by Marc Cameron
Still straddling the GS, Quinn planted both feet, drew the Kimber from the holster under his jacket, and shot Kalil twice in the back of the head.
Startled diners looked up, some with forks suspended before gaping mouths. The terrorist sprawled headlong over a table, splashing a bright swath of blood across the white linen cloth. What was left of his face was planted squarely in a plate of linguini and clam sauce.
Jericho watched in horror as the tiny glass vial left the dead man’s fist intact, but rolled toward the edge of the restaurant floor to fall over the edge.
“Don’t move!” Mahoney screamed.
The Metro cop stood on the floor of the Main Hall, his barking shepherd straining at the leash in one hand while the other held a glass tube of liquid. He’d seen the vial fall and reached instinctively to catch it.
Megan stood like a statue at the bottom of the stairs. Both hands were raised, palms open and unthreatening toward the big policeman. Her smile was ashen, her voice halting.
“Officer…” She willed a calm tone into her shaky words. “Listen to me very carefully. If you drop that vial, we all die…”
The deafening roar of fighter jets overhead rattled the building, drowning out all conversation.
CHAPTER 34
Quinn dialed the phone to Palmer before he’d even holstered his pistol. The DNI put him on hold and made a quick call. Outside, the fighter jets pulled away, thundering back toward Langley.
Once Mahoney told everyone within earshot that the vial held sarin gas, it was a fairly simple matter to keep people away. The Metro cop handed the clear vial over without a fuss. Megan slipped it inside a padded, hard-shell plastic tube she’d brought just for that purpose. She slumped, relieved, but shaking with the knowledge of how close they’d come.
Thibodaux’s voice brought her out of her stupor.
“You okay, Doc?”
She looked up to see a wide rip in the leather of the Cajun’s motorcycle jacket, running parallel with his elbow. Another creased his thigh.
“What happened to you?”
“Turns out Kalil’s backup boys were pretty handy with their shooters.”
Jericho was already off his bike, examining the torn leather. “Are you hit?”
Thibodaux laughed. “They the ones that’s hit, beb.” He poked two fingers through the bullet holes in the jacket. “Lucky for me, I’m
ATGATT.”
Mahoney raised an eyebrow.
Jericho smiled, turning to take off his helmet. He motioned a group of Japanese tourists away from the Center Cafe and Kalil’s bleeding corpse. “All the gear all the time.” He chuckled. “The armored riding gear Palmer had made for us saved him.”
Over the strenuous objections of the mayor of D.C., the feds-who were, after all, really the ones in charge of the capitol-had Union Station locked down for five hours while the area around Kalil was searched for other vials of virus. The body and the glass vial were placed in an airtight “coffin” and transported via armored CDC van back to the BSL-4 at Fort Detrick with a full security detail.
“Y’all hear those flyboys come by?” Thibodaux said, wiping his brow with the back of a big hand. “Talk about a close one.”
Quinn released a deep breath. “Too close.”
Megan shivered as she began to understand what they were saying. Not only had they come within the brink of exposure to a deadly hemorrhagic virus, they’d very nearly been bombed to oblivion by their own government.
“The Gang of Five?” she whispered.
“Yep,” both men said in unison.
“I think we just about got dropped in the grease,” Thibodaux said, his forehead furrowed in thought.
“When this is over”-Jericho looked at Thibodaux-“you and I need to pay a little visit to the halls of the Senate Hood and have a chat with our Gang of Five.”
Marc Cameron
National Security
CHAPTER 35
15 September U.S. Customs Holding Center Dulles International Airport
FBI Special Agent Bob Chaffee leaned back against the edge of the metal table and exhaled through his prominent nose like an angry bull. His thinning blond hair was combed straight back, plastered to his scalp with gel. A dark suit jacket was folded neatly on the table to his right.
The Arab man handcuffed to the wooden chair in front of him wasn’t talking and Chaffee was beginning to look foolish in front of his new partner.
