Act of Terror jq-2

by Marc Cameron

  Nelson snatched up the radio. “Stand by.” He turned back to the sat phone. “Get us support as soon as you can,” he said, a pained look on his beaten face. “Bring them in-hello…?”

  He dropped the phone. “Dammit. Lost the signal.” He took up the radio again.

  Hunt shot two more insurgents while she listened to Nelson give orders that chilled her to the core.

  “Fall back, fall back,” the lieutenant shouted into the radio while he surveyed their situation as best he could with a wall of bullets flying overhead. “All able, form a new perimeter around the command bunker. Watch your dispersement. We’re gonna have to hold these guys off for a while… Fixed wings are twenty minutes out, Apaches are forty.”

  Nelson had just ordered all his men to abandon his own position at the front gate. They were now nearly a hundred yards outside the new perimeter.

  “Sit tight, LT,” McCrary’s voice crackled over the radio, nearly drowned out by gunfire and yelling. “I’ll get a squad together and we’ll come bring you in.”

  “Request denied,” Nelson barked. “We’ll hold them off from our position. You see to your defenses… That’s an order.”

  Insurgent shooting lulled for a moment as the fifty-cals opened up to drive them back from the gate. Three black turbans popped up from the river bank fifty yards west of the bridge. Hunt and Nguyen shot got two of them before the third ducked out of sight.

  “How many do you think?” Hunt said, more to herself than anyone else.

  “Three hundred…” It was Kenny, peering from under the shelter of Specialist Nguyen’s body. The look in his dull gray eyes reminded Hunt of a child that got his kicks from torturing animals.

  The boy smiled as if he knew a deadly secret, raising his dirty brow slightly. “They’ve been watching everything you guys have been doing for two weeks, figuring out how to take the camp.” He grinned up at Nguyen, who looked back in slack-jawed amazement.

  “Thanks for the chocolate bar,” the kid said. He gave a bored sigh, oblivious to the bullets zinging overhead. “Too bad they’re going to cut your filthy head off.”

  With that, Kenny opened his fleece jacket. A black cylinder about the size of a can of deodorant rolled into the dirt toward Hunt. The boy’s hands shot to his ears. He ducked his head against Specialist Nguyen.

  “Grenade!” Hunt screamed, a half second before the blast slammed into her chest.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  7th Fighter Squadron Langley Air Force Base Virginia

  A curt airman wearing green digital camo BDUs and a pencil-thin mustache had disappeared with Ronnie Garcia’s ID what seemed like hours before. Now she stood outside the reinforced steel door, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. Evidently, there was some concern about her level of need to be within spitting distance of a hangar full of F-22 Raptors.

  Palmer had seen to it she was credentialed as a full counterintel agent for the CIA-but even in the shadow of the Agency’s headquarters, so few people ever actually saw CIA identification that she was met with a tilted head and arched brow-the universal expression for “… Sure you are…”

  Garcia had stopped for a Diet Dr. Pepper on the drive in and was now sure some unseen Air Force security officer was having a dandy old time watching her do the potty dance outside the bunkered door. From the number of cameras and sophisticated satellite antenna arrays that bristled on the concrete block hangar, her misery was likely being beamed directly to the Pentagon.

  The door gave a sudden electronic buzz and a metallic click. In a near state of panic, Garcia reached for the handle, but it was pushed open by a slender brunette in a green Nomex flight suit. The leather name tag above her right breast pocket identified her as Major T. Doyle.

  The major winked a startling blue eye-a woman-to-woman wink.

  “You know, they make us gals wear diapers when we fly,” she said in a comfortable Texas drawl. “Haven’t come up with a way to connect our lack of exterior plumbing to the relief tube… though they’ve tried some pretty uncomfortable dumbass ideas, let me tell you. Come on. The head is right down the hall here.”

  “Thanks,” Garcia sighed, waving to the camera above the door. At least someone had been paying attention to her dance.

