Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  Quinn cleared his throat and spoke to his team. “I just got out of that National Security Council meeting. What’s going on here?”

  Stephanie answered first. “An escalation of attacks on Christian churches across Egypt. Bombs planted under pews. Islamic State immediately claimed responsibility online through the Amaq News Agency. It’s already in the news.”

  “Also, Al-Shabab—”

  Rick interrupted Stephanie with, “That’s Somalia’s Islamic extremist rebels, right?”

  “Yes,” said Stephanie. “They immediately claimed responsibility for the car bomb targeting Somalia’s new military chief. He survived, but thirteen others died. Death toll still growing.”

  Quinn nodded, his face solemn. Ideally, he only wanted to hear about planned attacks before they happened, when they could still be stopped. “Do we have anything to follow up on from Redman? Anything more about his contact?”

  Rashid turned in his chair. “He’s been under interrogation since last night. Just comfort denial, non-stop noise, no water boarding. He’s a real messed up piece of work, but not really a hardcore terrorist. There have been plenty of tears, and plenty of regret.”

  “Regret at being caught?”

  “That too, but he’s consistently alluded to a planned attack on mass transit. Three major cities. He didn’t know which. And something else, he didn’t know the details, only that it was a top-secret project targeting American citizens. He regrets not waiting to be a part of either of those plots.”

  “Hmm,” Quinn said. “I thought his comments in the van might have been idle threats. A prisoner’s only means of intimidating his captors. And the contact?”

  “First name is Kareem. He used to live in America. He’s somewhere in the Middle East now. Redman believes Kareem is powerful, with the means to do something huge. Much bigger than strapping on explosives.”

  Ken chuckled. “If he was powerful, why would he be chatting with Redman?”

  “Right,” said Rashid. “But Redman believes otherwise.”

  “Did you find interactions with Kareem on his computer or phone?” said Quinn.

  Rashid shook his head. “Redman was following dozens of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram sites for jihadists, but we found no personal correspondence with Kareem, or anyone else with a specific plan. Besides his interaction with me.”

  “So how were they communicating?”

  “I don’t know yet. I found one unusual thing. Frequent visits to a website, the Yoga Institute of Paris. The first visit was two days before his arrest.”

  “Yoga in Paris?”

  “Yes. He’s never been to Paris. Maybe he does yoga, tons of people do. But, I haven’t found proof of it yet.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got something to follow up on.” Quinn rubbed his chin. “I’ll be out of the office tomorrow and Friday, for the training I promised to do. Let me know if you find anything new.”

  “Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but it seems every time you go somewhere, something big happens,” Rashid said.

  “Hopefully, not this time.”

  After Quinn left the War Room, Rick turned to his team members. “So, what was Redman’s deal?” he asked them.

  “He’s been in lots of trouble,” Rashid said. “Claims it wasn’t his fault. Right now, he’s blaming everything on prejudice against Muslims, although he was hardly a devout Muslim of any sort. He recently got himself hooked on ISIS propaganda over the internet and discovered a new purpose.”

  “Does it ever bother you that we’re often, you know, targeting Muslims?” Rick leaned back in his chair toward Rashid. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Well, you’re assuming I’m Muslim because I’m Arab.”

  “Oh, sorry, man.”

  Rashid laughed. “It’s okay. I am Muslim, but not devout. And we hardly target all Muslims, just the ones who hang out in IS chatrooms.”

  “Oh. Listen, I hope that wasn’t offensive to ask about,” Rick said.

  “It wasn’t.”

  “In the spirit of getting to know all of you,” Rick continued, “Stephanie, I hear you’re quite the tennis player.”

  Stephanie grinned. “Number one singles at Cornell.”

  “Wow. You remind me of Sharapova. You know, with the long blonde ponytail. I heard you spent two years in Afghanistan, posing as a tennis instructor?”

  “Checking up on Stephanie?” Rashid asked. There was an odd tone to his voice, meant to be joking and barely missing his mark.

  Ken crossed his arms. “How do you know that? You shouldn’t have access to that info.”

  Rick shrugged apologetically. “I just wanted to know who I was working with.”

