Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  “All right, Andrew,” the president cut him off. “I know everyone here appreciates your vivid descriptions, but we do have our own copy of the files. The real question before us is the connection. All of these people were under thirty.” He flipped through his executive brief. “What makes Americans with not so much as a parking ticket suddenly go berserk?”

  “These people may have looked American.” Filson jammed a thick index finger against the table. “But witnesses at three separate events heard the actors whisper something in another language shortly before each killing. Mark my words Mr. President, an outside group is behind each and every one of these incidents. My money is on al-Qaeda—”

  “Someone heard a whisper in something they think was an unknown tongue?” At the far end of the table Jamal Ramidi, the president’s assistant for economic policy, threw up his hands. He was a tall, birdlike academic who looked fragile enough to snap in a strong wind. Doctorates from Stanford in international trade and macroeconomics made him the perfect choice for dispensing executive advice on bean-counting. “For crying out loud, Andrew, just once, might it be possible that our troubles are domestic?”

  Filson wagged his head with a curling sneer. “I’m not pulling this out of my ass, Jamal. These are coordinated acts of terrorism with Sandbox fingerprints all over them and you know it.”

  “Way to generalize, General.” Ramidi pursed narrow lips. “I suppose you advocate a wholesale roundup of all us towel heads at once—?”

  “Believe me.” Filson clenched his teeth, leaning across the table. “I love this country enough that if—”

  “Oh,” Ramidi snapped. “And I suddenly hate my country because my grandparents are from Lebanon?” He threw his pen on the table, exasperated. “Mr. Secretary, you do not know Hamas from hummus.”

  “You know I’m not referring to you, Jamal.” Filson did a poor job of masking his disdain for the man. He looked around the room. “Doesn’t anyone but me see we are at war here?”

  Secretary of State Melissa Ryan, who sat on Palmer’s immediate right, looked across the table at her arch-rival in matters of foreign policy. Palmer caught the flash of indignation in her eyes. The product of an Irish boxer and a Roma, Ryan’s sultry features and penchant for keeping the top two buttons on her Cavalli silk blouses unfastened had the power to befuddle the wisest man during a debate. At fifty-one, she’d graced the cover of Vogue only a month before. A former U.S. senator from Maryland, she’d been plucked from a prestigious job at the Brookings Institution when Clark took office. Many thought she would run for president when his tenure was over.

  Filson blustered on, unaware he was about to be attacked. “Don’t be so quick to take offense. Americans are dying. It is our duty to find those responsible and stomp them out—”

  “The problem with that rationale, Andrew”—Melissa Ryan leaned back in a black leather chair to steeple her fingers in front of her chin, a condescending gesture everyone knew enraged Filson—“is that you’ve got to have a target or you’ll find yourself merely stomping around looking foolish.” She tapped the pile of crime scene photographs on her desk folio with a perfectly manicured hand. “Whom do you suggest we stomp first?”

  Filson rolled his eyes.

  Ryan turned to address the president. “As Dr. Ramidi points out, each and every one of these actors was an American citizen—all white for that matter.”

  “She’s right, Andrew,” President Clark said, pushing back from the table. It was a clear indication this meeting of the National Security Council was drawing to a close. “The Bureau is already knee-deep into this investigation. They believe there is a domestic terrorism connection.” He looked at FBI Director Kurt Bodington, who sat in one of the chairs along the outer wall. As a guest of the NSC, he didn’t get a seat at the table. “Am I correct there, Kurt? You’re still thinking domestic?”

  The man flushed. More lawyer than cop, he hated being pinned down on anything, especially in front of the Situation Room. Near the middle of his customary ten-year term as the FBI top boss, he was an inheritance from past administrations and Palmer had a list of possible replacements on his desk for the president’s review.

  “To be clear, Mr. President,” he blustered, looking like he might cry. A bully to his staff, Bodington folded quickly when someone of greater authority challenged him. “Insomuch as my people have briefed me, I believe that to be correct... .”

