Authors: Gary Ponzo
“Agreed,” Merrick said. He looked at the clock on the wall. If he were in the War Room, he’d have the exact time for every country on a digital display. “What time is it in Bogota?”
Fisk took out his phone and took only a few seconds to say, “It’s only an hour earlier. Nine forty-five.”
Merrick pushed a button on the phone on his desk. “Hanna, get me a direct line with the president of Colombia.”
It took a few seconds for his secretary to respond. Anytime the president was in his office, his secretary, or a staff member, was required to be at his secretary’s desk. Once it got late, however, they’d typically take naps until the Secret Service notified them of his departure.
“Excuse me, sir?” came Hanna’s voice over the speaker.
“Get me the president of Colombia, Carlos Santoro,” Merrick said, more forceful this time. “Now!”
As they waited for the call to get connected, Fisk said, “The press will find out.”
“I know.”
“We should get Fredrick on it right away to diffuse the situation.”
“He’s third or fourth on my priority list right now.”
Hanna came back on the speaker. “Mr. President, they’re having a problem locating President Santoro. They wanted to know what level of urgency you needed.”
Merrick muted the speakerphone. He looked at Fisk. “Should I dip into our bag of leverage?”
Fisk nodded. “No reason not to.”
Merrick pushed a button. “Tell them I’ve received a digital photograph that President Santoro might like to know about.”
They waited.
Fisk said, “I thought Trent hated politics.”
“He does.”
Fisk pointed to the phone. “Then what’s that all about?”
Merrick shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Do you believe that?”
“No.”
Hanna’s voice returned. “Apparently they were able to find President Santoro. He’s on line three.”
“Thanks,” Merrick said. He looked over at Fisk. “Well?”
“Make him wait,” Fisk said, taking a couple of mugs from the upper cabinet and pouring hours-old coffee into two mugs. He added cream and sugar to one and handed it to Merrick. “I know this guy. He’s bipolar. One minute he’s praising your accomplishments, the next he’s ready to have you executed.”
“So how do I handle him?”
“Begin very convivial, but let him know right away you’re in control. And should he ever get nasty, you need to give it right back to him. He won’t respect you otherwise.”
Merrick took a sip of his coffee. “Okay, I’ll start with the diplomatic approach,” he said, pulling the receiver to his ear. “Mr. President, what is going on down there? A few hours ago I received a very strange photo from my brother’s cell phone. When I call him, a man in a Spanish accent answers the phone and makes threatening remarks. Would you care to clear things up for me?”
There was a serious pause while Santoro attempted to deal with the brutal honesty thrown at him. Finally, after a few seconds, he said, “Mr. President, I do not understand why you would be telling this to me. Which picture are you speaking of?”
“I see.” Merrick’s face tightened. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to release this CIA-authenticated image to the media and within thirty minutes you will be able to see it on every news website around the globe. Then call me and we’ll discuss your new job as the greeter at the Bogota Wal-Mart.”
Merrick slammed the phone down and ran a hand through his hair.
“Very diplomatic,” Fisk said. “However, I said to wait for him to get nasty first.”
“You said show him I’m in control.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re in complete control, aren’t you?”
Merrick walked in a circle. “Now what?”
“We wait for him to call back.”
Merrick stopped and squinted at Fisk. “That’s brilliant, but I meant what do I say when he calls back?”
Fisk sipped his coffee. “Are you thinking of changing your diplomatic approach?”
“Right now I’m thinking of changing my secretary of state.”
Fisk sat on the couch and put his coffee down on the coffee table. “Let’s see how he responds. Don’t antagonize him this time. It won’t help your cause.”
“What’s he waiting for?” Merrick said, walking to his desk and staring down at the phone as if it were able to talk.
“He’s probably got advisors telling him how to respond,” Fisk said.
There was a tall grandfather clock sitting behind Merrick’s desk and normally its ticking was drowned out by conversation, television, or the bustling traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. Now it was the only sound in the room.
Merrick thought about his brother’s pregnant wife. He would need to speak with Jaqui and find out what he could about Trent’s trip.