  “It’s okay. The rest of the team knows.” Stephanie smiled. “I lived on a private compound. I had one student. Son of an Al-Qaeda leader. My mission was to earn the boy’s trust during our daily lessons and obtain information on his father’s whereabouts.”

  “Nice,” said Rick. “A little glamorous spy action and you get to play tennis.”

  “Does it sound glamorous? Because it wasn’t. No one was happier than me when he was found and I was out of there. And my tennis game got worse. No competition.”

  “If you’re still looking for competition, I played on my high school team. I know it’s not college, but we were decent.”

  “I might consider taking you up on your offer.” Stephanie tilted her head to the side.

  “Sounds like fun,” Rashid said, but his voice didn’t sound like he thought so.

  “What led you to an FBI career?” Rick asked, still facing Stephanie.

  “My older brother was killed in the Twin Towers. He was a stockbroker.”

  “Jeez. I’m sorry. I knew about the tennis, but not—”

  Stephanie shrugged. “Changed my life. No question. I was in college. Switched my major from pre-vet to computer science so I could stop terrorists, exactly what we’re doing. And yes, sometimes my job feels personal. I think that’s a good thing.”

  Rick nodded.

  “And you?” said Ken. His stare reminded Rick of the red-tailed hawk in his parents’ neighborhood, when it was about to swoop down on its prey. “Why are you here?”

  They knew who he was, or more specifically, who his father was—Senator John Webster. The presidential nominee’s pick for vice-president in the last election. A polished and powerful statesman. Public opinion was split almost evenly between loving and hating him.

  “I wanted to work for the FBI in Counterterrorism,” said Rick. “The Los Angeles field office was an easy first-choice decision.” He grinned. “My father convinced me to go for Intelligence and Analysis, said it would be exciting but relatively safe.”

  “True,” said Rashid. “The opportunity to apprehend Redman was an unusual one.”

  “So, the position pretty much landed in your lap?” Ken sneered.

  “Look, Ken, I can’t erase my father’s influence, but I’m more than capable of doing this job and doing it well.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Ken folded his muscular arms across his chest.

  “What’s your problem with me?” Rick stood with his hands on his hips.

  “What’s my problem? Do you even have to ask? My problem is that the FBI isn’t a place for people who aren’t up to the job.”

  Rick held Ken’s gaze for as long as he dared. Now that Ken’s opinion was out in the open, Rick didn’t have to wonder if he was being paranoid anymore. He’d have to work harder until he proved himself, and then keep working just as hard. He couldn’t wait until his unit had their next big case.

  Chapter Seven

  Los Angeles

  September 22nd

  Holly stepped from her bedroom into the art-lined hallway and coughed. A few feet away from the front door, Quinn turned and set down his suitcase. “You’re up. Good morning.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, pushing a section of glossy hair away from her sleep-laden eyes.

  “I’m
on my way to Georgia to give a lecture at FLETC.”

  A sigh of exasperation escaped her collagen-plumped lips. “I don’t know what that stands for.”

  “It’s the DHS Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.” He glanced at his watch. “I still have some time. I can sit back down and have coffee with you before I go.”

  Holly spun around and walked in the opposite direction, already twirling her hair around her finger. Her lack of a negative response translated into a yes, so Quinn followed. In the kitchen, he pulled a bar stool away from the counter and sat. Holly busied herself with the espresso machine.

  “I’m sorry I left your gallery party early.”

  “It’s fine,” Holly said, still facing away from him. Quinn knew that “fine” had multiple meanings.

  The machine hissed and frothed. Holly dropped her head forward and rolled it slowly from side to side. One hand kneaded the muscles in her neck. When she finished, she straightened her decorative canisters, the ones she’d had handmade for the kitchen counter. Her hands moved gently around them, aligning each to perfection. As far as Quinn knew, they contained Holly’s herbal teas and detoxifying vitamins—things that didn’t concern him.

  “We don’t need three of these bottles on the counter. I mean, jeez, you have enough anti-bacterial products for an army.” She grabbed two bottles and tossed them under the sink. “So why do they need you there anyway? In Alabama?” she asked, still facing away.