  Clark stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “The definitive bureaucratic answer.”

  There was a flutter of shuffled paper and the clatter of chairs as the rest of the room rose along with the president.

  Filson and Ramidi carried on their animated argument at the far end of the table. The other council members milled together with their deputies in pods of three or four, following up on action items. The spirited conversations seemed to mingle and collide in the small room, statically charged with decisions that affected the entire world.

  Palmer stood, waiting for a chance to talk with Melissa Ryan. A widower, he’d become the envy of single men in Washington by seeing her socially for the past four months. He found her charming, intelligent, and extremely athletic.

  The president flashed his Midwestern schoolboy grin and cut in, taking Ryan’s hand.

  “So,” he said, “that son of yours talked the vice president into giving up his one and only daughter?”

  “You know Garrett, Mr. President.” The SecState twirled tortoiseshell reading glasses in delicate fingers that belied her inner strength. “He’s got a silver tongue.”

  “Just like his mother.” The president nodded. “See that your boss gets an invitation, will you? It’ll piss off my Secret Service detail, but I’d love to attend.

  “We’d be honored, Mr. President.”

  Palmer’s BlackBerry began to buzz. He was one of a small handful of people who kept his phone on in the Situation Room. Only a week before, Clark had relieved Palmer of his duties as the director of national intelligence to name him the new president’s national security advisor. Over the years he’d been a key confidant and counselor. The new position just made it official.

  “Go ahead and take that, Win,” the president said. “I’ll entertain Melissa for another minute.”

  Palmer nodded, taking the BlackBerry from his belt.

  “Winfield Palmer.”

  It was Millie, his personal secretary. “Mr. Palmer. I’m sorry to bother you, but something terrible has happened out at Langley... .”

  At that same moment, FBI Director Kurt Bodington walked back into the Situation Room, a cell phone to his ear. His face had gone pale.

  Sally Portman, the president’s iron-fisted chief of staff, came striding in from the direction of the Navy Mess. She was flanked by two dour-looking Secret Service agents.

  “Mr. President,” she said, her mouth a tight line. “I need you to come with me. There’s been an incident at CIA Headquarters... .”

  Clark shot a glance at Palmer, eyes flashing like the fighter that he was.

  “You know what I know, Mr. President,” Palmer said. “I’ll brief you as soon as I get more information.”

  “They’re hitting the CIA now? I have had enough of this shit,” Clark spat. “Call him in.”

  Portman and the two Secret Service agents hustled Clark through the door. They would take him to the subbasement bunker until things got sorted out. Palmer told Millie to get Director Ross from the CIA and call back when she was on the line.

  Ryan moved in as close to Palmer as White House decorum would allow. She kept her voice to a hoarse whisper. “I know that look, Win,” she said. “Who’s the old man calling in? Everyone in the cabinet knows he doesn’t trust Kurt Bodington.”

  “For this ...” Palmer gave a sly nod. “The president has someone ... special in mind... .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Be polite, be professional, but have a plan to kill

  everybody you meet.r />
  —RULES OF ENGAGEMENT, USMC

  Between Wasilla and Anchorage, Alaska

  One hour earlier

  0815 hours, Alaska time

  Jericho Quinn rolled on the throttle, leaning the growling BMW R 1150 GS Adventure into a long, sweeping curve under the shadow of the Chugach Mountains. Birch trees decked in full autumn colors flashed by in a buttery blur. Behind him, riding pillion, his ex-wife twined her arms tightly around his waist, leaning when he leaned, looking where he looked. It was the first time they’d been in sync in over two years. The weather was perfect, bluebird clear and just crisp enough to feel invigorating. The grin on Quinn’s face was wide enough he would have gotten bugs in his teeth had it not been for the helmet.

