State of Emergency

by Marc Cameron

  Quinn was all too familiar with the Kipling verse, written in the writer’s grief of losing his only son in World War I. “I knew Riley Cooper, sir. He was not only where he needed to be, he was where he wanted to be.”

  “I told him he was cut out for something big,” Palmer said. “Saving the free world and all that.”

  “Who knows, sir?” Quinn looked out at the distant crosses. “Maybe he has.”

  “Maybe,” Palmer said, his voice tinny and unconvinced. “But one day, in the not too distant future, I owe his parents an apology.”

  Thibodaux shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable seeing a superior showing so much emotion. “What was his business in Uzbekistan?”

  Palmer nodded as if he realized it was time to move on. “Following a Russian agent when he was killed.”

  “Martel?” Quinn asked. “Is he good for the murder?”

  “Martel.” Palmer’s normally expressive face had fallen placid from sadness and fatigue. “His body and Cooper’s were discovered only a few yards apart. We have a little intel on him, but not much. Mikhail Ivanovich Polzin. Forty-one years old. Attended university in Moscow and joined the military shortly after graduation. Served as an army Spetsnaz troop and was eventually recruited for the Federal Security Service. We believe he worked Spetsgruppa V.”

  “Vympel,” Jacques said, obviously impressed. “That’s my old man’s KGB.”

  “We know he saw service in Chechnya,” Palmer said. “Other than that, he’s been off our radar for the last several years.”

  “Until?” Jericho prompted.

  “Until Cooper ran into him eighteen months ago in a Bishkek bazaar favored by black-market arms dealers. Some of our intel boys and girls think the Soviet Union lost track of as many as eighty Special Atomic Demolition Munitions—portable nukes—in the aftermath of its collapse. Hell, even Putin admits he can only confirm the security of their nuclear devices from the time he came into power. We believe Vympel is the unit within FSB charged with finding and retrieving these lost items.”

  Thibodaux leaned forward to rest massive forearms on his knees. His Transit Leather jacket hung open to reveal a black AC/DC T-shirt. “So whoever killed Cooper and Comrade Polzin got their hands on a Soviet nuke?”

  “We have to assume so.”

  “What about the dirty bombs?” Quinn said. “Maybe it was nuclear material they found and not an intact device.”

  “We considered that.” Palmer rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Cooper knew the difference between material for a dirty bomb and a portable nuke. Intelligence files regarding Baba Yaga during the Cold War noted a significant amount of plutonium was stored with her. Sources inside the Kremlin called it a package deal—Baba Yaga and her children.”

  Quinn looked out across the field of crosses and sighed to himself. There were those who thought al-Qaeda already possessed a nuclear device. He was no such believer, knowing from firsthand experience that though jihadi operatives clamored for a nuclear weapon at every turn, if they had a bomb, they would have already used it. The hate they carried for the West was too great to hold off and posture. The posturing would come later, on the heels of their attack.

  “I’m assuming you have some sort of lead,” he said, studying Palmer. “You’ve never been one to use your blunt instruments as investigative personnel. . . .”

  “We have several in fact,” the national security advisor said. “But one in particular seems tailor made for you two.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Palmer leaned back, stretching as if he’d not slept in days. “Sources put a Venezuelan arms dealer named Valentine Zamora in Uzbekistan eleven days ago,” Palmer said. “That’s less than a week before Cooper sent the texts. Look up ‘sick bastard’ in the dictionary and you’ll find this guy’s photo.”

  “Why don’t we just pick him up?” Quinn asked the obvious.

  “We’re playing a little waiting game. Special Purpose Islamic Regiment of Chechnya has claimed responsibility for the St. Petersburg bombing. So far, no one is taking credit for San Francisco.”

  Quinn nodded. More than a few jihadi groups would jump at the chance to work in concert with the Chechens toward a common goal. SPIR had no qualms about killing dozens of Russian schoolchildren if it furthered their purposes. It was well within reason to think they would move to dirty bombs if given the opportunity. If they couldn’t get their hands on a weapon of mass destruction, a weapon of mass distraction would do.

