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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN
Alexandria, Virginia
 
T
he national security advisor sat behind an expansive desk. Abnormally clean in Quinn's opinion, the shining mahogany surface was large enough to warrant its own zip code but had little more than a black leather blotter and manila file folder on top. Palmer turned a Montblanc fountain pen back and forth between his fingers, eyes playing between a pair of fifty-two-inch flat-screen monitors to his right that displayed CNN and Fox News. A third screen, separated from the others by an old-fashioned grease board, displayed a Google Earth map focused over the countries in Central Asia.
American paintings by Catlin and Remington hung on the dark cherry-paneled walls. A roughrider bronze identical to the one in the Oval Office sat on a small table to the right of Palmer's desk. Above it, in a framed shadow box, hung a Winchester lever-action rifle. Apart from the flickering glow of the three flat screens, there was no other light in the room. All the masculine art gave it the aura of a perfect man-cave. Just a stone's throw from the Pentagon, few knew of the existence of the office.
Quinn sat opposite Thibodaux on the burgundy leather button-tufted sofa. A rich Moroccan carpet that looked as though it were made from five kinds of chocolate stretched out on the wood floor between the couch and Palmer's desk. On the coffee table were two files containing a wealth of intelligence information on the West Virginia paramilitary group calling itself the Constitutional Sword.
Apart from their white supremacist and anti-Semitic views, the CS portrayed themselves as strict protectors of American virtue and freedom. They were working off Drake's list and had eight of the names, including Quinn's, highlighted. Three of those on their shortlist were missing. One, a DOJ attorney named Rosenthal, had been found that morning shot to death in his Volvo near Dupont Circle.
Now that Bodington's guys at the FBI had climbed up their collective rectums, they offered little threat to anyone but each other. Each CS patriot raced to out-rat their fellow zealots for the best plea deal they could get as the jaws of the Department of Justice slammed tight around them.
The real dangers were the other organizations, yet unknown, who might also have chosen targets on the list.
“Two pivotal calls today.” Palmer peered at the men from behind his desk like a high school principal. He had a habit of doling out precious pieces of information one at a time.
“And?” Quinn said. He knew Palmer well enough to prod him a little just to show he was fully involved with the conversation.
“An old yak herder stumbled across one of our blood chits in southern Badakhshan Province. He turned it in to a platoon of U.S. Marines out on patrol.”
“Any reports of aircraft going down in that region?” Quinn asked, accustomed to such documents being issued to pilots in the event they were shot down over hostile terrain.
“Bearer wasn't a pilot. Coding on the cloth indicated she's a CIA paramilitary officer attached to FOB Bullwhip in Nuristan.”
“Badakhshan is north,” Thibodaux mused. Collectively, he and Quinn had spent time in nearly all the
Stans
of the world. “She's on the move, but that's a long ways away from any of our bases.”
“If we can believe the writing on the chit, she's a prisoner and heading deeper into the Hindu Kush. The note says there's a boy among her captors who speaks ‘perfect English.' ”
“No shit?” Thibodaux rubbed his chin. “This just keeps getting worse. You think they're holding an American kid prisoner?”
Palmer shook his head. “She indicates the boy is a hostile.”
Jericho moved to the edge of his seat. “You mentioned two calls.”
“I did,” Palmer said. “SecState called about the time you were getting your ass kicked at Cubano's. You boys have no doubt heard of MSF—
Médecins Sans Frontières
?”
Both men nodded.
“Doctors Without Borders,” Thibodaux translated the French.
“Ran across them all the time in Iraq,” Quinn said. “I'm pretty sure it was one of them stitched my brother and me up in Senegal a few years back.”
Palmer steepled his hands in front of his face. “In any case, Secretary Ryan faxed over a report from a certain doctor with MSF who's done a lot of work in the Hindu Kush. Seems this doctor ...” Palmer leaned forward to consult the notepad on his desk. “Doctor ... Deuben has been sending reports to the U.N. about child trafficking in Central Asia for years. The last report says locals tell of a hidden orphanage where the kids all speak English.”
