State of Emergency (17 page)

T
he spacious interior of the Gulfstream V gave Valentine Zamora room to stretch his legs as he reclined in one of two buttoned leather seats at the front of the cabin. Monagas sat in the other, and the gap-toothed twins lay in the settees along the cabin walls behind, each with her nose glued to a cell phone.

Zamora had a wet cloth over his eyes and his own phone pressed to his ear.

“I told you, we have nothing to worry about,” he said. Discussions like this made him want to strangle something helpless. “The move to Bolivia is a mere hiccup.”

“I understood our purchase included the use of your pipeline into the United States,” the voice on the other end said. It clicked with a thick Arab accent “The American border is a very long way from Bolivia.”

“I am aware of the geography.” Zamora clenched his teeth. “All that is left is for you to transfer the balance of what I am owed to my Cayman account. Things are already set in motion to move the product north. I have planned for all eventualities,
Inshallah
.” He threw out the Arabic as a statement of solidarity.

“Oh,” the voice said, unimpressed. “Make no mistake. This is most definitely God's will. We are looking closely at the target you suggested. It seems worthy—”

Zamora rose up in his seat, ripping the wet cloth from his eyes. “Of course it is worthy!” He fought to keep from screaming. “What could possibly hurt the Americans more than this?” The call was scrambled, but he stopped short of actually naming the interfaith choir. One could never be certain of the American NSA.

“Is not the device ours once we purchase it?”

“Of course it is.” Zamora stood to pace up and down the aisle as he spoke. One of the gap-toothed twins reached out to give his leg an affectionate touch and got the back of his hand in return. “But things are already set in motion.”

“Relax,” the voice said. “We are merely exploring other avenues. My brother is looking at your route as well as your target.”

Zamora ran a hand through his hair, wracking his brain. “Do you not trust me, my friend?”

“Of course,” the voice said. “I trust—but tie my camels tightly. Before there can be a target, I need your assurance that you can actually move the device up from Bolivia.”

“You have my word,” Zamora said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

Zamora ended the call and turned to watch the clouds outside the G Five's oval window. Of course there was nothing to worry about. Nothing but thousands of miles of jungle, poorly maintained aircraft, guerrilla armies, and the governments of most of the free world that wanted to see him killed—and that didn't even take into account his father.

But before any of that mattered, Matthew Pollard had to make the damned thing work.

 

H
is bags packed, Quinn switched on the standing lamp beside his leather sofa and plopped down with the two-foot cardboard box he'd picked up from the post office. Flicking open his ZT folder from his pocket, he broke his own rule about using a “people-killing” knife to cut cardboard.

Quinn knew what was inside before he opened it. Smiling, he lifted the fourteen-inch curved blade.

He picked up his phone with the other hand.

“Ray,” he said when the other party answered. “You are the man!”

“You got it?” Ray Thibault's smiling voice came across the line. He and his son, Ryan, ran Northern Knives in Anchorage. Both were on Quinn's short list of trustworthy people. Ryan wore his hair in a buzz cut and shared his father's easy laugh and religious zeal for all things edged. An expert pistol shot and knife fighter, Ryan carried a straight razor in his belt. Not everyone respected a pistol, he reasoned, but nearly everyone had been cut at least once. It was something they wanted to avoid at all cost—which made a straight razor a formidable psychological weapon. Ray preferred an Arkansas Toothpick. All grins and friendly advice, both father and son gave off a calm but deadly don't-screw-with-me air.

“It looks like you left a kukri and a Japanese short sword in a drawer together and they had offspring,” Quinn said.

“We call it the Severance.” Ray gave an easy chuckle. “We talked about calling it the Jericho, but I thought you might get pissed. Anyway, when we heard about Yawaraka-Te, Ryan and I wanted you to have something to use.”

Quinn turned the knife in the lamplight. It was fourteen inches long and nearly an eighth of an inch thick along the spine. A black parachute-cord strap hung from a hole in the nasty skull-crusher pommel. The olive drab scales felt as natural in Quinn's hand as the throttle of his motorcycle.

