Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  “Of course, you know best, Doctor,” the skinny Pakistani muttered. “I am but a simple hotel keeper. But think on this. If we continue on your original plan, and Hartman Drake does not attend this wedding, he will have the power to do untold damage.”

  “I ask you to trust me,” Badeeb whispered, bowing his head.

  Mujaheed Beg held his breath. The doctor paid him well, but there was far more to his work than mere employment. He saw the doctor’s dedication, saw the devotion the man gave to his jihad. Of all the men in the room, Beg was perhaps the only one who could have faith in the doctor’s plan—and when it concerned Hartman Drake, such faith was proving difficult even for him.

  The man needed to die.

  SATURDAY

  September 30

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Washington

  0830 hours

  Nancy Hughes sat in her favorite white wicker chair overlooking the rolling lawn of the Naval Observatory. The grass glistened from an overnight rain. A white porcelain cup and saucer rested on her lap, steaming peacefully in the quiet air.

  She took a sip of her Earl Grey and tipped her head at her new assistant. “Mrs. Peterson is ill today. Think you can handle her duties along with your own?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am.” Amanda Deatherage gave an impish smile that Hughes found unsettling. She was a small girl, not much over five feet tall, with narrow, girlish shoulders and piercing hazel eyes. Her stiff, red wool suit and large Wilma Flintstone pearls gave the impression of a child playing dress-up. She had a tendency to tug at her clothing as if it was bunching up and her stockings sagged noticeably above the heels of scuffed pumps. Her résumé was impressive enough and she possessed decent organizational skills. It was the rumpled appearance that had put her number two behind Grace Smallwood on the applicant list.

  “Excellent,” Hughes said, taking another sip of tea before setting the cup on the porch. She took up a small notepad and situated a pair of gold reading glasses on her nose. “So, how will I earn my keep today?”

  Deatherage opened the burgundy leather appointment calendar and studied it for a long moment, pen poised above the pages.

  “Let’s see, ma’am... .” She scanned the schedule.

  “Nine a.m., you meet with the head of the Kiva nonprofit. . . uh ... at the Smithsonian Castle.” She looked up, mouth open in reverent awe. “That is, like, the coolest thing ever. Anyways, after that, at eleven-thirty, you have lunch with the first lady at Ben’s Chili Bowl... .”

  Hughes closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. “Are you sure? For some reason I thought that was Monday.”

  Deatherage’s auburn bangs bobbed as she shook her head. “It says right here: Secret Service notified ... SLOTUS and FLOTUS—Ben’s Chili Bowl eleven-thirty a.m.”

  Hughes made a face as if she’d just eaten something bitter.

  “I prefer you don’t call me that, dear.”

  It was common knowledge that POTUS stood for the president of the United States. The first lady got FLOTUS, a name that made one envision gliding gently above the ground. Nancy Hughes had no problem being the second lady, but the vice president and his wife were saddled with the VPOTUS and SLOTUS— terms that her oilman brother said suggested an erectile dysfunction drug and some sort of skin disease.

  “Yes, ma’am ...” Deatherage looked quizzically at the calendar. “Oops ... like, I mean the biggest oops ever. You were right, Mrs. Hughes. The dinner with FLOT ... the first lady is Monday. After the Kiva meeting today, your schedule is open to work on the wedding.”

  “Excellent,” Hughes said, resisting the urge to point out that Gail Peterson never had “oops” moments when it came to schedules concerning the first lady. “We have a great deal to do and a short time to get it done.”

  “May I ask a question, Mrs. Hughes?”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  “I’m, like, all afraid I’m not working as hard for you as I should be... .”

  Hughes lowered her reading glasses. “How do you mean?”

  It looked as though the poor girl might actually be welling up with tears.

  “I ... I admire you so much, Mrs. Hughes. You, like, volunteer your time to all sorts of great causes. I just want to be a real help with this wedding.”

  “Of course you’re going to help me, dear,” Hughes scoffed, attempting to lighten the mood. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “But you won’t even tell me where the wedding is supposed to be.” Deatherage sniffed back a sob, hand to her chest as she worked to regain her composure.

