Act of Terror jq-2

by Marc Cameron

  Bodington clenched his teeth, but said nothing more.

  “Win.” The president tipped his head toward Palmer. “Would you be so kind?”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” Palmer turned in his seat to face Garcia, who calmed immediately from her confrontation. “Plainly speaking, late yesterday evening, intelligence sources in Pakistan confirmed a problem we had suspected for some time. Foreign agents placed within our government-moles.”

  The director of the CIA shook her head. The muscles in her face clenched, but she kept quiet. It was obvious she agreed with her FBI counterpart. Briefing such a low-level employee was just not done. Palmer decided to address that from the beginning, since it was, after all, a plan he had endorsed to the president.

  He moved to the edge of his chair, leaning in to close the distance between himself and the young woman. “We have to assume these agents… these moles could be anywhere and that they-like Deputy Director Magnuson-have passed various backgrounds and security checks. An in-depth review of both Timmons’s and Gerard’s files found several glaring holes in their backgrounds-facts that when take separately mean nothing, but in light of what they did, mean everything.”

  Garcia sighed, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she processed the information.

  It was a lot of information to dump on her, but Palmer plowed ahead. “Both men are the sole survivors in their families. Neighbors who were interviewed for previous backgrounds admit they really knew the parents better than the boys. Neither have a single friend that remembers them earlier than the seventh grade. According to their supervisors at the Central Asia Desk, both were fluent in Turkic, but when we looked into it further, other than some Internet courses, there’s no record of them ever studying that particular language.”

  “You believe them to be foreign born then?” Garcia mused.

  “We do,” Palmer continued. “And we missed it in their initial backgrounds. Essentially, everyone in the government needs to be re-vetted-and that includes the ones doing the vetting.”

  “Ah,” Garcia said, deflating slightly. “And since you feel you can trust me, I get to begin the process.”

  The president held up the blue file folder containing the background investigation on Garcia. Palmer himself had completed a review only two hours before. “Except for your load of good old American credit card debt,” Clark said, “you come out smelling like a rose, my dear. Who would admit to having a Soviet father and Cuban mother if they wanted to hide something?”

  Director Bodington folded his arms tight across his chest, looking toward the Rose Garden as if to distance himself from events unfolding before him. Palmer never had liked the man, finding him a bureaucratic bloviate without concrete facts to back anything up. All hat and no cattle.

  Garcia’s eyes remained worshipfully attentive to the president, ignoring Bodington altogether. “I assume I’m being assigned to a team,” she said.

  Palmer smiled. “This is the team,” he said. “Director Ross, Director Bodington… and you.”

  “And we are to vet government employees?” Garcia went pale. “All government employees?”

  The president laughed, sucking his front teeth again. “All two million of them-not counting the Postal Service-but we’ve prioritized the list. As you clear people, they will begin to assist with the background investigations.”

  Garcia sat perfectly still.

  “You in particular will focus on those with direct access to the president,” Palmer said, hoping to calm her fears.

  She turned her head to one side, hands folded quietly in her lap. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “If I might ask…”

  Palmer’s chair began to chirp softly. Each piece of furniture in the Oval Office was equipped with a secure phone line so presidential guests could carry out pressing directives on the spot.

  President Clark nodded. “Go ahead and take it, Win.”

  Palmer slid open the upholstered drawer hidden below the seat cushion and took out a white handset.

  “Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Palmer,” the voice said. It was Millie, his secretary. “You need to turn on the news, sir. The president will want to see this…”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson Anchorage

  Canadian cousin to the more ubiquitous government Gulfstream G5 business jet of Hollywood spies, the luxurious Bombardier Challenger CL 601 sat sleek and falcon-like on the ramp. Just as Quinn was an OGA-other governmental agent-the executive jet was an other governmental aircraft. Registered to the Federal Aviation Administration, the pilots were former Special Operations and reported directly to the national security advisor. Palmer had dispatched the plane to get the Quinns out of Alaska. If the sheikh had sent one team, he was likely to have sent two.

  A low fall sun cast a pink blush on the snowy Chugach Mountains to the east, shining through the oval windows of the jet. Jericho knelt in the aisle, looking down at Mattie, who lay sideways in a soft leather seat, head resting in her mother’s lap.

  Two seats back, Kim’s mother reclined with a damp washcloth over her eyes. Her head lolled from the effects of exhaustion and the Valium government medics had given her when they’d all been hustled away from an extremely curious Anchorage Police Department after the attack. Bo stood at the rear of the plane. Broad shoulder against the bulkhead, he chatted up the female Air Force staff sergeant who acted as safety officer and attendant. Brother Bo wasn’t about to let a little bloody ambush on the family cramp his ability to hit on cute women.

  Quinn’s parents were out fishing for Pacific cod, the sheer danger of capricious Alaska waters protecting them from attackers.

  Mattie looked up with a wan smile. Framed in a halo of her dark curls, the features of her perfectly oval face were drawn from fatigue. Her eyelids sagged. She blew him a kiss.

  “You’re looking at me funny, Dad,” she said after a long, feline yawn. “I think I can trap you with my eyes.”

