by Marc Cameron
“Do you suppose they are aware of your plans?” Beg said, musing. “The Americans ...”
“No one is aware of my complete plan,” the doctor grunted, drawing back his cigarette to take a drag before holding it out again. “Not even you. That said, Li Huang knows far more than she should know. I grew careless with her.”
“Of course I will do as you wish, Doctor.” Beg glanced at his watch as he walked. “I mean no disrespect, but I should have been the one to see to it Tara Doyle follows through with her mission.”
Badeeb stopped suddenly, causing the flowing crowd to pile up behind him like water caught on the back side of a dam, before pouring sullenly past on both sides. He glanced up at Beg, nodding.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But once she is in the air ...” He shrugged. “There is a point when she is out of our control.”
The odor of garbage, car exhaust, and cigar smoke mixed with day-old fish and musky, overripe fruit. If Beg closed his eyes, he could imagine he was in Urumqi, Samarkand, or any other large Central Asian city. When he opened them, the sea of yellow cabs reminded him he was in New York.
A cold breeze blew, swirling bits of litter from sinister alleys and clattering dungeon-like basement stairwells.
“Let us return to the issue of my wife.” The doctor took one last drag from the stub of his cigarette before tossing it to the gutter. “I am loath to give such an order,” he said, eyes sagging with exhaustion. “But times, they are very strange, causing those we care for to do strange things.”
“Indeed.” Beg nodded, glaring at a lanky Chinese woman hawking perfume. She had a mole on her eyelid that he found extremely off-putting. He suddenly found he wanted to kill her as well.
Badeeb’s searched his jacket in a fluttering panic for another cigarette. “If pressed,” he said, “I fear Li Huang might let the cat from the sack, so to speak.”
Beg stopped in his tracks, thought for a moment, then resumed his pace. “The bag,” he said. “You mean to say she would let the cat out of the bag.”
“Precisely so,” Badeeb said. “In any case, the sooner you get to it the better.”
“When?”
“Tonight. At once. Now.” Badeeb glanced at his watch. “Our plan has begun to unfold as we speak. I would consider it a personal favor if she were dead within the hour.”
Beg took a deep breath, picturing the old woman waiting patiently in the cramped apartment for her husband to return.
A devout Hui Chinese Muslim, Li Huang was responsible for the deaths of many in pursuit of sheng zahn, the Chinese word for jihad, and of her husband’s dreams. She had been a faithful wife and deadly coconspirator with the doctor for over fifteen years. Deadly or not, there would be no sport in strangling her. It would be like dispatching a venomous spider. She was dangerous, but no match for the heel of his boot.
In a near panic for a cigarette, Badeeb doubled his pace and shoved upstream through the crowd toward a magazine stand at the corner of Mott Street. Beg knew the Pakistani owner kept a good supply of Badeeb’s favorite Player’s Gold Leaf.
The old man wasn’t there, having left the shop in the care of a slender boy in his early twenties, likely his son.
“Peace be unto you,” Badeeb launched into the lengthy formalities of his pious greeting, right palm to his heart.
The boy leaned forward, both hands on the counter. He looked as though he was having trouble stifling a yawn.
Two more customers formed a line behind the doctor as he spoke.
The boy rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said in a dismissive New Jersey accent. “Do me a favor and just tell me what you want. You’re holding up the line.”
Badeeb slammed the money for two packs of Gold Leafs on the counter. He spun on his heels, ripping into the foil of one pack as if it contained the antidote to some horrible poison.
“His father is a pious man,” the doctor seethed. “But the child is an infidel. After you strangle Li Huang you should come back and kill him.” He flicked open his metal lighter, putting a flame to the cigarette. “His death would be most welcome.”
“Very well,” Beg said, following the doctor east on Canal Street.
“Very well, indeed.” Badeeb puffed away on his glowing cigarette. “So much hinges on this night. Plans are falling into place better than I ever imagined they could. In any case,” the doctor said as if he were actually going to be part of the immediate action, “let us go see to strangling my wife. Maybe that will cheer me.”