  Her business taken care of quickly, Garcia met Tara Doyle outside the ladies’ room door. She was immediately struck by the major’s uncommon beauty. Thick hair, so black it shone blue in the stark light of the cavernous aircraft hangar, was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Glacier-blue eyes locked on Garcia and drew her down the side hall to a cramped office Doyle shared with another pilot.

  Doyle dipped her head toward the vacant desk. “Speedo won’t be back for a couple of hours. You can grab his chair if you want.

  Garcia rolled the padded chair around beside Doyle’s cheap wood veneer, DOD-issue desk.

  The major kicked her desert-tan boots up on a stack of folders and leaned back with her hands behind her head. She was slightly built, a head shorter than Ronnie. Had it not been for the grace and maturity in the way she carried herself, the baggy fight suit would have made her look like a child in pajamas.

  “All righty then,” Doyle said, with the swagger of someone accustomed to commanding a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar aircraft. “What does the CIA want with a little ol’ jet jockey like me?”

  “Just a few questions.” Garcia leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. She hoped it made her look more earnest. “Have you ever met a woman named Nadia Arbakova?”

  “Sure. My baby brother’s lady friend. They both work for the Secret Service. I don’t think much of her, to tell you the God’s honest truth-she’s a little too much of a shrinking violet for my blood. Awfully damned needy…” Doyle lowered her eyes. “But I’m guessing you already knew that. Does this have anything to do with that congressman’s list of infidels?”

  Garcia bit her lip. “There’s really no delicate way to put this-”

  “Well, hell, don’t then,” Doyle said. She let her boots slide to the floor. “I’m a female pilot in a sky raining testosterone. Folks don’t sugarcoat stuff around here.”

  “Arbakova is dead,” Garcia said. “Murdered.”

  Doyle folded her hands in her lap. “Does Jimmy know?”

  “Not yet. I’m on my way to see him after this. I understand he and Nadia have a relationship.”

  “Had.” Doyle shrugged. “Jimmy broke it off a couple of weeks ago. He said she was starting to see the boogey man… Guess she had a right to.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about that?”

  Doyle shook her head, staring off into space. “The three of us went to dinner maybe three or four times. She was always the quiet one. Jimmy and I did most of the talking.”

  Garcia glanced down at her notes. “Jimmy is Native American?”

  “Northern Cheyenne,” Doyle said. “My parents adopted him when he was eleven. I was nearly seventeen. Mother and Daddy died in a car wreck about six months later.”

  “Tragic.” Garcia gasped.

  “You’re tellin’ me,” Doyle said. “The poor kid comes to us as an orphan, then we both end up parentless. I took care of him as best I could. I made sure he got through junior high and high school while I went to college on an ROTC scholarship.”

  “Did you ever meet any of his Native relatives? Cousins, aunts, uncles?”

  “Yeah,” Doyle said, tapping a pencil on the desk. “He had an aunt and uncle on the res in Montana. Anyhow, they couldn’t take care of him.”

  “Can you give me their names?”

  “I don’t remember, but I can find out. I don’t know if they’re even still alive.”

  The major suddenly leaned across her desk, cobalt eyes focusing sharply on Garcia. “And that all leads me back to my original question. I’m smart enough to know the CIA doesn’t investigate the murder of a Secret Service agent. Is my baby brother mixed up in something he shouldn’t be?”

  “I don’t know yet,” G
arcia answered honestly. “Does the name Tom Haddad mean anything to you?”

  “Nope,” Doyle said, leaning back again, arms on the rests of her chair like a queen on a throne. “Sounds Arab.”

  “He used to be the CIA station chief in Cairo.” She watched Doyle’s eyes for any sign of a reaction. “His body was found with Ms. Arbakova.”