“I think we’re supposed to call someone with the CDC,” a portly customs inspector with gray hair offered from the other side of a metal government-issue desk. His name was Ernie and he was a likeable enough sort for a grandpa. Chaffee thought the man a little too sweet faced to be a gun-toting U.S. customs officer.
“The hit was flagged for national security,” Chaffee tossed the words over his shoulder to Ernie, but his steel blue eyes still locked on the suspect. “Last I heard the Bureau retains jurisdiction on national security matters no matter what some CDC doctor puts in a computer field.” He opened his fist to reveal a clear glass vial about two inches long.
The prisoner’s eyes focused intently on the vial, following it as a cobra might follow the bobbing of a flute. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, though the room was cool enough that Ernie had to wear his dark blue grandpa sweater.
“What’s in this thing, Hamid?” Chaffee asked. “Drugs?”
Liz Miller, Chaffee’s Betty-Bureau-Blue-Suit partner, chimed in. “There is a flag that pops up to say specifically we’re supposed to notify CDC. Maybe this is some sort of swine flu. I’ve read theories that Al Qaeda is trying to weaponize it…”
Special Agent Miller was an attractive enough woman, tall and triathlete fit with a pile of flaming red hair and a splash of freckles across her cheeks. Fresh out of Quantico, she thought she actually had something to offer to an investigation-some unique insight from her twenty-six weeks of study that trumped Chaffee’s twenty-three years on the street. What she had yet to learn was when to shut her yap and observe.
Chaffee shook his head. He was not about to call the CDC. The CDC was supposed to call the FBI. That’s the way things worked. He’d show this nubile newbie just how terrorism investigations were done.
Loosening his tie, he rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt and folded his arms across his chest. It was important he let the suspect know he was prepared for the long haul.
“So, Hammy,” he said, hoping the Arab was smart enough to get the pork innuendo. “Let me tell you what we do know. You came in this morning on the 9:06 flight from Dubai. Your passport is in good order, but… and this is a big but, my friend… your visa has some problems. The thing is, it’s not even a very good forgery. Visa fraud is a felony, you understand me?” Chaffee craned in close, inches from Hamid’s twitching cheek. “You understand prison, shit for brains?”
“Allahu akbar,” Hamid whispered.
“What did you say?”
Hamid hawked up a throat full of phlegm and spat. Yellow mucus dripped from Chaffee’s nose and chin.
He wiped it of with a handkerchief, pausing a moment to gaze at the office door before he doubled his fist and hit the prisoner hard in the jaw. Handcuffed, the Arab was unable to catch himself. Both he and the chair pitched onto the rough carpet, face first.
“Bob!” Agent Miller grabbed Chaffee by the shoulder, but he shrugged her off, towering over the prisoner.
Hamid lay on his side, panting, but still tight-lipped. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, spotting the scabby carpet.
“I’m calling the CDC,” Ernie whispered from behind the desk. “This is getting out of hand.”
Chaffee wheeled, a shock of gelled hair hanging down across a pink face. “Don’t you even think about it, old man. I told you, this is a national security issue. I’ll have your ass for hindering my investigation if you so much as touch the phone.” His starched shirt was askew, half untucked. One sleeve hung unrolled and unbuttoned, loose around his wristwatch.
“Plain fact is I already called them, Bob. This is Dr. Mahoney with the CDC. She wants to talk to the agent in charge.” The inspector’s jowly face tightened. “And you’ve made it pretty clear to all of us that that’s you.”
Chaffee snatched up the phone, and then promptly slammed it back on the receiver. He threw up his hands in disgust. “You’re an idiot, you know that, Ernie.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Three thousand people died in Colorado. This guy could be connected to that and you call in the disease police. Unbelievable!”
“The computer hit said to call them.” Ernie stood his ground. “When you go back up to Mount Olympus with all your other Bureau gods, I have to answer to my boss. I followed protocol.”
“Shut up.” Chaffee turned away. “You’re a disgrace to the badge.”