  “You’re to help with the guest list, dear.” Hughes shook her head. “The vice president believes the fewer people know the location until the last minute, the better for everyone.”

  “I understand.” Deatherage sniffed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This is all, like, just such an honor for me.” She turned to the back page of the appointment book. “So far you have sixty member of Congress and fifteen senators who have RSVP’d.”

  “We do expect a fair number of dignitaries,” Hughes said. “Security and transportation are going to be a nightmare. At last count we had heads of state from Australia, the U.K., Germany, and Brazil. Have we heard from any others?”

  “Tom Selleck’s publicist called last night to say he plans to attend,” Deatherage said, her mouth hanging open. “This is crazy—before she died, my mom used to watch old Magnum, P.I. reruns all the time. I can’t believe Tom Selleck would come to your daughter’s wedding.”

  “He’s a family friend,” Hughes said. She leaned forward, touching the girl on the knee. “I had no idea your mother had passed away, dear.”

  “I was fifteen,” Deatherage sighed. “She and my dad were killed in a car wreck on a trip to the Grand Canyon. They left me with friends... .”

  “That’s just awful,” Hughes said, about to cry herself. A sudden thought made her smile. She got to her feet, motioning Deatherage to follow her. Words spilled out as she walked. “I’ll tell you what you need. You need a project to really sink your teeth into. There will be a gob of politicians at the wedding. The heads of state have security, so their details have been made aware of the location. The remainder of the guests will be in the dark until the last minute—to keep the terrorists at bay. We’ll be making their transportation arrangements. It’s a big job, but I’m going to assign you transportation coordination. Think you can handle it?”

  Deatherage trotted along dutifully behind, pen and appointment book in hand. “I ... yes, I’m sure I can.”

  Hughes stopped abruptly. “You’re my wedding assistant, Amanda. The vice president will just have to realize I need the help. I’d have to tell you sooner or later. It may as well be now.” She leaned in close. “But remember, this truly is a matter of national security. You have to promise to keep this between us.” Nancy Hughes flushed. It felt good to do good.

  Amanda Deatherage looked up at her with beaming eyes and grinned. “Of course, ma’am.” Deatherage nodded. “Cross my heart and hope to die... .”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Western China

  The wizened old Uyghur who picked them up at the Kashgar airport wheeled his lime-green VW Santana away from the chipped curb and onto Yingbin Avenue. The paved road would take them six miles to the south and into the city. He wore a ratty gray suit coat and a stained shirt, making his bright yellow four-angle traditional silk hat seem out of place. Wisps of thin gray hair peeked from the edges of the hat, hanging down in the old man’s wrinkled face. He reminded Quinn of a moldy raisin.

  “Have you and your wife come for the Sunday Market, tovarich?” The man knew Quinn wasn’t Uyghur since he couldn’t speak the language and he obviously wasn’t Chinese. Proclaiming that no American could learn Mandarin so fluently, he decided Quinn must be a Russian and referred to him as comrade at the end of every phrase. Ronnie played along, speaking sultry Russian to Quinn in hushed tones. He had no idea what she was saying.

  “We very much hope t
o see it,” Quinn said, still in Mandarin. Memories of his previous trip to the Silk Road city flooded back to him as they drove. “They say one may find everything at the Sunday Market but the milk of a chicken... .”

  “Everything indeed, tovarich.” The old Uyghur laughed, showing his grizzled face in the dusty rearview mirror. The fact that he had only two surviving teeth made his Chinese slurpy and difficult to understand.

  He laid on the horn, honking at a driver atop a two-wheel cart behind a placid donkey clomping patiently down the middle of the road.

  As they neared Kashgar proper, Quinn was startled to find how much of the old city had been demolished in the years since his visit. It was as if the boxy concrete buildings commissioned by Beijing were a virus, consuming anything and everything with history or character. He looked out the window at the benign face of the cart driver as the taxi rattled past. At least some things about the place hadn’t changed.

  “I know of a place that sells vodka, tovarich,” the old man said, working for a tip. “Perhaps you wish to stop?”

  “I believe we’ll just go to the hotel,” Quinn said.

