National Security

by Marc Cameron

  Kalil pumped his arms, running like he was on fire as the big BMW closed the gap behind him. Quinn was able to squeeze his bike through the south doors seconds before they shut, just feet behind his target.

  Once inside the cavernous station, Kalil ducked to the left, sprinting with all his might past a long set of low tablelike benches under the vaulted archways and toward the Main Hall. With his speed up to get through the doors, Jericho overshot the turn.

  The BMW’s back tire spun on the slick marble, throwing up a thick plume of white smoke. Quinn slammed his foot on the ground, pivoting the bike, making him thankful for his heavy boots.

  Kalil tore through the arched portal at the end of the marble corridor, running as if pursued by the devil himself. Sliding on the slick floor, he darted right, entering the Main Hall, shoving startled tourists and commuters as he vanished around the corner.

  Jericho gassed the throttle, shifting into third gear by the time he reached the opening and leaned into his turn. His heart sank as he rounded the huge ionic columns to find a man in blue overalls mopping the glistening wet marble. Kalil had slipped as he ran past and knocked over the mop bucket. He was up again and moving fast.

  Already leaning well into his turn, Jericho felt the bike begin to slide. He straightened her as best he could, and cranked the handlebars hard right, laying on the power to drift the rear tire sideways at high speed and stay in his turn without spilling. He needed the tire spinning fast when he cleared the water. The roar of the BMW’s boxer twin echoed in the vaulted chamber as Jericho slid around the corner like a flat-track racer. The bike squealed and smoke poured from the rear tire when they hit dry marble, leaving a line of black rubber twenty feet long. Jericho straightened the front wheel, eased off the gas a hair, and took his first breath in five seconds.

  Out of nowhere, a burly D.C. Metro cop with a snarling German shepherd trotted directly for him. Weapon drawn, the officer shouted unintelligible orders. The dog barked like it hadn’t been fed in days. Evidently these two hadn’t gotten the order to disregard marauding BMW riders inside the Capitol Beltway.

  Ahead, Kalil cut left, sprinting, dwarfed by the towering architecture of Union Station’s Main Hall. He leapt up the wooden stairs of the cozy Center Café, an ornate island some twenty feet high in the middle of the teaming station.

  Quinn ignored the shouting cop and shot past him, popping the clutch. He gained speed as he approached the staircase, close enough he could almost reach out and touch Kalil. Gassing the bike, he yanked up on the handlebars enough to bring the front tire into a high wheelie as he hit the stairs. It was a rough ride, but he let the BMW have her way and she rumbled up the steps like a willing horse up a rocky slope.

  At the top, Kalil shoved aside startled diners, tripping to splay across the first table. He crashed to the floor in pile of minestrone soup and halibut fettuccini. Momentarily stunned, the Arab clamored to his feet, intent on going down the staircase on the opposite side to shake his tail. Jericho shoved a vacant table aside with his knee as he brought the motorcycle to a skidding halt in the middle of the dining area. Crystal glasses and china plates shattered against the plush carpet. Silverware clattered to the floor. Kalil had to weave in and out of a dozen such tables, giving Quinn time to do his job.

  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 Café 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.”

  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.

  A beige desk phone began to chirp. Ernie snapped it up. He, listened for a moment, nodded curtly, and then extended the handset toward Chaffee.

  “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 r
isk 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