Beg followed, his mind floating to the mysterious face of Veronica Garcia. Killing the old woman, the street vendor with the mole on her eye, or even the young infidel at the cigarette stand would be little solace for missing the chance to catch another glimpse of the beautiful Cuban and treat her to the taste of the wire of his garrote. Soon, she would be dead at the hand of a rank amateur and he would never have the opportunity. Such a waste.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Georgetown University Hospital
Washington, D.C.
Ronnie Garcia’s mind was awash with disjointed memories. An incessant beeping to her left set her nerves on edge. The smell of antiseptic and a lingering odor of chicken broth set her stomach doing sickening flips. Her back ached, and she was sure someone was sitting on her chest. Oxygen flowed into her nose through a tube looped over both ears.
Her eyes fluttered slowly. She blinked, allowing the sterile white walls, the television, the lumps under the sheet that were her feet, to come into focus. She found it difficult to swallow and nearly cried from relief when she found a Styrofoam cup of ice water on a rolling table by the bed.
Visions of icy stone mountains and roaring motorcycles flashed across her mind. Jericho Quinn ... she’d thought he might be there when she woke up. She remembered the orphanage, the boys, the sickening impact to her back, and then searing pain as she realized she’d been stabbed. The sensations of not being able to draw a breath, of utter helplessness—of drowning in her own blood—all came roaring back. She could recall snippets of Quinn working frantically to save her life. She needed to tell him something, something she’d heard just before... .
Her eyes flicked open, fully awake.
“Tara Doyle,” she said out loud. “The queen of West Texas bitches. She’s one of them.” The F-22 fighter pilot was a mole.
The television was turned to CNN, but the volume was down. The ticker across the bottom read Breaking News ... Governors Island Wedding. Ronnie used the remote to turn it up. A dapper reporter with gelled hair and a black tuxedo spoke into the camera.
“... Clark and the First Lady will be arriving within the hour via the Marine One helicopter. Now, Rene, we haven’t seen the vice president or Mrs. Hughes yet this evening, but since it’s their daughter getting married tonight, we’re pretty sure they’re already on-site. And FYI, Rene, this wedding is shaping up to match Prince William and Kate as far as royal nuptials go. It could be the largest gathering of world leaders and celebrities we’ve seen in the U.S. since ... well, I can’t remember when... .”
Ronnie’s heart monitor went crazy as she reached for the telephone beside her bed.
Tara Doyle flew the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world. The wedding had to be her intended target.
Ronnie knew she couldn’t simply call in and report the threat. Doyle could have too many accomplices in high places. If the call was somehow received or even intercepted by one of the moles, Garcia might inadvertently move up the time line and put more people in danger. She had to talk to someone she was absolutely certain could be trusted. She beat her head against the pillow, racking her brain.
Ronnie had a good head for numbers, but realized she’d never actually called Quinn or Thibodaux. They’d always called her. She punched in the first number that came to her head.
“Three-five-four-three,” a male voice said. He had a familiar Virginia twang.
“Director Ross, please.”
“She’s not
available. Who shall I say is calling?”
A vision of CIA Deputy Director Marty Magnuson, walking through the food court and shooting his coworkers in the head, flashed before Ronnie’s eyes. She hung up. How could she know who to trust?
She dialed information and got two more numbers.
“White House switchboard, may I help you?” It was a woman, polite, but all business.
“I need to speak with Winfield Palmer.”
“Mr. Palmer is unavailable. I’d be happy to take a message.”
“When would he get the message?” Ronnie bit her lip.
“Monday morning.”
“It’s important I speak to him right away. Could you have him call me?”
“I can certainly give him the message—on Monday morning.”
“Maldita sea!” Ronnie cursed. “I have to talk to him.”
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I get fifty calls a day from people who have to talk to someone here. Is this a matter of national security?”
“Yes, yes,” Ronnie said. “It is.”
“It’s always a matter of national security,” the woman said. Ronnie could almost hear her eyes rolling. “I suggest you hang up and dial nine-one-one.”