He missed Yawaraka-Te, and frankly could not wait until Mrs. Miyagi had her repaired. But for the utilitarian chores he might find in South America, Severance seemed to be the perfect blade. It looked to be the kind of knife that could cut down a small tree or convince an opponent that he should comply in order to keep his head.

“Mind field-testing it for us?” Ray asked, the sparkle in his eyes almost audible on the phone.

“I appreciate this more than you know, Ray.” Quinn weighed the blade in his hand, feeling the balance and heft of it. “But the places I go, you might not get it back.”

“Good deal,” Ray said. “Now about that other matter. Just send her by. I think I know exactly what she needs. . . .”

 

 

“Are you really going to buy me a pocketknife?” Mattie Quinn asked ten minutes later when Jericho had her on the phone.

“Everybody needs a knife, sweet pea,” he said. “Go ahead and check me right now.”

“Okay.” Mattie giggled. “Dad, have you got your pocketknife on you?”

“I have my pants on, don't I?” Quinn said, sharing their inside joke. When she was barely old enough to understand, he'd promised her that if was wearing pockets and she caught him without a knife, he would buy her a soda.

“Mom says I might be too young.”

“I'll square it with Mom,” Quinn said, knowing full well Kim was likely on the other line. “Do you cut up your own steak?”

“Of course, Dad. I'm seven.” He could hear her crinkling her nose in that adorable way of hers.

“Well, the way I see it, a steak knife is way bigger than a pocketknife.” Quinn practiced the line of reasoning he planned to use on Kim. “I already talked to Ray about which one.”

“I like Ray,” Mattie said. “He's got the pet piranha.”

“All you have to do is get Mom to take you by the store,” Quinn said. “Merry Christmas, sweet pea.”

“Miss you, Dad,” she said.

“Miss you too. Can you put Mom on?”

“Sure,” Mattie said. “I'll go get her. But you should know, she's pretty mad about you not coming home for Christmas.”

Kim picked up immediately.

“I'm not mad,” she said, defending herself. “Just disappointed . . . for Mattie. What's up?”

“Full disclosure,” Quinn said, chewing on his bottom lip. “I've talked to Ray about getting Mattie a knife for Christmas.” It astounded Quinn that he faced the most ruthless killers in the world without so much as a blink, but shuddered when he talked to his ex-wife.

“A knife?” she said. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said, wishing for a terrorist to fight.

The phone went quiet for a long moment. “I guess I'm cool with her getting a pocketknife.” Kim changed her tune. “We are talking pocketknife, right, and not some people-killin' cutlass?”

Quinn smiled at how much of him had rubbed off on her over the years. He released a pent-up breath, giving a thumbs-up to his empty living room. “You have my word. I won't buy her a sword.”

Kim's voice suddenly took on the playful tone that had snared him in the first place. “I made enchiladas.”

“That sounds great.” Quinn said. “You know I would be there if I could be.”

“Did you know Steve and Connie are getting married at the Academy?” she asked, changing the subject. “I forgot they weren't married already.”

“I did. He asked me to be part of the ceremony.” Steve Brun had graduated from USAFA the same year as Quinn. They'd both served as Squadron Commanders, Quinn of the 20th Trolls and Brun of the 19th Wolverines. They'd led the Air Force Sandhurst competition team at West Point and gone through the rigorous pipeline of Air Force Special Operations training. While Quinn had moved to OSI, Brun had remained a combat rescue officer. Quinn had even introduced Steve to Jacques Thibodaux on a previous mission and they'd hit it off immediately. Brun had actually been together with his fiancée, Connie, for over ten years and they had finally decided tie the knot. From the very beginning, the two couples had done everything together. Kim and Connie remained close even after the divorce.

“Are you going?” Quinn asked.

“I don't know,” she said. “Connie asked me to.”

“Good,” he said.

“Listen,” she said, her voice suddenly distant. “Gary Lavin has asked if I want to be his date.”

“I see,” Quinn said, feeling like he'd just been punched in the gut. “That will be interesting. Well, it'll be good to see you anyway.”

Captain Gary Lavin was another acquaintance from the Academy, though he'd gone on to fly C-17s and eventually transferred to the 517th at Elmendorf in Anchorage. He'd been sniffing around Kim since they were cadets, so it made sense he'd look her up now that she was divorced.