“Let me guess,” Thibodaux said. “This orphanage is supposed to be somewhere in Badakhshan Province.”
Quinn nodded. “Makes sense.”
“We've been getting similar reports from Pakistani Intelligence,” Palmer said. “But to tell you the truth, they all seemed like fables until recently.”
“The same ISI who was helping bin Laden hide out? I'm not sure I'd trust Pakistani intel with directions to the crapper,” Thibodaux scoffed.
“Touché.” Palmer rubbed his chin, thinking.
“Where is this guy now?” Quinn asked.
“Tending to the health and welfare of prostitutes in Kashgar,” Palmer said. “And it's Dr. Gabrielle Deuben, a female, not a guy.” He looked directly at Quinn. “Your record says you've spent some time in Kashgar?”
“I have,” Quinn said, instantly recalling the frenzied sounds and spicy smells. “Shortly after I graduated from the Academy. Program called Lieutenants Abroad. The place is about as Muslim as you can get in a hardfisted regime like China. It's untamed, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.”
“Yes, it is.” Palmer put his feet up on the desk and stared at his ceiling with some obvious memories of his own. “I need you to talk to this doctor—find this orphanage if it exists. I could send in Special Forces, but it's impossible to know who to trust. The Pakistanis warn we could have moles in key positions of the military. POTUS wants this close-hold. The fewer people who know the better until you get your ass back here with some useful intelligence. We could chase our tails hunting sleeper agents all day long.”
Palmer stood. “This Drake character is turning into a real pimple on my ass. His witch hunt hearings start tomorrow. People are starting to see ghosts where there aren't any. This is shaping up to be a hell of a lot like the McCarthy era. We have to find out the man behind this and stop him—fast.”
“You think this is LaT?” Thibodaux offered. LaT or Lashkar-e-Taiba was a militant Pakistani group rivaling—and some said surpassing—al-Qaeda in danger to the United States. Their name meant Army of the Pure.
“Likely,” Palmer mused. “Or some offshoot cell thereof. But while that link matters as far as an investigation goes, this sort of operation is personality driven. There is always some despot with a lofty goal. Bin Laden, al-Zawahiri, Hitler, Pol Pot ... every group needs a driving force. That individual is our target.” Palmer leaned forward at his desk, looking hard at Quinn. “I'm not clear yet on what their plan is, but you have to find out who that person is before their sleepers make us tear ourselves apart as a nation.”
Palmer took a TV remote from the lap drawer of his desk and pointed it at the screen displaying Google Earth. The bird's-eye view zoomed in over the rugged confluence of three of the world's highest mountain ranges—the Pamir, the Himalayas, and the Hindu Kush.
“I want you in Kashgar ASAP,” Palmer said, shining the red dot of a laser pointer on Western China. “But the Chinese would have a fit if we send you in on government business. I think it's time you took some shooting leave.”
Jericho smiled at the notion. During the nineteenth-century spy/counterspy Great Game between England and Russia, British soldiers had often been given “shooting leave” so as to venture into neutral ground without official cover—or protection.
“Now wait just one damn minute,” Thibodaux all but roared from his seat on the couch. “With all due respect, sir, I don't think Quinn should be sent over to Kashgar all by hisself to talk with this
fille
doctor and her string of Chinese hookers.”
“Don't worry. He's not going alone, Jacques. He just won't be going with you.
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said, shaking his head ever so slightly. He was a Marine, and Marines took orders whether they liked them or not. Quinn respected that, but he could also understand the big Cajun's disappointment.
Palmer produced two blue passports from his desk drawer and shoved them toward Quinn. “You and Miss Garcia will go over posing as a couple on a motorcycle adventure vacation. It's the end of the season, but you should still have a couple of weeks of good riding weather. See what Dr. Deuben knows and get her to show you this orphanage. Keep me apprised of what you find on the Secure Satellite Link.”
