National Security

by Marc Cameron

  The general peered across the desk. “Do I need to keep going?”

  The sand crab shook his head and snapped to attention, begging to be dismissed. Major Babcock escorted him out and General Powers adjourned the proceeding.

  “Quinn,” the general said, almost as an afterthought. He popped a peppermint candy in his mouth and rose from his chair. “Step up—and bring your Marine friend with you.”

  Powers put his hand over the microphone as the two men approached. “Just so we’re all clear, if you’d disobeyed one of my orders I’d have kicked your ass from Baghdad to Washington and back. Do you read me?”

  “Yes, General,” Quinn said, stifling a grin. “But with all due respect, I don’t believe you’d have given such an order.”

  “Damn straight,” Powers said. “But don’t be thanking me yet for the rosy way your day’s turning out.” He gave a somber nod over his shoulder toward a large oak door along the wall behind him. “There’s a man in that office who wants to speak with both of you. He’s wearing a very expensive suit and it’s been my experience that men in uniform should be extremely wary of men in suits.”

  CHAPTER 12

  1550 hours

  Centers for Disease Control

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The black telephone on Megan Mahoney’s desk rang for the fifth time, then fell silent. Like a soldier in a garrison, Mahoney found the pressed uniforms, seedy politics, and confines of public health stifling. If she had wanted an office, she’d have been a surgeon or some other kind of specialist.

  Even the walls of her posh apartment outside Atlanta threatened to crush her if she stayed inside too long. She belonged in the field.

  The phone rang again, more urgently this time, if such a thing was possible. Mahoney picked it up.

  “Dr. Mahoney. How may I help you?” She was put off by the interruption but saw no reason to let her Southern manners slip.

  “Hallo, Dr. Mahoney. Dr. Alain Leclair here ... National Institute of Health.” It was a male voice, slightly nasal and thickly French. He pronounced her name “Mayho-knee” with a heavy accent on the last syllable. “I must to speak with you regarding the shipment of certain culture specimens... .”

  Mahoney got a half dozen such calls a month, usually from third world countries with no labs of their own.

  “The instructions for mailing bio samples are all on-line.” She started to give him the Web address.

  “I am familiar with the CDC website,” Leclair said. “In truth, I’m not certain why I was given your name. I have not looked at the samples, myself. My counterparts in the Ministry of Interior had sealed them before they came into my possession.”

  Leclair blew his nose, loud enough that Mahoney had to hold the receiver away from her ear. Sniffing, he continued. “These are blood and tissue samples—collected in Roissy.”

  Mahoney sat upright, pushing herself away from the computer. She bit her bottom lip.

  “Did you say Roissy?”

  “Oui. A small community near the Paris airpor—”

  “Tell me, Doctor, exactly how are the samples packaged?” Mahoney felt as if someone heavy was sitting on her chest. “You are positive you didn’t try to examine them yourself—touch them in any way?”

  “Oui, I did not.” Leclair said. “They were packaged when I rec—”

  “Okay.” Mahoney felt herself begin to breathe again. “Listen to me very carefully, Dr. Leclair. You must place the Roissy samples in a biosafety level-four containment lab immediately.”

  Neither Leclair, nor anyone in the French government, would have been told the whole truth regarding the incident with Northwest 2. They knew only of an Algerian lab with some sort of bioterrorism connections. Mahoney had been told the place was firebombed to ashes or she’d have been on the first flight across the Atlantic. She fumed that no one had seen fit to inform her of any surviving cultures.

  The French had no way of knowing that the virus from Roissy was, in all likelihood, responsible for the death of over four hundred people.

  “I can assure you, the samples are quite well packaged, Dr. Mahoney,” Leclair protested. “We are professionals here in France. The CDC protocols were followed to the letter. You have no need to—”

  Mahoney’s Southern sweetness had its limits.

  “Damn it, Leclair,” she snapped. “Hang up the telephone right now and take the specimens to the nearest BSL-four containment—someplace you’d take the deadliest stuff you’d ever even thought about.”