  “First reports are saying the bombs in both California and Russia detonated near or in ATMs. They went off within minutes of each other, presumably loaded with the nuclear material smuggled in by the dead college students.”

  “SPIR and al-Qaeda have plenty of ties to each other.” Thibodaux shrugged.

  “They do,” Palmer said, “but the methods here suggest a high level of sophistication we’ve not seen from these organizations. We’re talking about groups who both hate us but can’t agree among themselves over their own brand of dogma. Someone with a certain amount of control over both is running the show here.”

  “And you believe that person is Zamora?” Quinn mused, half to himself. Palmer wasn’t the type to blame organizations for bad behavior. He believed all terrorist acts could generally be traced back to a single despot pulling the strings. So far, he’d been proven correct.

  “The Bureau suits have their eyes on a couple of Hezbollah possibles their agents followed out of Bishkek the day after Cooper was killed. One is an Iranian student named Naseer al-Karradi. His uncle is a nuclear scientist for the regime. Langley likes a Saudi merchant they tagged in Tashkent shortly after Cooper’s murder. They link him to a plan to get a Soviet man-portable antiaircraft missile into Manhattan.”

  “They still got eyes on their suspects?” Quinn asked.

  “Both Karradi and the Saudi are in the wind,” Palmer said. “Every asset in Asia and Europe is looking for these guys. We don’t know who’s allied with who or, more importantly, who has the bomb.”

  “Why doesn’t the Bureau like Zamora as the coordinator?” Quinn asked.

  “Profilers at Quantico believe he’s too unstable to carry out this kind of orchestrated action.” Palmer leaned back, looking skyward to stretch his neck. “To be honest, it’s hard to disagree. Everyone who’s met him says he bounces all over the place—erratic and flighty like a BB in a boxcar. But he was in Uzbekistan and he’s a killer. I don’t care what the Feebs say, this is too important to rule him out just yet.”

  “Let’s go get him then,” Thibodaux said.

  “I’d like nothing more than to have you jerk a knot in this guy’s ass, Jacques,” Palmer said. “But that wouldn’t get us very far. Interrogation won’t do us any good at all if the bomb is moved. If he does have it, chances are his people would move it the moment we pick him up. NSA is up on all the phones we know about, but he’s got access to some pretty sophisticated technology so who knows what we’re missing. We need to watch for a few days, see what we can learn. The FBI can look for their boy from Bishkek. Langley can follow theirs. I want you two to check out Zamora.”

  Palmer reached into his jacket pocket to produce a folded piece of computer paper.

  “I’ll send an encrypted file with what we have to each of your phones. But the small screen won’t do justice to the twisted sort of man we’re dealing with. Zamora supplies heavy weapons to the Zetas Cartel in Mexico, among others.” He handed the document to Quinn, who held it so Thibodaux could look as well.

  Palmer looked away, apparently having seen enough.

  “The dead girl was a student from the University of Matamoros. She wrote a thesis indicting the cartel’s cruelty toward regular citizens, so they kidnapped her and made a gift of her to Zamora.” He nodded at the photograph. “Informants in the cartel say he did this for no particular reason but to impress a sadistic girlfriend.”

  In another venue the girl in the picture would have been pretty. The stark whiteness of naked flesh under the f
lash of the crime scene photo made even Quinn, who had seen more than his share of carnage, flinch in disgust. She was stripped of her clothing and bound to a wooden bedframe on a blood-soaked mattress. Someone had traced a sloppy outline of her body with gunfire, stitching the bed with a dotted line of bullet holes. Zamora hadn’t been any too careful with his aim, taking bits of flesh and shards of bone every few shots. One of the poor girl’s elbows was completely gone. Her left ear, the opposite knee, and right shoulder suffered the same grisly fate. A single gunshot to the center of her chest had finally ended her agony—presumably when Zamora and his girlfriend had grown bored with their game.

  Quinn’s gut turned. The sight of any woman in pain made him associate the victim with his own daughter or ex-wife, so much so that he had to check himself when he was around them or become maniacally overprotective.