Agent Miller touched his arm. “Bob-”
“Don’t you Bob me,” he snapped. “Sit back and shut your yap. You might learn something useful.” He hitched up his suit pants, making certain his sidearm was snapped securely into the holster on his belt. Handing her the glass vial, he rolled up his dangling sleeve and turned his attention back to Hamid.
“Hold on to that for me. It’s evidence and I’m gonna need both of my hands.”
“They hung up on me.”
Megan Mahoney sat in the back seat of her Toyota 4Runner, dwarfed by three black parachute bags containing biohazard suits and portable air units. She lowered a cell phone from her ear in dismay.
Thibodaux sat behind the wheel, whipping expertly in and out of traffic. He took the spur road off highway 267, following the signs to the International terminal. It was midmorning and the commuter gridlock had let up enough that an aggressive driver could make good time, particularly going away from the Beltway. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Mahoney.
“Sure you had the right number?” he said, slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a Boar’s Head meat van.
“I spoke to the customs inspector.” Mahoney nodded, redialing and getting nothing but a busy signal. “He said he was putting on someone from the FBI.”
“What’s the Bureau doing there?” Quinn sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes shut, head back.
“Beats me,” Mahoney said. She couldn’t blame Quinn for resting. Since Win Palmer had put Hamid’s name and photograph on every lookout in the Western world, they’d been to Reagan National airport twice and Baltimore once, checking possible hits. Until now, they’d been false alarms, look-alikes. She’d assumed this one would be the same until they’d hung up on her. She’d dealt with the Bureau before, and though most of the individual agents were highly capable and pleasant enough, the agency had a certain inertia to it that could be difficult to overcome. “From my experience these guys can be mighty parochial.”
“That’s an understatement, cher,” Thibodaux said. “I’m fixin’ to get us right up by the door. We’ll crash their party no matter if they invite us or not.”
Quinn had his door open before Thibodaux put the Toyota in park. Mahoney handed a black bag marked XXL to Thibodaux just as a security guard in a gray uniform and yellow vest strode up. He was bald in the back, but his remaining hair was cut in a long flattop, pointing skyward like a smokestack, badly in need of a trim.
“You can’t park that here,” the guard said, nodding toward a sign along the curb. “Tour buses only.”
“FBI,” Thibodaux barked.
“Oh, uh…” the guard stammered. “Okay.”
“Damn.” Thibodaux grinned as the three walked away from the Toyota toward the terminal door. “No wonder the Bureau’s so parochial. Their name’s like a damn magic word.”
“We had to be telling the truth.” Quinn grinned. “Who would lie about being FBI?”
When Hamid hit the ground, the arm of his chair had snapped, leaving him cuffed not to the entire piece of furniture, but a stout club of heavy wood.
“What do you think, Hammy?” Chaffee said, stooping to lift the panting Arab back upright. He could get inside this guy and he knew it. “You feel like talking or should I ask my partner and her chubby friend to step out for a moment so I can shove that little vial of yours down your throat?”
Hamid said something, barely audible, under his breath, more of a squeak. Agent Chaffee grinned. This was too easy…
Hamid struck like a snake, grunting with exertion as he brought the heavy wood across Chaffee’s forearm. Bones cracked. Chaffee screamed, plowing into the Arab. The pain in his arm sent waves of nausea through his gut. His head reeled, but he knew he had to close the distance between himself and the club or risk being brained-especially now that his gun hand was useless.
Bellowing like a bull, Chaffee charged the far end of the room, taking the Arab along with him. Hamid slammed into the wall first, woofing as the air left his lungs. Unfazed, he continued to use the club, striking wildly but landing blow after blow on the agent’s back and shoulders. Chaffee rained left hooks into the Arab’s ribs, keeping him pressed against the wall with the point of his shoulder. He kept his broken wrist wedged against his own sidearm, fending off Hamid’s snaking hand as best he could. It was only a matter of seconds before the Arab would have his gun.
“Somebody shoot this son of a bitch!” Chaffee yelled as he felt the Glock slip from his holster.
He heard two quick pops and Hamid went limp. The gun slid away with a muffled thump against the carpet.
