“Good. Now, I want you to write in large letters, ‘Gone until 4 o’clock’, then tape it to the inside of the glass door.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from the copy machine and began to write the message. She stopped halfway through and looked at Kharrazi.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Well, there’s a charter flight due to leave here at 3:45. They may wonder-” she hesitated. As if she might be giving more information than she should have. Then, with a nervous wince, she said, “What are you going to do to me?”
“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 days 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 take-off. 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 take-off. 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. 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?”
