State of Emergency (15 page)

 

A
quick 5K run under the leafless oaks and sycamores of George Washington's old haunts raised Jericho's spirits. Zamora's girl, Cathy, hadn't given them anything useful except that her boyfriend was a cold-blooded killer. They already knew that.

Garcia had returned to training, leaving Quinn feeling empty and mixed up. He'd kept the pace to a brisk six-minute mile in an effort to keep Thibodaux from broaching the subject of relationships. It had worked. The big Marine stayed right beside him through the entire run despite his massive bulk. He hadn't liked it, but he'd done it, along with the hour of yoga led by their defensive tactics trainer and quartermaster, Emiko Miyagi.

Now, the enigmatic Japanese woman sat ramrod-straight at the edge of a high-backed wooden chair in her study. Small hands rested neatly in the lap of her faded jeans. The open collar of a robin's-egg-blue shirt revealed the slightest corner of her hidden tattoo.

In point of fact, neither Quinn or Thibodaux knew much about the mysterious woman except that Palmer trusted her implicitly both in ability and devotion. She could have been forty or fifty. Flawless skin and extreme athletic ability made it impossible to tell her age. If she was younger, she had crammed a great deal of knowledge and skill into a short life span. She went by Mrs. Miyagi, but wore no ring and Quinn had never heard anyone mention a Mr. Miyagi. It seemed impolite to ask.

A flood of morning light reflected off the highly polished bamboo flooring in the study. Though numerous books on kendo, yoga, and the philosophy of combat lined the back wall, the room was sparse, with only a small center table and four identical wooden chairs. Contemplation and comfort did not, in Miyagi's opinion, go hand in hand.

Sitting in the chair beside the woman, Quinn used a remote to scroll through a series of photographs that flickered across a flat-screen monitor in the center of the bookcase. Thibodaux stood, wearing a pair of Miyagi's required fluffy maroon house slippers with his 5.11 tactical khakis.

Winfield Palmer was connected by video link, his face appearing in the bottom right corner of the monitor. He was able to view the same files from his remote office near Crystal City, a stone's throw from the Pentagon.

“No word yet on the fingers you gave me,” the national security advisor said from behind his huge mahogany desk. “Or the photo of the man at the airport. I have a friend in the Japanese government who's checking back channels, though, so I'm not giving up yet.”

“I appreciate it, sir,” Quinn said.

“As for your mystery woman at Zamora's party,” Palmer continued, “NSA gave us everything they have on known female Eastern Bloc operatives. I had them prioritize from your description.”

A series of new photos began to flash on the screen. Quinn found the woman he was looking for less than ninety seconds into the search.

“That's her there,” he said, hovering the cursor arrow over the headshot of a pleasant-looking woman in her twenties. She had emerald eyes and a splash of freckles across a smallish nose. Her particulars appeared under the official visa photograph. “She looks less world-weary than when I saw her and her hair is longer now, but it's definitely the same person.”

“Agent Aleksandra Kanatova of the
Federal'naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti
,” Thibodaux mused. “FSB. You were close,
l'ami
, when you guessed SVR.”

According to official policy the FSB, or Federal Security Service, generally worked within the confines of the Russian border, much as the FBI or Homeland Security operated in the United States. Like the CIA, the Federal Intelligence Service, or SVR, was supposed to handle missions outside the Russian Federation. In reality, the lines often blurred. Each agency had authority to act on orders directly from the Russian president to carry out actions up to and including directed assassination—and agents from both worried little about borders when it came to the security and intelligence needs of Mother Russia.

Quinn scrolled through the sparse NSA file.

“She comes by her job naturally.” Palmer's voice crackled over the video link as he perused the file on his own. “Her father was a colonel in the KGB and her mother was a gymnastics coach, so they traveled a great deal when she was young. Looks like she was an Olympic hopeful until she shattered her wrist at sixteen.... Studied international business at Moscow University. . . .”

“International business.” Thibodaux smirked. “Another term for majoring in spy craft.”

