Brute Force (6 page)

 

Q
uinn swerved the stubby Wuling microvan to avoid a broken donkey cart and took the left lane to keep moving forward. Known as
mianbao che
or a breadbox car, the miniscule van was hardly larger than a compact car. Thibodaux had the passenger seat shoved back as far as he could and threatened to bust the thing off its rails to keep his knees from digging into the beige plastic dash.

They had come up from the isolated Chinese outpost of Tashkurgen on the Karakoram Highway from the southwest, leaving the drifting sands of the Takla-man Desert for the lush oasis-fed orchards of pistachios, walnuts, and almonds that began to spring up the closer they got to Kashgar. Great fields of millet and watermelon stretched on either side of the road in a patchwork of varying shades of verdant green as they drew nearer the city.

Jacques stared out the window, slouching with his knees canted sideways. He hadn’t said a word in the last ten minutes—which, Quinn was certain, was some kind of record.

“Something on your mind?” Quinn asked.

“Did I tell you my cousin, Khaki, joined the FBI?”

Quinn shot him a surprised glance. “I thought she just got married to that Beaudine guy.”

“She did,” Thibodaux said. “They both got hired for the same academy. A buddy system or some such thing.” He rolled his eyes. “Weird to think of it . . . Khaki Beaudine, FBI . . .”

Quinn shrugged. “The way things are going, it will be good to have someone you can trust on the inside.”

“She’s my cousin,” Thibodaux said. “Who says I trust her?” His face darkened and he got to the meat of his worries. “You think Camille looks like Téa Leoni?”

“Same husky voice, maybe.” Quinn couldn’t help but chuckle at the random things that might be bouncing around in Jacques Thibodaux’s brain at any given moment. “But the looks are 180 degrees off.”

“Yeah.” The big Cajun shrugged. “But I had a dream about Téa Leoni last night. Camille would shit a brimstone brick if she thought I had a thing for Téa Leoni.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “I think you’ve been away from home too long.”

“I’m sorry,
l’ami
.” Jacques gave a sheepish grin. For a guy who could bench 405, he had the embarrassed schoolboy thing down pretty good. “But this not being able to call her has me all screwed up. I don’t mind tellin’ you this dream scares my mule. Camille has a way of lookin’ into my skull and finding out about shit like this.”

Quinn shrugged, both hands on the steering wheel. “Good. Then maybe you can channel a little bit of your inner Camille the next time we need to get information out of somebody and pull something out of their skull.”

“Whatever you say, Chair Force, but this is serious business. I haven’t had a dream about any woman besides Camille in years. Wooeeee!” He shook his head as if to purge any unclean thoughts about Téa Leoni. “Anyhow, don’t you fret. I’ll focus on not getting killed now that we’re coming into civilization.”

“Good idea,” Quinn said, breathing a measured sigh of relief when he brought the van off the relatively light traffic of the Karakoram Highway and into the riot of evening commuters. The packed arterial road was a chorus of honks and shouts mingled with braying donkeys and no one took notice of Quinn’s van, swerving or not.

“Funny,” Thibodaux said, staring out the dusty window at the sprawling oasis of 350,000 people. “From the way you talked about it, I pictured this place as some Alibaba-ancient Silk Road caravan stop with magic carpets and shit.”

“Yeah.” Quinn nodded. “The Chinese government’s knocking more and more old buildings down every day to make way for progress.” Quinn sped up to get ahead of a motorized trike hauling a load of fat-bottomed sheep in the rusty bed. Once far enough ahead, he took another lane to turn on Renmin Road toward his old friend Dr. Gabrielle Deuben’s neighborhood. “There won’t be any of the old town left before too long.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot a glance at Thibodaux. “But believe me, there are still plenty of places for the Feng brothers to hide.”

“We’ll find ’em.” Thibodaux grinned, tipping his head at the low sun that cast long shadows through the last pistachio grove before the land gave way completely to concrete and stone. “We got a while until dark.”

