“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 the 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 harm’s way also.
Merrick sat on the sofa next to Bill Hatfield, who was hunched over a laptop 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.
“They know where he is, John. Doesn’t that bother you?” Hatfield bristled.
Merrick dug through files of the latest arrests stacked on the table in front of him. “Listen, Bill, I trust Marty to make the right moves. He’s no dummy. If he thinks that surprising them is better than tipping them off, I’ll buy it.”
Hatfield looked at his watch. “We’ve barely more than thirteen hours to go. Why are we being coy here?”
Merrick understood Hatfield’s tendency to panic, but he was tired and wanted to be certain of his judgment, so he glanced at Fisk for reassurance.
“He’s right, Bill,” Fisk said. “We’ve got to give Marty and Louis and Walt their opportunity to clean up this mess.”
Hatfield looked back and forth between Merrick and Fisk. “I can’t believe you two are taking this so calmly. Don’t either of you understand the ramifications of the White House going up in flames? Even if it’s abandoned, it will symbolize the extent of our vulnerability and encourage all kinds of terrorist attacks. Anyone with a slingshot will try picking off government employees going to their cars.”
While Merrick reviewed his latest e-mail from the FBI War Room, he said. “I’m not real eager to make a mistake here, Bill. Let these guys do their job. I just spent the past three hours with that damn phone stuck to my ear and I’m getting briefed every thirty minutes. I believe Walt knows what’s at stake.”
Hatfield grimaced but said nothing.
Merrick read from his e-mail. “Walt’s got a task force on its way to Payson already. Apparently, the Gila County Sheriff’s Office has set up roadblocks disguised as sobriety checkpoints so they don’t raise any suspicions, but they’ll scrutinize everything they see. He feels confident that we’re closing in.”
“John, you’re making a mistake,” Hatfield said with a restrained voice. “This is a golden opportunity to—”
Merrick reached behind the sofa to a button on the wall. He turned the button to the right and Bob Dylan’s nasally voice boomed over the ceiling speakers. Dylan was pining about some cryptic burden that Merrick was sure even the CIA couldn’t decipher. It did, however, drown out Hatfield’s ineffectual argument and that’s all that mattered.