  “Georgia. I’m teaching part of a training course for emergency responders, like firefighters, police, paramedics. I’ll talk about the precautions they need to take with chemical and biological threats. I agreed to do this a year ago. Things kept coming up and I kept cancelling. This is the first time it’s worked out where I can go down to help.”

  “You kept cancelling? Really? What a surprise.” Holly finally turned around. She frowned, shot her index finger up to her face and pressed against one nostril, preventing a drop of blood from escaping her nose. “The air is dry in the house. When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow night.” He shared this information with her previously—where he was going, why he was going, and when he would return—at least he thought he had. But he kept calm, as if disclosing the information for the first time. He glanced at the open seat next to him but Holly remained standing. She picked up the morning paper and gave it her full attention. Quinn thought hard about what to say next. He wanted to tell Holly about the drops in the bathroom cabinet to soothe her bloodshot eyes, but the comment and its implications might make her angry and starting an argument was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to connect in any small way that might lead to things feeling okay between them. Ask about her plans for the day? Tell her he wasn’t looking forward to the flight to Georgia? She’d been so irritable lately. It might be best to say nothing. He stood and moved closer. Standing behind her, he wrapped his arm gently around her waist and leaned forward, silently inhaling the scent of her face cream and the minty toothpaste she’d used. Holly’s shoulders stiffened as his chest gently met her back. He swallowed his dismay and held his ground, his body barely touching hers, reading The Los Angeles Times over her shoulder.

  “Humpf,” Holly said, as she read the front-page headline.

  A smug TV celebrity, notorious for bad decisions, stared at him from the front page. One day out of a much-publicized rehab stint and she had driven her convertible onto the strand in Manhattan Beach. No one was hurt, but the scene—her confused stumble from the car and subsequent retching in the sand—had been recorded on every bystander’s cell phone. Front-page worthy news? Shouldn’t be. Quinn imagined what the dominant headline might have been if Rashid hadn’t spent weeks diligently analyzing the results of scanning software to find Dylan Redman, if he hadn’t built a relationship with him and stepped in to provide fake explosives. Redman could have attained real explosives from another source. Pictures of military personnel carrying body bags from the Hollywood Bowl amidst family members wailing on their knees might have replaced the drunk celebrity’s mug shot.

  Quinn’s team had done their jobs well, protecting the public from the plotting, hating, and killing. A screw-up would be public knowledge in a heartbeat, but his teams’ successes stayed hidden, as intended, without public celebration. As much as Quinn wanted to highlight the arrest, let the public know his team was doing their job, he didn’t want communications from Redman’s new contact to cease. Not until they identified him. Unfortunately, there were plenty of other Dylan Redman’s out there.

  When Quinn arrived at the FLETC training center and stood at the front of the auditorium, he saw a sea of faces in every shade of skin color staring back at him from the rows of seats. He recognized the attentive look of an ex-military man with cropped hair, and the eagerness of a young trainee who sat on the edge of his seat, staring up at Quinn as if an attack was imminent and he might be placed in charge. Quinn smiled and nodded to acknowledge them.

  Exactly on time, Quinn said, “Welcome, everyone, and thank you for being here, not that you had a choice.” He smiled. “I’m Quinn Traynor, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles Counterterrorism Unit. I oversee the FBI’s Los Angeles office and the Joint Terrorism Task Force. We work closely with DHS.”

  A few heads nodded.

  “I’m going to talk about biological terrorism. This training is designed to help you protect the public and yourself, in the event of a biological attack, should you be called on as a first responder.” He paused. “Tell me, what comes to your mind when I say bioterror?”

  A middle-aged man wearing a polo shirt and khakis near the front raised his hand. Quinn pointed to him.

  “Billion-dollar bio-weapons facilities in North Korea and North China with the capabilities for controlled deployment.”

  “Excellent. That’s what I expected to hear and it certainly fits the definition. But biological weapons also include any natural organism that can cause disease, incapacitation, or death. Viruses. Bacteria. Herbs. Fungi. All can become tools of terror.”

  He clicked on his laptop to start the presentation the FLETC had created for the training.