Quinn smiled to himself, remembering the shadowed mazes of alleys, dead-end roads, and walled courtyards that made up Kashgar’s centuries-old neighborhoods.

“There are some places,” he said, “where night falls well before dark.”

 

 

Gabrielle Deuben’s home was located in an apartment above her the clinic. Quinn parked the van a block down out of habit, backing in so he had plenty of room to drive away unimpeded if he had to leave in a hurry.

He’d not spoken to Deuben since she’d helped him and Garcia get across the Wakhan Corridor into Afghanistan nearly two years before. Any hotel would require a passport and he hoped the doctor would give them a place to rest their heads for a few minutes—along with any information she might have come across from the working girls she treated that would lead them to the Feng brothers. Quinn wasn’t a hundred percent sure that she was even still in the same place, but her missionary zeal when it came to treating the ailments of the prostitutes and other poor in Central Asia made it a pretty sure bet. People like Deuben tended not to even go on vacation, afraid of what might happen to those in their charge if they went anywhere else. Tajik, Kyrgyz, Uyghur, and Chinese traveled for miles to have her treat their various ailments. Stern and to the point, she never held back on her pronouncements, but patients knew she cared about them. Why else would she stay and work with such a forsaken people? Quinn found himself asking himself the same question—and then he got out of the van.

A warm evening wind, heavy with the scent of cumin and roasting lamb, hit him in the face. Two-stroke engines vied for street positions with braying donkeys. Birds chirped in the trees along the cobblestone street as if their volume knobs were turned up twice as loud as normal American or European birds. The smell of baking bread rolled out from under an awning just down from the van, making Thibodaux lick his lips.

“This place don’t need no Aladdin’s lamp to be magic,” the Cajun said, casting a look up and down the bustling street. Women in colorful headscarves, some wearing Western dress, others in more traditional but equally colorful robes, towed kids dressed in T-shirts with American slogans. Fierce-looking men with sharp Turkic features and scraggly beards chatted under awnings along the side of the road. Some sharpened blades against spinning stones. Some sat for haircuts from other men. Others hacked at freshly killed carcasses of goat and mutton. Almost every adult male wore a four-cornered silk hat called a
doppa
.

The entrance to Gabrielle Deuben’s clinic, a rough timber door, was located down a deserted side street behind a stall that sold hand-thrown pottery. A cardboard sign that said
CLOSED
in Uyghur and Chinese script hung behind a dusty window. It was dark inside. Quinn glanced at his Aquaracer. “It’s just after eight o’clock Beijing time,” he said. “Hopefully she’s home and not off working in some Kyrgyz village.”

Thibodaux doubled his fist. “Want me to huff and puff or just give it a knock?”

“Stand by a minute. She has another entrance around back, down the alley there.” Quinn took a step back to look up at the second floor windows. He could see a light through the curtains and thought he saw movement, but couldn’t be sure. He half expected to see Belvan Virk, Deuben’s towering Sikh bodyguard, peek out. “Let’s do our knocking around the corner, out of sight.”

Leading the way, Thibodaux ran headlong into a waifish Chinese girl as she scuttled away from Deuben’s back door. She kept her head down like a person who lived around things she really didn’t want to witness. A handful of business cards fell from the pocket of her hand-knit wool vest, spilling across the dusty street.

Quinn stooped to pick them up and handed them back to her. A sinking pit pressed at his gut when he read one of the cards and realized she was a
dingdong xiaojie
, a “doorbell girl.” At the low end of the hierarchy among prostitutes in China, a doorbell girl went room to room at hotels and apartments, ringing the bell or sliding her card under the door looking for work.

“Cindy Wei.” Quinn read the name printed on the cards. “Are you okay?” He spoke in Mandarin, literally asking why her face color was not excited.

The pouting Cupid’s bow of Cindy Wei’s mouth was tinged with flecks of bright red lipstick and formed a smudged arrow that pointed upward to desperate eyes
.

