State of Emergency (18 page)

—H
UNTER
S. T
HOMPSON

 

T
he journey to reach the most dangerous race on earth was a race in and of itself. A ten-hour flight from Dulles to Buenos Aires saw Quinn standing in line for over an hour and a half to clear customs. He checked his phone and smiled when he saw two missed calls from Ronnie Garcia. He called her back, but got her voice mail. His phone began to buzz in his pocket again the moment he made it to the front of the line. A female Argentine customs officer waved him forward, her face stern though her gaudy red lipstick was painted into a smile. There was no way he would answer a cell phone call on her watch. Ronnie was back in class by the time the customs officer was through with him.

From the international airport it was another hour and a half through the city skirting crowds of out-of-work thirtysomethings who marched in what the cabdriver grudgingly called
protest del dia
, to Aeroparque Jorge Newbery, where he grabbed a domestic hop to Mar del Plata—the starting line of the Dakar.

A day and half after they'd left D.C., the Quinn brothers and Jacques Thibodaux stood with their orange KTM 450 race bike under the white tent along the breezy beaches of Argentina's third-largest city. Thousands of people had flocked from all over the world to watch the opening ceremonies. The streets were alive with prerace parties and impromptu tangos. Liquor and maté, South America's ubiquitous tea-like drink, flowed in abundance and abandon. The fragrant aromas of baking bread and grilled lamb, seasoned with just a hint of motor oil, settled comfortably over the crowds.

It was late afternoon and the area was a madhouse of prerace activity. Judges and engineers from the Amaury Sport Organisation swarmed over each motorcycle, Mini Cooper, Hummer, four-wheeler, and monster truck that planned to compete in the Dakar. The ASO was the same organization that sponsored the Tour de France and they had their bureaucracy well established. It was a nerve-wracking process known as
scrutineering
. Every item had to be checked, from required safety gear and engine size to the noise level of each vehicle's exhaust.

The contestants had snatched little more than a few minutes of sleep at a stretch over the past days leading up to the race. The additional stress of having their machines scrutinized by the overly discerning eyes of ASO engineers only added to the growing pit in their collective guts.

Quinn trusted Mrs. Miyagi to make certain the KTM conformed to Dakar regulations. The bike was generally stock so there was little chance it would break any rules. Valentine Zamora, on the other hand, was spun into the rafters, spitting and cursing his mechanics in a black soup of Spanish and English.

He stomped back and forth wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt and New York Knicks shorts, checking and then double-checking the decibel measurements coming from the muffler of his Yamaha.

“Imbeciles,” he shouted at his two sheepish mechanics. They were the same young men he'd had with him at the track in Florida. “I pay you good money to get the motorcycle in perfect order and this is what you do to me? I swear to you.” His voice was tight and shrill amid all the buzzing chatter from the crowd of competitors and fans crammed inside the spacious tent.

“Monsieur Zamora,” a young Iranian motorcyclist named Navid Azimi tapped him on the shoulder.

Zamora spun, still spitting curses at his staff. “What is it?”

“You needn't fret,” Azimi said. He pointed to his own bike, a blue and white Yamaha. “I had the very same issue. Your noise levels are just on the edge—easily remedied with a different muffler. I'm sure your mechanics have several in stock.”

Zamora glared at his staff. “Is this true?”

The two mechanics nodded. “Of course, sir.”

Zamora threw up his hands. “Then why didn't you say so?” His tirade over for the moment, he looked up and noticed Quinn for the first time. A wide smile spread over his face. “You made it,” he said, walking over to grab Quinn's hand between his.

Quinn didn't bother to introduce Bo. Blond-haired and blue eyed, there was little chance he would be thought of as Jericho's brother. Zamora treated his staff as nothing more than a backdrop for the great adventure of his life, so Quinn followed suit.

“If I may be so bold, where is the lovely Ms. Garcia?” The Venezuelan made a show of scanning the crowd behind Jericho.

“She had to check on her friends in New York,” Quinn said. “You know, that little bombing they had.”

“Of course.” Zamora nodded. “I understand the damage was extensive.”

“I guess.” Quinn shrugged “I stay out of that sort of thing. Too depressing. Anyway, good luck tomorrow.”

