Palmer had seen to it she was credentialed as a full counterintel agent for the CIA-but even in the shadow of the Agency’s headquarters, so few people ever actually saw CIA identification that she was met with a tilted head and arched brow-the universal expression for “… Sure you are…”
Garcia had stopped for a Diet Dr. Pepper on the drive in and was now sure some unseen Air Force security officer was having a dandy old time watching her do the potty dance outside the bunkered door. From the number of cameras and sophisticated satellite antenna arrays that bristled on the concrete block hangar, her misery was likely being beamed directly to the Pentagon.
The door gave a sudden electronic buzz and a metallic click. In a near state of panic, Garcia reached for the handle, but it was pushed open by a slender brunette in a green Nomex flight suit. The leather name tag above her right breast pocket identified her as Major T. Doyle.
The major winked a startling blue eye-a woman-to-woman wink.
“You know, they make us gals wear diapers when we fly,” she said in a comfortable Texas drawl. “Haven’t come up with a way to connect our lack of exterior plumbing to the relief tube… though they’ve tried some pretty uncomfortable dumbass ideas, let me tell you. Come on. The head is right down the hall here.”
“Thanks,” Garcia sighed, waving to the camera above the door. At least someone had been paying attention to her dance.
Her business taken care of quickly, Garcia met Tara Doyle outside the ladies’ room door. She was immediately struck by the major’s uncommon beauty. Thick hair, so black it shone blue in the stark light of the cavernous aircraft hangar, was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Glacier-blue eyes locked on Garcia and drew her down the side hall to a cramped office Doyle shared with another pilot.
Doyle dipped her head toward the vacant desk. “Speedo won’t be back for a couple of hours. You can grab his chair if you want.
Garcia rolled the padded chair around beside Doyle’s cheap wood veneer, DOD-issue desk.
The major kicked her desert-tan boots up on a stack of folders and leaned back with her hands behind her head. She was slightly built, a head shorter than Ronnie. Had it not been for the grace and maturity in the way she carried herself, the baggy fight suit would have made her look like a child in pajamas.
“All righty then,” Doyle said, with the swagger of someone accustomed to commanding a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar aircraft. “What does the CIA want with a little ol’ jet jockey like me?”
“Just a few questions.” Garcia leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. She hoped it made her look more earnest. “Have you ever met a woman named Nadia Arbakova?”
“Sure. My baby brother’s lady friend. They both work for the Secret Service. I don’t think much of her, to tell you the God’s honest truth-she’s a little too much of a shrinking violet for my blood. Awfully damned needy…” Doyle lowered her eyes. “But I’m guessing you already knew that. Does this have anything to do with that congressman’s list of infidels?”
Garcia bit her lip. “There’s really no delicate way to put this-”
“Well, hell, don’t then,” Doyle said. She let her boots slide to the floor. “I’m a female pilot in a sky raining testosterone. Folks don’t sugarcoat stuff around here.”
“Arbakova is dead,” Garcia said. “Murdered.”
Doyle folded her hands in her lap. “Does Jimmy know?”
“Not yet. I’m on my way to see him after this. I understand he and Nadia have a relationship.”
“Had.” Doyle shrugged. “Jimmy broke it off a couple of weeks ago. He said she was starting to see the boogey man… Guess she had a right to.”
“Did she ever talk to you about that?”
Doyle shook her head, staring off into space. “The three of us went to dinner maybe three or four times. She was always the quiet one. Jimmy and I did most of the talking.”
Garcia glanced down at her notes. “Jimmy is Native American?”
“Northern Cheyenne,” Doyle said. “My parents adopted him when he was eleven. I was nearly seventeen. Mother and Daddy died in a car wreck about six months later.”
“Tragic.” Garcia gasped.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Doyle said. “The poor kid comes to us as an orphan, then we both end up parentless. I took care of him as best I could. I made sure he got through junior high and high school while I went to college on an ROTC scholarship.”
“Did you ever meet any of his Native relatives? Cousins, aunts, uncles?”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, tapping a pencil on the desk. “He had an aunt and uncle on the res in Montana. Anyhow, they couldn’t take care of him.”
“Can you give me their names?”
“I don’t remember, but I can find out. I don’t know if they’re even still alive.”
The major suddenly leaned across her desk, cobalt eyes focusing sharply on Garcia. “And that all leads me back to my original question. I’m smart enough to know the CIA doesn’t investigate the murder of a Secret Service agent. Is my baby brother mixed up in something he shouldn’t be?”
“I don’t know yet,” Garcia answered honestly. “Does the name Tom Haddad mean anything to you?”
“Nope,” Doyle said, leaning back again, arms on the rests of her chair like a queen on a throne. “Sounds Arab.”
“He used to be the CIA station chief in Cairo.” She watched Doyle’s eyes for any sign of a reaction. “His body was found with Ms. Arbakova.”
“Listen, Ms. Garcia…” Doyle released a long sigh. “I fly fighter jets for a living so I’ll leave the spy-hunting shit to you. But no matter what he tells you, this is gonna be awful hard on Jimmy. He’s always been a little on the sullen side. All he ever wanted to do was guard the president of the United States. Used to talk about it nonstop when he was a kid. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised the Secret Service even lets him near the veep. He can be kind of a downer to be around. Not a big one to demonstrate emotion. Neither was Nadia for that matter. Guess that’s a side effect from being orphaned young.”
“Wait a minute.” Garcia sat up straight. “Arbakova was an orphan too?”
“Raised by a couple of older sisters.” Tara Doyle gave a quiet little chuckle. “I guess Jimmy has an excuse to be sullen though. He gets himself orphaned twice-and then he has to be raised by the queen of West Texas bitches. Speaking of that, I have to get my bird ready for a flight. Are we done?”
Ronnie shut her notebook. “For now.”
Tara Doyle shut the door behind the nosy CIA agent and took a cell phone from the pocket of her flight suit. She pressed the second number on her speed dial list.
“Jimmy?”
“Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“Listen to me,” Tara said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re mixed up in, but a lady CIA agent just came by to see me.”
There was a long silence on the line. “And?”
“Nadia’s dead.”
“That’s not funny.” Jimmy’s voice turned ice cold.
“I’m not screwin’ with you. This woman is asking a lot of questions. You sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”
“Are you serious? Nadia’s dead? How?”
“She didn’t say,” Tara sighed. “Listen, Jimmy. I told her I’d met your aunt and uncle from the reservation in Montana.”
“Okay.”
“You understand what I mean?” Tara said. “When they come to talk to you, you just say you don’t remember any family but you’ve heard me talk about them. I’m afraid this could screw up your career if you’re not careful.”
“Understood,” Jimmy said. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”
“Listen,” Tara said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry about Nadia.”
“Me too,” Jimmy said. It was difficult for her to read his voice. “Me too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
U.S. Naval Observatory Washington
Quinn sat on the vice president’s porch and waited quietly. Where others might feel the overwhelming need to ask questions during an interview, he let silence do much of his work for him. Garcia was in the chair next to him, leaning forward, but following his lead. Thibodaux stood back, listening but giving the group some space.