Once the bike was parked to his satisfaction, he tugged off the reinforced Sidi riding boots and slipped into a more comfortable pair of black Rockport chukkas. He could ride in them if he had to, but running in the heavy Sidis could be a problem.
Both men nodded to Palmer’s limo driver. As the president’s national security advisor, Palmer rated a small Secret Service detail of his own. His driver, a special agent, stood with his head back, soaking up the fall sun beside a black armored limo. Arnold Vasquez was not as tall as Thibodaux, but the muscles and Sig Sauer pistol under his loose suit coat made it clear he had been hired for more than his ability behind the wheel. As fellow Marines, he and Thibodaux had hit it off immediately. Each time they met it was a contest to see who could bark semper fi first and loudest.
“Uuurrrrah!” Vasquez snapped when Thibodaux made his way around the limo. “Hey, Captain Quinn.” The Cajun was a brother in arms; Jericho, as an Air Force officer, was worthy of little more than a polite nod.
“Urrah, Arnie.” Jacques grinned. “How you been gettin’ along, beb?”
“Fine, fine,” Vasquez said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The boss is inside with Bodington and Ross.”
Quinn raised an eyebrow at that. “FBI and CIA Bodington and Ross?”
“The very same.” Vasquez nodded.
“Don’t tell my child bride,” the big Cajun mused. “But I always thought Virginia Ross was sorta cute from her photo. Too cute to be the boss of the CIA, that’s for damned sure…”
Agent Vasquez rolled his eyes and leaned in, as if with a secret. “ Mucho jamon por dos juevos, buddy,” he said. “That don’t show up in no press photo…”
Quinn understood the words, but not the colloquialism. “ Mucho jamon?”
“Too much ham for two eggs,” Thibodaux chuckled. “Guess Arnie’s sayin’ the director of the CIA is a little easier to jump over than walk around…”
The kid slouching just inside the half-open front door had an unruly mop of sun-bleached hair and an attitude that made him look like he’d only just graduated from his skateboard to a government job. He lowered mirrored Oakley sunglasses to give both Quinn and Thibodaux the once-over. Black motorcycle leathers and the hard-put gazes of men who had seen more than their share of extreme violence had a way of earning them scrutiny from the authorities.
At first glance it was impossible to tell if the young sentry was FBI or CIA.
“You superheroes looking for someone?” Skater Boy said. He stepped up to block their way, holding up the flat of his hand as if it was a bulletproof shield.
“FBI,” Thibodaux whispered, turning to give Quinn a pained look. “No doubt about it.”
Quinn couldn’t help but smile. “Air Force OSI,” he said. During his freshman “doolie” year at the Air Force Academy he’d learned to deal with overbearing people by picturing a red dot in the center of their foreheads. It was a trick he’d failed to mention during all his psychological interviews. “Special Agents Quinn and Thibodaux here at Mr. Palmer’s request.”
“Let’s see some ID.” Skater Boy snapped his fingers in the overly officious way of one new to the world of badges and guns and a little drunk on the terrible cosmic power.
Quinn sighed, imagining the red dot at the bridge of the kid’s nose. He reached for his creds when a familiar voice cut the silence from a long hallway to his right.
“Let them through, Reagan.” Palmer stepped out of an alcove at the end of the hall. He wore khaki slacks instead of his customary suit. The sleeves of a starched white shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He handed Quinn and Thibodaux each a pair of blue nitrile gloves to match the ones on his own hands, then dismissed Reagan the skater boy with a curt nod.
“Hope the double extra-large are big enough for those shovels you call hands, Jacques,” Palmer said as he turned to walk back down the hall.
Quinn unzipped his leather jacket and took a deep breath. Putting on the gloves flooded his mind with memories of the near miss they’d had with weaponized Ebola less than a month before.
Palmer raised his own gloved hand as he walked, appearing to read Quinn’s mind. “These are more to protect the crime scene than your health.”
Thibodaux groaned. “Since when do you use your hammer teams to go all CSI?” The mountainous Cajun was fine when it came to killing bad guys or bashing heads together, but he was known to have a bit of a weak stomach when too much time had passed from the point of violence.
“Since someone started torturing American spies.” Palmer stopped at the gaping doorway at the end of the shadowed hall. A white refrigerator stood a few feet beyond the door at the edge of the kitchen. It was covered with photos of what looked to be three separate young families. Each bore enough of a resemblance to the other to suggest they were related. The absence of any male influence in the house led Quinn to believe a single woman lived here. The photos on the fridge were likely her siblings, nieces, and nephews. A framed diploma hung in the hall to the right of the doorway proclaiming the graduation of Nadia Arbakova from the United States Secret Service Training Academy in 1998.
Palmer pointed to the doorway with an open hand. “They’re through there.”
A single lightbulb tried feebly to fight away the darkness. Thin tan carpet did little to absorb the sound of their footfalls on the creaky wood. The walls to the stairway were painted glossy white and adorned with a cluttered mix of more family photographs. The broken frames and glass of two lay shattered on the steps, indicating a struggle. The moldy, metallic smell of terror and urine met Quinn on a wall of dank air from below.
“So, the woman who lived here is one of the victims,” Quinn said, half to himself. The air grew moist as they made their way single file down the stairs-it was cooler, but no more comfortable. Even surrounded by people he knew, the heaviness in the house made him grateful for the familiar bulk of a pistol under his jacket.
“Brilliant police work.” Kurt Bodington stepped around a concrete block wall at the bottom of the steps. “I suddenly find myself surrounded by crack investigators.” A sneer dripped from his voice. Quinn had never met the director of the FBI but found it easy to dislike him instantly. The man was, after all, a lawyer.
Palmer stepped closer to a silent Hispanic woman who’d come around the corner behind Bodington. She was tall, with an athletic build that reminded Quinn of a lifeguard. A shimmering dark blue blouse accented the light tan of her suit. Sensible shoes, as black as her hair, made Quinn think she might be FBI. The hint of humility in her amber-flecked eyes made him wonder.
“Agent Veronica Garcia with the CIA,” Palmer said. “She’s the one who discovered the bodies this morning.”
“Has an uncanny habit of being at the wrong place at precisely the right moment, if you ask me,” Bodington grumbled.
Garcia shrugged off the insult, but her eyes flashed daggers. She kept her hands clasped behind her back, as if to restrain them from slapping Director Bodington.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Garcia.” Quinn raised his blue glove. “I’d shake your hand, but… anyhow, anyone who Director Bodington dislikes is a friend of mine…”
“Let’s get to the yolk of the egg,” Palmer said, jaw muscles clenching as he glared at both men. “You two can duel at high noon after this is over.”
Virginia Ross stepped around the corner of an unfinished Sheetrock wall. Thibodaux gave Quinn a tiny nod, agreeing with Arnie’s earlier assessment. More academic than clandestine operator, Ross wore fancy blue pumps, navy slacks, and a yellow blouse. Smallish shoulders and broad hips made her look like an inverted blueberry ice cream cone.
Operator or not, she was more savvy in the ways of politics than Bodington, and enough of a spy to project a measure of tense civility.
“Officer Garcia was conducting a background check on Agent Arbakova. She stopped by a little after seven this morning and stumbled onto this interrogation site-”