Zamora canted his head to one side. “I make my own luck.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“It does, doesn't it? I don't mean it that way. I'm hosting a party at my chalet tonight. You should drop by for some wine and a cigar.” Zamora put an arm around Quinn's shoulders. “Because, tomorrow, friendship takes a backseat to the race. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Quinn said.

“Monagas will get you the address. Come by anytime after nine. I don't plan on sleeping until tomorrow evening—”

One of the mechanics called for Zamora to ask him a question about the new muffler. Focused again on the bike, the Venezuelan turned and left Quinn without another word.

Bo walked up beside him while Jacques saw to the scrutineering of the KTM. He wore faded jeans and a gray mechanic's shirt with a T
EAM
Q
UINN
patch over his right pocket.

“See those mean-looking dudes over by the ELF oil booth?” He kept his voice low. Blond hair, mussed as if he'd just gotten out of bed, hung just over the top of his ears. Tan from long hours riding his bike in the Texas sun, he was still lighter than Quinn, fair to his brother's swarthiness, heavily muscled to Jericho's wiry strength. Both looked as if they could grow a beard in a matter of minutes if they concentrated hard enough, but Bo's would have been a sandy red to Jericho's charcoal black.

“Droopy mustaches, look like brothers?”

“They are,” Bo said. “Andres and Diego Borregos. Heard of 'em?”

Jericho nodded, looking sideways at Bo. “The Borregos brothers run one of the largest drug cartels in Colombia. Just how is it you happen to know them?”

Bo chuckled. “Relax, big brother. We don't run in the same circles if that's what you mean. I saw their pictures on CNN, that's all. You're not the only one in the fam with a spectacular memory, you know.”

“Sorry,” Quinn said, still not completely convinced. “I'm not surprised they're here. They may even be sponsoring one of the Colombian riders.”

The Dakar was an expensive proposition. The entry fee alone was over twenty thousand and a good rally motorcycle ran well above fifty thousand dollars. Virtually every rider's bike and riding gear were plastered with ads for Red Bull, ELF, Loctite, Gauloises cigarettes, or some other commercial venture. Though Quinn's KTM, entry fee, and operational expenses were completely paid by the American taxpayer, the bike still bore a hodgepodge of sponsor stickers so it wouldn't stand out from the rest.

“Here come the superstars,” Bo grunted, nodding to the entourage of crew and paparazzi that surrounded the two race favorites. Both riding for Team KTM and sponsored by the company, Nick Caine and Raynard Geroux could not have been any more different. Caine, the hulking South African, had an easy smile and lumbering gait that belied the grace with which he rode a motorcycle. He was patient with reporters and fans alike, giving interviews and signing autographs while other racers would stalk off to their trailers for a shower and hot meal. Though his brooding accent made him something of a chick magnet, every press conference saw him teary eyed and blowing kisses to his beautiful wife and baby daughter back in Cape Town.

Geroux, on the other hand, looked and acted like a bantam rooster. Famous for the neatly trimmed soul patch beneath a sneering smile, he strode past adoring fans without so much as a glance and had to be prodded into signing autographs by his handlers. The tabloids made a great show of the fact he was rarely seen with the same swimsuit model two times in a row.

Though few Americans had ever even heard of the Dakar Rally, it was third only to the Olympics and the World Cup in global attention. There were plenty of other great riders in the race. Navid Azimi, the promising young Iranian, had stepped outside the confined social restraints of his country to rocket to the top of the leaderboard in rally races around the globe. Exceptional riders from the United States, Europe, all over South America, and even Qatar filled the race board, but everyone knew the real contest was between Caine and Geroux.

“Congratulations,” Thibodaux said, wiping his big hands on a shop towel as he walked up. He carried a free emergency kit courtesy of the Loctite booth. “We passed the scrutineers with nary a peep of protest.” He threw back his head in a huge yawn that showed his teeth. “Tomorrow's a big day,
l'ami
. We could all use some sleep if we're gonna be alert enough to look for that . . . missing item.”

