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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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President Clark nodded. “Go ahead and take it, Win.”
Palmer slid open the upholstered drawer hidden below the seat cushion and took out a white handset.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Palmer,” the voice said. It was Millie, his secretary. “You need to turn on the news, sir. The president will want to see this... .”
C
HAPTER
S
IX
Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson
Anchorage
 
C
anadian cousin to the more ubiquitous government Gulfstream G5 business jet of Hollywood spies, the luxurious Bombardier Challenger CL 601 sat sleek and falcon-like on the ramp. Just as Quinn was an OGA—other governmental agent—the executive jet was an other governmental aircraft. Registered to the Federal Aviation Administration, the pilots were former Special Operations and reported directly to the national security advisor. Palmer had dispatched the plane to get the Quinns out of Alaska. If the sheikh had sent one team, he was likely to have sent two.
A low fall sun cast a pink blush on the snowy Chugach Mountains to the east, shining through the oval windows of the jet. Jericho knelt in the aisle, looking down at Mattie, who lay sideways in a soft leather seat, head resting in her mother's lap.
Two seats back, Kim's mother reclined with a damp washcloth over her eyes. Her head lolled from the effects of exhaustion and the Valium government medics had given her when they'd all been hustled away from an extremely curious Anchorage Police Department after the attack. Bo stood at the rear of the plane. Broad shoulder against the bulkhead, he chatted up the female Air Force staff sergeant who acted as safety officer and attendant. Brother Bo wasn't about to let a little bloody ambush on the family cramp his ability to hit on cute women.
Quinn's parents were out fishing for Pacific cod, the sheer danger of capricious Alaska waters protecting them from attackers.
Mattie looked up with a wan smile. Framed in a halo of her dark curls, the features of her perfectly oval face were drawn from fatigue. Her eyelids sagged. She blew him a kiss.
“You're looking at me funny, Dad,” she said after a long, feline yawn. “I think I can trap you with my eyes.”
Jericho kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “If you only knew ... Now, you better get some rest.”
Kim ran trembling fingers through their daughter's hair. She affected a smile for Mattie's benefit, but the tightness of her breath and the set of her jaw made it clear to Quinn she held him accountable for the attack on their family.
He didn't blame her.
She jumped at the sudden buzz of the secure phone on his belt. He groaned and stepped across the aisle to take the call.
“Listen, Quinn ...” Winfield Palmer rarely waited for the person he was calling to say a word beyond hello before he moved straight to the business at hand. If you answered, it meant you should be ready to listen. “There's something I need you to see. Are you on the plane?”
“Yes,” Quinn said, eyes locked on Mattie as he spoke. “We're fine, by the way. Thanks for calling.”
“Yes, of course,” Palmer said. “I mean ... good. I'm glad... . Anyway, I need you to take a look at the news.”
Quinn shot a look at his drowsy daughter. The last thing he wanted was to have her wake up to whatever catastrophe Palmer wanted him to witness on the news. He made his way down the aisle to the back of the plane, beyond Bo and his new girlfriend, to a teak cabinet on the galley bulkhead. “Any channel in particular?” he asked, turning on the seventeen-inch flat-screen satellite television.
“Won't matter,” Palmer grunted. “This dumb son of a bitch is all over the place... .”
Quinn left it tuned to CNN. He used the remote to turn up the volume as he swiveled the nearest seat to face aft, sinking back into the cool leather.
The red Breaking News ticker at the bottom of the screen introduced the speaker as Congressman Hartman Drake of Wisconsin. He stood alone, a dark silhouette in front of the brightly lit Capitol dome. A veteran of the first Gulf War with a Purple Heart to prove it, he'd served in the House for over a decade, working his way up to the powerful but slightly boring Transportation Committee. Chiseled, Ivy League good looks and a propensity to wear a bow tie over a starched white shirt made him instantly recognizable. He was well known as a stridently outspoken isolationist, and his handlers made certain he hit the talk-show circuits at least once a month.
Quinn yawned, wondering what Drake could have done to infuriate Palmer since they were both from the same party. The Canadair's engines began to spool up without so much as a word of safety briefing from the flight attendant, who was still busy with Bo across the aisle.
Quinn bumped up the volume on the television with the remote on his armrest.
“... among us. And so we find ourselves in the midst of what can only be called a national crisis.” Drake leaned into the camera, a master at connecting with his audience. The glowing dome of the Capitol gave him the perfect patriotic backdrop for a nighttime press conference. “... a crisis of epic proportions. There are those, even in these hallowed halls of government, who will, no doubt, seek to discredit me, to call me a crackpot or accuse me of being ... a hater. Well, my fellow Americans, I am a hater—a hater of those who would destroy this great nation.” Drake paused for effect—gazing into the distance as if imagining a round of applause.
