At the top of the hour, a newscaster spoke of late-breaking news from the White House. Apparently President Merrick had addressed the nation earlier that morning and made reference to an informer who volunteered valuable information about the terrorist behind the bombings. Kharrazi turned up the volume and listened as the announcer confirmed a Washington Post report that the informer was a relative of Kharrazi’s who lived in the Washington D.C. area.
Kharrazi slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Malik, the old fool! He tried to recall how much information his uncle could have known. How much did his mother know about his mission? He saw a sign directing Washington D.C. traffic to the left lane. He was disgusted with his meddling family and was determined to tie up any loose ends. Just then a large sport utility vehicle passed his Taurus on the passenger side and he caught the driver spying on him. Kharrazi realized that the driver was reacting to his temper tantrum and he forced a benevolent smile. The driver became uninterested and quickly moved ahead.
Kharrazi steered the car into the left lane and drove toward the nation’s capital with an entirely new agenda.
* * *
Nick sat at his desk at the Baltimore Field Office clicking the mouse on different files on his computer screen. He’d been navigating through the maze of information in a slow methodical manner for the past two hours. In the top left hand corner of the screen were the names of every Kurd who had applied for a visa over the past year. The right side ran a program called Linksgate. It cross-referenced every possible connection between the names on his computer screen and any KSF sympathizers. As the individual names were linked to a possible association, they were highlighted. Once highlighted, Nick would click on the name and instantly identify the connection. Some were weak, like Assad Jihed, who went to school with a KSF member fifteen years earlier. Yet other connections made him feel that the CIA had dropped the ball. There were twelve eavesdropping and surveillance satellites continuously inundating the CIA with information without the proper manpower to keep up. They routinely intercepted two million phone calls, E-mails, and faxes daily, only to decipher the information months and sometimes years later.
He was sifting through Rashid Baser’s file when the intercom beeped on his phone.
“Nick?” a woman’s voice said.
“Yes, Muriel.”
“Fourteen thirty-two is for you. It’s Julie.”
“Thanks,” he said, then pushed a button and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Sweetie.”
“Nick I’m down here at Johns Hopkins. I think you’d better come.”
Nick jumped from his seat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s Tommy, he’s. . well, he’s in intensive care.”
“What happened?”
“He was a victim of the bombings. He’s not doing very well. There might not be much time.”
“I’m on my way.” Nick hung up the phone and found Matt slapping the side of a printer trying to get it to print. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Where to?”
“The hospital. They got Tommy.”
Johns Hopkins contained Maryland’s only regional burn center. Nick could sense the competence of its professionals the moment he entered the hundred-year-old building. He approached the information desk and introduced himself to an older woman. The woman pointed to a room with a narrow slit of a window in the door. “They’re all in there.”
The room appeared to be a waiting area. “You don’t understand, I’m family,” Nick flipped open his FBI credentials as if this would be the magic pass to his cousin.
The woman had a peculiar expression that held concern and curiosity. “Exactly how many family members-” she stopped herself. “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman frowned. “The staff is doing the best they can. I’ve already notified the doctor and as soon as he is available he promised to meet with you and all of your family.” Again she pointed to the room.
“All of my family? How many family members are we talking about?”
The woman took an exasperating breath. “A lot.”
Nick opened the door slowly to avoid hitting anyone in the crowded room. The small room was intended for intimate conversations between doctors and family members of patients undergoing surgery. The architect didn’t have Tommy Bracco’s family in mind when he drew up the blueprints. Nick found Julie sitting in a corner with his Uncle Victor and Aunt Ruth, who was openly sobbing. Julie rubbed Ruth’s back while Victor carried on a conversation with Don Silkari.
Nick crouched down to his aunt’s eye level, “I’m sorry, Ruth,” he said, taking her hand into his. He looked at Julie, “What do you know?”
Julie shrugged. “Nothing. The doctors are still working on him.”
Nick said, “Ruth, there couldn’t be a better place for Tommy to be right now. These guys are the best in the world at this kind of stuff. Have hope.”
“Hope?” His Uncle Victor flicked the back of his hand from under his chin. “There’s your stinking hope. They better not take these terrorists to trial, because I’ll be outside with my Remington. They’ll never see the inside of a courthouse. I’m telling you right now, Nicky, it ain’t ever happening in a courtroom.”
Nick allowed his uncle to vent. There was no sense trying to calm him down, especially when Nick felt exactly the same as Victor.
Silk made eye contact with Nick and anger flashed across their eyes like lightening bouncing between two mirrors.
“Victor,” Nick said, “I’ll make this right.”
“How are you going to do that? You gonna bring my boy back to me?” Cause if you can’t do that, then you can’t make it right.” Victor’s lips twitched. His mouth acted like it wanted to continue, but his heart seemed too damaged for the job.
Silk gently tugged on Nick’s coat jacket and gestured to the opposite corner of the room. Nick saw his partner having an animated conversation with husky Sal Demenci. Sal was surrounded by five of his men, who regarded Matt with dubious expressions. Nick heard Matt say something about justice and this brought Sal to his feet. He pointed a finger at Matt, “You have the audacity to come in here and talk about justice. Do you have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about?”
Nick immediately wedged himself between the two men and patted Sal’s shoulders with baby taps. “Come on, Sal, settle down.” He looked into Sal’s eyes with compassion. “This isn’t a contest to see who cares about Tommy the most. Everyone in this room is hurting-including Matt. You know that, Sal. You know that.”
Sal took a breath and sat down, muttering obscenities.
“Did they give you any indication how bad he was?” Nick asked.
Sal shook his head. “I got a glimpse of him when they were moving him around. He’s burned all over. They’re keeping their mouths shut, so they don’t hedge any bets.” He looked up at Nick as if he’d forgotten something. “Hey, by the way, how’s Phil?”
“He’s good, Sal.”
“Good. Listen, I think maybe we need to talk.”
“What about?”
Sal stood and examined the crowd. He gestured toward the door and Nick followed. Sal’s men fell into step behind them until Sal turned and said, “It’s okay. Me and Nick are going to have a little chat.” He looked at Matt and said, “We’ll be right outside.”
Nick nodded to his partner and Matt grimaced.
Sal walked out of the hospital and led Nick to a bench under the canopy of the entrance. Nick sat next to him at arm’s length.
Sal stared at Nick like he was waiting for him to say something.
Nick shrugged. “What?”