“Listen, I have to go,” Quinn said, suddenly tired of talking.

“I know, I just . . .” Her voice trailed off as it often had when they'd spoken over the last three years.

“You what?” Quinn prodded softly, bracing himself for an avalanche of emotion.

“I just can't help thinking that every time we say good-bye it might be the last. That kills me, you know.”

“We won't say it then,” Quinn said, consoling her as best he could. “How about Merry Christmas?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice hollow. It was obvious he only made her miserable. “Merry Christmas. . . .”

He ended the call and tossed the phone on the coffee table beside the open box.

Over the years of courtship and marriage he'd missed countless holidays because of his job. Kim hadn't liked the idea, but she'd put up with it, more or less. Other spouses missed special events because of deployments. Their loved ones cried a little and sucked it up. The country was fighting two wars.

Kim had left him, trashed him to his face, and even cursed him after he'd saved her life. He still loved her past the point of sanity, but he'd never really understand her. One minute she held him close, the next she wanted to take off his head. Loving Kimberly Quinn was like roasting in an exquisite flame—and getting stabbed a lot with a really big fork.

From the moment they met, he'd made no secret of the fact that he was in love with fast machines, bloody-knuckle brawls, and frequent travel to dark and dangerous parts of the world. She'd climbed aboard his bike and hung on for what he thought would be their grand adventure. Unbeknownst to him, she'd hoped from that very first ride to change him. He, on the other hand, had rolled on the gas and prayed this pretty blonde with her arms wrapped around his waist would stay the same forever.

But now, Jericho couldn't tell her about the bomb. He'd had to tell her he was missing Christmas because he'd entered a motorcycle race.

 

Q
uinn traveled in and out of D.C. enough that he knew virtually every security supervisor at Reagan National. He avoided the larger, more distant Dulles whenever he had the opportunity and now paid for it with a long wait at security. They were already boarding by the time he made it to the gate. Thibodaux was late, likely saying good-bye to his wife for the twentieth time. Good for him. At least he had a wife who missed him.

Quinn found his seat. Out of habit from flying armed it was an exit row with his right arm in the aisle. He took out a couple of motorcycle magazines and some study material, then shoved his carry-on in the overhead compartment. So far, he had the row to himself. He knew such luck would never last, and played a little game guessing the odds that each passenger would be his seatmate as they walked down the aisle toward him.

He dreaded the long flight to Argentina, preferring a poke in the eye to being stuffed into the long tin cans that served as modern-day airliners. He wasn't tall by any standards, but he felt sorry for Jacques, who had to wedge himself into the narrow seats. In truth, he should have paid for a seat and a half because any unsuspecting seatmate ended up with the big Cajun's shoulder and elbow in his or her lap during the entire flight.

More than anything Quinn dreaded the endless hours of flight. He'd never been one to let his guard down enough to sleep on an airplane surrounded by people close enough to smell. He planned to study some Chinese flash cards—they drew fewer looks than Arabic—and read some new motorcycle and gun magazines. But that still left hours with nothing to entertain him but his own thoughts. The flights between Miami and D.C. had given him way too much time to think already—and lately, when he thought, it was about Veronica Garcia.

Still alone in his row, he checked his TAG Aquaracer. Nearly eight in the evening during the Christmas holidays and he was on his way out of the country—again. He couldn't help but wonder what Garcia was doing.

He knew her parents were dead. She had an aunt in Miami, but Miyagi made it sound like the agent trainees would only get a couple of days of break considering the present state of affairs in the country so he doubted she'd traveled far.

Quinn took out his phone to turn it off for the flight and without thinking, pressed Garcia's speed-dial. No one—federal agents or agent trainees—should be completely alone during the holidays.

It rang twice before connecting. A man's voice answered, going a hundred miles an hour.

“Ronnie's phone. She's a busy lady and can't talk right now.”

Quinn could hear the rhythmic beat of music and the buzz and crack of people playing pool in the background. A hundred voices seemed to be talking at once.

“I'll call back another time,” Quinn said.

