“Jiàn Zŏu?” Quinn stared at her. Hands shaking from adrenaline and fatigue, he cut her free with a knife he took from the dead Uyghur’s pocket. Three burns, brands from the point of the iron, blotched the flesh of her left thigh. Angry and swollen, the three-inch triangles were already filling with fluid.
Song sprang to her feet, gritting her teeth as she tugged the hem of her skirt back down over the burns.
“Jiàn Zŏu is a Chinese soldier,” she said, already starting for the door. Quinn didn’t know if her face had gone pale from the Ehmet’s torture or from seeing Jiàn Zŏu. “Please hurry. He must not escape.”
Quinn fought the queasiness in his gut and took an extra second to grab the Uyghur’s cell phone and scoop up the Glock pistol he’d kicked out of Yaqub’s hand. He staggered toward Song, who leaned out the open door, looking for threats up and down the dark hallway.
“In your country you would call him special operations,” she said, turning toward the door. “He is exceptionally well trained — and he has the Black Dragon.”
Chapter 58
Vice President Lee McKeon sat with Ran, across from a frowning Hartman Drake in the presidential limo’s vis-à-vis backseat. McKeon’s motorcade had joined the President’s and Drake had asked him to ride in the Beast, saying he wanted to talk on the way to the ballet performance. In reality, it was likely because he was frightened of being left alone. The President had hardly said a word since leaving the hotel.
McKeon had expected this behavior. If he’d inherited anything from his father it was his ability to read people — and Hartman Drake was all bow tie and bluster, easily manipulated into following the path of least resistance — so long as it made him look like a rock star. A Tajik by birth, he’d been taken from his family while still a child and raised to follow the path of jihad. Instead, he’d become tempted by the vices of men and was now vastly more interested in fame and power. Such a weakness made him controllable.
McKeon stared past his own reflection, watching rivulets of rainwater crease the tinted ballistic glass. Dusk had begun to fall outside, earlier because of the rain, but intermittent streetlights illuminated the roadside trees and shrubs of Seattle Center.
They were nearly there.
Yelping sirens announced the arrival of the presidential motorcade as a phalanx of Seattle PD motorcycles led seventeen shining black SUVs and armored limousines under the monorail track above Fifth Avenue. They jumped the small curb onto the wide concrete path beneath the Space Needle and continued south past the Armory food court and a grassy amphitheater to circle the vehicles below a long gray structure along the Fountain Lawn called the Fisher Pavilion.
With both POTUS and the Prime Minister of Japan attending the ballet, security personnel were on high alert. Nabe had brought with him a small number of his own security from the elite Keibibu Keigoka, but while a foreign leader was on American soil, the United States Secret Service shouldered the protective responsibility. Each of the Japanese security men had attained the rank of third-degree black belt in either jujitsu or kendo in order to have even applied for the job. They buzzed around their leader like fussy bees, wearing natty suits with a red ties and matching pocket squares. The driver of their follow vehicle — the Secret Service demanded to be the limo driver — wore white gloves as was customary in Japan.
The Secret Service chose the pavilion as a staging area because it was near the Marion Oliver Hall where the Pacific Northwest Ballet was performing and because of the large parking area below the two-story building that overlooked the fountains and park. Teeming with security, the building would provide protection and cover in the event of an attack. The President’s motorcade would stage directly outside the performance hall for quick egress in an emergency, but the cavalry of big guns would stage at the pavilion. A virtual army of snipers and lookout agents had already posted all over the complex, covering the Key Bank Arena, the parking garages across Mercer Street to the west, the Sacred Heart church tower to the southeast, and even the Space Needle itself, which had been closed to civilian visitors for the past twelve hours. The Secret Service briefing had noted that careful attention had been given to posting agents at every point around the venue that could give cover to an attacker. Seattle PD would provide a protective ring around the outer perimeter. Secret Service marksmen could lay down intersecting lines of fire at any moment in the unlikely event that someone was able to slip through. The supervisory agents for all three details had assured their charges that every precaution had been taken. The President was safe — and as long as he was safe, everyone was safe.
McKeon glanced across at the witless Drake and smiled serenely. If only they all knew.
It would be good to finally be rid of the idiot. He’d been a necessary evil that Allah had seen fit to place in the right place to assume the US presidency. And now, he had one more task to complete. At least the black tuxedo gave his ridiculous bow tie a home that didn’t seem to scream buffoon.
“Tell me again why you’re not attending,” Drake said, running a finger around his starched collar to get more air.
“It is protocol, Mr. President,” McKeon said, greasing the man’s already monstrous ego with the title. “Heavy is the crown.”
“So they say.” Drake stared directly at him. “How can I be sure you haven’t ordered one of your private IDTF goons to shoot me in the face?”
Ran threw back her head. “I have begged to kill you a thousand times. If he wanted you dead—”
McKeon squeezed her knee, half thinking she might cut his hand off. She didn’t, but at least she stopped talking. The fact that Ran Kimura wanted to kill him was no surprise to Drake. She told him so every other day with her eyes. Words were rare from the intense Japanese woman, but her meaning was generally crystal clear.
“My IDTF goons are your IDTF goons, Mr. President,” McKeon said in the verbal equivalent of rolling over and showing his tender white underbelly. “In any case, I need to make sure the venue change you ordered for the event tomorrow is taken care of.”
“Very well,” Drake grunted. “So long as you and your girlfriend here know who’s in charge.”
“Believe me, Hartman.” McKeon raised both hands and smiled. “After your speech tomorrow, no one in this country will have a doubt as to who is in charge.”
“There you go again.” Drake shook his head. “I swear you creep me out with that kind of bwahahaha talk.”
The motorcade took a right, then an immediate left, a river of black sedans pouring onto the concrete apron between the South Fountain Lawn and the Fisher Pavilion. From above, it looked like a choreographed dance. The Beast came to a controlled stop and a moment later an agent rapped on the President’s door. A petite woman with dark hair cut over her ears the way Drake preferred stood beside the agent. David Crosby had done a good job finding this one. She was an accomplished ballerina from the University of Washington who would give the flighty President something to concentrate on during the lengthy performance. Her silver dress was accented with sequins, elegant enough it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows from the social elite while still doing the job of raising Drake’s blood pressure.
“Your guest for the ballet, Mr. President,” the agent said, monotone, as if he’d seen it all before. “She’s been thoroughly screened.”
“I’m sure that was quite the pleasant undertaking.” Drake grinned. His doubts and fears apparently flying from his mind at the arrival of a pretty woman, Drake patted the seat beside him. “Have a seat, my dear. The Vice President and his friend are just leaving.”