The only difference he noted in her appearance was the short hair that sprouted recklessly from her head like a porcupine. Matt looked down and saw the KSF soldier lying dead in front of him. He blinked hard, then twisted around to see Steele’s body still lying next to him. He did a double take back to the angel, then to the crumpled remains of Steele. He tugged on Steele’s ponytail and came up with a capful of pinecones. He felt her shirtsleeve and pushed down on the leaves and pine needles that had replaced her arms. A crooked smile crept across his face.
“There are two kinds of FBI agents,” Steele said. “The ones who follow their instincts, and the dead ones.”
Chapter 32
President Merrick stood facing a map of Arizona in an office fifty feet below the Oval Office. Turning, he searched for a window out of habit, like opening the refrigerator without an appetite. There weren’t any windows in the bunker, so he chose a map to let his mind wander. He sipped from a mug of coffee with the presidential seal attached, examined the dot on the map that was Payson, and shook his head.
Behind him, his phone line blinked with an open extension to a domestic event conference currently convened at the Pentagon. He was so overwhelmed with information and suggestions that his brain was beginning to freeze up. He needed a moment to reflect and allow his head to clear. He had countless decisions to make and time was dwindling.
There was a knock on the door; Samuel Fisk poked his head through the narrow opening. “He’s here,” Fisk announced.
“Great,” Merrick said. “Send him in.”
Merrick heard the man enter his office and decided to let him sweat for a moment. His thoughts remained thousands of miles away while he stood with his back to the man and listened to his erratic breathing.
At the sound of an anxious cough, Merrick squeezed a hand over his eyes. “Sit down, Bill.”
Bill Hatfield dropped into the leather chair with the dead-legged thump of a boxer trying to go the distance.
Merrick finally turned and saw his Chief of Staff cowering like a dog who had just peed on the carpet. Hatfield refused to make eye contact and that just fueled Merrick’s anger.
“Look at me, Bill,” Merrick demanded. “I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me the truth. You’re only getting one chance at this, so don’t blow it.” Merrick placed his mug on the desk and pushed up his already rolled-up sleeves even further. “Did you leak the Payson location to Miles Reese?”
Hatfield was already beginning to shake his head when Merrick pointed an accusing finger at him. “Don’t even think about lying to me, Bill.”
Hatfield retreated into a blank stare.
Merrick sat down at his desk and leaned on his elbows, hands clasped. “What you did jeopardized the lives of seven FBI agents who were on a dicey assignment to begin with. When you shot off your mouth to Miles, you put all of them at risk. One of them is in the hospital in serious condition.”
Merrick picked up the mug, then quickly put it back down. “I’m giving you two weeks to get your affairs in order. Give whatever projects you have working to Sarah. At that time I’ll announce that you’re resigning due to personal reasons, you want to spend more time with your family—" he waved his hand in the air, “whatever bullshit I can have written for me. Either way, you’re gone. The only reason I’m allowing you to leave with even a shred of dignity is because you’re married to my sister. Otherwise, I’d throw you out in the street tonight and declare you an incompetent. You wouldn’t be able to get a job as a dogcatcher.”
Hatfield attempted a nod.
Merrick dismissed him with the back of his hand. “Get out of here before you make me sick to my stomach.”
Hatfield left so quickly that Merrick never saw him go. The next thing he knew, Sam Fisk was standing over him, dropping a thick manila file on his desk with a thud. Merrick ran his hands through his hair and heard Fisk replace Hatfield in the chair.
After a long minute of silence, Fisk said, “Aren’t you going to read the file?”
Merrick had his head in his hands trying to recover whichever neurons were still firing after the longest week of his life. “Why?” he said softly.
Fisk laughed. “You need to get some sleep.”
Merrick scanned his desk. His computer was receiving so many e-mails that he was having ninety percent of them screened and deleted before anything popped up on his monitor. It was information overload. He looked up at the clock. “I’ve only got three hours to go. After that, I’ll either get plenty of sleep, or I’ll pass out and have no choice.”
“Do you want me to tell you what’s in the file?” Fisk asked.
“Please.”
“Kharrazi’s uncle owned an offshore oil company up until a couple of years ago. The silos were built during the construction of one of the rigs. This is going back maybe three or four years.”
“So Kharrazi had been planning an attack long before we ever sent troops into Turkey?”
Fisk nodded. “We gave him the perfect justification. However, he lured us in by moving so aggressively against the Turkish government. He knew we wouldn’t stand by and watch thousands of civilians get slaughtered without trying to help.”
“Should we have seen this coming?”
Fisk shook his head. “No, absolutely not. Kharrazi’s uncle, Tariq, was an honest businessman without a shred of unlawful activity in his career. Unless we used an overt form of racial profiling, we would have never discovered the silos.”
Merrick pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “It’s getting to the point where anyone with an accent will endure a form of scrutiny they’d never seen before. This is not the country I grew up in.”
“Yes, but it’s the country you’ve been voted to lead. Your decisions will have a profound effect on the future. You can make changes necessary to promote a safer, less suspicious environment.”
Merrick looked at his friend with a guarded glare. “I’ve instructed Fredrick to schedule an eleven thirty press conference.”
Fisk gave him a stony look, but didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Merrick said, looking at his desktop. “If we don’t find Kharrazi by then…”
“You’re going to pull the troops from Turkey?”
Merrick nodded. “A U.N. peacekeeping force will remain, but we will no longer participate in the effort. I won’t risk any more American lives. I refuse to wake up tomorrow morning with a smoldering White House on the cover of every newspaper in the world.”
Fisk stared at Merrick and kneaded his hands. “I don’t believe you.”
Merrick kept his head down. After a couple of awkward minutes passed, he sensed Fisk get up and leave his office.
They sat in the reception area of the Sheriff’s office in the stunned silence that often followed a shooting. Especially an ambush. Especially an ambush set up by another law enforcement official.
It was after 5 PM and, except for a dispatcher buried behind the reception area, they were alone. They sat in old, cloth-covered chairs with lumpy padding and worn arm rests. Jennifer Steele was in the bathroom with a pair of scissors, trying to repair the damage she’d inflicted on her hair with her Swiss army knife. Ed Tolliver, Carl Rutherford and Matt were devouring fast-food burritos, looking drained, as if they had just run a marathon.
Nick paced, stopping only occasionally to feed the ancient vending machine for a Diet Pepsi. His head felt like the hull of a submarine diving too quickly toward the ocean floor. Another fringe benefit of stress-induced trauma. He could practically see Dr. Morgan rolling his eyes from two thousand miles away.