“Mr. President,” Hanna’s voice said over the speaker. “President Santoro for you.”
Merrick reached for the phone, then stopped himself. He turned to Fisk and waited for his approval.
Fisk nodded.
Merrick picked up the phone. “Yes, Mr. President?”
Santoro’s voice was heavy with fatigue, as if he was tired of the conversation before it even started. “Your brother is alive.”
Merrick let out a big breath and sat back on his desk. “Good.” He knew enough to shut up and listen. Maybe Santoro would fill the empty space with words he wasn’t prepared to speak.
The silence lasted only a few seconds.
“He has been badly hurt,” Santoro said. “He has taken a fall from a tree while spying on a private conversation.”
Merrick stood erect and took the slack out of his grip on the phone. “How badly?”
“He’ll need medical attention for a few days, but he will survive.”
Merrick waited as long as he could before he asked, “When can he come home?”
There seemed to be some consulting going on the other side of the phone line because Santoro could be heard speaking in hushed tones to someone in his office.
“Mr. President,” Santoro said, “there is very little I can do to help your brother. He has been taken prisoner by the Cameno Cartel and he will be used as a bargaining tool. I am not capable of intervening in this matter.”
“I see,” Merrick said, his chin muscles tightening. Fisk must’ve sensed his aggravation, because he jumped to his feet and approached Merrick with a paternal glare.
Merrick stared at Fisk and said into the phone, “What exactly do the Camenos want?”
“They are probably going to ask for more than you can give. So I would not expect this to end well for your family.”
Merrick thought about the one thing he could bargain with. He held up the image on his cell phone. “And what about this photograph I have?”
A pause.
The grandfather clock ticked.
“I think we both know what would happen should that ever get released.”
Merrick nodded. “So you do have some say with my brother’s welfare?”
“I may be able to keep him alive for a period of time. But not much more than that. I am sorry. Spies do not have a long lifespan in this part of the world.”
Merrick gritted his teeth. “Trent is not a spy.”
“So you say.”
Fisk grabbed Merrick’s arm and raised his eyebrows. Merrick took a breath. “Okay, Mr. President. Please do your best to keep him alive while I work out the situations with the Camenos.”
“I will do my best.”
Merrick slammed the phone down. He was already in presidential mode.
“Here’s the problem,” Merrick said, folding his arms. “I just got a briefing from Ken yesterday telling me that Santoro hated Pablo Moreno. So either one of Ken’s contacts has turned, or he’s feeding me the bullshit I want to hear. Either way, our resources are scarce down there.”
“Ken does trigger the bullshit detector at times,” Fisk said, referring to the director of the CIA.
Merrick needed time to see this through. He hated making decisions he would regret later.
“That being said,” Fisk added, “we still need to get Ken on this right away.”
“Yes,” Merrick said, his pace picking up speed. “Eventually.”
“We don’t have time to play favorites,” Fisk said. “Ken will have assets in Colombia.”
“He’ll send drones and spies and tip off the Colombians before we have a chance to rescue Trent.”
“Rescue Trent?” Fisk turned to face Merrick. “What are you talking about? You already have a rescue mission in mind?”
Merrick walked over and sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled around to see the Rose Garden lit up with accent lights outside his office. He was the most powerful political leader on the planet, yet he felt completely helpless. His family would need to be consulted. He wouldn’t allow them to mourn another death though. It was too much to ask.
Merrick began to develop a plan. He considered his options. The CIA would be quick, but bulky. Navy SEALS could surprise the kidnappers, but they’d need a specific target. They’d need intelligence to develop a solid rescue mission. He knew the incriminating photo would only allow him a minimal amount of time. Maybe days, maybe hours. He scrolled through the contact list on his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
Merrick was groping. He needed someone with stealthy contacts and the ability to move quickly. Someone who could assemble a small team of professionals to maneuver without alerting the Colombian government. An almost impossible task.