“I have in my possession,” he continued, “a heretofore secret list. The eighty-six names on this document represent men and women within our own government who, it pains me to say, support the cause of militant Islamist terrorism. Further, we have strong reason to believe that certain names on the list were complicit in this morning's horrifying attack perpetrated on CIA headquarters... .”
The sleepy crowd around the congressman suddenly erupted in a display of camera flashes and muffled shouts as reporters awoke to the smell of a real story.
Drake raised his hands to silence them.
“I am not prepared to go into detail at this time,” he said. “Suffice it to say we have a cancer growing within us. I pledge to you, my fellow Americans, to do everything in my power to root out this malady. To this end, I have asked that the speaker of the House convene immediate hearings.”
With that, he paused, put both hands on the lectern and mugged straight into the camera.
“My fellow Americans, I give you my word that I will not rest until I have rigorously examined each and every person on this list to ascertain their loyalty—or their disloyalty—to these United States. May God bless us in our cause, for it is just. Thank you for your time.”
The congressman paused for a beat, taking time to gather his notes as cameramen got a few more seconds of B roll, before turning to walk back up the hill toward the Capitol. His entourage of staff hung back so the cameras could catch his darkened silhouette, trudging up the hill, alone.
Quinn had to stop himself from laughing out loud.
A slender brunette, one of CNN's pretty talking heads, took over, providing color commentary. Quinn used the remote to mute the sound.
“Did you get that?” Palmer said on the other end of the line. His voice dripped with unbridled disgust.
“I did,” Quinn said. He moved back up the aisle, unwilling to be away from Mattie any longer than he absolutely had to. “Any truth to what he says about the CIA shootings?”
“There is.” Palmer gave him a thumbnail sketch, including the CIA deputy director's involvement. “We've got a real situation here, Jericho. I could use you back ASAP.”
“I need to get my family situated first,” Quinn said, shooting a quick glance at Kim.
“Oh, yeah, I get that,” Palmer answered, but it was clear in the clipped timbre of his voice he didn't.
Kim shook her head, catching Jericho's side of the conversation. “Go ahead,” she said in a dismissive whisper. “We'll be just fine.” The “without you” was implied in the frigid blue of her eyes.
Quinn rubbed the stubble on his face with his free hand, sighing deeply. “I can be at Andrews by ... oh-eight hundred your time.” Cell phone against his ear, he stared at his daughter, drinking in the sight. He wondered if Kim would ever even let him see her again.
“Very well,” Palmer said, his voice hanging on the edge of another word for a long moment. “Jericho,” he finally said, “I wouldn't call you back unless it was urgent.. . .”
“I understand, sir,” Quinn said, looking across the aisle at his ex-wife, who wouldn't understand at all.
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
Q
uinn ended the call and returned the secure BlackBerry to his belt. He leaned back to stretch in the soft leather seat as the Canadair jet lumbered down the runway on its takeoff roll. It was the first opportunity he'd had to close his eyes since the attack, even for a moment.
The damp cold of Kim's fuming across the narrow aisle pushed away any thoughts of sleep. He could feel her stare, heavy, like a pile of bricks dumped on his chest. He opened his eyes, glancing sideways without turning his head. He'd been right.
“Who are you, Jericho Quinn?” Her voice was hushed, pitiful.
Quinn pushed the button to raise his seatback. Some things you couldn't take lying down.
Kim leaned across, whispering so as not to wake Mattie. “You know the worst part?”
Jericho sighed, defeated. “I can only imagine.”
“You've ruined me for any kind of relationship with normal guys.” Tears pressed from her lashes. It would have been funny had her words not been so deadly serious. “I tried to date Bryce Adams, the manager at the credit union,” she sobbed. “... but he bored me out of my skull.
He'd never been the particularly jealous type, but the thought of his ex-wife dating another man made Quinn want to kick Bryce Adams in the nuts and beat him over the head with an axe handle.
“And then it dawned on me—” Kim smacked herself in the forehead with an open hand. “I suddenly realized I'm only interested in cops and firemen... . It's like I have some sort of battered-woman syndrome ... but I'm the kind who goes for adrenaline junkies instead of bullies.” She sniffed, hanging her head. “What the hell have you done to me ... ?”
“Come on, Kimmie.” Quinn moved across the aisle. She stiffened when his hand brushed her shoulder. He was sure she would have pulled away but for fear of disturbing Mattie, asleep now in her lap.
