“Exactly so.” Song nodded, apparently pleased that he’d figured it out on his own. “It is sensitive information, so I did not wish to divulge it if possible.” She looked away for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to go on. “Facial recognition software is far from perfect, but you are distinctive and, as you said, a wanted man. If you have been listed in any sort of rogues’ gallery, it would be a simple matter for such a program to match your passport photograph when it is scanned.”
“But your secret chemical towelette took care of that.”
“I believe so,” Song said. “The software focuses on areas like the cheekbone and the spot between the eyes. Long hair or heavy makeup applied to one side of the face has been shown to defeat the program.”
“But a clear reflective makeup is a lot less noticeable,” Quinn said, looking at the towelette Song took from her vest pocket. She dabbed it between his eyes and along his cheekbone. Passersby would think she was merely helping her husband with something on his face after the long flight.
“Correct,” she said. “It is a clear base, somewhat like sunscreen, that reflects the end of the infrared spectrum barely visible to the human eye. Many FR readers scan this wavelength. As I told you before, your Australian passport is authentic, complete with the biometric chip containing a digitized copy of the photograph I took in the hospital.”
“And you put the makeup on me in the same place when I was in the hospital in Kashgar.” Quinn rubbed a hand across his whiskers. She’d thought of everything. Theoretically, with the makeup reflecting the same large portion of light that bounced off the skin over his cheek and between his eyes, facial recognition software would not recognize him enough to match with any gallery of fugitives, but a scan of the passport would match a photographic scan of his face taken at screening.
“And you’ve tested this invisible makeup on passport scanners from the United States?”
“Most of them.” Song shrugged.
“That’s a tall order,” Quinn said as they walked along nearing the snaking queue to immigration for non-US citizens.
“Not really.” Song gave him an impish wink. “A surprising number of your machines are made in China.”
They made it through immigration with little more than a “Business or pleasure?” question. The young woman at the customs counter welcomed them to the US and admitted that she’d always wanted to visit Australia, before nodding them through with their luggage.
With a prohibition on cell phone use inside the screening area, Quinn had to wait to call Thibodaux until they’d made it out into the terminal lobby. He walked toward the Gold Streak counter as he punched in the number.
“We’re here and secure,” Quinn said when Thibodaux picked up.
“Glad to hear it,” the big Cajun said.
Quinn took a deep breath, afraid to ask the next question. “How’s Ronnie?”
“She’s sleeping now. Been through a hell of a lot.”
“The guys that had her?” Quinn asked. He’d run through a hundred different scenarios during the flight, none of them good. His jaw clenched so tightly he had to concentrate to keep from cracking a tooth.
“He’s taken care of,” Jacques said. “She already had one done when we showed up. Anyhow, I’ll tell you all about it when I get there. You get your package?”
“I’m going to the counter now,” Quinn said. “Thanks for doing that.”
“Don’t thank me,” Thibodaux said. “Kim and Camille needed something to do to work off their jitters anyhow.”
“You involved Kim?” Quinn said, loud enough to gain the attention of other passengers in the terminal and draw a quizzical look from Song.
“They were already involved up to their neck bones, cher,” Thibodaux said. “Long story. We’ll all laugh our asses off about it if we don’t die in a mushroom cloud. Anyhow, the boss is chompin’ at the bit to talk to you. I’ll let him know you’re on the ground.”
Quinn picked up the small duffel he used as a go-bag from the Gold Streak counter and took the escalator up toward the taxi stand in the parking garage. Song lagged a few steps behind him, talking to one of her contacts in frantic Mandarin. He could tell she was checking on any last-minute information about the triad boss known as Big Uncle. Quinn’s cell began to ring two minutes after he’d hung up with Jacques.
“We’re here,” Quinn said, knowing his boss would want to get straight to business. “What have you got?”
“We?” Palmer said.
“Long story.” Quinn glanced over his shoulder at Song, who was still locked in the rapid-fire conversation with her local contact — someone Quinn would have loved to identify for future reference. “I’m sure Jacques has already filled you in on the woman who saved my life — and the weapon.”
“You’re still with her?” Palmer said, stifling a cough. “That’s rich.”
“Turns out not everyone in that part of the world thinks war is such a hot idea. All indications put her and me on the same side—”
“Until she decides to put a bullet in your ear,” Palmer said. “Listen, a source in the IDTF tells me Drake and the Japanese Prime Minister will both arrive in Seattle later this evening. They have a ten a.m. event together tomorrow at the Japanese Cultural and Community Center where Drake is supposed to clarify US support for Japanese sovereignty over the Senkaku Islands. Drake’s assassination will provide the perfect first domino that will push us into war.”
“Perfect target,” Quinn said, half to himself.
“I’m thinking so too,” Palmer said. “Scout it out and get back to me. If you can’t locate the guys you’re after, we’ve got some serious decisions to make before tomorrow morning.” Palmer cleared his throat. Quinn heard the click of a cough drop against his teeth. “It goes without saying that this new friend of yours surely has an agenda very much her own.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. The thought crossed his mind at least once every ten minutes. He hung up, checking the time on his Aquaracer. It was just after one. The last forty-eight hours had left him with fifteen stitches to close the wound on his chest, a pulled muscle in his hip, and a painful sprain in his right shoulder — not to mention the aftereffects of the ricin and surgical anesthesia. He was far from in his best shape and his only backup was a Chinese agent — and that wasn’t the worst part. He had to figure out a way to save President Hartman Drake, the man behind ninety percent of his woes.
Song caught up to him, phone in one hand, dragging her bag with the other. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a child who couldn’t contain important news.
“I have found Big Uncle,” she said. “I’m not sure where he is at this precise moment, but he’s hosting a formal reception and charity art auction beginning at five this evening.”
Quinn filled her in on the pertinent points he’d learned from Palmer as they walked. She shook her head when he was finished.
“This President is more vocal about your animosity toward my country,” she said. “But the truth is the United States has always had a problem with China’s claim to the Diaoyu Islands.” She called the islands by the Chinese name for the disputed rocks rather than Senkaku as the Japanese preferred. “From our point of view, the US has fought us over every inch of ground that has historically been ours.”
Quinn sighed. “Look,” he said, “there is an endless list of perceived slights, human rights violations, or other misdeeds either one of us could bring up regarding the stand our countries take on given issues. But now is the time to work, not talk. And when I work, I worry about the person who wants to kill me — or kill my friends. I look at his hands. His race, religion, nationality, or political philosophy don’t even get a footnote in my brain. Some… no, most things are beyond the vagaries of politics — and this is one of them.”