  “The use of biological agents for warfare dates back thousands of years. A few examples—in 300 BC, the Romans killed their enemies and destroyed their morale by contaminating their water supply with dead animals. In the early 1300s, the Mongols catapulted plague-infected corpses over the walls into what is now Crimea. They forced their enemies to flee the city, possibly starting the epidemic plague that killed 25 million in Europe. Russian troops did the same against the Swedes in the 1700s when they flung corpses over the city walls of Reval. That’s the last known incident of using plague-infected corpses.”

  Quinn suddenly stopped speaking. His words echoed in his head. The last known incident of using plague-infected corpses. Not exactly. He looked up and over the audience, unblinking, as if he’d forgotten how to read the notes on his laptop.

  “Is he okay?” whispered someone in one of the center seats.

  A slight shake of his head, and Quinn returned to the present. He looked down at his laptop as if seeing if for the first time. “Sorry, I was saying, um, yes… in the 20th century, bio-warfare became more sophisticated. In several countries, weaponized bio-agents were produced and stockpiled in huge facilities. Botulinum. Aflatoxin. Anthrax.” He looked away from the notes and focused on faces in the front row. “If you’re old enough, you’ll remember September 2001. Members of Congress and the media received letters tainted with anthrax spores. Twenty-two people became sick and five died.”

  Quinn scanned the audience. A young woman to his left was writing furiously across a notebook like a college student, even though there wouldn’t be a test. Next to her, the head of a large man slumped forward. Quinn couldn’t see his face and thought his eyes might have been closed. Was he bored already? Did he think terror attacks could only happen to other people in other countries? Quinn wanted to smack the back of the guy’s head, but instea
d, he continued. “A single gram of odorless, colorless toxin, impossible to detect, can kill ten million people. It only takes a few particles to start an epidemic. Terrorists can disperse them using almost any mechanism, a plane flying over a crowded venue, a ventilation system, vectors, such as mosquitoes or rodents, the food or water supply, and, last, but not least, a carrier on a suicide mission.”

  “Category A agents pose the biggest threats. These are anthrax, botulism, plague, smallpox, tularemia, and viruses that cause hemorrhagic fevers, such as Ebola, Marburg, Lassa, and Machupo. All of them are naturally-occurring, except for smallpox, which has been eradicated. None are indigenous to the United States. They’re the most dangerous because they’re easily transmitted and have high mortality rates. Genetic manipulation can make them even more aggressive.”

  Quinn continued, explaining in detail the first response protocols for a biological attack. When finished, he asked, “Does anyone have questions?”

  A young man with a shaved head raised his hand. Quinn pointed to him.

  “Is the point of a biological attack to kill as many people as possible?”

  “Good question. The main goal is to create fear. The direct casualties associated with the outbreak would be minor compared to the financial and economic damage. The ensuing fear-induced panic could cripple a country. Imagine the scenario of a contagious epidemic. Most people would be too afraid to go to work, so our basic infrastructure would be paralyzed. Public order collapses. Basic services fail. The result—complete chaos— is what radical terrorists are aiming for.”

  Heads nodded.

  “Other questions?” Quinn asked.

  A young woman raised her hand. Her porcelain skin and wavy red hair reminded Quinn of Holly. “I’m sorry if this is a stupid question, but, if we’re talking about terrorist groups, like ISIS, for example, why do they hate us?”

  “Another good question. If we’re talking about Islamic terrorists, there are a few reasons. Radicals believe the Quran commands them to punish or eliminate all infidels—non-believers. Citizens of the United States, Europe, and Israel are their main targets. They also want to punish western civilization because western military forces are preventing them from taking over other countries and building an all-powerful, radical Islamic State without borders. Their greatest accomplishment would be an attack on western civilization so destabilizing that it would create a spiraling power vacuum in the Middle East. We’d have to direct our money, our law enforcement, and our intelligence inward. We’d have to pull our troops back home. Militant groups could exploit our absence, overthrow our proxy governments, and confiscate money from oil resources, growing even more powerful. If the United States pulled its military presence and money out of the Middle East, ISIS, for example, could take over the entire area.”