Miyagi glared at him.

“Just saying.” He rolled his eyes.

“You're right, Jacques,” Palmer said. A photograph of a much younger Kanatova appeared on the screen. She was standing on a rooftop restaurant somewhere in New York with the Empire State Building in the background. A rugged-looking man with a weathered face and wide grin stood beside her. He looked to be several years older than Kanatova. His broad arm draped around her shoulders.

“This photo is from eleven years ago. She speaks fluent English and German,” Palmer said. “CIA shows her working in Manhattan as a translator for two years right after college. She was likely already set up with FSB by this time.”

“Who's the guy with her?” Quinn asked.

“Mikhail Polzin,” Palmer said.

“Hmm.” Thibodaux gave an understanding nod. “The agent who was killed with Cooper in Uzbekistan.”

“That's right,” Palmer said. “We don't have any record of him coming to the U.S., so he must have been active then. Polzin was believed to be her handler.”

“They seem pretty damned cozy,” Thibodaux said. He kept his head turned so he wouldn't have to see Miyagi's glare.

Quinn used his remote to scroll through the attached pages on the screen. “Doesn't appear to be much else. She shows up in Chechnya for a short time as some sort of military liaison, then nothing.”

“The fact that she and Polzin were acquainted means something,” Palmer said. “On another matter, this race you've signed up for is causing me no small amount of heartburn. I may as well be buying a banana republic with the money we're paying to get you in at the last minute and on the QT. The cover is that you signed up months ago but your paperwork got lost.”

“Thanks, boss,” Quinn said. “It looked like the best way to stay close to Zamora for a while.” He couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration just thinking about the sand and heat and speed of the Dakar Rally. The wildness of it made him breathe a little faster.

“Border Patrol popped a Syrian with ties to al-Qaeda coming across from Canada near Niagara Falls. Documents in his car tie him to a shipping container that delivered, among other things Chinese ATMs manufactured by Shenzhen KVSIO, the same company that made the ATMs used in the first two bombings.”

“Is he talking?” Thibodaux asked.

“Won't shut up,” Palmer said. “He swears someone is trying to frame him. The Bureau and Homeland are putting the squeeze on all the ports as we speak. . . .”

“But you think the evidence was planted?” Quinn nodded in agreement.

“It all seems a little too neat,” Palmer said. “From your report, I'm not willing to write Zamora off just yet. The Russians think there's something going on or you wouldn't have run into Ms. Kanatova. I've got to tell you, though—doesn't it seem odd that he'd be off running a race like this if he was trying to move a weapon worth over a quarter billion dollars?”

“He's a flake,” Thibodaux offered. “Bomb or no bomb, he's gotta have the three A's to be happy—adventure, approval, and . . .” He looked at a stoic Mrs. Miyagi before continuing. “. . . women.”

Palmer leaned back in his chair as the phone began to ring on his desk. “Keep me informed,” he said. “Emiko, I have to take this. If you don't mind filling them in on the rest.”

Mrs. Miyagi bowed slightly in her seat.

“Of course.”

Palmer disconnected.

Mrs. Miyagi stayed in her high-backed chair. “Due to the short lead time involved, Mr. Palmer has ordered the KTM 450 rally bike you require, along with your support truck, to be flown south to rendezvous in the South Atlantic with a cargo vessel already en route to Mar del Plata. It should arrive shortly before you do, giving you time to clear Argentine customs before the race.” She handed Quinn a small device the size and shape of a dash-mounted GPS. “This will scan for gamma radiation. You can use it to interrogate Zamora's vehicle and equipment. If he has the bomb with him, it should leave a signature and we can take appropriate action. Now, I understand your brother is to accompany you?”

“Yes.” Quinn took the handheld sensor and slid it in his jacket pocket. “He's a wild child, but he's also a competent mechanic. We'll need someone we can trust handling that side of things.”

