A slow dread crept into his body as he took stock of the room. “Where’s the bald guy?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Thibodaux grunted, kicking Fargo in his wounded leg. “There’s not a hell of a lot keeping me from putting another bullet in you. Where’d your cue-ball buddy go?”
Fargo craned his neck to look around the room. Sobbing, his face was contorted with unspeakable pain. Blood pulsed between his fingers “I… don’t… know… He was right here when you came in. I… I swear it.”
“Well, he’s not here now…” Thibodaux said. “He didn’t just vanish.”
“Fargo’s right,” Quinn said, still looking around the room. “He disappeared the moment you guys breached the door.”
“What’s his name?” Thibodaux prepared to kick Fargo again.
“Bundy,” he said through clenched teeth. “First Sergeant Sean Bundy.”
“I found something,” Miyagi said, Japanese short sword still in her hand. She used her foot to push at an elongated wooden flap that ran along the wall behind her. Six feet across and roughly a foot high, it was painted the same color as the concrete block that surrounded it. All Bundy had to do was drop to the floor and roll to escape the room in an instant.
“Dammit.” Thibodaux glared, breathing through his nose as he focused all his rage on Fargo.
Quinn raised his hand. “Hang on a minute, Jacques.” He limped over to stand over Fargo. “Why was I on the Congressman Drake’s list?”
Fargo shook his head. “I… I’m sorry,” he sobbed.
Quinn’s voice hummed with tension. “Tell me how my name got on the list.”
“I saw how much you traveled overseas. How… how good your Arabic was… It just makes sense. I had you added after the fact so my team could investigate.”
“Where can we find Sean Bundy?”
“He’s… a senior interrogator… out of Fort Huachuca. Will someone pleeeeease help me stop this bleeding?”
Quinn nodded slowly. “I think the man from Louisiana is about to help you out with that.”
Fargo’s eyes snapped open as the big Cajun stepped forward.
Muscles and tendons on the side of Thibodaux’s neck flexed. “Before you tortured my friend, you paid a little visit to my wife and boys. Remember that?”
Fargo nodded quickly. Sobbing so hard he could barely breathe.
Jacques raised the pistol level with Fargo’s contorted face. “Lucky for you she didn’t lose the baby or I’d have put you down a hell of a lot slower than this.”
No one flinched at the shot.
“Sit down, Quinn-san,” Miyagi said, sheathing the wakizashi. “I need to take a look at your injury.”
Quinn sighed, realizing he was standing there in nothing but what God gave him. “First, I need some pants,” he sighed.
Mrs. Miyagi gave him a stoic wink. “Do not dress on my account, Quinn-san.”
“I’m about the same size as the guy you clobbered.” Quinn nodded toward Jimenez, who lay unconscious on the floor. “Think you could help me out, Jacques?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Quinn limped to a chair so he could examine his mutilated foot. Just looking at it made white-hot fury rise like an angry phoenix in his chest. He shot a glance at Fargo, whose lifeless body slumped against the far wall, and thought about borrowing Jacques’s pistol so he could shoot the dead man again.
“Garcia?” He almost hated to ask the question.
“She was still unconscious when I left the hospital.” Thibodaux nodded. “I hear she’s doing better now though. They got her on some IV antibiotics strong enough for a horse. Whatever she got poked with was pretty nasty.”
“I’m assuming Hunt got the information to you about this Dr. Badeeb?” Quinn dabbed at the raw flesh around the shard of white bone.
“She did…” The Cajun gulped, grimacing. For someone as tough as he was, he had a weak stomach when his friends were injured. “Whoooeee, son! You are gonna need to put somethin’ on that.”
“Jacques.” Quinn glanced up impatiently through narrowed eyes. He was having trouble focusing and desperately needed something to wrap his mind around. “Badeeb. Could you get anything?”
Miyagi gave Quinn a small plastic packet. “Take this,” she said. “It’s honey. It will help with the shock.” She shooed his hand away from the wounded foot and knelt to pick at it with a small needle. Quinn had no idea where she’d gotten the thing, but presumably carried one with her at all times. She glanced up at him with prodding brown eyes, as if to say, Go on with what you’re saying. I’ll handle this. Quinn relaxed and relinquished the throbbing foot to the mystical Japanese woman.
“We got lucky on this one, cher.” Thibodaux’s grimace perked into a full grin. “Dr. Nazeer Badeeb is a Pakistani pediatrician who has an apartment near Georgetown.”
“We sure it’s the same guy the kids at the orphanage were talking about?” Quinn winced as Miyagi poured some sort of noxious liquid over his foot. It burned as if she’d set him on fire. He threw his head back and gritted his teeth as he spoke. “For all I know, the name Badeeb is the Smith or Jones of Pakistan.”
“I told you, l’ami,” Thibodaux scoffed. “We got lucky. This Georgetown doctor Nazeer Badeeb is also licensed to practice medicine in Pennsylvania, Arizona, Ohio, and Texas. You remember Timmons and Gerard?”
“The CIA shooters?” Quinn said, mesmerized as Miyagi tapped a hair-like needle in the top of his foot, numbing the pain as surely as a local anesthetic.
“The very same,” the Cajun said. “Your new CIA friend, Agent Hunt, had the forethought to check their medical records. Turns out Nazeer Badeeb was each boy’s pediatrician while they were in their early teens. He helped with the adoption exams.”
Thibodaux pulled a notebook from the breast pocket of his black Nomex tactical shirt and flipped through the pages with fat thumbs.
“Badeeb immigrated legally back in 1980. Records show his first wife and two kids were killed in a dustup along the Paki border between American operatives and Russian forces during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. Those that know him say he blames the U.S. for the deaths-though he didn’t divulge that little factoid when he was trying for his citizenship.”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer…” Quinn mused. He got to his feet with a groan, feeling ten years older than he had only a week before. “So, have you picked him up?”
“Nope,” Thibodaux said. “Palmer put a team on his clinic, but he hasn’t showed. He’s married again, this time to a Chinese Muslim gal named Li Huang. She’s supposed to have a crash pad in Chinatown.”
“In D.C.?”
“Nope.” Thibodaux shook his head. “New York. And there’ve been a few more developments while you were off in Bootystan with your new girlfriends. They’ve announced the location of the VP’s daughter’s wedding. She’s getting married off the south end of Manhattan on Governors Island at five o’clock.”
“Tonight?” Quinn glanced at his wrist, remembering the Breitling had been reduced to molten bits by the Hellfire missile strike. “What time is it now?”
“Ten past eleven in the morning,” Mrs. Miyagi said. She returned the vial of antiseptic to the cargo pocket of her BDU pants and took out a white pill, handing it to Quinn.
“Provigil,” she said.
“Thank you.” Quinn nodded, popping the pill dry. Provigil was a drug the military sometimes gave pilots to keep them awake during long missions. It didn’t cause the jitters like caffeine or amphetamines and there was no crash when it wore off. It had yet to be determined if there were any negative long-term effects. After what Quinn had just been through, he didn’t care. He had to keep moving. Sleep was not an option.
“Governors Island has to be the target,” Quinn said. “Can we have them postpone it?”
Thibodaux shook his head. “Not a chance in hell. According to Palmer, the vice president and Mrs. Hughes feel safe enough since they didn’t release the location to the public until a day ago.”
“But many people must have already known,” Mrs. Miyagi mused.