“I've noticed something,” Bo said, as they maneuvered back to their bike through the press of onlookers who stood in pockets to watch the scrutineering process. “There is an extremely high percentage of classy women in Argentina. I mean every hot pair of legs I see is sticking out of a pair of designer shorts—hardly a pair of cutoffs among them. I didn't realize it was so European down here.”

Thibodaux yawned again. “I just heard some guy say Argentines are a bunch of Italians who speak Spanish but think they're British living in France.”

A flash of red by the tent entry caught Quinn's eye as he threw a leg over the lanky KTM. Less than twenty yards away stood Russian FSB agent Aleksandra Kanatova. She met his eye, then froze for a long moment as if trying to figure out which way to run. By the time he'd started the 450's engine, she'd ducked out of the tent and disappeared.

Q
uinn took the long way home, cruising the bike slowly in and out of the crowds in front of the Mar del Plata Naval Base scanning for any sign of Kanatova. As a competitor, he enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity, and spent a good deal of his ride giving high-fives to children as he rode past.

After twenty minutes he gave up looking for Kanatova and arrived back at the rented flat nearly the same time as Bo and Thibodaux, who'd walked back up the hill. The crickets had already begun to sing and the evening gathered in fast around them.

With all the excitement of the race it was nothing short of a miracle that Winfield Palmer had been able to find them a place in the respectable four-plex on such short notice. Only a mile and a half off the beach, it was perfectly located—far enough from the crowds to sleep, close enough to get where they needed to be with minimal loss of time.

Quinn secured the bike inside the garage and sprinted up the long flight of aged wooden stairs to grab the duffel off the bed in his room. The flight from Dulles, coupled with the stress of the race logistics, left him with a sore back and a knot in his gut.

He'd tried Garcia again, but got her voice mail. Feeling like a stalker for calling so much, he left her a message telling her things were about to get really busy, so he'd check in when he got back. He hoped she understood the subtext of the message—because he sure didn't.

A long run past Zamora's chalet would be just the ticket to work out the kinks and clear his head.

“Dude, you're going for a run?” Bo said, rolling his eyes when Quinn walked back down the stairs dressed in loose running pants and a dark blue T-shirt. “I forgot what an overachiever you are.”

“Helps me think.” Jericho shrugged. “And I like to get the lay of the backstreets as soon as practical.”

“The practical thing is to get some sleep.” Bo gave a long, catlike yawn, arching his back so his belly showed under the tail of his wifebeater shirt. “I'm glad it's you on the bike, Jer. And I won't be expected to keep up with you.”

“I gotta call my wife,” Thibodaux said, still trying to untangle himself from being crammed into business-class seating for so many hours on the plane. He stood blinking at the door, swaying like a huge tree in the breeze. “What time is it back home in Spotsylvania, Virginia?”

Bo looked at his watch, a TAG Heuer identical to Jericho's. “We're two hours later here, so it's about nine-thirty.”

“Good,” the big Cajun said, moving his head from side to side as he raised his eyebrows. “Kids'll be fed and bathed. Maybe Camille will be up for a game of escaped convict and the warden's wife on the phone. . . .”

By the time Jericho snugged the laces on his Nikes and took a drink from the kitchen tap, Bo and Jacques had already disappeared to their rooms. Jacques's belly laugh rattled the walls.

A long run was second only to a good motorcycle ride for clearing Quinn's mind. Beyond the obvious physical and psychological effects, a run got him outside the false sense of security a rented room gave and allowed him to see if anyone had him under surveillance.

Standing in the moist night air on the cracked concrete driveway of the four-plex, Quinn studied a tourist map of the area under the streetlight. He made a mental note of the streets and alleyways around Zamora's rented chalet less than a mile away.

When he ran at home Quinn usually stuffed the baby Glock 27 in an across-the-chest rig other runners might use to carry a cell phone or energy bars. It was easy to reach in the event of an emergency and snug enough to keep from bouncing around during a sprint. A pretty brunette with a thick Spanish accent had met them with two plain blue Colt Combat Commanders in .45 caliber, one for Quinn and one for Jacques. A proven weapon since 1911, it was still too large to carry on a run, so Jericho left it in his duffel beside Severance.