“Adventure motorcyclists ...” Thibodaux muttered, arms folded across his chest in a muscular pout.
“I get it, Jacques,” Palmer said. “But you don't speak Chinese and with your bulk, you'd draw too much attention.” Palmer grinned. “If I ever need someone to go undercover as a pro wrestler, you'll be our guy.”
Palmer's cell phone gave a soft chirp. He looked at it and nodded grimly. “It's POTUS,” he said. “Garcia will be here any minute. Let her in and play nice. I have it on good authority she carries a knife.”
 
 
“I'm just sayin,” Thibodaux sighed after they left Palmer's office and shut the door behind them. “I can't believe they're sending you over to Bootystan with nobody to watch your back but the new kid.”
Quinn grinned. “There is that thing about her saving my life in the men's room. Besides, I thought you liked her.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, she's hot as a firecracker and all that,” Thibodaux said. “But have you looked in her eyes? She's got crazy-ass clowns in there with knives and meat cleavers and shit... . All of 'em do... .”
“Even Camille?” Quinn chuckled.
“Are you kiddin' me, beb?” Thibodaux threw up both hands and scoffed. “Hell yes, even Camille. I love her to death, but my little Cornmeal is the worst. Sometimes, when I'm lookin' down into those spooky eyes of hers, I can see her with a pair of scissors tippy-toein' up on me when I'm fast asleep... .” His broad shoulders shook with a full-body shiver. “Ohhh-weee, that little woman can bring some misère.”
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT
Spotsylvania, Virginia
 
L
ieutenant Colonel Fargo kept to the paving stones as he picked his way across the yard. He stayed a half step back from his partner, wanting him to reach the door first. Piles of dog crap lurked like land mines, half hidden in the thick grass. Three overturned bicycles, a red tricycle with no wheels, and assorted cap pistols and water guns lay strewn from street to porch. A headless GI Joe doll hung by one leg from the dead branch of a lone elm in front of the modest gray two-story.
Dogs and kids ... they both gave Fargo the creeps.
Both Fargo and his partner wore dark suits and Wiley X tactical sunglasses, looking every inch like the proverbial government men in black that they were. Though members of the American military rarely went armed on the soil of their own country, drastic times called for drastic measures, and each carried a Beretta M9 pistol in a shoulder holster under his suit coat.
First Sergeant Sean Bundy, a classic thug if the Army had ever seen one, tossed a condescending look over his shoulder as the two men wove their way through the maze of toys and lawn clutter. The stinger of a three-inch scorpion tattoo stuck above the size-eighteen collar of his white dress shirt. Sunlight shone off the pink of his freshly polished scalp. “Tell me this guy's name again?” Bundy asked.
“Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux,” Fargo said, feeling a touch superior as the words left his mouth. “You know, this is the second time you've asked me that. I thought you Echoes were keen on remembering the slightest details.”
At the steps now, Bundy spun, his top lip pulled back in a quivering half snarl. “I'm not asking because I want to know,” he snapped. “I'm asking to give you a concrete thought to focus on ... sir. You've been whistling a bad rendition of a Rossini opera ever since we got into the car this morning.”
The blood drained from Fargo's face.
“You need to calm your ass down ... sir.” Bundy glared. “I'll handle the gunny's blushing bride.”
Any trace of superiority left Fargo as if a plug had been pulled. From the moment he'd met Sergeant Bundy his gut had felt as if he'd drank a quart of curdled milk.
A day ago, when they were putting together their action plan, it had seemed like a good idea to interview Mrs. Thibodaux while her gigantic husband was away. Now that they were actually standing on her front porch, Fargo wasn't so sure. He would have turned away had it not been for fear of looking weak in front of a man who was his subordinate. He bit his bottom lip. Had he really been whistling Rossini?
“His wife's name is Camille,” Fargo offered, trying to save some semblance of dignity. “Maiden name was Bottini. Her friends call her Cornmeal.”
