by Marc Cameron
The night was warm for Maryland in late September and she left her hair wet, hoping it would help her sleep a little cooler. She brushed her teeth, happy to feel clean again, and slipped into her favorite pair of stretchy yellow terrycloth sleeping shorts. She found a white tank top wadded up at the base of her dresser, sniffed it, and pronounced it clean enough to wear to bed. Collapsing back against the pillow, she flipped out the lamp… and stared up at the darkness, wide-eyed.
Memories of the day whirled inside her head like a cyclone. Gathering witness statements and after-action reports for the joint investigative team from the CIA and the FBI had taken hours after the last shot had been fired.
When she’d completed her reports, a trio of CIA shrinks had summoned her to a stark, white room to gauge her level of emotional and physical trauma. With just over seven years on the job, she’d never been involved in a shooting. It came as a shock to her interrogators that she wasn’t more bothered by it. It was a surprise to her as well, but the men she’d shot had deserved to die. They had been killing the very people she’d signed on to protect, so she’d killed them. It was that simple. She would never brag about it, but she would do it again if faced with the same circumstances-and then move on with her life. The Agency shrinks had looked at her sideways when she explained the way she felt, but in the end, they signed off, pronouncing her sane as anyone else at the CIA.
One doc in particular, an older, Freudian-looking man with a twitchy right eye, appeared to be genuinely disappointed she was not pulling her hair out and running off screaming into the woods.
The grilling had ended shortly before 7 P.M. Her supervisor sent her home on three days’ paid administrative leave-standard operating procedure after a shooting. She’d not even made it to her car before he called her cell to tell her to come in and put on a clean shirt. She’d been summoned to the White House.
Ronnie’s job at the CIA made her no stranger to important political figures, and she’d become extremely hard to impress. But a personal meeting with the president, where he sat, legs crossed and smiling, to offer her coffee and tell her how much he needed her help? That was so very different from watching him walk down the marble halls at Langley.
Now, locked awake in the darkness, she flipped on the light and kicked the down comforter off her feet. Even for a girl raised in the Caribbean, the evening was much too warm. She sighed, beating her head against the pillow. If her father could see her now, he’d roll over in his regulation communist grave.
As a child in Havana she’d grown up immersed in a hodgepodge of cultures. Her father, a math professor from Smolensk, had known the importance of English and made certain his only daughter was fluent in that along with the tongues of her parents. Three languages, he said, gave her a good base from which to begin-
“Someone who speaks three languages, milaya,” he would coax, using her pet name, “is said to be trilingual. And what do you call someone who speaks only one language?”
“An American.” She would giggle at his little joke and he would tickle her as good fathers were supposed to do.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian support for Cuba had faded, pressing their family into near starvation. Her idealistic parents had been brokenhearted at governmental indifference toward those who had worked so hard to support the cause. They died within weeks of each other and she’d been sent to Miami to live with an aunt. She’d taken her mother’s maiden name because it fit the darkness of her looks-and made her less of a target in south Florida than Veronica Dombrovski.
When she was still in high school, she’d watched a plainclothes Metro Dade police officer arrest a couple of gangbangers at a shopping mall and decided that was something she could do. Later, a friend in college had suggested she look into the CIA because of her language skills and she thought, yes, that was definitely something she could do. The semester before she graduated with a degree in psychology Ronnie had gone to the Agency website and sent in an email stating her qualifications and interest in the Clandestine Service. By then, Arabic and Chinese had nudged Spanish and Russian off center stage as strategic languages. She received a polite but curt reply, suggesting she complete a master’s degree in economics or try the uniformed division and get her feet in the door. Her father had been right. Three languages were a good beginning. The uniformed security police weren’t the Clandestine Service-but she was still CIA.
Ronnie rubbed her eyes, picking up the stapled document of forty-one pages from her nightstand. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well make a plan. She looked around the cluttered bedroom, littered with laundry and dry-cleaning bags. Boxes from takeout pizza and Chinese restaurants perched on stacks of books and magazines. Housekeeping definitely wasn’t her strong suit, but she was a hell of a planner.