  “I think I might throw up,” the big Cajun groaned. “I’m really gonna enjoy gettin’ my hands on this shithead.”

  “Good to hear,” Palmer said, “because I want you in Florida in three days. Zamora likes to present himself as the globetrotting playboy—extravagant parties dripping with women and booze, expensive cars, ski getaways to the Alps on a whim. He hosts a track day in Homestead twice a year.” Palmer looked at Quinn. “Fancies himself quite the motorcycle racer, so this should be right up your alley. I’d like you both to try and get close to him. See if you catch anything that would indicate he’s got the bomb. If you don’t get anywhere, then we’ll pick him up as a last resort and . . . talk to him.”

  Thibodaux bounced on his feet. Even his flattop seemed to stand a little taller. “Hang on now, sir,” he said. “You mean I actually get to follow Chair Force on a mission?”

  During the last two major operations, the mountainous Cajun had been forced to stay behind while Quinn traveled overseas. He made no secret of the fact that as a Marine used to being the tip of the spear, he’d been more than chapped over such an arrangement.

  Palmer chuckled. “Mrs. Miyagi says it’s about time you earned your keep.”

  The Cajun darkened. “She would say something like that.”

  Since they’d been recruited to work for Palmer, Emiko Miyagi had become the men’s official trainer and quartermaster. A more enigmatic woman Quinn had never met. Perhaps it was because Japanese was one of the five languages he spoke, but she’d seemed to have an instant affection for him. For whatever reason, Thibodaux brought little more than a resigned sigh of barely hidden disdain.

  “Chin up, Jacques,” Quinn said. “She’ll eventually warm to you.”

  Palmer rose from the marble bench to brush off the front of his suit.

  “One thing,” Quinn said, standing along with him. He reached in the pocket of his leather jacket and took out a crumpled blue bandana. “Regarding that little roadblock I was telling you about in Old Town. If you could have these identified it might lead us to who the Speaker is working with.”

  Palmer looked inside the bandana. “I certainly pick the right sort of man for these jobs.” He smirked. “But this is the last time you’re allowed to give me the finger.” He rolled up the bandana and slipped it inside the pocket of his suit coat, apparently unbothered that it contained severed human body parts. “Mrs. Miyagi will set you up with a race bike to help you cozy up to Zamora. I think you could use a little female help down there.”

  Thibodaux’s head snapped around. “You mean to tell me she’s coming with us? Oh, this should be rich—”

  “You misunderstand me, Jacques.” Palmer winked. “Not Mrs. Miyagi. I have someone else in mind. This one’s a killer, though—make no mistake about that.”

  Quinn groaned. He knew full well who the boss would send. His gut tightened at the thought. Sadistic, gunrunning terrorists notwithstanding, it was this woman who was likely to get him killed.

  CHAPTER 7

  5:15 PM GMT

  Guinea-Bissau, West Africa

  Valentine Zamora blotted his lips with a folded handkerchief and smiled sweetly.

  “I’m sure we can reach some form of agreement that is . . . mutually beneficial,” he said.

  His Portuguese was better than his Russian, which was the main reason he liked to do business in this particular backwater republic. Beyond the language, the added benefit of working in one of the poorest countries in the world was that officials were more easily bought. Mafia states, they called them. U.S. pundits ranked Zamora’s own Venezuela among such mafia states where the criminal enterprises were not only condoned, but intermingled with the business of government. From what he knew of his father’s drug empire, Valentine could hardly disagree.

  Outside, a pleasant ocean breeze rustled feathery albizia trees, carrying their faintly sweet odor of tobacco, but the interior of the metal airplane hangar was stifling. The smell of jet fuel and burned engine oil hung heavy on the humid air. Monagas stood back a few steps beside a rusted single-engine Piper Cherokee that, amazingly enough, had flown in a few minutes before with General Alberto Kabbah and his aide, both of the Bissau-Guinean military. The men wore freshly pressed olive-green uniforms and sat on metal chairs behind a long folding table in the center of the hangar, as if holding court. The general wore a dress hat complete with gold scrambled eggs on the brim to befit his high rank and status. His chest held more varied medals than Idi Amin.