Kim's head suddenly snapped up, eyes probing like a CAT scan.
“I mean, seriously, Jer ...” She threw up her hands. “What kind of OSI agent gets picked up in an unmarked jet and ordered back to Washington the same day someone tries to kill his family?”
“I—”
“Oh, please ... just shut up.” Kim's voice was a whispered hiss. “You'll only lie. It was hard enough before—seeing that look in your eyes, only guessing how cruel you really were... .” Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Now I've seen the things you're capable of firsthand ... and so has Mattie.”
Quinn opened his mouth to speak, but Kim's hand shot up, shushing him.
“Look,” she said with an air of clench-jawed finality that shocked even Quinn. “I know we owe you our lives. I know if it wasn't for you, we would be dead... .” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes grew cold and seething. “But, if it wasn't for you, this never would have happened.”
Quinn wanted to explain, to tell her there had to be people like him in the world, but it all seemed too trite to say out loud. Instead, he just sat there and took it.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid ...” Her chest began to heave with bitter sobs. “I ... I don't know what I was thinking, letting you back in.”
“Kim,” Quinn said softly, staring at her tiny hand. “Don't ...”
She turned away to stare toward the flight deck, sniffing into a tissue. He'd lived with her long enough to know that when she looked away like that no amount of talking would get through to her.
“I don't know what it is you're up to,” she whispered, still facing away. “I'm certain it's something important—and I'm just as certain you're good at it... . But do me a favor and leave us out of it.”
She spun suddenly, her lips set in a tight line. “We're divorced, Jericho. You need to start acting like it.”
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
Gaithersburg, Maryland
2310 hours
 
T
he two goldfish that were Ronnie Garcia's sole dependents had miraculously figured out how to survive in a half a bowl of cloudy water feeding on their own poop. She sprinkled some shrimp flakes in the bowl and promised to change their water when she had a free minute. The fish tore after the food like little bug-eyed piranhas.
She stripped off her polo shirt and threw it in the corner. She'd not been close enough to the men she shot to get any back splatter of blood on her, but the smell of gunfire and human pain hung to the dark blue fabric of her slacks. She loosened the straps of her ballistic vest, feeling the sudden lightness as she lifted the bulky panels over her head. She threw the vest on top of the laundry pile and took out the wooden comb she'd worn to the White House, shaking loose her hair.
She, Veronica Garcia, had actually sat on a couch in the Oval Office and chatted with the president of the United States.
“Oh, Papa, if you could have seen me ...”
The thought of it still sent a shiver down her back.
Then she remembered the killing.
She wished there was someone she could call, someone she could confide in. She gave a fleeting thought to calling her ex-husband, but quickly realized he would only make her feel worse in the long run.
In the end, she settled for a scalding shower. She stood under the water for a long time, leaning against the tile with both hands, hoping the heat would beat the memories of the day out of her body. She finally realized she really felt bad for not feeling bad enough and turned off the water.
The night was warm for Maryland in late September and she left her hair wet, hoping it would help her sleep a little cooler. She brushed her teeth, happy to feel clean again, and slipped into her favorite pair of stretchy yellow terrycloth sleeping shorts. She found a white tank top wadded up at the base of her dresser, sniffed it, and pronounced it clean enough to wear to bed. Collapsing back against the pillow, she flipped out the lamp ... and stared up at the darkness, wide-eyed.
Memories of the day whirled inside her head like a cyclone. Gathering witness statements and after-action reports for the joint investigative team from the CIA and the FBI had taken hours after the last shot had been fired.
When she'd completed her reports, a trio of CIA shrinks had summoned her to a stark, white room to gauge her level of emotional and physical trauma. With just over seven years on the job, she'd never been involved in a shooting. It came as a shock to her interrogators that she wasn't more bothered by it. It was a surprise to her as well, but the men she'd shot had deserved to die. They had been killing the very people she'd signed on to protect, so she'd killed them. It was that simple. She would never brag about it, but she would do it again if faced with the same circumstances—and then move on with her life. The Agency shrinks had looked at her sideways when she explained the way she felt, but in the end, they signed off, pronouncing her sane as anyone else at the CIA.
One doc in particular, an older, Freudian-looking man with a twitchy right eye, appeared to be genuinely disappointed she was not pulling her hair out and running off screaming into the woods.
The grilling had ended shortly before 7
P.M.
Her supervisor sent her home on three days' paid administrative leave—standard operating procedure after a shooting. She'd not even made it to her car before he called her cell to tell her to come in and put on a clean shirt. She'd been summoned to the White House.