Palmer had set her priorities, beginning with the circle of employees closest to the president-and that put the United States Secret Service at the top of her list.
Ronnie was instructed to pay attention to key personnel, particularly the protective details of the president and vice president. Between the special agents and the Secret Service Uniformed Division, the lists contained over two hundred names. At first, she’d suggested it would take her a week per background. Palmer had countered, kindly but firmly, that she needed to review two per day, clearing these to assist her in her efforts. If she came across something out of the ordinary, she was to call him-and him only.
He stressed the fact, at least a half dozen times, that there were very few people she could trust.
The special agents in charge of each protective detail had been cleared already by Palmer himself. They would conduct personnel reviews of their own. Ronnie would provide an independent analysis as an extra precaution.
Scanning the entire document before she made a concrete plan, her eyes fell to a name at the bottom of the seventh page-Nadia Arbakova, a special agent in the Protective Intelligence Division at Secret Service Headquarters in D.C. Arbakova listed a Special Agent James Doyle as her emergency contact. Ronnie remembered the name and flipped back through the previous pages until she found it. Just as she suspected, Agent James Doyle was the whip on the vice presidential detail. An experienced agent, the whip wasn’t a supervisor but took charge when the shift leader wasn’t around. Doyle’s connection to Arbakova and his relatively powerful position made the two agents a natural place to begin. She could knock two investigations out in half the time and give herself a little breathing room.
“You just got yourself moved up to page one, Comrade Arbakova.” Ronnie did her best to imitate her father’s thick tones. A note beside Arbakova’s name indicated she was a second-generation American who spoke fluent Russian. Her home address was in Rockville. Ronnie would pass right by it on the way into the city.
With a more concrete plan, Garcia gave a shuddering stretch, raising both arms high above her head. Maybe sleep wouldn’t prove so elusive. She’d stop off tomorrow morning and chat with Nadia Arbakova, catch her while she was getting ready for work and wasn’t suspecting a visit. Maybe she could practice a little of her rusty Rusky. And, if everything in Arbakova’s background came back clear, maybe they could even become friends, even if she was in law enforcement.
CHAPTER NINE
Rockville, Maryland 0130 hours
A predatory expedition. Turcoman slavers-the bane of Central Asia in the 1800s-called it alaman. Russians had been their favorite prey. Mujaheed Beg took a comb from his shirt pocket and ran it through thick black hair, making certain the high, Elvis Presley pompadour was in place. He smiled at the notion that he was up to the same work as his Turcoman ancestors-on American soil. A heavy black brow over a hooked nose gave him the air of an extremely dangerous man. An American professor at Berkeley, where he’d received his undergraduate degree in marketing, had dubbed him Evil Elvis. Instead of taking it as an insult, Beg reveled in the reputation.
He had been born near the ancient Silk Road city of Merv, and Turcoman blood coursed through
his veins. Predation came as naturally to him as it had to his merciless forbearers. He smiled when he thought of the old Silk Road axiom: If on your path you meet a deadly viper and a man from Merv-kill the Mervi first.
Beg drove his rented Saturn past the row of untrimmed shrubs and trees in front of Nadia Arbakova’s house for the third time. The whitewashed brick appeared to glow under the hazy sliver of a crescent moon. It was set well back from the road, providing the perfect cover. Had his attack been destined for a trained CIA operative, he would have been more careful. Counterintelligence agents were, as a rule, much more wary than law enforcement. Even the potbellied bureaucrat handcuffed and lolling in and out of unconsciousness in the seat beside him had installed CCTV cameras and a decent security system in his home. Spies, even the fat ones, took precautions against people like Mujaheed Beg-but they were never quite good enough.
Nadia Arbakova was no spy. What’s more, her personnel file ranked her as only a mediocre police officer. At heart, she was an analyst, much happier working puzzles than arresting criminals.
Her scant record showed she qualified twice a year with her handgun, but her shooting skills were average at best. She would be easy to kill.
Beg gave the unconscious boob in his passenger seat a lopsided smile. There was yet much to do before he killed anyone.