  “A most excellent and noble choice, tovarich.” The old man scooted forward a little in the seat, squaring his shoulders. “It is good to meet another upright man in the world... .” His eyes flicked up, looking into the mirror again. “But if you should change your mind, I will leave my number with the hotel staff.”

  A city bus belched black smoke in front of the Chini Bagh hotel. The taxi driver shot around to take them into the circular portico, narrowly avoiding an oncoming scooter truck. Now that was the old Kashgar, where every drive was a near-death experience, Quinn thought. A chorus of blaring horns, shouting men, and braying donkeys struck Quinn like a slap as he opened the taxi door and helped Ronnie step out onto the curb. She looked ravishing in her light khaki travel pants and airy cotton shirt—long sleeved so as not to offend Muslim sensibilities. Her big Hollywood sunglasses and modest silk scarf knotted at her chin made her look like something out of a 1960s travel poster.

  Quinn gave the wrinkled driver thirty yuan—a little over four dollars—and assured him his services wouldn’t be needed later for any vodka runs. Motioning for Ronnie to walk ahead, Quinn grabbed his waterproof duffel and walked toward the gaudy new hotel. During the days of Rudyard Kipling and the Great Game, the grounds had been the home of George and Lady Macartney, British consul to Kashgar. Though their orchards and gardens were gone, the old residence, home to no small amount of intrigue against the Russians, still stood on the hotel grounds, converted to a Uyghur restaurant.

  The waifish Han Chinese girl at the front desk handed Quinn a handwritten message while she ran his credit card. It was scrawled on a sheet of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook and folded in half.

  Welcome to Kashgar. Will call your room around four p. m. to set up a meeting.

  Best—

  G. Deuben

  It was nearly five, but the desk clerk said there hadn’t been any calls. She knew Deuben and rang up her office, passing the handset to Quinn.

  Deuben’s assistant, a woman named Madame Claire, refused to speak anything but French on the phone. Quinn was able to establish little more than the fact that the doctor was not in.

  The Chini Bagh clerk, eager to help, happily pointed out that Deuben’s office was just a few blocks away.

  Ronnie wasn’t happy about it but agreed to wait in the room for Deuben’s call while Quinn ran up the street to try and speak with Madame Claire in person. They agreed to call each other as soon as either of them got a location on the doctor.

  “Do you know Wash Feet Number Six?” Madame Claire was a withered French woman reminiscent of Mother Teresa. She wore a tattered purple and blue scarf over graying hair and tried her best to communicate in a fricassee of butchered Chinese, English, and French.

  “Doctor, she is mop up trouble at Wash Feet Number Six. Easy from here.”

  “Trouble?” Quinn asked, fearful he’d open up a can of conversation Madame Claire was not able to handle.

  “Bad men.” A frown fell over the French woman’s face. “Rough up Tina Fan. She is no terrible girl. Stupid, yes—no terrible.”

  Bad men roughing up women, Quinn thought, half smiling. At least he was heading in the right direction.

  Madame Claire stepped out the clinic door and looked carefully up and down the teeming street as if fearful of getting run down by a passing donkey cart or motorcycle taxi. She pointed east with a bony hand, past street vendors selling spices, nuts, fall squash, and pottery under red and white canvas awnings. The odor of peppers and cumin filled the air.

  “Walk by,” she said, standing on tiptoe as if it would help her reach farther. “... naan ... pain ... bread cooker ... go this.” She held up her left hand to illustrate. “Wash Foot Number Six one block down ...” She held up her right hand. “This side.”

  Quinn gave Madame Claire a two-hundred-yuan donation for the clinic and thanked her for her help.

  He chuckled as he walked past a street vendor selling fragrant bowls of ququ, wonton mutton soup. “Wash Foot,” he mused under his breath.

  Xi yu—foot washing—was big business in China. Stalls could be found from the fanciest hotels to the seedy, red-light shops where considerably more than one’s feet got a rubdown. Six was an auspicious number in Chinese since it sounded somewhat like the word for happiness. Wash Foot Number Six—Happiness Foot Wash.

  Since the good doctor’s medical ministry was bent toward downtrodden silk-road prostitutes, she’d located her clinic close to where they worked. Madame Claire’s directions were choppy, but they were dead-on.

