walked away from the gathering to an oversized map of Turkey. With his arms folded he said, “Professor Bandor is upset because he feels a sense a responsibility with this entire KSF mess.”
Bandor nodded with his head down.
“Tell them,” President Merrick said.
Bandor pulled at a loose piece of cuticle from his left thumb. “I believe Kemel Kharrazi has killed my sister. I’ve suspected for some time and now I am certain of it.”
He seemed reluctant to continue until the president said, “Go on, Malik.”
“My sister told me in confidence that Kharrazi was coming to America to exact revenge on the United States for interfering with their defense against the Turkish Security Force. This was months ago. I don’t know how, but I suspect Kharrazi found out about our conversation and killed her.”
“How can you be sure?” Dutton asked.
The professor continued his fascination with his cuticles. “She was allowed to leave a note saying goodbye to my brother-in-law and her other children.”
“Her other children?”
“Yes. . you see, Kemel. . well, he’s my nephew. And my sister is his mother.”
A collective gasp seemed to fill the room.
“Kharrazi killed his own mother?” Vice President Hearns asked. It became evident that he was the lone person in the room who didn’t know the Kharrazi legend and he immediately sank back in his chair.
The professor nodded. “You have no idea how sick I am about this. He is not what you think. He is much, much worse. His only loyalty is to the Kurdish people and their struggle for a separate nation of their own. Other than that, everyone and anyone is expendable. Even me.”
“Which brings us to the real reason the professor came to me with his dilemma,” President Merrick said. “He knows what a hothead Kharrazi is and he feels there’s a good chance we can use the professor as bait to lure Kharrazi out of hiding.”
“You can’t be serious?” Dutton said.
But the remainder of the room hoped he was. They were desperate for Kharrazi’s shoe size, never mind a trap that could actually help capture him.
“Tell us about it,” Jackson said.
President Merrick stood behind the professor and placed a hand on his shoulder. “In a few minutes I’ll leave the White House and address the media and the nation about the latest series of bombings. As I’m leaving the White House I’ll be seen shaking the professor’s hand and thanking him. The camera set up insures that every television station with a news department will see us. Later, there will be a leak to the Washington Post about intelligence we’ve received from a Kurdish relative of Kharrazi’s. Our office will confirm the allegation and add that the information is extremely helpful in our pursuit of the madman known as Kemel Kharrazi. We will not name any names, but that will be a moot point. Kharrazi will know who we’re talking about.”
“Kemel is a news junkie,” Bandor added. “He monitors cable news stations all day long. He will come after me without question.”
Dutton rubbed the side of his face. “It’s risky. And there’s no guarantee that Kharrazi will make the attempt himself. He could send one of his soldiers to do the job.”
The President nodded. “Professor Bandor feels strongly that Kharrazi would be compelled to bring him down personally. There’s been bad blood between them for some time.”
“I can only apologize for not coming forward sooner,” Bandor said.
Nick said. “You realize if we keep close tabs on you, he’ll spot us. And if we leave even the slightest gap. .”
“He’s right,” Dutton said. “Kharrazi will be disguised. An old woman, a homeless person, you’ll never be able to walk down the street without wondering who’s around you.”
There was no reaction from Bandor. Dutton lowered his head to meet the professor’s eyes. “What Nick is suggesting is. .” still no recognition of fear showed in Professor Bandor’s face. “It’s a suicide mission.”
President Merrick patted the professor’s back as he stared down at the old man.
“He knows, Louis. He knows.”
Chapter 15
Kemel Kharrazi exited the private jet and waddled across the tarmac toward a small brick building just south of the runway. His padding had come loose during the flight and was beginning to bunch up inside of his jacket. A suspicious eye might’ve noticed his unbalanced appearance, so he decided to adjust himself in the men’s room. But the second he opened the glass door to the building, an overzealous young woman standing behind an abbreviated counter accosted him.
“You must be Mr. Henning,” she said cheerfully.
By instinct Kharrazi headed directly toward the woman. His training commanded the response. Growing up on the streets of Istanbul, he’d learned to never allow a possible threat catch you avoiding their attention. A sure sign of weakness.
Kharrazi dropped his leather suitcase, leaned over the counter and smiled. “Yes, that would be me.”
The woman tapped her long, purple fingernails onto a keyboard and said, “Well, let’s see what the computer says, Mr. Henning.”
For a brief moment Kharrazi was startled. What was this woman going to find on the computer? He was about to feel for his Beretta when she said, “It looks like everything’s all set. I’m just checking on your rental car now.”
Kharrazi’s nerves were frayed and he chastised himself for being so jumpy. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Take your time.”
Kharrazi noticed a stack of USA Today newspapers on the counter next to him. On the cover was the headline, “America Under Siege.” Below the headline was a surveillance photo of Kharrazi taken last year. He had a snarl on his face and it reminded him how important it was for him to smile. With puffy cheeks and a bald head, Kharrazi was certain he was unrecognizable, but the smile made him practically invisible.
Kharrazi scanned the parking lot. It was vacant. A couple of men stood in front of a hanger across the runway, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, engaged in conversation. The airfield was chosen carefully. Even though it was scarcely used, it was only forty minutes from Ronald Reagan airport, which was certain to be infested with federal agents.
“So, Mr. Henning, what brings you to Maryland?” the woman asked, still scanning her computer screen.
“Business,” Kharrazi said.
“Business? How come so far away from the metropolitan area?”
Kharrazi grew irritable at the line of questioning, but he could see that she was making the silence between them go away. This was something that Americans were known for-their trivial conversations. The weather, sports, traffic, all harmless topics that Americans were compelled to whittle away their lives talking about.
He smiled. “I sell custom boats. Most of my customers live here at the south end of the bay.”
This seemed to satisfy the woman’s curiosity, which coincided with the end of her search. “Here you go, Mr. Henning,” she handed Kharrazi a folded pamphlet and a set of keys. “Just go through that door and hang a left. Your rental car is the third one in, the green Taurus. Just bring it back tomorrow with a full tank and leave the keys in the ignition.”
Kharrazi thanked the woman and hurried towards the men’s room, where he adjusted his padding. After he was rearranged, he found his car and left the complex. There was no need for a map since Kharrazi had the route committed to memory. Once he reached the D.C. area, he would call upon his college days at Georgetown to assist his recollection of the district.
He switched the radio to an all-news station, where he heard an aggressive dialog between a journalist and a civilian caller. The caller wanted the President impeached and the journalist countered with talk of rounding up all non-American civilians from the Middle East. Kharrazi was fascinated with the grouping of all Middle-Eastern countries into one giant alliance. As if Iraq, Israel, Lebanon and Turkey all shared the same doctrine.