  It had been Kim’s idea to make the half-hour ride out to Wasilla. She’d suggested they catch an early lunch at the Windbreak Café before scooting back to Anchorage to watch their daughter’s youth symphony debut matinée. After months overseas, Jericho had been hesitant to let the little girl out of his sight—even for the morning. A nagging feeling that he needed to be there to protect her pressed against his gut like a stone.

  The thought of being in the wind with his ex-wife won out over his nagging gut. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d climbed on a bike behind him. Now, her thighs clasped at his hips. The press of her chest seeped like a warm kiss through his leather jacket, reviving a flood of memories from better times—memories he’d tucked away, just to keep his sanity.

  He took the ramp from the Parks Highway to the Glen at speed, shooting a glance over his left shoulder before merging with the thump of morning traffic. Picking his line, he checked again, taking the inside lane to avoid a dented Toyota Tundra. The ditzy driver wandered into his lane as she chatted on her cell phone with one hand and held a cup of coffee in the other, steering with some unseen appendage. Quinn tapped the bike down a gear before accelerating past the rattling cage to relative safety.

  Riding the highway reminded Quinn of combat. The whap-whap-whap of his brother Bo’s 1956 Harley Panhead in the next lane was eerily reminiscent of a Browning fifty-caliber on full auto—and, everyone on the road seemed bent on trying to kill them both.

  Kim began to administer a slow Heimlich maneuver, crushing his ribs as the motorcycle picked up speed. For a fleeting moment, Jericho considered slowing to keep her from squeezing the life out of him, but Bo’s bike chuffed past, pop-pop-popping like a fighter pilot on a strafing run.

  When the Quinn brothers got together, some sort of competition never failed to erupt. They each had the broken bones to prove it.

  Kim pressed in even tighter. She’d known him since high school and must have sensed what was about to happen. Pouring on the gas, Jericho felt the welcome buffeting of wind against his helmet as the speedometer flashed past eighty miles an hour and kept climbing.

  The brothers rode their “Alaska” bikes, the older, more seasoned motorcycles they left in state for visits home. Stationed at Andrews Air Force Base, ostensibly with the Office of Special Investigations, or OSI, Jericho kept his newer BMW R 1200 GS Adventure there. The national security advisor to the president—his real boss—had added a few modifications that made the bike belong more to the American taxpayer than it did to Quinn. He stored the older GS in his parent’s garage where his dad could take it out in between commercial fishing seasons to keep it exercised.

  The Beemer wasn’t the Rolex of motorcycles, but it wasn’t the bottom of the rung either. Like the TAG Heuer Aquaracer on Quinn’s wrist, the BMW was high-end, classy, without flouting too much bling. Bo rode the flat-black ’56 Panhead the boys had rebuilt when Jericho was fifteen and Bo was eleven. Loud as a wronged woman, the smoke-belching Harley could scoot.

  Kim gave a little squeal of delight, squeezing less with her arms and more with her legs as the bike screamed through ninety with plenty left to go.

  They all wore leathers to protect against the chill of Alaska’s fall weather—and road rash in the event of an accident. Bo, riding single, and to Jericho’s chagrin, now well in the lead, wore a Vanson Enfield jacket in heavy cowhide. The angry eye of a black octopus glared above a white rocker with three-inch letters across his broad back. The cut identified the younger Quinn as a DENIZEN—a motorcycle club from Texas that dabbled in what Bo called the “lucrative gray edges” of the law.

  Where Bo’s Vanson all but shouted that he was a member of the Denizens, Jericho’s Aerostich gear was unadorned. The supple Transit Leathers were made up of a black jacket and matching pants. Micro-perforated, they were completely waterproof and cooler than most protective gear right off the rack. The formfitting leathers came standard with durable TF armor inserts, but his new employer had added a few extras. A wafer-thin recirculating personal cooling system developed by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency and panels of level III-A body armor were sandwiched into the material. A Kimber Tactical Ultra ten-millimeter pistol, a forty-caliber baby Glock, and a Japanese killing dagger all hid beneath the innocuous black jacket.