  “Impossible,” Leclair huffed.

  Mahoney threw up her hands. “And just why is that?”

  “Quite simple,” Leclair sniffled. “I do not have them. The FedEx messenger picked them up from my office five hours ago. They are already en route to you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The two men with the suits were operators, there was no mistaking that—Secret Service or some other steely-eyed protective agency who knew their stuff and hired their beef by the pound. Both wore pressed but not overly expensive suits, cut full to allow for athletic shoulders as well as an assortment of hidden weapons underneath. Quinn had several identical suits stashed in his own closet, complete with gun patches to keep his sidearm from wearing out the lining. Earpieces with flesh-tone wires hung from each man’s left ear. Their eyes locked on the newcomers like targeting radar as they flanked their boss, who was finishing a conversation on the phone.

  Quinn couldn’t place the suit’s face. He was a tall man, with close-cropped charcoal-gray hair and a ruddy, smiling face. He looked familiar, even fatherly, like a television news anchor you might let into your living room every night, but not quite recognize on the street.

  “Winfield Palmer,” the suit said, extending a strong hand. “Director of National Intelligence. My friends call me Win.”

  Of course, Quinn thought. That’s why he recognized the man. Winfield Palmer was arguably one of the most powerful men in Washington. As DNI he was said to have the President’s ear—and support—on anything and everything of consequence regarding the Global War on Terror—and no matter what they called it in public, to those fighting it, a global war was exactly what it was.

  Quinn shook his hand, as did Thibodaux.

  Palmer dismissed the two bodyguards with a nod. They left without making eye contact.

  “Gentlemen, I know you’ve both had an extremely long day. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.” He glanced at the stainless TAG Heuer Aquaracer next to the platinum cufflink on his French shirt, giving a nod of approval to the identical dive watch on Quinn’s left wrist.

  “Please, have a seat.” Palmer pointed at two leather chairs beside a long mahogany coffee table. He came around to sit on the edge of the general’s highly polished wooden desk.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. I’ve been around enough to know men like you two don’t trust guys like me from the get-go. Lark—the young Marine you saved in Fallujah—happens to be my grandson. What you men did was incredibly brave—”

  Thibodaux cut in. “With all due respect, sir, we were only doing—”

  Palmer held up an open hand and wagged his head with a smile. “I get that, Gunny. Certainly, there are thousands of men and women in the desert doing brave and dangerous things for our country every day. You are right. Neither one of you have a corner on the bravery market. The fact is you two fell under my radar so I took the liberty of looking over your files.” The DNI turned slightly and retrieved a thick, red-striped folder from the desk behind him. “I have to say I’m impressed, Gunnery Sergeant Thibodaux. Starting shortstop for LSU, where you graduated summa cum laude... .” He glanced up with the chuckle of someone holding a winning hand. “I’d ask why you aren’t an officer, but I don’t want to hear your BS about wanting to work for a living... .” Palmer’s eyes fell again to the file. “Let’s see ... an only child, your parents own a restaurant in the French Quarter ... champion Greco Roman wrestler, ranked mixed martial artist where you fight under the name ‘Dauxb
oy’... . You’re fluent in French, and surprisingly enough, Italian—”

  “My wife’s Italian.” Thibodaux gave a modest grin, dipping his nearly shaven head. “It comes in handy so I know when to duck if she goes on one of her tirades.”

  Palmer ignored the comment. “Your file goes on to say that you’re an expert marksman, defensive tactics instructor at Quantico, and somehow, in between four deployments to the desert, you’ve managed to sire six sons, all of whom are under the age of eleven.”

  Quinn started at this, stifling a grin. Six sons. There was definitely more to Jacques Thibodaux than met the eye.

  “And every one of ’em a bouncing baby stud,” Thibodaux beamed. “Does my file mention I play a mean mandolin?”