The cell phone in his jacket pocket began to buzz.
“It’s the boss,” Beg muttered to the drooling Arab beside him. “He always bothers me when I’m working.”
He answered curtly. “Yes?”
“Peace be unto you,” the voice said with the rapid click of Pakistani English. “I trust God has preserved you…”
“Peace be unto you as well, sir,” Beg said. He held the phone away from his ear and whispered to the unconscious man beside him, as if giving an explanation. “The boss always has to be so forward…”
There was a pause on the line. “Are you with someone?”
“I am,” Beg said.
“Very well.” Dr. Nazeer Badeeb continued clicking away. He never seemed to care if Beg was busy doing his work or not. “I am concerned about this woman. She is beginning to share her theories. I fear she will… up some eyelashes.”
The doctor firmly believed American intelligence services were less likely to eavesdrop on conversations in English-though, Beg thought, what this one spoke could hardly be considered English.
“Eyebrows, not eyelashes,” Mujaheed sighed, correcting his employer’s idiom. “You mean to say raised some eyebrows.”
“Of course,” Badeeb rambled on. “As you say. But I am nervous nonetheless.”
“I will take care of that very soon.” The Mervi’s eyes shifted to the fat Arab, who snored fitfully in the pale green glow of the dashboard lights.
There was the distinct metallic clink of a lighter on the other end of the line as Badeeb lit a cigarette before he continued his staccato whining. “We wish them confused and frightened. Disorganized, not fortified. They must not connect too much too soon.”
“I understand,” Beg said. “I should begin my work then.”
“Of course.” Dr. Badeeb released a long sigh, sounding like a windstorm over the phone. Mujaheed envisioned the cloud of cigarette smoke enveloping his employer’s sweating face. “You will find out how much she knows?”
“With great pleasure,” the Mervi said. He looked through the foliage at the pool of yellow light spilling out Arbakova’s bedroom window and put the car in gear.
Parking in a deserted alley behind the house, Beg roused the snoring Arab next to him with a stiff elbow to the floating ribs. A heavy dose of Rohypnol-roofies-had made the man pliable, but dazed. It had also caused him to spill the contents of his bladder all over the passenger seat. The man, whose name was Haddad, yowled in pain. His cry trailed off in a pitiful whimper.
“What do you want from me?” he sobbed.
“Whoa!” Beg said, tossing his head in a passable impression of Elvis. “You’re all shook up… What do you think I want?” Beg sneered. “Half the world knows what you do for a living. It is not the secret you believe it to be.” He turned, holding up a black box the size of a garage door opener. Haddad’s eyes flew wide. He began to fling his head from side to side.
“Nooo!” he screamed. “Nooo-”
Relaxed in the driver’s seat, Beg depressed a white button on the box. There was a faint beep and the dazed Arab suddenly arched backward, driving thick legs into the floorboards as if stomping on the brakes. He slammed his head against the roof of the Saturn. Teeth crunched, giving way under the convulsive tension brought on by forty thousand volts from the stun-belt over flabby kidneys.
It was such a fine show Beg wanted to clap.
Eight grueling seconds passed before the man’s body fell slack. An acid stench filled the car’s interior as he vomited in his lap.
Beg reached across with a pair of pruning shears and snipped the plastic zip ties around the Arab’s wrists. He shoved him a roll of paper towels.
“You disgusting pig,” he spat. “We are going to meet a woman. Make yourself presentable. You will walk beside me to the front door. Try to keep from defecating on yourself. Say nothing… and remember, I will have my finger on the button at all times.” He tapped the black box. “If you do as I tell you, this will all be over soon.”
“You… haven’t…” the man panted. He tore off a wad of paper towels and working feverishly to sop his lap dry. His breath was ragged. His eyes darted from Beg’s face to the box in his hand. White spittle pooled at the corners of his mouth. “You… haven’t… even asked me any questions…”
“Ah.” Beg smiled, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “I am not interested in what you know,” he hissed. “Only who you are.” He opened the door, certain now the pitiful man would follow his every command. He was a slave. “Come. This will take much of the night. I am sure you will find it quite… interesting…”
CHAPTER TEN
Maryland 0930 hours
Jacques Thibodaux’s gumbo-thick Louisiana drawl broke squelch on the speaker inside Jericho Quinn’s helmet. The Cajun was in the lead, broad shoulders eclipsing the low morning sun across the thumping I-495 Beltway.