  Kim, wearing a beautifully skintight set of her own black leathers, discovered the second pistol about the time they hit ninety-five. Her entire body tensed like a coiled spring. She was funny that way. One pistol was acceptable, part of the job. Ah, but two guns—that was over the top in her estimation. A person carrying two guns had to be spoiling for a fight. If she found Yawaraka-Te—the Japanese dirk hidden in the ballistic armor along the hollow of his spine—Kimberly Quinn would surely reach an entirely new level of berserk.

  The light at the Airport Heights intersection turned yellow. Bo shot through and continued to weave in and out of traffic on his way downtown. Riding double with an angry woman made it impossible to catch up. Quinn let off the gas, knowing he was about to get an earful.

  Kim flipped up her visor the moment his left boot hit the pavement.

  “Really, Jericho? Two guns?”

  Holding the clutch, he rolled the throttle, listening to the old BMW’s Boxer Twin engine. He closed his eyes to feel the familiar horizontal right-hand torque.

  He loved the bike and, even when she was nagging, he was still in love with Kim. She’d been the one to divorce him, saying she couldn’t stand the constant threat of his violent death and his long deployments to the Middle East. After two years, she’d hinted that there was a tiny chance for them to get back together—up ’til now.

  She bumped the back of his helmet with the forehead of her own—it was the way she used to get his attention. They wore matching black Arai Corsairs, remnants of happier times when they’d ridden everywhere together.

  “Seriously, why two guns? Are you expecting some kind of trouble?”

  Jericho stared ahead, hands on the grips. He thought of what he’d just been through, the things he’d never be able to tell her, or anyone else. In truth, he always expected trouble—and found himself pleasantly bewildered during the moments when none came his way.

  “You know me, Kim.” He cursed the impossibly long red light. Gabbing about the harsh realities of his job had never been his strong suit. “If I was expecting trouble, I’d have brought my rifle.”

  Her arms gripped him as though she thought he might try and escape. Quinn shuddered at the prolonged closeness of her body after so many long months. The fact that she’d let him spend the night had more than surprised him. Even her mother, who was devoutly religious and opposed to such things, had openly cheered when she called early that morning and discovered he’d not gone back to his hotel.

  “You know what you are?” Kim shouted above the revving engine. “You’re one of those samurai warriors I saw on the Military Channel. I don’t know why I ever believed you would quit this job—”

  Quinn craned his neck around to stare back in genuine awe. “Since when do you watch the Military Channel?”

  “Shut up and listen.” She bumped his helmet again. “The show said the samurai class felt this moral superiority—just like you. They all carried a couple of big honkin’ sword
s. You carry a big honkin’ pistol ... or two. You both practically worship your weapons, and to top it off, you get to carry them around where others aren’t allowed to. And just like those samurai, you get paid a handsome salary to lord over us common folk.”

  Thankfully, the light turned green.

  “You got one thing wrong, sweetie.” Quinn put a black glove to his helmet, ready to flip down his visor. He turned to catch a quick glimpse of his ex-wife’s beautiful blue eyes. “I’d lord over the common folk for free.”

  A half a block later he tapped the Beemer into fourth gear. A Piper Super Cub came in low and slow to his left, as if racing him to land at Merrill Field. He was still chewing on Kim’s observations of his moral superiority as he passed Fantasies on Fifth strip club and the iconic Lucky Wishbone restaurant coming into Anchorage proper.

  As an Air Force OSI agent who spoke Arabic and Mandarin Chinese, he had plenty of opportunity to fight for those weaker than himself. Now, he was an OGA—an other governmental agent—working directly for the top adviser to the president. His particular skill set was put to use in ways he’d never imagined.

  He was a protector, a blunt instrument—a hammer. His job was indeed superior, but there was very little about it that was moral.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anchorage

  0920 hours

  Every doting parent believes their child to be a prodigy at something. The Quinns just happened to be correct.