Ronnie's job at the CIA made her no stranger to important political figures, and she'd become extremely hard to impress. But a personal meeting with the president, where he sat, legs crossed and smiling, to offer her coffee and tell her how much he needed her help? That was so very different from watching him walk down the marble halls at Langley.
Now, locked awake in the darkness, she flipped on the light and kicked the down comforter off her feet. Even for a girl raised in the Caribbean, the evening was much too warm. She sighed, beating her head against the pillow. If her father could see her now, he'd roll over in his regulation communist grave.
As a child in Havana she'd grown up immersed in a hodgepodge of cultures. Her father, a math professor from Smolensk, had known the importance of English and made certain his only daughter was fluent in that along with the tongues of her parents. Three languages, he said, gave her a good base from which to begin—
“Someone who speaks three languages,
milaya
,” he would coax, using her pet name, “is said to be
trilingual
. And what do you call someone who speaks only one language?”
“An American.” She would giggle at his little joke and he would tickle her as good fathers were supposed to do.
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Russian support for Cuba had faded, pressing their family into near starvation. Her idealistic parents had been brokenhearted at governmental indifference toward those who had worked so hard to support the cause. They died within weeks of each other and she'd been sent to Miami to live with an aunt. She'd taken her mother's maiden name because it fit the darkness of her looks—and made her less of a target in south Florida than Veronica Dombrovski.
When she was still in high school, she'd watched a plainclothes Metro Dade police officer arrest a couple of gangbangers at a shopping mall and decided that was something she could do. Later, a friend in college had suggested she look into the CIA because of her language skills and she thought, yes, that was definitely something she could do. The semester before she graduated with a degree in psychology Ronnie had gone to the Agency website and sent in an email stating her qualifications and interest in the Clandestine Service. By then, Arabic and Chinese had nudged Spanish and Russian off center stage as strategic languages. She received a polite but curt reply, suggesting she complete a master's degree in economics or try the uniformed division and get her feet in the door. Her father had been right. Three languages were a good beginning. The uniformed security police weren't the Clandestine Service—but she was still CIA.
Ronnie rubbed her eyes, picking up the stapled document of forty-one pages from her nightstand. If she couldn't sleep, she might as well make a plan. She looked around the cluttered bedroom, littered with laundry and dry-cleaning bags. Boxes from takeout pizza and Chinese restaurants perched on stacks of books and magazines. Housekeeping definitely wasn't her strong suit, but she was a hell of a planner.
Palmer had set her priorities, beginning with the circle of employees closest to the president—and that put the United States Secret Service at the top of her list.
Ronnie was instructed to pay attention to key personnel, particularly the protective details of the president and vice president. Between the special agents and the Secret Service Uniformed Division, the lists contained over two hundred names. At first, she'd suggested it would take her a week per background. Palmer had countered, kindly but firmly, that she needed to review two per day, clearing these to assist her in her efforts. If she came across something out of the ordinary, she was to call him—and him only.
He stressed the fact, at least a half dozen times, that there were very few people she could trust.
The special agents in charge of each protective detail had been cleared already by Palmer himself. They would conduct personnel reviews of their own. Ronnie would provide an independent analysis as an extra precaution.
Scanning the entire document before she made a concrete plan, her eyes fell to a name at the bottom of the seventh page—Nadia Arbakova, a special agent in the Protective Intelligence Division at Secret Service Headquarters in D.C. Arbakova listed a Special Agent James Doyle as her emergency contact. Ronnie remembered the name and flipped back through the previous pages until she found it. Just as she suspected, Agent James Doyle was the whip on the vice presidential detail. An experienced agent, the whip wasn't a supervisor but took charge when the shift leader wasn't around. Doyle's connection to Arbakova and his relatively powerful position made the two agents a natural place to begin. She could knock two investigations out in half the time and give herself a little breathing room.
“You just got yourself moved up to page one, Comrade Arbakova.” Ronnie did her best to imitate her father's thick tones. A note beside Arbakova's name indicated she was a second-generation American who spoke fluent Russian. Her home address was in Rockville. Ronnie would pass right by it on the way into the city.
With a more concrete plan, Garcia gave a shuddering stretch, raising both arms high above her head. Maybe sleep wouldn't prove so elusive. She'd stop off tomorrow morning and chat with Nadia Arbakova, catch her while she was getting ready for work and wasn't suspecting a visit. Maybe she could practice a little of her rusty Rusky. And, if everything in Arbakova's background came back clear, maybe they could even become friends, even if she was in law enforcement.

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