  “As a matter a fact it does.” Palmer dropped the folder on the desk. “It also notes that you are a smart-ass. A valuable and talented smart-ass, but a smart-ass nonetheless.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “So, do you recall the protective operation you worked a year ago when the commandant of the Marine Corps visited Mosul?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “DOD did an investigation for a top-secret clearance on all personnel involved with that op. That certainly makes things handy for me... .”

  Palmer chuckled, turning to Quinn, who couldn’t help but wonder how much of his file this man had in front of him. As the Director of National Intelligence and as such the top dog of both the National Security Agency and the CIA, Quinn supposed he’d have access to the whole of it.

  Palmer skimmed the three-inch ream of dog-eared papers, nodding here and there, muttering quietly at various points of interest along the way. Finally, he began to speak without looking up.

  “Captain Quinn, as an agent in the Air Force Office of Special Investigations you already hold a TS clearance. I see here you swam varsity for your high school in Alaska—did quite well in swimming and track. Looks like you hold some kind of state record in the eight-hundred-meter run.”

  “It’s a sparsely populated state, sir,” Quinn said.

  Palmer peered over the top of his folder, apparently unimpressed by the show of modesty. “I see. So, your father is a commercial fisherman and your mother teaches eighth-grade history—both dangerous jobs.” Quinn smiled. Palmer went on playing This Is Your Life. “You have one brother ... but we’ll get to him in a minute. After high school you received an appointment to the Air Force Academy, where you participated in Army Jump programs and the Navy’s Mini-BUDS course. I happen to be an old West Point man. What I can’t figure out is why in the world you’d pick the Air Force if you weren’t going to fly?”

  Quinn made it a point not to answer rhetorical questions.

  Palmer studied him a moment with flint-hard eyes before returning to the file. “Your record says you speak Japanese, Mandarin Chinese ... and Arabic. That’s amazing. Are you fluent in all three?”

  “Chinese and Arabic,” Quinn said. “More what you’d call conversant in Japanese.”

  “We’ll see,” Palmer said before changing the subject. “You won the Wing Open boxing tournament your junior year—that makes you quick with your brain and your fists.... Sandhurst Military Competition each year, team captain while you were a firstie ... though you spent the first half of that year in Morocco taking part in a study-abroad program. Did a Fulbright Fellowship there as well after graduation.... No offense meant here, son, but you have a dark and swarthy look about you. I’m thinking you could pass for an Arab without too much trouble.”

  Quinn nodded. “My great-grandmother was a Chira-cahua Apache. I got her coloring.”

  “Among other things,” Palmer said, perusing something else in the file. “Tell me about your graduation.”

  Quinn took a deep breath. The man had the file. He hated telling the story, but was quizzed heavily about it by his commanding officer every time he moved to a new assignment. It had become the stuff of Air Force Academy legend and it was better he did the telling than let it grow out of proportion.

  “I very nearly didn’t graduate, sir,” Quinn said.

  Palmer nodded. “Report says your younger brother—what was his name ... Boaz—started some sort of brouhaha during the graduation parade the day before commencement.”

  “I believe he’d say the drunks waving a Russian flag during our national anthem started it,” Quinn said. There was no use in holding anything back. “Bo happened to be standing next to some Russian men visiting the Academy. They started talking smack about the United States and, for all his faults, that’s one thing Bo won’t stand for. Just as my squadron marched by, I saw two of them jump him from behind while the other three squared off in front of him... .”

  “So let me get this straight. You, as a flight commander, broke ranks from your squadron during pass in review, and jumped into the scrap to help your brother.” Palmer grinned. “In front of ten thousand people and the superintendent of the United States Air Force Academy. Four years of putting up with the grind of cadet life and you were willing to toss it to the wind one day away from graduation?”

  Quinn looked ahead, his eyes locked on Palmer. “Some things you just do without thinking, sir.”

  “Like saving your little brother from an ass kicking?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  Palmer nodded. “You and your brother put three Russian nationals in the hospital before security forces broke up the fight. Two of them had to have their jaws wired shut. As much as I admire your courage, I find myself forced to ask you a question. Do you have a temper problem, Captain Quinn?”

