“I’m going to tie you up and place you in the women’s room.”
“But I could be there for days. I’m the only one left with a key.”
“Relax. Once I get where I’m going, I’ll make an anonymous call and tell them to get you. I’m not as bad a person as you think, Tina.” He gave her a fatherly smile, then nodded toward the note. “Let’s put this on the door, as it is.”
She stretched a piece of scotch tape from her dispenser and taped the note to the glass door.
“Now, tell me about flight plans.”
“What do you need to know?”
Kharrazi heard the jet engines rev and knew his time was running short. “Where do you keep them?”
“In the computer.”
“Show me.”
She walked behind her counter and tapped a few keys on her computer. Kharrazi stood behind her. A moment later a screen displayed that day’s schedule. There were only two flights scheduled. “We only do flight plans for charters, the locals come and go with their props whenever they want.”
Kharrazi pointed to the screen. “Can you delete the flight plan for my charter?”
She looked at him skeptically. “Why?”
“Please, just do as I say.”
Her fingers worked tentatively, as if there was an internal struggle going on in her brain. Kharrazi hoped that she wouldn’t recognize her fate until she was finished with her task.
“There,” she said, “It’s done.”
“Good. Now, do you have to signal the pilots before they take off?”
“Yes.”
“What do you tell them?”
“I let them know they’re cleared for takeoff. But it’s mostly ceremonial. We don’t have any control tower or anything.”
“Tell them that you have to leave — you have to go home. Do you have any kids?”
She shook her head.
“A sister or a brother?”
“Two sisters.”
“Do the pilots know them?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Tell them that you’re leaving. Your sister was in an accident and you have to go to the hospital, but that they’re clear for takeoff. Understand?”
She nodded. Her voice cracked when she spoke to the pilots; she seemed noticeably upset. The pilots certainly must have thought her sister’s accident was the cause of her behavior.
“Go on, Tina. We’ll take it from here. I hope your sister’s going to be okay,” came back the pilot.
Kharrazi smiled. “Do you have a key to the door?”
She handed him a key ring with a set of wings attached. “It’s this one.”
“You’ve been a good girl, Tina. Just do me a favor and sit down right here.”
She stared at him warily as she crouched down below the counter.
“Turn toward the wall please,” Kharrazi said.
Slowly, she shifted her body away from Kharrazi, facing the wall, but her head strained to keep Kharrazi in her sights.
“Tina, it’s okay. I’m just going to tie you up. Turn around.”
The girl listened to her assassin just long enough for Kharrazi to draw his knife over her head and grab a handful of hair with his free hand. He pulled the sharp blade across her exposed neck with a quick, forceful jerk. Her hands scratched at his arms for a few desperate seconds, breaking every last nail until finally they fell to her side. When the weight of her dead body gave way, Kharrazi was struck with how light her head felt without her torso dragging it down.
“You must understand, Tina,” he whispered. “No one person should stop the persecution of thousand of innocent Kurds. Not even you.”
He peered over the counter and saw nothing to alarm him. He stood all the way and examined himself for any blood. A few spots, but his clothes were dark enough that they could be mistaken for a sloppy cup of coffee. He didn’t have time to do anything with the bodies. They were out of viewing distance from the front door and once the office was eventually opened up, it wouldn’t take long to figure out what had happened. He went to the door and left the building. While locking the door with Tina’s keys, he assured himself that he had at least three or four hours head start. And that was all he needed.
He hobbled back into the jet where the pilots were still preoccupied checking and double-checking instruments.
“See?” the pilot said to him, as they taxied to the runway. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Kharrazi smiled. “Not at all.”
Chapter 25
By the time Nick and Matt arrived at the Baltimore Field Office, the press had already reported that President Merrick wouldn’t be leaving the White House that night. It was a bold political move, even if Merrick was tucked safely into the bunker beneath the mansion. It only tightened the noose around the FBI’s neck. Specifically, Walt Jackson’s. If the White House was bombed after receiving advanced warning, everyone at the Bureau may as well dust off the old resume.
Nick and Matt made their way through the security locks and retina scans guarding the elevators down to the War Room. As they exited the elevator, Nick was startled at how cramped the otherwise large room looked. Matt was right, it bordered on computer geekdom. The walls were illuminated with huge, flat screen video monitors silently displaying satellite feeds from around the world. The room was packed with low partitions separating small, plain-looking metal desks. Each desk was occupied with an analyst wearing a headset, staring into a computer monitor. The hum of low voices and keyboard-tapping filled the air.
The biggest change Nick noticed was the lighting. The big overhead fluorescents were shut off, giving the wall monitors a sharper image. The room had a movie theatre feel to it. The bulk of the illumination came from the images flashing across all four walls. The only other lights were tiny goosenecks with a narrow beam that attached to each of the analyst’s desks.
The front of the room contained a long narrow shelf with two fax machines, three computer terminals, and a series of devices that played cassettes, DVDs, and CDs.
Nick’s attention was drawn to a round, wooden table in the corner of the room, next to the shelf. A makeshift ceiling light hung too low and the four men at the table had to lean forward slightly to make eye contact. Three of the men had rolled-up sleeves, ties that were pulled down to their sternum, and the wrinkled shirt look of an all-night poker game. They were Walt Jackson, FBI Director Louis Dutton, and the Director of the CIA, Kenneth Morris. The fourth man appeared fresh and neatly dressed.
“Shit,” Nick said, when he saw who it was. “What’s he doing here?”
Matt followed his gaze and shut his eyes tight for an instant. “Damn.”
The guy Matt was referring to was Chief of Staff William Hatfield. Last summer, Matt caught the man slapping his wife with the back of his hand. Matt was staying at a resort up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, when his girlfriend at the time suggested a romantic evening stroll along a tree-lined pathway around a small pond. The Chief of Staff was walking in front of them with his wife when Matt heard the unmistakable sound of skin on skin. It wasn’t until Matt ran up to defend the woman that he discovered who the attacker was. Matt squeezed Hatfield’s throat with one hand and simply said, “Don’t.” Nick understood there was more to the story, but Matt never revealed his inner thoughts on the matter. On the surface Matt appeared to be the epitome of a free spirit. He was single going well into his thirties, and never pretended that he was anything but on the prowl most all of the time. But ever since his indiscretion with a stripper the night before his wedding, Matt despised married men who cheated. He even hated married men who told stories about cheating, even if he knew they were lying. It contradicted everything that Matt appeared to be, but Nick knew him better than anyone. There was only one type of man Matt hated more than an adulterer. Wife-beaters.