Merrick hovered his finger over the name he was about to call. He stared at the phone in his hand as if it were a loaded weapon. “We have assets even Ken doesn’t know about,” Merrick said, looking over at Fisk with a raised eyebrow. It was subtle, but the inference was there and Fisk seemed to understand. It was the first time Merrick had acknowledged he was aware that FBI agent Nick Bracco had been using his mafia-connected cousin, Tommy, to help fight the war on terrorism. It was a fiercely kept secret within the confines of the beltway. Something only a select few were privy to. The president needed deniability and Fisk had done everything he could to protect his friend from the damage he would incur.
Merrick could see Fisk over there shaking his head, trying to determine a more effective method of saving Trent. Nick Bracco had been one of the most celebrated FBI agents in the bureau, and his partner, Matt McColm, was ex-Special Forces. Between Nick’s contacts and Matt’s training, the two had thwarted many terrorist attacks. But Merrick needed deniability and Fisk never wanted anyone to connect the dots back to the president.
“If it were your brother, Sam,” Merrick said, somberly, “what would you do?”
Fisk sighed, then walked over and closed the door to the private office.
“I’d call Nick Bracco,” Fisk said.
Chapter 3
Casa de Nariño was Colombia’s version of the White House. It was a palatial estate fronted by granite columns and a guarded black iron gate. The inside was decorated with Colombian artwork in virtually every oversized room. It hosted most formal state functions and included the residence for the president and his family.
As with most rooms in the manor, the president’s business office was immense with a dark oak desk large enough to support a small vehicle. Behind the desk, the Colombian flag hung from a gold-plated flagpole. Everything in the room was designed to intimidate. Even the menacing portrait of Pablo Estrada which loomed across from the entrance was meant to create an ambiance of forewarning to foreign dignitaries who came to discuss their mutual interests.
President Santoro hung up the phone in his office and tapped a finger on his desk. He was a smallish man with intense eyes and twitchy movements. Sitting across from him was Roberto Sanchez, his vice president and overall muscle to Santoro’s aggressive presidential style. Sanchez had large shoulders and a permanent sneer planted on his face.
“He seems resigned to his fate,” Santoro said.
Sanchez leaned forward, elbows on his khaki’s, his biceps tight against his blue cotton shirt. “Did he give you threats?”
“No. He simply stated the obvious.”
“The picture has potential harm, yes?”
“Yes,” Santoro said. “We need to devise a plan to minimize its impact. Until then, make sure Padilla keeps the brother in seclusion.”
Sanchez gently rocked back and forth and avoided eye contact. “It was a stupid ceremony.”
“It was just that. A ceremony,” Santoro said with a flat tone. “Do not place more importance on it than necessary.”
Sanchez glanced out the bulletproof window behind Santoro into the dimly lit courtyard filled with orange trees and accent lights. He wondered where Santoro got all his bravado from. The smallish man with bad breath which no one would ever tell him about.
“We should have Padilla let the brother go,” Sanchez said. “He will only bring us attention we do not need.”
Santoro kept tapping his index finger on his desk, the cadence picking up speed as the conversation continued. His eyes darting in different directions. “I’ve instructed Padilla to kill him.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We do what we always do when there is resistance to our ways.”
“But we cannot just send our men to eliminate the dissidents this time. We are speaking of the president of the United States.”
Santoro’s eyes momentarily focused on Sanchez. “He has sent his brother down here to spy on us. He deserves everything we give him.”
“See, this is the part which I do not understand,” Sanchez said, pulling a round lollipop from his shirt pocket and pointing it at Santoro. “Would you send your brother to go spy on the president of another country?”
Santoro seemed incensed at the concept. “Of course not.”
“Exactly,” Sanchez said, tucking the cocaine-laced lollipop into the corner of his mouth. “You would send spies to do spies’ work. Why risk a family member?”
“So you suspect President Merrick is incompetent?”
“No, I suspect this brother was there for some other reason and just happened to stumble upon your . . .” Sanchez tried to remove the sarcasm from his words, “ceremony.”
Santoro curled his lip into a ferocious scowl. “You have been sucking on too many of those drug sticks, Roberto. This man was there for one reason. And we need to find out everything we can about his agenda.”