Mujaheed looked up and down the path. When he was certain there were no witnesses, he pressed the pen into the trail, activating the automatic injector and emptying the medication onto the path. He dropped the pen on the ground beside the stricken girl. It would be found later by authorities, who would believe she had panicked and wasted the drug that could have saved her life.
The girl looked on in horror. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Horrific red blotches blossomed on her face and neck. Eyes that had shone brightly moments before grew bloodshot and vague. Flecks of spittle frothed from swelling lips. Her head slammed against the pavement with a violent crack. She began to writhe, kicking so hard at the edge of the trail, she lost a shoe.
The black women walking with their children would find her in a few moments. By then Grace Smallwood would be past the point of rescue-and Mujaheed Beg would be gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Mervi hardly made it out of earshot from the gurgles of the dying girl when the cell phone in the pocket of his running shorts began to buzz. He hadn’t even had time to take out his comb and see to his hair. It had to be Dr. Badeeb. No one else had his number. He let it ring, wanting to put more distance between himself and Smallwood before she was discovered.
The very picture of impatience, Badeeb called again in a matter of seconds. Beg slowed to a walk in the shadowed, tunnel-like forest clearing along the heavily wooded Paint Branch trail. A gray squirrel chattered from the high limbs of an elm tree. Wiping sweat from his forehead with the tail of his shirt, he took a deep breath and answered curtly.
“ Al-salamu, Doctor.” He waved a mosquito away as he spoke.
“ Wa alaikum assalam,” Badeeb whined like the mosquito. “You are healthy, praise be to God…”
“I am,” Beg sighed, suddenly more fatigued than he should be. Nazeer Badeeb was his employer, but the Mervi found himself too weary for the customarily endless rounds of telephone politeness. “Why do you call?”
“I trust all is well in Maryland?” Badeeb sounded like a Pakistani version of the film actor Peter Lorre. The wheezing brought on by his ever-present cigarette was audible over the phone.
“It is,” Beg said, walking faster to outpace the mosquitoes that flung themselves from the surrounding foliage to swarm his face. “Our trouble in Rockville has been taken care of and that obstacle at the university has been cleared away. Your friend should have no trouble getting the job she wants.”
“Excellent,” Badeeb said, a broad smile evident in his voice. “Praise be to God that you are able to clear the path for so many.”
“Yes,” Beg said absentmindedly. “Praise be to God. What do you hear of Drake? Might we know anyone on this list of his?” The Mervi did not ask outright over the phone, but Badeeb would understand his meaning. Were they themselves, or any of their people, on the list?
Badeeb kept uncharacteristically silent for some time.
“I have not put eyes on it,” he said at length. “But Drake does us a great service by producing such a list. The Americans will devour themselves out of fear and mistrust of each other.”
“Maybe,” Beg mused. “Still, I do not like this politician. He seems much too powerful to have such radical thoughts.”
“He does, indeed,” the doctor said. Badeeb was always brooding over one idea or another. It was what made him so dangerous. “We will take care of Drake when the time is right.” The metallic sound of his cigarette lighter clinked in the background. “Right now we have larger fish to cook.”
“Fry,” Beg corrected, shaking his head. “You mean bigger fish to fry.”
“Yes.” Badeeb gave a forced laugh. “Of course. Much bigger fish…. You have done well, my friend. Praise be to God. Get some rest for now. I will call you.”
Beg ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. It was rare that he had more than a few days without some sort of assignment. In Dr. Badeeb’s world, there were always paths that needed clearing, loose ends to tie up. The doctor kept the details of his plans to himself, sharing them only when someone needed to be moved out of the way.
Suddenly hungry, the gaunt Mervi picked up his pace. He would eat some pancakes with lots of butter pecan syrup at the Denny’s around the corner and then return to his apartment in Virginia for some much-needed rest.
When he woke up, he would learn more of the dark woman who’d surprised him at Arbakova’s house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Standing outside Nadia Arbakova’s front door, one hip cocked to the side, Ronnie Garcia’s throat tightened as she watched Quinn and Thibodaux gear up. Dressed in black leather, with stiff riding boots and full-gauntlet riding gloves, the men reminded her of gladiators straddling futuristic machines out of an Alien movie. They mounted their bikes without speaking and roared down the driveway back toward Highway 270.
Arbakova’s murder had solidified everyone’s workday. Garcia would pay a visit to Agent James Doyle’s older sister, Tara, and see what the Air Force F-22 pilot had to say about her kid brother. The big boy biker with the Louisiana drawl and his darkly handsome friend would check out a couple of addresses on the guy who’d apparently tried to kidnap them that morning. They would all link up around 1500 hours at the Naval Observatory-the official vice-presidential residence-for an appointment with Nadia’s former boyfriend, Special Agent Doyle.
Ronnie put the tip of her index finger against full lips, eyes narrowed in thought. It would take some time to understand this one named Jericho. The Cajun dude had muscles on top of his muscles. Some women would be into that, but there was a brooding violence in the dark one that felt familiar to Garcia, as if she’d known him for a very long time.
Palmer and the others were still inside, letting the crime scene technicians go about their business while Bodington, no doubt, pitched high-level plans that didn’t involve Garcia doing anything more than carrying his briefcase.
Beyond the trees, the bikes threw up a spray of gravel, disappearing around the line of oaks along the deserted street. Ronnie sighed, jingling her keys in her fist. She looked at Arnie Vasquez, Palmer’s Secret Service driver. “You know that one?” she asked.
“You talking about Quinn?”
“Hmm.” She bit her bottom lip. “He married?”
“Not anymore.”
“Hmmm.”
“He’s a dangerous man, chica… muy dangerous.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Something else you want to know?”
“I’m wondering how he likes his coffee…”
Arnie smirked. “And just how do you want him to like his coffee?”
Garcia opened the door to her shiny black Impala and gave Vasquez a wink as she climbed in behind the wheel. “Strong, hot, and Cuban.”
CHAPTER S IXTEEN
Province of Nuristan Eastern Afghanistan 0700 hours Afghanistan Time
She was no diplomat-but Karen Hunt was a spy, and good spies knew how to be diplomatic when they had to be. Peering out the flat, elongated window of the concrete command bunker, she rocked back and forth on her feet, arms folded against the chill of the thin mountain air. She nodded toward the tiny window where she could just catch a glimpse of the gray crags that towered over the little copse of concrete buildings, sandbag bunkers, and double ring of concertina wire that that made up Camp Bullwhip.
“I mean, seriously,” she said. “It’s just like they told me it would be. This really is like living at the bottom of a Dixie cup.”
First Lieutenant Bryce Nelson, the camp’s ranking officer, glanced up from a table where he stood poring over a weathered topographic map. He was gaunt faced and world worn for a man in his late twenties. “Like I said…” He shook his head, then returned his attention to the map.