  Quinn didn’t have far to walk before he found Happiness.

  A sullen Filipino girl looked up from a cell phone when Quinn stepped into the dim interior of Wash Foot Number Six. She sat on a tall wooden stool, her narrow back to a Chinese anatomical chart on the peeling wallpaper. Tight spandex shorts displayed everything she had to offer. A tired blue halter top hung off her bony chest. She wouldn’t have been out of high school if she’d known the luxury of such a thing. The heavy smell of cheap perfume and talc hung like a toxic cloud beyond the beaded curtains dividing the cramped wooden vestibule from a set of stairs rising into the shadows of a sagging upper floor.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Deuben,” Quinn said in Chinese. He’d called Garcia with directions to where he was going, but if trouble was brewing, he didn’t want to wait.

  The Filipino girl’s cloudy eyes fluttered when he spoke, her body flinching slightly like one who was accustomed to being beaten along with conversation. When she realized Quinn wasn’t going to strike her immediately, she leaned forward, her red-caked lips twisted into a brazen smile. It was a terrifying thing to see on one so young. Quinn guessed she might be all of fifteen.

  “Maybe you don’t need doctor,” the girl sneered, running chipped nails through dull black hair that lay in strands on her shoulders. She was so small. He imagined her playing dolls with Mattie.

  “I think you need Happiness girl. I give you damn good foot wash, no shit—fifty yuan.” She quoted him the lustful foreigner rate. In a place like this, Quinn knew her normal price was likely not half of that—about three dollars.

  “Anything else negotiable.” She tossed her head in an effort to look cute, but only managed to look dizzy.

  Quinn swallowed, trying to keep from getting sick. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m looking for Dr. Deuben.”

  The girl slouched back against the wall on her stool, deflated. White lace stockings rolled down to her knees, leaving a gap of skin between them and the spandex and exposing a map of bruises at various stages of purple and yellow. She was obviously used to a rough clientele.

  “Doctor not here,” she sulked. “You not want Happiness girl, you go now. Gao come back. He beat shit from you like he do Tina Fan. ”

  “I was told Dr. Deuben was here right now,” Quinn pressed the issue. He took a half step toward the beaded curt
ains over the wooden stairs.

  “She no here!” the girl snapped in English. “You go now!”

  Quinn tensed as heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.

  A dark hand, followed by a mountainous, turban-wearing Sikh, emerged from the curtains and into the vestibule. He stood toe-to-toe with Quinn, tut-tutting the girl with a pointed forefinger. He turned to Quinn and shook his head. “Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot... .”

  “And a harlot before an Afghan,” Quinn finished the sentence.

  “Ah,” the Sikh said. “Splendid to meet a man who knows his Kipling.” He extended his hand. “I am Belvan Virk, Dr. Gabrielle’s bodyguard.”

  “Jericho Quinn.” He shook the offered hand.

  Belvan Virk had a good three inches on him, and the broad shoulders and blocky, muscular build of a bare-knuckle boxer. His bloodred turban was wrapped tight and pinned in front with the swords and circle of a Kahnda or Sikh crest. Jet-black hair and uncut beard were tucked neatly beneath the edges of the spotless cloth. He wore dark slacks and a collarless white dress shirt. A curved dagger hung at his right side.

  “The doctor has been unable to call because of these recent troubles.” Virk parted the beaded curtains, pointing up the stairs with an open hand. “The ... proprietor of Number Six went missing on a trip to Urumqi last week—likely murdered by bandits. In any case, the girls here are without pimp or protector. They have had a bit of trouble from a certain local.”

  “Gao?” Quinn mused.

  “Yes.” Virk nodded, amused. “You catch on very quickly.”

  “Gao come back too,” the Filipino girl threatened, still perched on her stool, arms folded in defiance. “He my customer anyway. Tina Fan stole from me. She deserved, she got.”

  Quinn followed Belvan Virk up the stairs and along a windowless wooden hallway to a ten-by-ten chamber that looked more like a jail cell than a bedroom. The enormous Sikh had to stoop under the low ceiling. The odor of sweat, lamb grease, and cheap perfume hung heavy in the close air. An oil lamp only added to the darkness with a thin ribbon of black smoke.