“A Breitling Emergency,” she said, rocking slightly in satisfaction.
Thibodaux rolled his eyes, but she appeared to ignore him.
Quinn lifted the stainless-steel timepiece out of the blue velvet lining. It was heavy, thicker than three silver dollars, with two crowns on the side, one larger and located just below the other on a cylindrical metal tube built into the watch in the six o’clock position. He’d known guys in his squadron at the Air Force Academy who’d purchased such “babe-gettin’ ” watches to use as conversation pieces in bars.
“I’m assuming you could triangulate on me if I were to unscrew this and pull out the wire antenna.” He held up the watch and touched the lower crown.
“Exactly.” Mrs. Miyagi smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. “But there is much more to it than that.”
The Bluetooth device in her ear began to flash. She touched it and turned half away before speaking.
“ Moshi, moshi,” she said. Answering the phone was one of the few times she consistently spoke Japanese. She nodded silently, listening. “Of course,” she said at length. “Right away.” She tapped the earbud again to end the call.
“Palmer-san wants you both to meet him at the Alexandria office.” Her voice was absent any trace of an accent.
Quinn nodded. He slipped off his comfortable TAG Heuer Aqua Racer and latched the heavy Breitling around his wrist.
“Seriously?” Thibodaux’s mouth gaped open. “I don’t get an electronic emergency watch?”
Mrs. Miyagi groaned as if having to explain a simple truth to a small child. “No, Thibodaux-san, you do not.” She held a hand out toward Quinn, slowly opening her fist to reveal a set of keys. “In the meantime, you will need a bike. Please, take the Ducati… on loan. Careful though. She can reach ninety miles an hour in five seconds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fort McNair Washington
C ongressman Drake’s list had sent a shock wave through the military. Ranking officers from each branch had appeared on the list-and anyone who looked or acted out of place fell under immediate scrutiny from peers and superiors alike. All branches of the service took on an immediate shroud of darkness and mistrust reminiscent of Cold War Europe and the East German Stasi. Informants sat behind every desk. Old scores begged to be settled.
No one trusted anyone else.
Lieutenant Colonel Dane Fargo stood with both hands planted on the gray military desk, reading the top folder in the stack of file folders before him. The file, thick and dog-eared, literally made him want to sing. He’d cashed in every favor, called in every debt, and used the last drop of his political capital, but he’d gotten one more name added to Congressman Drake’s list.
He knew in his heart that Jericho Quinn should have been on the list from the beginning. The man was too good to be true. He spoke Chinese like a native and his Arabic was flawless. Months of his life were completely unaccounted for. Even his dark complexion and heavy black stubble suggested he was of foreign blood.
Even now, when the veracity of all those on the list was in question, Jericho Quinn had gone completely underground. When they did find him, Fargo knew he’d be a tough nut to crack. But that would be the most enjoyable part of the process.
Fargo had traded his customary camouflage battle dress uniform for a dark blue business suit that hung awkwardly off sloping shoulders. A white shirt gaped around his neck as if he were a child wearing his daddy’s clothes. Ill-fitting suit or not, Fargo couldn’t help but feel that his time had finally come.
Congressman Drake’s list of possible subversives had caused no small stir among the halls of government. Men and women formerly trusted as golden children by their superiors-civilians and soldiers alike-found themselves under deep suspicion. Men like Fargo with rock-solid backgrounds, who also happened to have a close relation in the U.S. Congress, had finally been given the opportunity to rise to the top of their respective heaps.
When he’d heard about the massive, government-wide vetting process, he’d called his uncle the congressman right away. A few handshakes and backroom deals later and Lt. Colonel Fargo had been given a special team of investigators stationed at Fort Lesley J. McNair along the Potomac River. It was altogether fitting, Fargo thought, that his task force was headquartered on the very same spot where Mary Surratt and her coconspirators were hanged for their part in the plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.
In reality, the men on his team made the flesh on the back of his neck crawl. Trained at Fort Huachuca at the U.S. Army’s Interrogator School, these four were Senior Echoes, an unofficial subunit within the Five Hundredth Military Intelligence Group that called themselves the Boom Squad.
Military interrogators often referred to themselves as Echoes. Fargo needed rogues, men willing to bend the rules of civility. His rank and the suffocating air of fear that had enveloped the nation allowed him to handpick the harshest men from these ranks, men who would do the hard things no one talked about at parties. Self-taught in the tactics of the 1960s-era heavy-handed KUBARK CIA Interrogation Manual, all were NCOs, and none, as far as Fargo could tell, were used to taking any sort of order from a superior officer. They were perfect for what Fargo had in mind.
Psychology mixed with a liberal amount of thumbscrews was par for the course with these men. Spanish inquisitors had nothing on them. Pig-eyed and emotionless, they were extremely talented at what they did. A simple stare from any of them caused Fargo’s flesh to crawl. They were a necessary evil, just the sort of men he would need to capture and interrogate the backstabbing son of a bitch Jericho Quinn.
Fargo relished the control that this newfound fear had given him over his fellow soldiers. He recalled the motto of the Stasi: Schild und Schwert der Partei — Sword and Shield of the Party. He’d been a shield long enough. Being a sword was proving to be much more fun.
If it happened to get messy-so much the better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alexandria, Virginia
The national security advisor sat behind an expansive desk. Abnormally clean in Quinn’s opinion, the shining mahogany surface was large enough to warrant its own zip code but had little more than a black leather blotter and manila file folder on top. Palmer turned a Montblanc fountain pen back and forth between his fingers, eyes playing between a pair of fifty-two-inch flat-screen monitors to his right that displayed CNN and Fox News. A third screen, separated from the others by an old-fashioned grease board, displayed a Google Earth map focused over the countries in Central Asia.
American paintings by Catlin and Remington hung on the dark cherry-paneled walls. A roughrider bronze identical to the one in the Oval Office sat on a small table to the right of Palmer’s desk. Above it, in a framed shadow box, hung a Winchester lever-action rifle. Apart from the flickering glow of the three flat screens, there was no other light in the room. All the masculine art gave it the aura of a perfect man-cave. Just a stone’s throw from the Pentagon, few knew of the existence of the office.
Quinn sat opposite Thibodaux on the burgundy leather button-tufted sofa. A rich Moroccan carpet that looked as though it were made from five kinds of chocolate stretched out on the wood floor between the couch and Palmer’s desk. On the coffee table were two files containing a wealth of intelligence information on the West Virginia paramilitary group calling itself the Constitutional Sword.
Apart from their white supremacist and anti-Semitic views, the CS portrayed themselves as strict protectors of American virtue and freedom. They were working off Drake’s list and had eight of the names, including Quinn’s, highlighted. Three of those on their shortlist were missing. One, a DOJ attorney named Rosenthal, had been found that morning shot to death in his Volvo near Dupont Circle.