Ronnie slammed down the phone. She fell back against the pillow, catching her breath before dialing the next number.
“FBI.”
Ronnie clenched her teeth. It hurt her pride, but had to be done. “I need to speak with Director Bodington on an urgent matter—and please don’t tell me he’s unavailable.”
“Well,” the voice came back. “It’s Friday afternoon. He is unavailable.”
Ronnie wanted to scream. Her words spilled out in a breathy stream. “I can guarantee you he’ll want to talk to me,” she said. “I’m ... one of his informants... .”
“Yes, ma’am,” the operator said, his voice cracking a little. “I can get you an on-call agent.”
Ronnie hung up without another word and pressed the call button at the side of her bed for the nurse. She was very near to tears, and that alone was enough to piss her off.
A bright-eyed brunette with a round, freckled face opened the door a few seconds later.
“You okay, dear?” she said, checking the heart monitor and oxygen output.
Ronnie nodded, willing herself to calm down so the nurse didn’t decide to medicate her. She had to get word to someone about Tara Doyle, but after all that had happened, she didn’t know who to trust.
“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Woke up from a bad dream, that’s all.”
The nurse, whose name tag said Beverly, lifted Ronnie’s wrist and checked the IV taped to the back of her hand. “Think you could eat some soup?”
“Maybe,” Ronnie said, wanting to appear compliant. Her head was still loopy from the pain medications they were giving her. “Have you got my cell phone anywhere?”
Beverly shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “You didn’t have anything like that on you when they brought you in.”
“Who brought me in?”
“Not sure, sweetie,” Beverly said. “I just came on duty a couple of hours ago. I’m glad you’re feeling better though.” She leaned in, whispering even though no one else was in the room. “Listen, I don’t know what you did, but you seem like a nice girl. There’s a plainclothes cop standing outside your room. If you want, I can ask him to come in and answer all your questions.”
Ronnie brightened. Maybe it was Quinn. “Dark hair, heavy five o’clock shadow?”
“No,” the nurse said. “Sorry.”
“Did he give his name?”
Beverly shook her head. “Sorry. I can ask him if you want. Looks kind of mean, though.”
Why would a cop be sitting outside her room? Could she trust him? She kicked herself for not memorizing Palmer’s cell number.
“No,” she said. “I’ll be okay. I just need some rest.” Ronnie swung her feet off the edge of the bed as soon as Beverly shut the door behind her.
“You can do this, chica,” she whispered, pausing long enough to let her head stop spinning.
She winced as she peeled back the sticky tape holding in her IV. Stumbling, and using the bed rail for support, she rifled through the drawers, settling for a cotton ball and piece of tape to stop the weep of blood from the back of her hand.
Thankfully, she found some clothes hanging in the closet—faded jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a pair of Nike runners. She shucked off the thin, backless gown and ripped into the unopened packages of socks and underwear. Somebody was looking out for her.
Gingerly, she reached behind her back to touch her wound. She was surprised to find two more bandages, slightly larger than the first. Of course, the doctors had had to go in and repair the damage. One of the incisions was wet with blood from her exertions. She shrugged. Couldn’t be helped. She’d probably just pulled a stitch.
Tara Doyle, the “Queen of West Texas Bitches,” had to be stopped. And since she couldn’t trust anyone, Ronnie would do it herself.
She’d just zipped her jeans when the plainclothes cop walked in on her. He had blond hair and a wild, street-hardened look on his face—not much different than the boys in the caves where she’d been stabbed. He wore a white dress shirt with an open collar. A navy-blue sports coat covered the swell of a pistol on his belt. Ronnie had never seen him before, but there was something vaguely familiar in his eyes.
“Oh no, no, no, young lady,” he said, walking toward her with a raised hand, as if he was directing traffic. “You’re not going anywhere.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
“Can you put her down in the ball field?” Quinn said into his headset. Thibodaux sat across from him, strapped in to his seat forward of the cargo bay on V22 Osprey.