“Sorry,” she said. “I am too sick to help you right now.” She took the cards, mistaking Quinn’s smile as a proposition for her services. She shot a quick look back down the alley to Deuben’s door, then to the main street beyond Thibodaux as if looking for a way to escape. He completely dwarfed the tiny thing and she had to crane her body to see around him.

“You misunderstand me,” Quinn said, trying to set the flighty girl’s mind at ease. “The doctor is my friend. We’re going to see her too.”

Cindy Wei’s eyes brightened, filling with tears. “Grigor!” She spat as if the name tasted bitter. “They call him The Mongol. He is up there with her now. He and his men . . .” She shook her head. “I must go. I have to find some medicine.”

She tried to shuffle away, but Quinn grabbed her arm, a little rougher than he should have. He couldn’t let her go without more information.

“The Mongol?” He gave a puzzled Thibodaux a quick thumbnail in English to bring him up to speed, then looked Cindy Wei in the eye. “Who is Grigor and what does he want with Dr. Deuben?”

“He is a cancer,” Cindy Wei said, apparently accustomed to being grabbed by rough men. “A mixed-blood gangster. His father was Russian. He runs the Black Hotel racket from here to Urumqi.” She used the euphemism “Black Hotel” to mean extortion or protection. “Everyone—the Chinese, the Uyghurs—they are all afraid of him. Even the army looks the other way. He is untouchable.”

“And you saw Grigor with the doctor just now?” Quinn felt the white heat of anticipation rush to his core as his body prepared for a fight.

Cindy Wei shook her head, wincing at some memory. “One of the men that works for him. But Grigor was at the Chini Bagh Hotel last night. I accidentally knocked on his door. I never would have gone near the place if I had known The Mongol was in town. He’s a filthy thing, worse than an animal.” She pulled her collar away to show a necklace of purple bruises. “I hope he catches the drips from me!”

Quinn had known more than his fair share of prostitutes over the course of his career, but the way this sad young woman spoke so bluntly about the diseases of her trade sent a chill up his spine.

“So you didn’t actually see him, but you think Grigor is here at the clinic now?” Quinn asked, trying to nudge Cindy Wei back on subject.

She nodded. “One of his men came to the door. I said I needed to see the doctor, but he didn’t care. He told me she was busy and said to get lost. Grigor never goes anywhere without his men—and they never go anywhere without him. He is in there, probably making Doctor Deuben pay him money for his black hotel.” Cindy Wei’s face twisted into a squirming grimace. Quinn couldn’t help but notice that she was just a few inches taller than his seven-year-old daughter and was maybe in her late teens.

“How many men did you see?” Quinn asked.

“I saw two,” she said. “But he always travels with three.” She held up her fingers, thumb folded in. She squirmed again. “I really have to pee.”

“Go,” Quinn said. “I’ll tell Dr. Deuben to call you.”

“Grigor will kill you,” she said over her shoulder as she waddled away.

“We’ll be fine,” Quinn said.

“Four bad guys?” Thibodaux mused as Cindy Wei rounded the corner to the main street. “Against a United States Marine and one Air Force
pogue
. . . I reckon you’re lucky to have me along,
l’ami
.”

“According to Cindy Wei, this Grigor is supposed to be a stone-cold killer,” Quinn said.

“I much prefer dealin’ with killers,” Thibodaux said as they trotted down the alley toward the clinic door. “It narrows down my strategy.”

 

C
IA protective officer Adam Knight clung to the last two things that made any sense in his upside-down life—the Director’s Detail identification pass that would get him onto the White House campus and a fervent desire to see the Vice President dead. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes and this would all be over. Best-case scenario, he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. Worst case, a bunch of his best friends would blow his head off.