  Jericho kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “If you only knew… Now, you better get some rest.”

  Kim ran trembling fingers through their daughter’s hair. She affected a smile for Mattie’s benefit, but the tightness of her breath and the set of her jaw made it clear to Quinn she held him accountable for the attack on their family.

  He didn’t blame her.

  She jumped at the sudden buzz of the secure phone on his belt. He groaned and stepped across the aisle to take the call.

  “Listen, Quinn…” Winfield Palmer rarely waited for the person he was calling to say a word beyond hello before he moved straight to the business at hand. If you answered, it meant you should be ready to listen. “There’s something I need you to see. Are you on the plane?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said, eyes locked on Mattie as he spoke. “We’re fine, by the way. Thanks for calling.”

  “Yes, of course,” Palmer said. “I mean… good. I’m glad… Anyway, I need you to take a look at the news.”

  Quinn shot a look at his drowsy daughter. The last thing he wanted was to have her wake up to whatever catastrophe Palmer wanted him to witness on the news. He made his way down the aisle to the back of the plane, beyond Bo and his new girlfriend, to a teak cabinet on the galley bulkhead. “Any channel in particular?” he asked, turning on the seventeen-inch flat-screen satellite television.

  “Won’t matter,” Palmer grunted. “This dumb son of a bitch is all over the place…”

  Quinn left it tuned to CNN. He used the remote to turn up the volume as he swiveled the nearest seat to face aft, sinking back into the cool leather.

  The red Breaking News ticker at the bottom of the screen introduced the speaker as Congressman Hartman Drake of Wisconsin. He stood alone, a dark silhouette in front of the brightly lit Capitol dome. A veteran of the first Gulf War with a Purple Heart to prove it, he’d served in the House for over a decade, working his way up to the powerful but slightly boring Transportation Committee. Chiseled, Ivy League good looks and a pro
pensity to wear a bow tie over a starched white shirt made him instantly recognizable. He was well known as a stridently outspoken isolationist, and his handlers made certain he hit the talk-show circuits at least once a month.

  Quinn yawned, wondering what Drake could have done to infuriate Palmer since they were both from the same party. The Canadair’s engines began to spool up without so much as a word of safety briefing from the flight attendant, who was still busy with Bo across the aisle.

  Quinn bumped up the volume on the television with the remote on his armrest.

  “… among us. And so we find ourselves in the midst of what can only be called a national crisis.” Drake leaned into the camera, a master at connecting with his audience. The glowing dome of the Capitol gave him the perfect patriotic backdrop for a nighttime press conference. “… a crisis of epic proportions. There are those, even in these hallowed halls of government, who will, no doubt, seek to discredit me, to call me a crackpot or accuse me of being… a hater. Well, my fellow Americans, I am a hater-a hater of those who would destroy this great nation.” Drake paused for effect-gazing into the distance as if imagining a round of applause.

  “I have in my possession,” he continued, “a heretofore secret list. The eighty-six names on this document represent men and women within our own government who, it pains me to say, support the cause of militant Islamist terrorism. Further, we have strong reason to believe that certain names on the list were complicit in this morning’s horrifying attack perpetrated on CIA headquarters…”

  The sleepy crowd around the congressman suddenly erupted in a display of camera flashes and muffled shouts as reporters awoke to the smell of a real story.

  Drake raised his hands to silence them.

  “I am not prepared to go into detail at this time,” he said. “Suffice it to say we have a cancer growing within us. I pledge to you, my fellow Americans, to do everything in my power to root out this malady. To this end, I have asked that the speaker of the House convene immediate hearings.”

  With that, he paused, put both hands on the lectern and mugged straight into the camera.

  “My fellow Americans, I give you my word that I will not rest until I have rigorously examined each and every person on this list to ascertain their loyalty-or their disloyalty-to these United States. May God bless us in our cause, for it is just. Thank you for your time.”

  The congressman paused for a beat, taking time to gather his notes as cameramen got a few more seconds of B roll, before turning to walk back up the hill toward the Capitol. His entourage of staff hung back so the cameras could catch his darkened silhouette, trudging up the hill, alone.

  Quinn had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

  A slender brunette, one of CNN’s pretty talking heads, took over, providing color commentary. Quinn used the remote to mute the sound.

  “Did you get that?” Palmer said on the other end of the line. His voice dripped with unbridled disgust.

  “I did,” Quinn said. He moved back up the aisle, unwilling to be away from Mattie any longer than he absolutely had to. “Any truth to what he says about the CIA shootings?”

  “There is.” Palmer gave him a thumbnail sketch, including the CIA deputy director’s involvement. “We’ve got a real situation here, Jericho. I could use you back ASAP.”

  “I need to get my family situated first,” Quinn said, shooting a quick glance at Kim.

  “Oh, yeah, I get that,” Palmer answered, but it was clear in the clipped timbre of his voice he didn’t.

  Kim shook her head, catching Jericho’s side of the conversation. “Go ahead,” she said in a dismissive whisper. “We’ll be just fine.” The “without you” was implied in the frigid blue of her eyes.