“Cornmeal,” Bundy chuckled, turning back to the door. “That's messed up.”
Sergeant Bundy pounded with his fist, rattling the entire house. Fargo felt his flesh crawl.
“Maybe they're not home,” he muttered, half under his breath.
Bundy looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I hear footsteps. They're home.”
A shadow drifted across the glazed oval window and the door flew wide open.
“Help you?” A pregnant woman leaned into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Mussed, coal-colored hair was pulled back in a faded blue bandana. Her white T-shirt stretched tight against the beginnings of a swollen baby-belly. A small child wearing nothing but a sagging diaper clung to the leg of her gray sweatpants.
“Gunny Thibodaux hereabouts?” Bundy asked, without introducing himself.
“Who would be askin'?” The woman glared with haggard green eyes under a furrowed brow. Fargo thought she might be attractive if she put on a little makeup and lost the baggy sweats. She certainly filled out the white T-shirt with more than just her belly.
Fargo stepped up next to Bundy, drawn forward in spite of his nerves. He opened his black credential case and held it at belt level. “Army CID. Actually, we're trying to find a friend of your husband's. Jericho Quinn.”
Camille touched the corner of Fargo's credential case, looking back and forth from the photo to his face.
“Your picture don't favor you at all.” She smirked.
The snot-nosed kid at her leg reached up and tugged at the case, trying to have a look of his own. Fargo yanked it back and slid it in his suit pocket.
Camille tossed her head, blowing dark bangs out of her eyes. “Listen, boys, if you'll excuse me I got baths to give and supper to cook. Leave your card and I'll tell Jacques you stopped—”
Without warning, Bundy shouldered his way inside the house. Fargo's gut lurched into his throat, but he followed dutifully.
Camille's look shot daggers as both men barged past.
“What the hell do you think you're doin?” she spat.
Bundy scooped up the little boy and rubbed the top of his head—as if he had the capacity for affection.
“Hey, kid.” His smile was half snarl. “You look like a tough little guy.”
“
Porca vacca
!” Camille's growled from somewhere low in her chest. The sound of it made Fargo's jaws lock up.
The woman's face twisted into a silent scream. Her shoulders began to shake. “You put my baby down right damn now or so help me ...”
“After we've talked awhile,” Bundy whispered, drawing the little guy to him. “I need something from you fir—”
“I said put my baby down!” Camille launched herself at Bundy, claws out, grabbing for the child with one hand and slashing out with the other.
Bundy kicked her hard in the belly, shoving her away as he pushed the baby out in front of him as a shield.
Camille went down hard, falling flat on her bottom with a loud
whump
. Shaking her head, she sprang back to her feet in an instant, enraged past the point of seeing.
“Okay, okay, Mrs. T.” Bundy grinned a savage grin, like someone who held all the cards.
She grabbed the squalling baby and backed away toward the wall, eyes smoldering with rage. Her face had gone pale and she kept one hand on her stomach. The kick had hurt her more than she was admitting.
Fargo felt his stomach churn. This was all getting so out of hand.
“I think you'd best calm down, Cornmeal,” Bundy hissed through clenched teeth. “I'd hate to see your kid get hurt because you lost your temper.”
“
Me ne frega
!” Camille screamed, flicking the fingers of her free hand under her chin in disdain. “I don't give a damn what you'd hate.” Tears welled, but pride kept her sobs bottled up as if she might explode.
Bundy stepped sideways over a pile of folded towels, putting some distance between himself and the furious mama bear. His eyes shot to Fargo as if to say: “Your turn.”
Fargo held up both hands, trying to gain control of a deteriorating situation. He couldn't help but think that if the gunnery sergeant came home now, they were dead.
He gulped. “You have to understand, Mrs. Thibodaux. This is a matter of national security. A friend of your husband's—Jericho Quinn—has vanished, along with his family.”