In an agency that fed on secrets and innuendo like a mosquito sucked blood, it was a miracle that he’d been able to keep his downward spiral under wraps. Tall and fit, with the hint of a Boston accent, he’d risen through the ranks of the CIA’s protective division to become the lead officer on the Fable detail, the code name given to Virginia Ross, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Some said he’d peaked early at only thirty-seven, but he’d been at the top of his game, doing what he loved for someone he genuinely admired. And then the director had been arrested on trumped-up charges by members of the Internal Defense Task Force—the administration’s newly formed goon squad.

From the moment Knight had watched his boss—a woman he regarded as he would a favorite aunt—carted off like some sort of axe murderer, he’d heard nothing but rumors. She’d been taken to an undisclosed black site, he figured that, but he could find nothing concrete about what had happened to her. Some self-proclaimed “patriot” sites on the Internet said she’d been rescued after enduring terrible torture at the hands of the IDTF. According to them, she was now in hiding. If she was, she was doing it right, cutting off all contact with anyone in her former life. Knight hoped that was the case. Other sites reported that she was still locked away somewhere or even dead. He’d sworn to protect her with his life—and she had vanished under his watch. If half the stories floating around about the IDTF were true, she was as good as dead.

Every day another politician, reporter, or military officer who opposed the new administration in even the most trivial matters found themselves harassed or taken into custody by the Task Force. The assassinations of both the President and Vice President on the heels of so many recent terrorist attacks had many in the country swallowing whatever the government told them if they thought it might offer them a shred more safety.

Seething inside, Knight kept quiet and unnoticed in an agency that already prided itself on anonymity. He kept up the pretense of nose-to-the-grindstone devotion in his work and then assaulted his liver each night sharing drinks with acquaintances from every alphabet-soup agency he could think of. He kept the conversations light, noting every word but refusing to join in even the most innocuous criticisms of the present administration. After each meeting, he’d return to his apartment and write a detailed description of any new intelligence he’d gained. He spent hours on the Internet, browsing through a proxy server to find any trends that might shed more light on what was going on in the country. He was single, so no one was around to chide him for living on seven Red Bulls and two hours of sleep a day—or to witness his death spiral.

A law-and-order man to the core, it took Knight very little time at all to realize Vice President McKeon was the man behind the curtain—but two full weeks to get his head wrapped around the fact that someone had to kill him. It wasn’t much of a leap for the protective agent to realize that he was one of the handful of people who had the access, opportunity, and skill set to get that job done. Once he’d made the decision to go ahead, implementation was fairly straightforward.

Knight parked off G Street in a lot next to the World Bank building, passing through security first at the OEOB—the Old Executive Office Building—where the Vice President had ceremonial offices and staff. Knight knew McKeon would not be there. President Drake was a buffoon who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. Someone had to run the country and it was common knowledge that that someone was the crazy-eyed Skeletor Vice President.

Knight put on a fake smile as he swiped his White House Visitor ID badge. He said hello to the uniformed Secret Service officer at the entry point, a young redhead named Miller.

“You got a detail coming in?” the officer asked, reviewing his clipboard. The beautiful thing about being with CIA protective division was that people rarely questioned specifics, assuming most everything Knight did was above their clearance level.

“No,” Knight said. “It’s just me.” He tapped the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’m trying to link up with Harper on Stovepipe’s detail.” He used the Secret Service code name for the VP—a nod to the fact that McKeon was tall and gaunt and often compared to Abraham Lincoln. “I lost a pair of Nationals tickets on a bet.” He leaned in, confiding a secret. “Presidents Club seats.”

“No shit? Behind home plate?” Miller’s eyes lit up. He grinned and held out his hand, fingers fluttering. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go ahead and leave those with me.”

“Yeah, right,” McKnight said. “I’d better give them to him myself so they don’t . . . get lost.”

A group of staffers came through the door in a herd behind him and Miller waved Knight through with a shake of his head. “Suit yourself. He’s been over at Crown since 0700.” The officer used the Secret Service code name for the executive offices in the White House.