  “No, sir,” Jericho said. “I believe I have an excellent command of my emotions.”

  “Where do you stand on Arabs?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” This was definitely not what he’d expected.

  “Arabs. Muslims,” Palmer said, locking eyes in a sort of visual jousting match. “Your record shows you’ve had a hand in sending more than a few to meet their maker.”

  Quinn nodded slowly, taking time to choose his words. “I don’t have a problem with any particular group or religion. My problem is with thugs—of any kind. If the U.S. was being attacked by the militant Irish terrorists, I’d respond the same way I always do. And my father is Irish. If you’ll note my file, you’ll see the time I spent in Morocco was more of a humanitarian mission—no guns, just hammers and nails, building houses for the poor.” It wasn’t like Quinn to try and defend himself, but for some reason, he felt a compelling need to have this man understand him—as much as that was even possible.

  At length the DNI peered up over the open folder. “Well, I guess the Academy thought it would be imprudent to hold up the graduation of their top athletic cadet and distinguished graduate just for protecting his kid brother.”

  “The district attorney in Colorado Springs declined to file charges,” Quinn said.

  “So, let’s see here,” Palmer said, as if eager to change the subject. “Turns out you’re quite a motorcycle enthusiast. Your file says you raced the Dakar Rally in 2004 along with that same kid brother.”

  Quinn smiled. There had been another fight just after he and Bo had crossed the border into Senegal—one that made the graduation-parade scrap look like a church dance—but he didn’t think that one had made it into the file, so he said nothing.

  Palmer continued, “You entered the pipeline for Air Force Special Operations right after the Fulbright Fellowship. That’s pretty tough duty—a year and a half training in firearms, scuba, running, swimming, HALO, more running, advanced trauma medical, more swimming, escape and evasion.... Did I mention running and swimming?” Palmer smiled. “Graduated top of your squadron to become a combat rescue officer. So, what made you leave the CROs after just two years?”

  Thibodaux looked on from the sidelines with renewed interest. CROs weren’t Marines, but they weren’t wing waxers either.

  Quinn took a slow breath. For the first time since he’d met Win Palmer, his mind fell to the last conversation he’d had with Kim. “My wife
worried about me being in harm’s way quite so much.”

  “So you chose to switch to OSI thinking that would calm her sentiments?”

  “I did,” Quinn said matter-of-factly. “Then when the Gulf heated up, so did OSI.”

  “And you divorced.”

  “We did.”

  “One daughter.”

  “Correct.”

  Thankfully, Palmer changed gears, allowing Jericho to think of something else besides the cell phone call with his ex-wife, for the time being. “All right, men, enough of this getting to know each other. Let me, as they say in the Kashmir, get to the yolk of the egg. Your reports from Fallujah mention a man named Farooq.”

  Quinn was happy to be out from under the microscope. “My informant didn’t have all the details, but there’s word this guy is one of the ones behind Colorado. He’s got something to do with all the kidnappings going on in Iraq as well—at least where American personnel are involved.”

  “You know,” the DNI said, folding his arms, “everybody’s been so damned knotted up over Osama bin Laden. But I’m worried about the next one. We start to think everything bad comes from one man and we miss something important, like a Colorado shopping mall.”

  “And we think Farooq is the next bin Laden?” Thibodaux asked, letting his big head loll to one side as if he was trying to let water drain out of his ear.

  “We had indications Osama was going to hit us. Hell, Ollie North warned us about him years ago. I’m not anxious to keep repeating the same mistake.”

  “So you want us to kill this guy Farooq?” Thibodaux voiced Quinn’s thoughts. It was odd enough they’d even have a meeting with the Director of National Intelligence, but for him to give the two of them such a high-level briefing brought to mind so many questions his head hurt.

  “Ruguo ni zhiyou yiba chui, mei yige wenti jiu kan-qilai dingzi,” Palmer rattled as if he was native Chinese. “Did I get that right, Captain Quinn?”