  “Negotiations are a fluid thing,” General Kabbah said, taking a drink from a bottle of Aquafina. He had an annoying way of smacking his lips that made Zamora want to cut them off.

  “Yes, they are indeed,” Zamora said, working to keep his voice low and even. “But need I remind you, General, that I have been doing business with your military for almost a decade? Your predecessor grew quite rich from our dealings before his . . . untimely death.”

  Kabbah smiled, showing what looked like more than his fair share of teeth. Everyone in the country knew he had murdered his former boss to take the post of general for himself.

  “Our arrangement is a win-win for you,” Zamora continued. “You are paid handsomely to look the other way when drug shipments arrive from South America. Then we pay you to look the other way a few moments longer while we put my merchandise on the same plane for the return flight. You are, in effect, getting paid double for an extra two hours of doing nothing.”

  The drug flights coming to West Africa were from Venezuela and organized by Zamora’s father. The elder Zamora knew nothing of the return loads of illicit weapons or the extra risk involved, but the general did not need to be bothered with such trivial details.

  General Kabbah replaced the lid on his Aquafina bottle, gave the annoying pop of his lips, then set the water on the table in a show of finality. He leaned back to fold his hands across a round belly. “Still—” He smacked his lips, giving a long sigh. “The risks are greater than they used to be. The World Customs Organization and Interpol snoop around more and more each year. I would hope that larger risk would bring a more substantial reward.”

  “How much more substantial?” Zamora rubbed his chin, expecting this.

  “Double,” the general said. “But you would have my personal guarantee the price would not go up during my lifetime.”

  “I see,” Zamora said.

  Kabbah nodded his jowly head. “And I would need certain assurances that I won’t end up in prison.”

  “You may rest assured,” Zamora said. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Very well,” General Kabbah said. “If we are in agreement. You may resume shipments on return flights as soon as the first payment arrives in my account.” He gestured to his aide. “Major Bundu will see to the particulars.”

  “After the money arrives in your account?” Zamora ground his teeth. He gave the slightest flick of his wrist.

  Monagas stepped forward with an aluminum briefcase. Instead of setting it on the table, he made a motion of giving it to the general, then smashed it edgewise into the man’s face. Before Kabbah could react, Monagas drew a pistol from behind his back and sho
t him twice in the forehead. He pitched forward, slamming against the table, arms dangling at his sides.

  A plume of blue smoke curled from the muzzle of Monagas’s pistol.

  Major Bundu sat with his mouth agape, mesmerized at the pool of blood that blossomed from under the bill of the general’s fancy green hat on the white Formica tabletop.

  “Now, Major . . . pardon me, General Bundu,” Zamora said. “You see how I keep my promises? Kabbah will never end up in prison.”

  Bundu gulped but said nothing.

  “Where I come from we have a saying.” Zamora stepped forward to push the aluminum case across the table. He gestured for the newly promoted general to open it. “Plata o plomo. It does not translate quite so poetically into Portuguese.” His eyes narrowed. “But I believe you understand the message. Silver or lead, the choice is yours.”

  Bundu patted the unopened case with a trembling hand. “I am satisfied that whatever arrangement you had with General Kabbah’s predecessor will be quite acceptable to me.”

  “So.” Zamora clapped his hands together and brought them to his face, top teeth against his knuckle. “I may assume you and your men will resume their noninterference immediately when it comes to my shipments.”

  “You may indeed,” Bundu said.

  “Very well.” Zamora smiled. “I’ll send a man in a few days’ time to see to the next load of merchandise— and I must warn you, I have a strict time line that must be observed.”

  “I und . . . erstand . . . perfec . . . tly.” Bundu appeared to be having a difficult time swallowing.

  “Very well,” Zamora said. “You will most certainly find something extra for you if things go well.” He watched as Monagas dug around on the dead general’s uniform until he found a medal he liked for his collection.