Unless he happened to be in a war zone, he was often forced by circumstance to be unarmed when overseas. Always happy to have a sidearm or blade, he knew enough not to bank on traditional protection. Weapons were available everywhere if one only knew where to look for them.

Noting the time of 11:40, Jericho turned and trotted into the darkness.

When the Quinn boys were younger, their father had often taken them hunting in areas known for large populations of Alaska brown bear. Rather than letting them hide frightened in the tent cringing at every crack of a twig or crunch in the gravel late at night, the elder Quinn encouraged his boys to step outside and “take a look” at whatever was out there. Likely as not the noise turned out to be a weasel or night bird, but the old man reasoned that if it did happen to be a bear the thin layer of tent fabric was no more than imagined safety anyway. It was always better to see what wanted to eat you. It was a contradiction, but Quinn felt safer in the open than he did holed up in the dark.

A gentle salt breeze jostled the warm night air as Quinn trotted quietly down the dark and deserted streets. Pools of light and raucous laughter poured out from a bar here or a party there. Dakar Village, the ad hoc city within a city three blocks to the east, lit up the night sky. The steady thrum of tango music sulked over the sea wall and coursed between the buildings of Mar del Plata.

Well into his stride, Quinn ran on, jogging uphill to pass two snarling dogs fighting over something in the shadows. A block away from Zamora's, he slowed to a walk, catching his breath and popping his neck from side to side. His plan was to watch, gain information, nothing more. But planning on violent action and being prepared for it were two completely different things.

The houses in the quiet, upscale district sat on a small bluff overlooking the silver ribbon of beach and the blackness of the southern Atlantic. Lofty trees lined the streets and ornamental shrubs and stone sculptures set off the careful landscaping of the larger lots. Decades old, each was tucked back in the shadows of their own private garden.

It was late and even the most intense of prerace parties had quieting down. Still, Quinn kept to the shadows, keeping up the pretense that he was jogging in case someone happened to look out their window.

He stopped behind a dark blue Volkswagen Passat parked in the street and stooped as if to tie his shoe, watching, straining his ears for signs of more movement.

Zamora's rented stone block chalet sprawled over a large corner lot. An ornate set of wrought iron gates closed off the wide driveway. Thick tree branches brushed the top of a six-foot wall of gray stone that matched the house.

Hearing nothing but chattering music from a dozen different parties, Quinn shot a glance up and down the street, then sprinted across to the far side of the neighboring house. It was set slightly higher on the hill and might give him a better vantage point.

He vaulted to the top of the wall and scrambled up the adjacent patio roof that overlooked Zamora's garden. The thorny boughs of a mesquite tree gave him good cover and by pressing facedown against the ridgeline of clay tile Quinn was able to see the man moving along the inside edge of the wall behind a trellis of flowering fuchsia plants.

Quinn relaxed against the cool tile and watched, taking the opportunity to rest. He didn't have long to wait.

The twin glass doors to the main chalet flung open, exposing the dark garden to a flood of light and sound. Zamora came out, followed by Monagas, who shut the door behind them. Zamora opened his mouth to speak, but the big man raised a small black device Quinn recognized as an RF scanner.

Monagas played the device around the foliage and statuary beside his boss.

In an age where satellites could be tasked with counting the dimples on a golf ball, good guys and bad often grew too dependent on gadgets to keep them safe. Listening devices and long-range weapons were only tools. Entire cities could be carpet-bombed back to the Stone Age, but in the end the powers that be still had to send in a guy with a knife to root out any survivors. All the bug sweepers in the world were worthless if one forgot security measures like drawing the curtains or simply looking up in the trees before speaking.

Satisfied, Monagas returned the RF sweeper to his pocket and nodded at his boss.

“What did you find?” Zamora asked, the coal of his cigar casting an orange glow across his face.

“They have someone in the race,” Monagas said.

Quinn's breath caught in his throat.

“Who?” Zamora said, his face falling into a dark frown.

“I do not know yet,
patrón
,” Monagas said.

Quinn felt as if he'd been kicked between the shoulder blades. If Zamora found out who he was there was nothing left to do but pick him up and risk losing the bomb.

“We think it's someone on one of the British teams,” Monagas continued. “Or maybe even one of the racers themselves. Daudov went to university in the U.K. He has many contacts there who would kill if he paid them well enough.”