Camille kept steely eyes trained on the men while she maneuvered her little boy behind her. “And that gives you leave to come in here and terrorize me and my kids?” She shook her head emphatically, her voice barely above a whisper. “I said get out of my house or I'm callin' the cops—”
Bundy clapped his hands together with a loud pop, causing everyone in the room, including Fargo, to jump. “Cornmeal,” he sneered, wagging his bald head. “We are the cops. Now, it's important for you to know Jericho Quinn is wanted on some very serious—”
Camille snatched up an eight-by-ten photograph of her husband in his dress blue uniform and hurled it at Bundy. The heavy pewter frame caught him square in the shoulder, shattering the glass, then bouncing off the far wall.
“It's important for
you
to know,” Camille hissed, “that I don't aim to let anyone come bargin' in my house uninvited! I am not gonna stand here and listen to a single word from you.” She took a half step toward them with an aluminum baseball bat she'd grabbed from behind the door.
Bundy licked his lips. For an agonizing moment Fargo was afraid he might actually shoot the woman. Instead, the trained Echo simply raised his hands and walked toward the door. Once outside, he turned to look back. “Tell your husband we stopped by,” he said, a little too smug for Fargo's taste.
“Oh, I'm gonna tell him, all right.” Cornmeal Thibodaux's lips pulled back into a hysterical laugh. “And when I do, he's gonna shove this baseball bat up your ass.” She patted her little boy on the head without looking down. “Don't worry, sugar. Ass is a Bible word... .”
The house shook when Camille slammed the door behind the two intruders. Brad, her youngest, stood beside her in a sagging diaper. Already rattled, he jumped at the sudden noise and threw back his head to bawl at the ceiling. The older boys were playing down the street. That was a blessing. Both took after their daddy. Only nine and eleven, neither had a smidgen of patience when it came to a bully. Camille was sure they would have done something stupid with the two suits. They probably could have taken the one named Fargo—but the bald one had a mean bone. He was dangerous. Camille had run into men like him when she was tending bar, before she met Jacques. They were men who had a rip in their moral fabric, men who not only lacked a conscience, but reveled in the pain of other folks.
The look he'd given her sweet little boy made her legs go weak.
“Mama.” Denny, her seven-year-old—and the most sensitive of her boys—stood at the top of the stairs, flanked by his five- and three-year-old brothers. The three held hands, sobbing quietly as they looked down with their blinking doe eyes that always made her think of Jacques. They'd seen the whole horrible episode.
“Mama,” Denny stammered, his little voice graveyard quiet. “Were you gonna really hit those men with my bat?”
“If I had to, sugar.” Not much of a crier herself, emotion showed itself in crimson blotches on her neck.
“Why was he holding Brad?” Denny was the official spokesman, but all three boys stared down at her, demanding an answer.
A wave of nausea swept over her and she had to use the bat as a crutch to keep her feet. She caught her breath, patting the top of a squalling Brad's head. She was a Marine wife, and these were Marine sons. There was no need to lie to them.
“He was trying to scare me,” she said.
“Why?” Denny demanded.
Camille suddenly thought of the other boys playing up the street. A stabbing pain shot low across her abdomen, arcing like an electric shock. A veteran of six pregnancies, she'd never felt a pain so severe.
Overcome with nausea, she dropped the bat and fell to her knees. She doubled over, cradling her swollen belly, trying to keep from throwing up.
Denny ran down the stairs to cup his mother's face in both hands. “Mama! What's the matter? Should I call nine-one-one?”
She pulled him closer, tears of agony streaming down her cheeks. “You gotta promise me something, sugar.”
Ashen faced, the boy nodded quickly, but sounded unconvinced. “I'm gonna go call nine-one-one—”
Camille grabbed him by his T-shirt as he turned to get the phone. Of all her boys, Denny was the one most likely to obey her.
Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Searing pain grew like a pool of hot acid in her gut. She pulled her son close to her, using him as a support to stay upright for just a little longer. “Promise me you won't tell your daddy about those men.”
“But Mama ...”
“Promise!” Camille screamed like a crazy woman.

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