“Very well,” she said. “A contact from State who cooperates with Mr. Palmer will provide an unregistered sidearm for each of you upon your arrival.” She rose quickly, turned away as if to leave, then spun back with a sort of snap aggressiveness that reminded Quinn of a shark.

“I am to make you truly aware of what this device will do,” she said. Her dark eyes, multihued as mossy agates, flicked back and forth between the two men.

Though he'd seen plenty of devastation and heartache during his deployments to the Middle East, Quinn was not entirely sure he comprehended the magnitude of a nuclear detonation on American soil.

Miyagi saw it in his face and her eyes softened. In her mind, ignorance was better than swagger—so long as her students were willing to learn.

“It has become almost trite,” she said with her oval face canted a little to the side as it often was when she explained things. From anyone else, it might have come across as condescending, but Emiko Miyagi looked as if she merely wanted more than just her words to be understood. “Do you remember where you were on September 11, 2001?”

Quinn nodded. Thibodaux looked at the tatami floor.

Miyagi continued. “Nineteen al-Qaeda terrorists murdered almost three thousand people that day. Over six thousand more were physically injured, but we will never know the true human cost. The U.S. stock market lost almost one and a half trillion dollars in value that week—and, of course, we went to war.” She raised her hand as if to ward off a question. “I do not condemn the war. I am, as you have observed, perhaps as bellicose a woman as you will ever meet. I merely point it out as a consequence of September 11. The entire world changed that day.

“Those nineteen killed three thousand and changed so very much, but we have rebuilt and made ourselves, as Hemingway says, ‘stronger at the broken places.' ” She sighed, slowly nodding her head. “But gentlemen, my people know something of a nuclear bomb. Even a small device will bring more destruction than we as Americans can imagine. Our economy is a fragile egg, ready to be crushed underfoot at any moment by the next catastrophe. If intelligence reports are true, Baba Yaga is capable of delivering five kilotons of destructive power. That's a third the yield of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima that killed a hundred and forty thousand and forced the surrender of the Japanese government.

“Now, imagine how this will change the world: A five-kiloton explosion would produce a firestorm over two square miles. If such a device were to be detonated in Lower Manhattan it would not only destroy the major buildings of the Financial District, but virtually everything from Battery Park through Chinatown and Little Italy all the way to SoHo. Great volumes of superheated air would shoot into the sky. Hurricane-force winds would drive the flames through the rest of the city. Police and fire rescue would be completely overwhelmed. National Guard would mobilize, but by then thousands more are dead or dying from radiation exposure. If detonated in the right location, tens of thousands would be gone within the week.

“I have explained the effects of such a device on New York,” Miyagi concluded. “Now think on this. A bomb such as Baba Yaga could be placed in Anchorage or New Orleans—in short, anywhere.”

Thibodaux breathed in heavily through his nose, clenching the muscles in his massive jaw. “Well,” he said. “I guess we'd better find the damned thing.”

Miyagi raised a delicate black eyebrow. “Yes, Jacques, you'd better, for there is no surrender.”

“That's fine,” Quinn said. “Because I'm not the surrendering type.”

“And I don't suggest you are.” Miyagi's voice was strained, as if the weight of the world rested on her small shoulders. “But that does not matter. The people we fight now do not care if we surrender or not. They only want to see us dead.”

 

 

Quinn's phone buzzed just as he threw a leg over his motorcycle. He tapped the Bluetooth device on the side of his helmet and answered.

“Daddy!” Mattie Quinn's voice filled his helmet and his heart.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, leaning forward to rest across the tank and handlebars.

“Do you have my Christmas present yet?”

“That's a surprise,” he said. In truth, he had no idea what to buy a little girl. Kim proved little help, seeming to enjoy letting him twist in the wind with his decision. “Do you still want to be a doctor when you grow up?”

“Not anymore,” she said. “Now I want to be a scientist or maybe a teacher . . . or a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?”

“No.” She giggled. “Mom told me I should say that to bug you. Really and truly, right this minute, I think I want to go into the Air Force.”