The doors opened again and one of the gap-toothed twins came out with a glass of wine, begging Zamora to return to his party. The doors shut behind them, throwing the garden into silence again.

Quinn began to breathe easier. So that was it. The Chechen had someone in the race. That certainly added a new wrinkle. It also meant Quinn needed to keep Zamora alive long enough to find out where he had the bomb.

A movement in the shadows closer to the house caught his eye. Behind a plaster statue of a winged angel a woman crept toward the chalet. Dressed in black, she wore her hair in a sensible ponytail. Even in the shadows, Quinn recognized her as the Russian agent, Aleksandra Kanatova—and she was completely unaware of the bearded man moving through the shadows less than twenty feet behind her. Quinn was too far away to get to her in time—with no way to warn her without alerting Zamora's men.

He was over the wall in a matter of seconds, lowering himself silently to the soft grass. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it into the bushes behind Kanatova.

On the ground now and separated by hedges, statuary, and darkness, Quinn heard a muffled thump as Kanatova turned to defend herself. There were two distinct pops of a suppressed weapon, then silence. Quinn caught the unmistakable odor of cordite on the breeze.

The door to a detached garage apartment suddenly swung open, spilling a swath of light and the clatter of voices into the garden. Quinn dropped to the ground beside his unconscious opponent and froze. The door squeaked shut and he heard the snick of metal in the darkness. At first he thought it was the safety of a pistol, but a whiff of burning tobacco told him one of Zamora's men had just stepped out for a smoke. That was good. A smoker would be unlikely to smell the cordite.

Everything seemed fine until the bushes beside the winged angel began to rustle. The movement stopped almost immediately, but the damage was already done.

 

 

“
Quién es?
” Zamora's man stepped away from the door and into the garden. Quinn heard the unmistakable rattle of a pistol sliding out of a holster. A flashlight flicked on and the beam began to play back and forth among the trees. It was only a matter of seconds before he would see something he didn't like and call for help.

Quinn pulled a cotton sock from the pocket of his running shorts. It was small, unobtrusive, and easy to carry. Stooping quickly, he scooped up a handful of stones before moving through the shadows. Better than a fist and easy to dump, a sock full of rocks made an excellent and relatively silent weapon.

Zamora's man moved forward, holding his light in one hand and the pistol in the other. The cigarette hung loosely from his lips and he padded through the darkness muttering to himself as if he didn't really expect to find anything. The sock full of rocks hit his temple like a lead sap.

Quinn caught him as he fell, lowering him softly to the grass.

“You again?” a female voice said from the shadows. Alexandra Kanatova stepped out, red hair framing her scowling face. “Why do you follow me?”

Quinn pointed at the guy on the ground. “I'm pretty sure he was about to ruin your evening. Who's the guy with the beard?”

“A Chechen pig.”

“I'd like to ask him some questions,” Quinn whispered.

“Too late for that.” Kanatova's eyes flicked between the back door of the house and the wall. “He is dead. Someone will come to check soon. We should go.”

Quinn shot a glance at the door. It wouldn't be long before someone missed the unconscious security man. With any luck they'd chalk it up to an intruder who'd been scared away by the confrontation—so long as they didn't find a dead Chechen in their garden.

“Do you ever take anyone alive?”

“Rarely,” she said.

 

 

Quinn and Kanatova carried the Chechen out the back gate and half a block away to deposit him unceremoniously in the Dumpster behind a wineshop. He had no identification on him and Quinn reasoned that, with all the international media attention, Argentine police would want to keep such a murder quiet until the race festivities were over.

Three streets away, with the safety of added distance, Quinn turned to look at Kanatova in the darkness. She walked with her head bent, hands in the pockets of her jacket, ponytail bobbing with each step.

Kanatova had very likely guessed he was a government agent by now, but giving up the fact that he even knew who she was would make her certain of it. “At the risk of getting kicked in the nuts again,” he said. “I believe we may be after the same thing.”

“Is that so?” She walked on without looking up. Her small shoulders were slightly stooped and she bent forward as if she was pulling a heavy load. For the moment they were heading in the general direction of his rented flat.