  “Listen, Ms. Garcia…” Doyle released a long sigh. “I fly fighter jets for a living so I’ll leave the spy-hunting shit to you. But no matter what he tells you, this is gonna be awful hard on Jimmy. He’s always been a little on the sullen side. All he ever wanted to do was guard the president of the United States. Used to talk about it nonstop when he was a kid. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised the Secret Service even lets him near the veep. He can be kind of a downer to be around. Not a big one to demonstrate emotion. Neither was Nadia for that matter. Guess that’s a side effect from being orphaned young.”

  “Wait a minute.” Garcia sat up straight. “Arbakova was an orphan too?”

  “Raised by a couple of older sisters.” Tara Doyle gave a quiet little chuckle. “I guess Jimmy has an excuse to be sullen though. He gets himself orphaned twice-and then he has to be raised by the queen of West Texas bitches. Speaking of that, I have to get my bird ready for a flight. Are we done?”

  Ronnie shut her notebook. “For now.”

  Tara Doyle shut the door behind the nosy CIA agent and took a cell phone from the pocket of her flight suit. She pressed the second number on her speed dial list.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Hey, sis. What’s up?”

  “Listen to me,” Tara said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re mixed up in, but a lady CIA agent just came by to see me.”

  There was a long silence on the line. “And?”

  “Nadia’s dead.”

  “That’s not funny.” Jimmy’s voice turned ice cold.

  “I’m not screwin’ with you. This woman is asking a lot of questions. You sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”

  “Are you serious? Nadia’s dead? How?”

  “She didn’t say,” Tara sighed. “Listen, Jimmy. I told her I’d met your aunt and uncle from the reservation in Montana.”

  “Okay.”

  “You understand what I mean?” Tara said. “When they come to talk to you, you just say you don’t remember any family but you’ve heard me talk about them. I’m afraid this could screw up your career if you’re not careful.”

  “Understood,” Jimmy said. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

  “Listen,” Tara said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry about Nadia.”

  “Me too,” Jimmy said. It was difficult for her to read his voice. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  U.S. Naval Observatory Washington

  Quinn sat on the vice president’s porch and waited quietly. Where others might feel the overwhelming need to ask questions during an interview, he let silence do much of his work for him. Garcia was in the chair next to him, leaning forward, but following his lead. Thibodaux stood back, listening but giving the group some space.

  James “Jimmy” Doyle stared out over the rolling green lawn as if in a trance. He wasn’t a tall man, but what there was of him was built like a tree trunk. He had the slightly narrow eyes and Asiatic look of a Native American.

  “You’ll find out soon enough…” Broad shoulders rose and fell with calculated breaths. “But she was starting to get really paranoid. I told her she was going to get fired… I guess it got her killed.”

  Doyle had hung his jacket over the back of the white wicker chair exposing his sidearm, expandable baton, handcuffs, and radio. His shirttail had come untucked and his dark tie hung loose and cocked to one side, like a silk noose around his muscular neck.

  Palmer had called ahead to Sonny Vindetti, the special agent in charge of the VP’s protection detail, to let him know one of his agents was about to get what might turn out to be devastating news. Nancy Hughes, the vice president’s wife, had been delivering a tray of cookies to the small cottage below the residence that acted as the Secret Service security office. She’d seen the look on Vindetti’s face when the call came in and demanded to know what was going on. It was a standing opinion with most detail agents that snowy-haired Mrs. Hughes was the best suited of anyone in the United States to run the country if anything ever happened to the president. She had the brains, the fortitude, and, coming from the old money of a father in the West Texas oil business, the family name to make her political royalty.

  As Robert Hughes was happy to point out in the self-deprecating way that had served him so well, he was “no rocket surgeon, but he was, at least, smart enough to marry the right gal.” Nancy could be as unforgiving as a concrete wall if she felt she was being wronged, but she cared about her agents as if they were her own children. The VP’s code name was Pilot. Hers was Peregrine, but the Secret Service satellite detail that saw to her security referred to her as Mother Hen.

  Quinn, Thibodaux, and Garcia had arrived at roughly the same time. Peregrine had met them at the driveway and ushered them up her steps, insisting Special Agent Doyle hear the news from the comfort of her front porch. She personally brought him a glass of lemonade and a box of tissues.