Chaffee was vaguely aware of the smell of gunpowder as he let the Arab’s body slump to the floor. Nausea brought on by the excruciating pain in his arm and a cold gush of adrenaline flowed back with full force. He staggered once, lowering himself to the floor with his good hand, cradling the broken arm across his lap.
Betty Bureau Blue Suit towered over him, her issue Glock still trained on a gurgling Hamid. Ernie too had found a pistol somewhere under his sweater and stood, aimed in at the threat.
A cool tickling caused Chaffee to touch his face. His hand came back bathed in red. Miller’s second round had caught Hamid high in the shoulder, shattering his collarbone and spraying Chaffee with blood.
“Bob,” Agent Miller said, her voice a half an octave higher than it had been. “You good?” She kicked the pistol away from Hamid’s twitching hand.
“I’m fine,” Chaffee winced, cradling his wounded arm. When he twisted around to thank her, his eyes locked on the shattered glass vial at Agent Miller’s feet.
CHAPTER 36
Palmer’s fury had shown in his twitching face after Quinn told him of the near miss with the fighter jets at Union Station. He’d vowed to keep any further communications about the virus out of the hands of the Gang of Five until he’d checked back with the Hammer Team. Until that time, he advised them to fly low and handle things as discreetly as possible.
Jericho’s OSI badge and a few moments of explanation to TSA and a harried airport police sergeant had gotten all three of them past the screening point with the bags of biohazard gear. Their real roadblock turned out to be a pudgy airline gate agent wearing blue uniform shorts and a wrinkled white shirt. Apparently, Mr. Brandon Milford felt as if it was his solemn duty to safeguard the magnetic lock on the door leading to the back corridor of the International Terminal. Had it been left up to Jericho, he would have been happy to choke out the hairy-legged little butterball with the lanyard from his name tag.
Instead, he was content to let Mahoney explain their way in. Jericho would save his energy for the moments when his particular skills were needed and let the good doctor handle the diplomatic niceties.
Thibodaux leaned against a concrete pillar beside him, looking on smugly with a raised eyebrow. “She’s losin’ her temper,” he said, taking a flat toothpick out of his mouth and dipping his head toward a red-faced Mahoney. “See how her butt cheeks are startin’ to clench inside her khakis?”
“Soun
ds like you’ve made a study of this,” Quinn mused.
“Oh, yeah.” Thibodaux grinned. “When I see my wife’s tail end clench like that, it’s time to hunt a different piece of real estate. Means she’s fixin’ to throw a frying pan or somethin’ heavy at my head.” The big Marine tossed the frayed toothpick on the floor. “If I was this guy, I’d be gettin’ ready to duck…”
“I need authorization,” the gate agent said, folding his arms and setting his egg-shaped face as if it were granite. “You’re not going back there until someone answers the phone and I get authorization. It won’t do you a bit of good to get testy with me. I’ll punch the code and let you in.” His nasal voice had the annoying whine of a mosquito. “ After I get authorization.”
“Excellent,” Mahoney said. “Call and get it.”
“I have,” Milford said. “They don’t answer.”
“Call someone else, then.” Mahoney threw her hands in the air, shaking her head in dismay. “Call the airport police. We just talked to one back at security. He said you’d let us in.”
The gate agent shook his head emphatically. “The airport police are not on my list of people to call. You say you’re federal. You know they wouldn’t have any jurisdiction over customs anyway. Look, I’m really busy right now. You have a seat over there and I’ll give them another call in a few minutes. I’m sure someone will answer then.
Mahoney stood, dumbstruck. She turned to look over her shoulder at Quinn. Her butt was indeed clenching. He tapped the pistol under his jacket. Want me to shoot him? he mouthed.
She looked back to the gate agent, who sat as immovable as a stone.
Quinn looked at his watch. They’d all expected someone from customs would be waiting out front for them. He pulled out his cell phone to give Palmer a call. Before he could hit the send key, Mahoney’s honey-sweet voice filled the air, menacing as a swarm of vengeful bees.