“Say, Chair Force,” the big Marine said. He rode a red and black sister bike to Quinn’s gunmetal-gray 1200 GS Adventure. “I got me a Tango Tango Charlie situation here.”
“Okay…” Quinn had only known the monstrous Cajun for a matter of months. Violent circumstances had thrown them together-made them closer than brothers-but there were still many idiosyncrasies he had to learn.
“Tango Tango Charlie?
“Turd Touchin’ Cloth, l’ami. My protein and oatmeal shake is scootin’ through me quicker than I’d reckoned on. I need to take a tactical dump before you get me involved in some hellacious gun battle.”
Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux was Corps to the core. A square-jawed, thick-necked fighting machine, he’d been recruited to Win Palmer’s Hammer Team along with Quinn. Like Quinn, he now operated as an OGA, an other governmental agent, working under the guise of Air Force OSI. The Marine still couldn’t get used to the idea he was detailed to the Air Force, a branch of the service he generally referred to as Wing Waxers-or worse.
Rather than answer, Jericho looked to his left, giving Thibodaux a thumbs-up. He pointed with his gloved hand to a little “stop and rob” convenience store just off the 495/270 interchange going toward Rockville. Their helmets were outfitted with sophisticated communications gear that connected via securely scrambled Chatterbox Bluetooth, but he hated to clutter up his head with talk while he was riding unless it was an absolute necessity.
Quinn activated the turn signal with his thumb, then glanced over his right shoulder to take the lane. An elderly couple in a red Hyundai sedan slowed, and then veered to fall in behind him rather than pass. A dark blue minivan laid on the horn when the old folks cut them off, but the move allowed Quinn room to move over as surely as if they were running a blocker
car. Quinn watched the terrified face of the gray-haired woman in the Hyundai’s rearview mirror. She kept both hands on the wheel, eyes glued to the road ahead.
Quinn waved a thank-you and chuckled to himself. He and Thibodaux wore black leathers and rode big, aggressive motorcycles. It was obvious they were wanton killers, on the hunt for an elderly couple in a Hyundai to murder. He had basically the same effect whether he was on a motorcycle or not. It was a feral look he’d been born with and it drove Kim crazy.
Quinn needed fuel anyway so he pulled in to wait behind a guy with a trailer full of lawn equipment and three five-gallon gas cans. He stayed on the motorcycle but took off his helmet and kangaroo-leather gloves. Jacques all but vaulted from his bike and trotted inside the little convenience store to take care of his Tango Tango Charlie.
The day was warm for late September and Quinn unzipped his jacket to let in some air. The recirculating coolant was great, but Quinn found he liked fresh air when he could get it.
Once the lawn guy was finished, Quinn rolled his bike forward and put it up on the center stand. The BMW’s 1200cc motor didn’t exactly sip gasoline, but the beast sported a nine-and-a-half-gallon tank that gave it long legs for a motorcycle-and let it live up to the Adventure designation. Unlike filling up a car, Quinn found he had to keep a careful eye on the nozzle to keep a geyser of gasoline from shooting into the air once the tank was full. He took his time, feeding a little gas slowly while he looked around the parking lot.
He had never been one to relax completely when he was in public, but the attack by Farooq had made him even more watchful.
Three Hispanic kids in their late teens put fuel in a tricked-out Dodge Neon at the next island of pumps, in front of Jacques’s bike. They made fleeting eye contact with Quinn, mumbling something in Spanish about his bike. All were dressed in baggy jeans and covered with tattoos that identified them as members of MS-13-Mara Salvatrucha-a brutal street gang springing from El Salvador who earned their bones with robbery, rape, and murder. A paunchy kid wearing an open flannel shirt over a white wifebeater gave Quinn a curt nod, eyeing the Beemer and sizing him up.
