Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Miyagi smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. “But there is much more to it than that.”

  The Bluetooth device in her ear began to flash. She touched it and turned half away before speaking.

  “Moshi, moshi,” she said. Answering the phone was one of the few times she consistently spoke Japanese. She nodded silently, listening. “Of course,” she said at length. “Right away.” She tapped the earbud again to end the call.

  “Palmer-san wants you both to meet him at the Alexandria office.” Her voice was absent any trace of an accent.

  Quinn nodded. He slipped off his comfortable TAG Heuer Aqua Racer and latched the heavy Breitling around his wrist.

  “Seriously?” Thibodaux’s mouth gaped open. “I don’t get an electronic emergency watch?”

  Mrs. Miyagi groaned as if having to explain a simple truth to a small child. “No, Thibodaux-san, you do not.” She held a hand out toward Quinn, slowly opening her fist to reveal a set of keys. “In the meantime, you will need a bike. Please, take the Ducati ... on loan. Careful though. She can reach ninety miles an hour in five seconds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Fort McNair

  Washington

  Congressman Drake’s list had sent a shock wave through the military. Ranking officers from each branch had appeared on the list—and anyone who looked or acted out of place fell under immediate scrutiny from peers and superiors alike. All branches of the service took on an immediate shroud of darkness and mistrust reminiscent of Cold War Europe and the East German Stasi. Informants sat behind every desk. Old scores begged to be settled.

  No one trusted anyone else.

  Lieutenant Colonel Dane Fargo stood with both hands planted on the gray military desk, reading the top folder in the stack of file folders before him. The file, thick and dog-eared, literally made him want to sing. He’d cashed in every favor, called in every debt, and used the last drop of his political capital, but he’d gotten one more name added to Congressman Drake’s list.

  He knew in his heart that Jericho Quinn should have been on the list from the beginning. The man was too good to be true. He spoke Chinese like a native and his Arabic was flawless. Months of his life were completely unaccounted for. Even his dark complexion and heavy black stubble suggested he was of foreign blood.

  Even now, when the veracity of all those on the list was in question, Jericho Quinn had gone completely underground. When they did find him, Fargo knew he’d be a tough nut to crack. But that would be the most enjoyable part of the process.

  Fargo had traded his customary camouflage battle dress uniform for a dark blue business suit that hung awkwardly off sloping shoulders. A white shirt gaped around his neck as if he were a child wearing his daddy’s clothes. Ill-fitting suit or not, Fargo couldn’t help but feel that his time had finally come.

  Congressman Drake’s list of possible subversives had caused no small stir among the halls of government. Men and women formerly trusted as golden children by their superiors—civilians and soldiers alike—found themselves under deep suspicion. Men like Fargo with rock-solid backgrounds, who also happened to have a close relation in the U.S. Congress, had finally been given the opportunity to rise to the top of their respective heaps.

  When he’d heard about the massive, government-wide vetting process, he’d called his uncle the congressman right away. A few handshakes and backroom deals later and Lt. Colonel Fargo had been given a special team of investigators stationed at Fort Lesley J. McNair along the Potomac River. It was altogether fitting, Fargo thought, that his task force was headquartered on the very same spot where Mary Surratt and her coconspirators were hanged for their part in the plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.

  In reality, the men on his team made the flesh on the back of his neck crawl. Trained at Fort Huachuca at the U.S. Army’s Interrogator School, these four were Senior Echoes, an unofficial subunit within the Five Hundredth Military Intelligence Group that called themselves the Boom Squad.

  Military interrogators often referred to themselves as Echoes. Fargo needed rogues, men willing to bend the rules of civility. His rank and the suffocating air of fear that had enveloped the nation allowed him to handpick the harshest men from these ranks, men who would do the hard things no one talked about at parties. Self-taught in the tactics of the 1960s-era heavy-handed KUBARK CIA Interrogation Manual, all were NCOs, and none, as far as Fargo could tell, were used to taking any sort of order from a superior officer. They were perfect for what Fargo had in mind.

  Psychology mixed with a liberal amount of thumbscrews was par for the course with these men. Spanish inquisitors had nothing on them. Pig-eyed and emotionless, they were extremely talented at what they did. A simple stare from any of them caused Fargo’s flesh to crawl. They were a necessary evil, just the sort of men he would need to capture and interrogate the backstabbing son of a bitch Jericho Quinn.

  Fargo relished the control that this newfound fear had given him over his fellow soldiers. He recalled the motto of the Stasi: Schild und Schwert der Partei— Sword and Shield of the Party. He’d been a shield long enough. Being a sword was proving to be much more fun.

  If it happened to get messy—so much the better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Alexandria, Virginia

  The 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 t
o 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.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Spotsylvania, Virginia

  Lieutenant 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?