  Quinn rubbed the stubble on his face with his free hand, sighing deeply. “I can be at Andrews by… oh-eight hundred your time.” Cell phone against his ear, he stared at his daughter, drinking in the sight. He wondered if Kim would ever even let him see her again.

  “Very well,” Palmer said, his voice hanging on the edge of another word for a long moment. “Jericho,” he finally said, “I wouldn’t call you back unless it was urgent…”

  “I understand, sir,” Quinn said, looking across the aisle at his ex-wife, who wouldn’t understand at all.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Quinn ended the call and returned the secure BlackBerry to his belt. He leaned back to stretch in the soft leather seat as the Canadair jet lumbered down the runway on its takeoff roll. It was the first opportunity he’d had to close his eyes since the attack, even for a moment.

  The damp cold of Kim’s fuming across the narrow aisle pushed away any thoughts of sleep. He could feel her stare, heavy, like a pile of bricks dumped on his chest. He opened his eyes, glancing sideways without turning his head. He’d been right.

  “Who are you, Jericho Quinn?” Her voice was hushed, pitiful.

  Quinn pushed the button to raise his seatback. Some things you couldn’t take lying down.

  Kim leaned across, whispering so as not to wake Mattie. “You know the worst part?”

  Jericho sighed, defeated. “I can only imagine.”

  “You’ve ruined me for any kind of relationship with normal guys.” Tears pressed from her lashes. It would have been funny had her words not been so deadly serious. “I tried to date Bryce Adams, the manager at the credit union,” she sobbed. “… but he bored me out of my skull.

  He’d never been the particularly jealous type, but the thought of his ex-wife dating another man made Quinn want to kick Bryce Adams in the nuts and beat him over the head with an axe handle.

  “And then it dawned on me-” Kim smacked herself in the forehead with an open hand. “I suddenly realized I’m only interested in cops and firemen… It’s like I have some sort of battered-woman syndrome

  … but I’m the kind who goes for adrenaline junkies instead of bullies.” She sniffed, hanging her head. “What the hell have you done to me…?”

  “Come on, Kimmie.” Quinn moved across the aisle. She stiffened when his hand brushed her shoulder. He was sure she would have pulled away but for fear of disturbing Mattie, asleep now in her lap.

  Kim’s head suddenly snapped up, eyes probing like a CAT scan.

  “I mean, seriously, Jer…” She threw up her hands. “What kind of OSI agent gets picked up in an unmarked jet and ordered back to Washington the same day someone tries to kill his family?”

  “I-”

  “Oh, please… just shut up.” Kim’s voice was a whispered hiss. “You’ll only lie. It was hard enough before-seeing that look in your eyes, only guessing how cruel you really were…” Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Now I’ve seen the things you’re capable of firsthand

  … and so has Mattie.”

  Quinn opened his mouth to speak, but Kim’s hand shot up, shushing him.

  “Look,” she said with an air of clench-jawed finality that shocked even Quinn. “I know we owe you our lives. I know if it wasn’t for you, we would be dead…” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes grew cold and seething. “But, if it wasn’t for you, this never would have happened.”

  Quinn wanted to explain, to tell her there had to be people like him in the world, but it all seemed too trite to say out loud. Instead, he just sat there and took it.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Her chest began to heave with bitter sobs. “I… I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you back in.”

  “Kim,” Quinn said softly, staring at her tiny hand. “Don’t…”

  She turned away to stare toward the flight deck, sniffing into a tissue. He’d lived with her long enough to know that when she looked away like that no amount of talking would get through to her.

  “I don’t know what it is you’re up to,” she whispered, still facing away. “I’m certain it’s something important-and I’m just as certain you’re good at it… But do me a favor and leave us out of it.”

  She spun suddenly, her lips set in a tight line. “We’re d
ivorced, Jericho. You need to start acting like it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gaithersburg, Maryland 2310 hours

  The two goldfish that were Ronnie Garcia’s sole dependents had miraculously figured out how to survive in a half a bowl of cloudy water feeding on their own poop. She sprinkled some shrimp flakes in the bowl and promised to change their water when she had a free minute. The fish tore after the food like little bug-eyed piranhas.

  She stripped off her polo shirt and threw it in the corner. She’d not been close enough to the men she shot to get any back splatter of blood on her, but the smell of gunfire and human pain hung to the dark blue fabric of her slacks. She loosened the straps of her ballistic vest, feeling the sudden lightness as she lifted the bulky panels over her head. She threw the vest on top of the laundry pile and took out the wooden comb she’d worn to the White House, shaking loose her hair.

  She, Veronica Garcia, had actually sat on a couch in the Oval Office and chatted with the president of the United States.

  “Oh, Papa, if you could have seen me…”

  The thought of it still sent a shiver down her back.

  Then she remembered the killing.

  She wished there was someone she could call, someone she could confide in. She gave a fleeting thought to calling her ex-husband, but quickly realized he would only make her feel worse in the long run.

  In the end, she settled for a scalding shower. She stood under the water for a long time, leaning against the tile with both hands, hoping the heat would beat the memories of the day out of her body. She finally realized she really felt bad for not feeling bad enough and turned off the water.