  He hardly even blinked at the news. His angular jaw tensed; he stared a thousand-yard stare.

  “Tell us about her theories,” Quinn said.

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know. She was acting crazy, but I didn’t know why. She started sleeping with a gun under her pillow, said she didn’t know who to trust.” Doyle rubbed a hand over a thick head of black hair. “I told her she needed to get some help and she went off on me.”

  Quinn’s eyes shot to Garcia, then back to the stoic young agent. “But you have no idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

  They’d agreed before leaving Rockville he’d lead the discussion. An interview would work better than a dog-pile interrogation-and Nancy Hughes would likely peck the eyes out of anyone she thought was bullying one of her agents.

  Doyle gazed out over the hedges and flower beds of the manicured lawn. “Nadia was an agent and all, but she just did intel… Paranoid or not, nobody should have wanted to hurt her.” A single tear, the first sign of real emotion, pooled in the corner of Doyle’s eye. He sniffed, using the back of his forearm to dab at his nose.

  Quinn nodded to himself. One of the first rules of an interview was not to believe in tears unless the snot was flowing.

  Garcia slid forward in her chair, leaning in slightly. “Do you remember what you talked about last?”

  Doyle shrugged. “No…”

  Good answer, Quinn thought. People who remembered too much were rehearsed-and lying.

  “You know a man named Tom Haddad?”

  “No,” Doyle said. “Do you think he killed her?”

  “We can’t give you details at this point,” Quinn said. “But whoever killed her probably killed him as well.”

  Doyle suddenly sat up and straightened his tie. “I need to get back to work. My boss wants to see me after this.”

  Mrs. Hughes cleared her throat and peered over the top of gold reading glasses, a clear sign that the interview should wind down.

  Quinn got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Agent Doyle.” He never carried business cards, so he handed his Moleskine notebook to Garcia so she could write down her contact numbers. When she was finished, she tore out the page and handed it to Doyle, who shuffled off toward the detached security office as if he was walking to the gallows.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A stone’s throw from the Secret Service motorcade that was always staged and ready to go in the event of an emergency, Ronnie Garcia leaned on the open door of her Impala. Thibodaux stood beside his motorcycle, fiddling with the strap on his helmet. Quinn had hung back to make a quick call from the Secret Service office landline.

  “Can I ask you something?” Garcia said to Thibodaux, chin resting
on the back of her hand.

  The hulking Marine glanced up, nodding slightly before turning his attention back to the inside of his helmet. A robin hopped in the grassy shadows behind him.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Director Ross told me you and Quinn haven’t been working together much more than a couple of months. Seems to me like you’ve been friends forever…”

  “I assume you’ve never been in the military?”

  “That’s true.” Ronnie felt a pang of regret for having to answer that way.

  “Well, beb, you get a different sort of relationship with someone who you know you can count on-someone who’s spilled blood to save your life…”

  Quinn came down the hill a moment later. Garcia found herself happy to see him, but disappointed that her conversation about him had come to a stop.

  “Palmer wants us to get together in the morning and compare notes without the Bureau and Agency big dogs in the mix.” Quinn looked at Garcia. “He’d like you there as well.”

  “Sounds good.” She looked at her watch. “Not much more to do this evening. You guys ever eat?”

  Thibodaux slid into his black leather jacket and checked his watch. “Well, hell, but don’t a kidnap attempt and a double bloody murder make the day just zip by,” he said. “I got a Lamaze class with my child bride in an hour and a half…”

  “Are you kidding me?” Quinn turned to Garcia, chuckling under his breath. “The guy’s got six sons and he still has to go to classes….”

  “I know. Don’t rub it in.” Thibodaux hung his head like a dejected schoolboy. “I expect it’s her way of making sure I come home for more than just the fun part of the process.”

  “Sounds like a smart girl,” Garcia said. “How about you, Agent Quinn?”