Garcia caught the eye of Emiko Miyagi, the strange little Japanese woman who was Jericho’s martial arts trainer and confidant. Miyagi was attractive in the way a handsome blade was attractive — dangerous, and quite useful in the right hands. Garcia had known her for over a year now, received defensive tactics instruction from her at Camp Peary during CIA basic, and worked alongside her on several bloody missions. She still couldn’t quite put her finger on this woman. If she hadn’t known better, Garcia might have been jealous of the time Miyagi spent with Jericho. She wasn’t worried that they’d ever been romantic — but, Ronnie knew, there were things far more intimate than romance. She couldn’t help but think that this Japanese warrior woman was able to see far more deeply into Jericho Quinn’s soul than she would ever find possible.
“Evil,” Miyagi said, wasting no further words since everyone was in agreement.
Palmer unwrapped a menthol cough drop and popped it in his mouth, narrowing his eyes the way he did when Garcia knew he wanted to get back to business. He was a normally vibrant man, but the illness, along with months of playing cat and mouse with the administration’s goons had caused him to lose most of what was left of his close-cropped gray hair. His once ruddy complexion bordered on ashen and his posture had stooped noticeably from the time when Garcia had first met him. Wearing a shawl collar cardigan against the chill of the underground, he looked more like an exhausted college professor than the West Point graduate and close confidant of the man who’d been the most powerful man on earth.
Since they’d come to the farm, Palmer had decided to hold all their important meetings in the bunker rather than the more comfortable farmhouse. Hawthorne had built the thing like a SCIF or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. No two-way communication took place from the facility. Cells and radios were left topside and radio frequency detectors at the door made sure everyone stayed honest. Twelve feet beneath the surface under two feet of concrete, fresh air was drawn in and stale air was piped out through a series of vents that came up through the floor of an empty barn over a hundred meters away. The bunker could be accessed through a false floor in an equally well-hidden panic room entered by sliding back a portion of the kitchen counter. Even Garcia, who’d been through training in all manner of unbelievable things at Camp Peary, had found the designs amazing. Paranoia caused people to take drastic measures — but it was hard to say Sam Hawthorne’s paranoia was unwarranted, considering their present situation.
“I got in touch with Jennifer on the Hill this morning,” Palmer said, bringing the meeting back on topic once the cough drop began to do its job. He looked at Garcia. “Senator Gorski and Congressman Dillman have agreed to meet you this evening.”
“Why don’t you just send one of these girls in to shoot the son of a bitch President in the eye?” Hawthorne groused, giving a sidelong look toward Garcia. “The busty one looks like she’s shot people before.” His wife raised a chastising eyebrow at his cursing, but adjusted the Makarov on her hip and resumed her cross-stitch without saying anything.
Garcia smiled at the old man. Miyagi had much more experience in the shooting department, and the intensity in her eyes bore it out, but Hawthorne made no secret that he had a little crush on Ronnie. At least twice a day he’d lament that none of his sons had married a healthy girl with “breeder’s hips” like hers. Ronnie just shrugged it off. Her deadbeat ex-husband had described her as having a “ghetto booty.” “Breeder’s hips” seemed more pleasant than that — and anyway, Jericho didn’t seem to mind them. In any case, Hawthorne was committing all sorts of crimes by just letting fugitives from the G stay at his place, so she put up with a little leering and a comment or two. He was harmless enough at seventy, but she was sure he’d been a handful for Miss Wilma back in his prime.
Palmer swallowed to stifle a cough. “Garcia is plenty capable of shooting a man in the eye,” he said quietly, “or killing him in a variety of ways if he were to give her any trouble. There are many who would be willing to take on that job, but it’s not that simple. Both the President and Vice President are guarded by arguably the most highly trained protective agency in the world.” Palmer paused for effect. “And I should know. They protected me for a time while I was National Security Advisor. They’re good men and women and too many would get hurt if we made an attempt now.”
“Fox News said there was a gunman in the White House today,” Hawthorne said. “They’re saying the target was the VP. Sure the shooter wasn’t yours?”
Virginia Ross shook her head, her chin quivered like she might break into tears. “No,” she said, “that was a good friend of mine acting on his own volition. His loss is a blow to the country. I can tell you that much.”
“At any rate,” Palmer said, “the G, as you call it, has enough checks and balances that even moles like Drake and McKeon can’t bring it down easily. They have to chip away, nudging us toward a war that will inflate the economy, devalue the dollar, and ultimately cost millions of American lives. Slowly and methodically, they have raised the stakes on the evil of the masked terrorist who shoots dozens or bombs hundreds. It takes both houses of Congress to bring up impeachment charges. I think the senator and congressman can swing enough of their people our way — as long as we give them something they can sink their teeth into — something more than the mere suggestion the POTUS and VPOTUS are warmongering moles. Miss Garcia can lay out the evidence we have, including Drake’s connection to a Pakistani terrorist.” Palmer shrugged and crunched through the last of his cough drop. “It’s thin, but I’m hopeful that impeachment will send a signal to China that the entire country isn’t in lockstep.”
“You think the meeting could be a trap?” Garcia asked, focusing on her immediate mission. She wasn’t afraid, but alliances in Washington were historically fluid. Lately, they blew like dandelion fuzz in an ever-changing political wind.
“These two were handpicked to keep that from happening.” Palmer shook his head. “Deborah Gorski went to college in Fairbanks with Quinn’s mother. Her father was a senator before her and gave Quinn his nomination to the Air Force Academy. Personal ties beat credentials at this point. Mike Dillman was a plebe my senior year at West Point. We worked on a number of missions well before the good citizens of Indiana decided to elect him to Congress. I trust him the way Quinn trusts Jacques.”
“Roger that,” Garcia said, knowing no better analogy for trust. She glanced at the Tag Heuer Aquaracer Quinn had given her for her last birthday. “What time are they meeting me?”
“They know to walk down York Street in Gettysburg at six. They’ll look for your mark, and then wait at the area you designate. You contact them after you’re sure they don’t have a tail. Miyagi will pull countersurveillance.” Palmer stood, ready for everyone to get to work. “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised this administration hasn’t imploded already. The problem with conspiracies is that they rot from within.”
“I don’t know.” Sam Hawthorne shrugged. “This Sons of Liberty shit you’re doing ain’t nothing if it’s not a conspiracy — and, apart from your croup, it looks pretty damn healthy to me.”