Airport security needs to speak with you.”
Kharrazi mentally became aware of his hidden weapons, tucked inside of his padded torso. “What is the problem?”
The pilot continued touching dials and flicking switches on the instrument panel in a practiced manner. “Just routine, they’re required to ask you a couple of standard questions before we take off. It will only take a few minutes and we’ll be on our way.”
Kharrazi looked at his watch. “But I have a very important meeting to make. That is why I chose to charter, rather than fly commercially. I was guaranteed to be on time.”
Now the pilot took a moment to look at Kharrazi. In his reluctance to speak with security, Kharrazi could see a spark of suspicion flicker in the pilot’s eye. “Mr. Henning, it will only take a few minutes and I promise I can make it up in the air.”
Kharrazi slowly came to his feet. “Of course, of course,” he said, hobbling toward the exit. He kept his peripheral vision on the pilot and noticed him return his attention to his clipboard.
When he entered the small building, a man in a blue uniform was waiting for him. He wore patches that reminded Kharrazi of Boy Scout accomplishments and he showed no signs of possessing a gun. The only other person visible was the same young woman who checked him in the day before. She stood behind the counter and looked busy. The only thing sitting on the counter was a single computer terminal, and there was a metal file cabinet with just two drawers behind her. The place was so sparse, it looked like they were moving out in a couple of hours.
“Mr. Henning?” the slightly graying man asked.
Kharrazi shuffled toward the man with an outstretched hand. “Walter Henning. How can I help you?”
“Max Reynolds,” the man said, clasping hands with Kharrazi. “I just have a few routine questions to ask. You know we’re all at a heightened state of security ever since those KSF cowards began bombing our citizens. Those spineless bastards.” He looked at the girl behind the counter. “Sorry, Tina. Pardon my French.”
Reynolds couldn’t see Kharrazi clench his teeth; he was busy writing on a notepad.
“Mr. Henning—”
“Please, call me Walter.”
“Of course, Walter.” He wrote Kharrazi’s fake name at the top of the form. “Where exactly are you traveling to today?”
“Payson, Arizona.”
“Payson? What a coincidence, I’m from Phoenix myself.”
Kharrazi forced a smile. “Small world.”
Reynolds took his pen and pointed to the plane idling outside. “Does Payson have an airfield long enough for a small jet like that?”
“Just barely.”
Reynolds nodded, thoughtfully. “Anyway, how long was your stay in Maryland?”
“Just overnight. I had a quick sales call.”
Reynolds wrote on his pad as he spoke. “What kind of sales?”
“I work for a custom boat builder.”
“Really?” Reynolds looked up with a smile. “Which company?”
“A small firm out of Payson.”
Reynolds held his eyebrows up and Kharrazi realized that he was expecting a name.
“Klein Brothers,” Kharrazi came up with.
“Never heard of them.”
“It’s a small family company,” Kharrazi said with an understanding lilt to his voice.
“I see,” Reynolds had his head down, scribbling on his form. Kharrazi used every muscle in his face to read what Reynolds was writing, but either the man was being deliberately discreet, or Kharrazi was trying too hard at the art of subtlety.
Reynolds broke off the writing and acted like he’d forgotten something important. “Do you have any children?"
“Yes, two. Twelve and fourteen.”
Reynolds shook his head. “Teenagers. I don’t envy you.”
Kharrazi had forgotten about his disguise. He must have looked a bit old for teenagers. He knew that the more questions asked, the more chance there was for a mistake.