The pilot, a balding man with smiling blue eyes, turned to glance over the shoulder of his green Nomex flight suit. “I can set her down in the middle of Times Square if you want me to.” His name was Jared Smedley, an Air Force Academy squadron mate of Quinn’s. Smeds had gone on to flight training after the academy, graduating at the top of every class he took. He’d been a flight instructor for the last three years and had been brought in from the Eighth Special Operations Squadron at Hurlburt Field, Florida, to fly overwatch and rescue during the wedding. He gave a thumbs-up to his copilot, a waif of a girl with a blond ponytail hanging out below her flight helmet. She returned the gesture.
He had the swaggering confidence of a pilot and the skill to back it up. Quinn had always found it impossible not to like the man.
Capable of straight or vertical flight, Smedley’s aircraft, the tilt-rotor V22, made insertion possible in areas like Manhattan and Governors Island.
Quinn’s Bluetooth earbud chirped. He moved the boom mike of his headset away and tapped the device. It was Palmer.
“Homeland Security facial recognition just got a hit on an NYPD security camera on Mott Street. Looks like the doctor is buying cigarettes at a newsstand. I’m sending a still to your phone now.”
Quinn took the BlackBerry off his belt.
“Who’s the guy with him?” he asked, turning the screen to show Thibodaux.
“Look at that mop,” Thibodaux scoffed. “He’s Elvis’s evil twin.”
“Don’t know,” Palmer said, an edge to his voice that Quinn could feel. “We have intel that Badeeb’s wife is hiding out in a flophouse off Bowery. Looks like they’re heading to meet up with her.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. “We’re about to touch down at a ball field in lower Manhattan. It’ll take us about ten minutes to get there on the bikes—”
Dust and leaves flew outside the windows as the huge rotors began to lower the Osprey onto the center of the baseball diamond. One of the two crewmen in the back told them to stand by and activated the lowering mechanism on the ramp at the rear of the bird, giving them a quick exit with their bikes.
Quinn stood from his seat along the bulkhead, working to release the straps on Mrs. Miyagi’s candy-apple-red Ducati
848.
“Don’t forget, Jericho,” Palmer said. “We need to take Badeeb and his wife alive. See who the other guy is. Do me a favor and try to keep from killing him.”
“If at all possible, sir.” Quinn nodded.
“Make damned certain it is possible,” Palmer said. “I’m pretty sure the president will go against my advice and come to the wedding no matter what the Secret Service or I say. He keeps reminding me that the terrorists have won if they get to dictate where we do and do not go... .” There was a sudden blip on the phone—another call. “Hang on a minute... .”
Quinn and Thibodaux sat, geared up and ready, on their bikes. The heavy rear ramp lowered the last few inches with an agonized hydraulic whine. Dust and litter swirled into the back of the aircraft as Palmer came back on the line.
“Jericho? You still there?” His voice was breathless, heavy.
“I am,” Quinn said, feeling a rise in the pit of his stomach.
“Jericho,” Palmer said. “It’s about Garcia.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Tara Doyle wiped the airmen’s blood off her hands and threw the wad of paper towels in the trashcan. A swatch of red painted the chest of her flight suit and the V of her neck. She didn’t bother with that. The smell of blood helped her focus on the matters at hand.
Her entire life, at least from the time she was nine years old, had been lived for the next few hours. The years of study, the decades of pretending to love her adopted family, to care for this country of dogs—it all led up to her actions this one night.
“I will cut the throat of the whore that is the United States of America,” she chuckled out loud to the cavernous hangar. “With one of her very best airplanes ...”
Walking toward her jet, she had a fleeting thought of Jimmy. He’d been a toddler when her American parents had taken him in from the Indian reservation in Montana, too young to know she too was adopted. A good confidant—he’d caught her crying on so many occasions and come in to console her without once asking her why. She shook the thought from her mind. None of that mattered now. He was one of them, nothing more than a means to an end, someone to vouch for her citizenship and make her background more believable. She had to remind herself of that. Jimmy Doyle deserved to die like the rest of them—