Knight cut through the wide, polished halls of the OEOB, catching a muggy blast of morning air as he popped out on the other side. He stopped for a moment at the top of the broad steps leading down to the second set of security gates that would take him onto the White House campus. The thought occurred to him that once inside, he’d likely never see the sun again. Shoving such notions aside, he walked on. If he quit now, nothing would matter anymore.
He
wouldn’t matter.

Knight kept up the smile, tapping his chest and repeating the story about the Nationals tickets at the outer gate and again at the West Wing entrance. He’d often accompanied Director Ross to meetings in the White House. He was on a first-name basis with most of the staff and they were accustomed to seeing him around.

He could hear Vice President McKeon’s voice coming from around the corner, hypnotic and creepy even while he was yelling at someone. The uniformed Secret Service officer at the security screening station rolled his eyes and handed back Knight’s credentials. “Welcome to my world,” he said.

The National Security Advisor’s office was to his immediate right—and the VP’s office was just beyond it on the same side.

“Harper?” Knight asked, nodded to the doorway at his right.

“He was getting his ass chewed by the Chief of Staff the last time I saw him.”

That made sense. In most administrations, the Chief of Staff was a powerful figure, running interference and dictating most of the President’s schedule. But since Drake had assumed the presidency, McKeon had made certain he was the only one dictating anything to do with the President. The Chief of Staff, frustrated at being emasculated in his job, would strike out at anyone who couldn’t do anything about it—like security.

Knight repeated the story about the tickets. “I just need to put these in his hand.”

“Suit yourself,” the officer said, and waved him through.

Visitors were required to be on a list, even with a pass, but security personnel were like postmen in their invisibility. It was accepted that they would lurk in halls and linger outside doors where important meetings took place. They were armed window dressing that was barely noticed and tolerated as a necessary evil until the shit hit the fan.

The best dignitary protection consisted of a series of concentric rings, like the layers of an onion—but there was little that could be done when the inside layer of the onion wanted to do the killing. Knight’s plan was simple. He would walk straight up to the Vice President and empty his pistol into the man’s chest.

Knight strode through the West Wing lobby with a purpose, locked on like a guided missile now that he was so close to his target. He followed McKeon’s slightly nasal voice down the carpeted hall toward the Chief of Staff ’s office. Harper stepped out just as he passed the VP’s secretary’s office and nearly ran into him.

“Guys up front radioed to say you had some tickets for me?”

Knight put out his hand in what turned out to be an overly exuberant greeting, heart in his throat. He could plainly hear the Vice President talking just steps away around the corner in the Chief of Staff’s office. He had to move now or risk losing the perfect moment—a moment that might never present itself again.

“Washington Nationals, buddy.” He kept his voice at a whisper, the way protective agents become accustomed to speaking after years of working in the halls of government elite. “You won, I lost, so I’m here to pay up.”

“What’s this all about, Adam?” Harper gave him a quizzical look. “You could have just dropped them by my apartment.”

Knight could feel the other agent’s eyes boring into him, sizing him up as a possible threat. He had about half a second before he’d be asked to leave—politely at first, and then forcibly booted out the door. It was what he would have done had the roles been reversed.

“Well, I was in the area,” Knight said, taking the tickets out of his jacket pocket and letting them fall to the ground.

All Harper had to do was look down. He did, watching the fluttering paper long enough to allow Knight to slip by him unimpeded.

Knight heard Harper’s startled shout behind him as he shouldered his way past and rounded the corner through the door to the Chief of Staff ’s office, pistol already in his hand. Harper might shoot him in the back at any moment, but by then it would be too late.

Vice President Lee McKeon came into view an instant later, towering over the Chief of Staff’s desk, pounding on a stack of files with the flat of his hand. He was less than fifteen feet away. It would be an easy shot.

Knight caught a flash of something out of place as he brought the gun to bear. It was dark and fast and moved obliquely along the inside wall—directly toward him. He stepped sideways to avoid this new threat, keeping his focus on McKeon. Before he could pull the trigger—or even take a breath—an Asian woman threw herself in front of him and loosed a chilling scream as if he’d already shot her.