Now that Bodington’s guys at the FBI had climbed up their collective rectums, they offered little threat to anyone but each other. Each CS patriot raced to out-rat their fellow zealots for the best plea deal they could get as the jaws of the Department of Justice slammed tight around them.
The real dangers were the other organizations, yet unknown, who might also have chosen targets on the list.
“Two pivotal calls today.” Palmer peered at the men from behind his desk like a high school principal. He had a habit of doling out precious pieces of information one at a time.
“And?” Quinn said. He knew Palmer well enough to prod him a little just to show he was fully involved with the conversation.
“An old yak herder stumbled across one of our blood chits in southern Badakhshan Province. He turned it in to a platoon of U.S. Marines out on patrol.”
“Any reports of aircraft going down in that region?” Quinn asked, accustomed to such documents being issued to pilots in the event they were shot down over hostile terrain.
“Bearer wasn’t a pilot. Coding on the cloth indicated she’s a CIA paramilitary officer attached to FOB Bullwhip in Nuristan.”
“Badakhshan is north,” Thibodaux mused. Collectively, he and Quinn had spent time in nearly all the
Stans of the world. “She’s on the move, but that’s a long ways away from any of our bases.”
“If we can believe the writing on the chit, she’s a prisoner and heading deeper into the Hindu Kush. The note says there’s a boy among her captors who speaks ‘perfect English.’ ”
“No shit?” Thibodaux rubbed his chin. “This just keeps getting worse. You think they’re holding an American kid prisoner?”
Palmer shook his head. “She indicates the boy is a hostile.”
Jericho moved to the edge of his seat. “You mentioned two calls.”
“I did,” Palmer said. “SecState called about the time you were getting your ass kicked at Cubano’s. You boys have no doubt heard of MSF- Medecins Sans Frontieres?”
Both men nodded.
“Doctors Without Borders,” Thibodaux translated the French.
“Ran across them all the time in Iraq,” Quinn said. “I’m pretty sure it was one of them stitched my brother and me up in Senegal a few years back.”
Palmer steepled his hands in front of his face. “In any case, Secretary Ryan faxed over a report from a certain doctor with MSF who’s done a lot of work in the Hindu Kush. Seems this doctor…” Palmer leaned forward to consult the notepad on his desk. “Doctor… Deuben has been sending reports to the U.N. about child trafficking in Central Asia for years. The last report says locals tell of a hidden orphanage where the kids all speak English.”
“Let me guess,” Thibodaux said. “This orphanage is supposed to be somewhere in Badakhshan Province.”
Quinn nodded. “Makes sense.”
“We’ve been getting similar reports from Pakistani Intelligence,” Palmer said. “But to tell you the truth, they all seemed like fables until recently.”
“The same ISI who was helping bin Laden hide out? I’m not sure I’d trust Pakistani intel with directions to the crapper,” Thibodaux scoffed.
“Touche.” Palmer rubbed his chin, thinking.
“Where is this guy now?” Quinn asked.
“Tending to the health and welfare of prostitutes in Kashgar,” Palmer said. “And it’s Dr. Gabrielle Deuben, a female, not a guy.” He looked directly at Quinn. “Your record says you’ve spent some time in Kashgar?”
“I have,” Quinn said, instantly recalling the frenzied sounds and spicy smells. “Shortly after I graduated from the Academy. Program called Lieutenants Abroad. The place is about as Muslim as you can get in a hardfisted regime like China. It’s untamed, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.”
“Yes, it is.” Palmer put his feet up on the desk and stared at his ceiling with some obvious memories of his own. “I need you to talk to this doctor-find this orphanage if it exists. I could send in Special Forces, but it’s impossible to know who to trust. The Pakistanis warn we could have moles in key positions of the military. POTUS wants this close-hold. The fewer people who know the better until you get your ass back here with some useful intelligence. We could chase our tails hunting sleeper agents all day long.”
Palmer stood. “This Drake character is turning into a real pimple on my ass. His witch hunt hearings start tomorrow. People are starting to see ghosts where there aren’t any. This is shaping up to be a hell of a lot like the McCarthy era. We have to find out the man behind this and stop him-fast.”
“You think this is LaT?” Thibodaux offered. LaT or Lashkar-e-Taiba was a militant Pakistani group rivaling-and some said surpassing-al-Qaeda in danger to the United States. Their name meant Army of the Pure.
“Likely,” Palmer mused. “Or some offshoot cell thereof. But while that link matters as far as an investigation goes, this sort of operation is personality driven. There is always some despot with a lofty goal. Bin Laden, al-Zawahiri, Hitler, Pol Pot… every group needs a driving force. That individual is our target.” Palmer leaned forward at his desk, looking hard at Quinn. “I’m not clear yet on what their plan is, but you have to find out who that person is before their sleepers make us tear ourselves apart as a nation.”
Palmer took a TV remote from the lap drawer of his desk and pointed it at the screen displaying Google Earth. The bird’s-eye view zoomed in over the rugged confluence of three of the world’s highest mountain ranges-the Pamir, the Himalayas, and the Hindu Kush.
“I want you in Kashgar ASAP,” Palmer said, shining the red dot of a laser pointer on Western China. “But the Chinese would have a fit if we send you in on government business. I think it’s time you took some shooting leave.”
Jericho smiled at the notion. During the nineteenth-century spy/counterspy Great Game between England and Russia, British soldiers had often been given “shooting leave” so as to venture into neutral ground without official cover-or protection.
“Now wait just one damn minute,” Thibodaux all but roared from his seat on the couch. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think Quinn should be sent over to Kashgar all by hisself to talk with this fille doctor and her string of Chinese hookers.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going alone, Jacques. He just won’t be going with you.
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said, shaking his head ever so slightly. He was a Marine, and Marines took orders whether they liked them or not. Quinn respected that, but he could also understand the big Cajun’s disappointment.
Palmer produced two blue passports from his desk drawer and shoved them toward Quinn. “You and Miss Garcia will go over posing as a couple on a motorcycle adventure vacation. It’s the end of the season, but you should still have a couple of weeks of good riding weather. See what Dr. Deuben knows and get her to show you this orphanage. Keep me apprised of what you find on the Secure Satellite Link.”
“Adventure motorcyclists…” Thibodaux muttered, arms folded across his chest in a muscular pout.
“I get it, Jacques,” Palmer said. “But you don’t speak Chinese and with your bulk, you’d draw too much attention.” Palmer grinned. “If I ever need someone to go undercover as a pro wrestler, you’ll be our guy.”
Palmer’s cell phone gave a soft chirp. He looked at it and nodded grimly. “It’s POTUS,” he said. “Garcia will be here any minute. Let her in and play nice. I have it on good authority she carries a knife.”
“I’m just sayin,” Thibodaux sighed after they left Palmer’s office and shut the door behind them. “I can’t believe they’re sending you over to Bootystan with nobody to watch your back but the new kid.”
Quinn grinned. “There is that thing about her saving my life in the men’s room. Besides, I thought you liked her.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, she’s hot as a firecracker and all that,” Thibodaux said. “But have you looked in her eyes? She’s got crazy-ass clowns in there with knives and meat cleavers and shit… All of ’em do…”