“Message?” the man said, shouting over the din.

“No,” Quinn said. “I'm good.”

“Very well, my friend. You have yourself a happy holiday.”

“Yeah, you too,” Quinn grunted and hung up. This guy was far too peppy for his taste. Ronnie wasn't alone during the holidays after all....

He looked up just as a heavyset person of ambiguous gender wearing a sleeveless mechanic's shirt and carrying a pastrami sandwich nodded toward the seat beside him.

Quinn stepped into the aisle. Sighing to himself, he turned off his phone for the long flight to Argentina.

 

 

Ronnie Garcia walked out of the ladies' room at the Corner Pocket in downtown Williamsburg and pushed through the crowds to rejoin her classmates. Though it was chilly outside, her roommate had persuaded her to dress to party in tight black capris and an off-the-shoulder red silk blouse.

“What'd I miss?” she said, smiling at the youngsters at her table. At twenty-nine, she was in the best shape of her life, but it was still difficult to keep up with the college crowd that made up the bulk of CIA trainees. Everyone but her had some sort of advanced degree in economics, law, or political science. Some had been interns for powerful senators, others came from rich families, all were incredibly bright. Apart from Garcia and a former Army Special Forces officer, none of her class had ever seen a moment of conflict more violent than a lovers' quarrel. Just hearing their naïve dreams, Garcia couldn't help but think of Jericho Quinn and his maxim:
Everyone thinks they have a plan until they get punched in the nose.

Sometime it was a fist that gave you that punch, sometimes it was just life.

She scooted back into her seat around the table of eight, showing a tight smile at the thought of another hour with this crew. They were fine in a mock firefight and could interrogate role-players with the best, but she found hanging with them felt like playing Barbie with the twelve-year-olds after she'd already made out with her first guy. It had been a mistake to come, but she just couldn't bear the thought of being stuck alone in the dorms.

Roger, a dark-eyed frat boy of Persian descent, grinned as she sat down, wagging his finger. He made no secret of the fact that he'd had a crush on her from their first day of polygraph class. She'd let him know right away that she was far too much woman for a youngster like him to handle—which only served to inflame his resolve. She'd been annoyed, but not surprised, when he'd showed up that evening and joined their group.

Smacking the finger away, she looked down her nose at him. “Good way to lose a hand, amigo.”

“You forgot your OPSEC,” he chided, raising his eyebrows as if he had eight-by-ten glossies of her in the shower. There was a cuteness about him, like a Christmas ornament that you could look at for a while but were happy to box up again right after New Years.

OPSEC—operational security—was no laughing matter.

“What?” she said, worried. “What did I do?”

“You could use a man like me watching out for you.” Roger held up her phone. “So many of our secrets are stuck in these little devices . . . and now I have access to yours, my dear. They say our brains are in our phones now.”

“I don't think your brains are where you think they are.” Garcia poured her drink in the kid's lap, snatching the phone away as he worked to catch his breath. “Let me tell you about a man who can handle me, Roger, my dear. When I fall down drunk and naked on the floor in the middle of a party, my man's job is to stand there and fend all the other bastards in the room off of me. If I leave top-secret files in the penthouse of a foreign hotel, he would go all Tom Cruise and climb up the outside windows with those little sticky gloves to get those files back and save my honor. I don't give a shit if I leave ten thousand dollars on the table when I go to pee. His job is to guard it with his life. And, he would never, ever, ever touch my phone. Comprende?”

Roger nodded, blinking quickly.

Ronnie turned to her roommate, who sat next to her. Her name was Bev, an Arabic and Farsi speaker from Maryland.

Bev snickered, rolling her eyes at the hapless Roger. “You warned him that you were a hard one to handle.” She put a hand on Ronnie's arm. “I almost forgot. You missed a call.”

Ronnie got a jolt to the heart when she saw Jericho's number. She bumped Roger out of the way with her hip as she moved quickly out of the booth, punching the buttons to return the call.

His voice mail answered after the first ring. “Quinn's phone, leave a message.” She rang it again and got the same response. Turning, she stared back at poor Roger and tried to talk herself out of killing him.