Quinn made it a point not to answer rhetorical questions.
Palmer studied him a moment with flint-hard eyes before returning to the file. “Your record says you speak Japanese, Mandarin Chinese… and Arabic. That’s amazing. Are you fluent in all three?”
“Chinese and Arabic,” Quinn said. “More what you’d call conversant in Japanese.”
“We’ll see,” Palmer said before changing the subject. “You won the Wing Open boxing tournament your junior year — that makes you quick with your brain and your fists… Sandhurst Military Competition each year, team captain while you were a firstie… though you spent the first half of that year in Morocco taking part in a study-abroad program. Did a Fulbright Fellowship there as well after graduation… No offense meant here, son, but you have a dark and swarthy look about you. I’m thinking you could pass for an Arab without too much trouble.”
Quinn nodded. “My great-grandmother was a Chira-cahua Apache. I got her coloring.”
“Among other things,” Palmer said, perusing something else in the file. “Tell me about your graduation.”
Quinn took a deep breath. The man had the file. He hated telling the story, but was quizzed heavily about it by his commanding officer every time he moved to a new assignment. It had become the stuff of Air Force Academy legend and it was better he did the telling than let it grow out of proportion.
“I very nearly didn’t graduate, sir,” Quinn said.
Palmer nodded. “Report says your younger brother — what was his name… Boaz — started some sort of brouhaha during the graduation parade the day before commencement.”
“I believe he’d say the drunks waving a Russian flag during our national anthem started it,” Quinn said. There was no use in holding anything back. “Bo happened to be standing next to some Russian men visiting the Academy. They started talking smack about the United States and, for all his faults, that’s one thing Bo won’t stand for. Just as my squadron marched by, I saw two of them jump him from behind while the other three squared off in front of him…”
“So let me get this straight. You, as a flight commander, broke ranks from your squadron during pass in review, and jumped into the scrap to help your brother.” Palmer grinned. “In front of ten thousand people and the superintendent of the United States Air Force Academy. Four years of putting up with the grind of cadet life and you were willing to toss it to the wind one day away from graduation?”
Quinn looked ahead, his eyes locked on Palmer. “Some things you just do without thinking, sir.”
“Like saving your little brother from an ass kicking?”
“Exactly like that.”
Palmer nodded. “You and your brother put three Russian nationals in the hospital before security forces broke up the fight. Two of them had to have their jaws wired shut. As much as I admire your courage, I find myself forced to ask you a question. Do you have a temper problem, Captain Quinn?”
“No, sir,” Jericho said. “I believe I have an excellent command of my emotions.”
“Where do you stand on Arabs?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” This was definitely not what he’d expected.
“Arabs. Muslims,” Palmer said, locking eyes in a sort of visual jousting match. “Your record shows you’ve had a hand in sending more than a few to meet their maker.”
Quinn nodded slowly, taking time to choose his words. “I don’t have a problem with any particular group or religion. My problem is with thugs — of any kind. If the U.S. was being attacked by the militant Irish terrorists, I’d respond the same way I always do. And my father is Irish. If you’ll note my file, you’ll see the time I spent in Morocco was more of a humanitarian mission — no guns, just hammers and nails, building houses for the poor.” It wasn’t like Quinn to try and defend himself, but for some reason, he felt a compelling need to have this man understand him — as much as that was even possible.
At length the DNI peered up over the open folder. “Well, I guess the Academy thought it would be imprudent to hold up the graduation of their top athletic cadet and distinguished graduate just for protecting his kid brother.”
“The district attorney in Colorado Springs declined to file charges,” Quinn said.
“So, let’s see here,” Palmer said, as if eager to change the subject. “Turns out you’re quite a motorcycle enthusiast. Your file says you raced the Dakar Rally in 2004 along with that same kid brother.”
Quinn smiled. There had been another fight just after he and Bo had crossed the border into Senegal — one that made the graduation-parade scrap look like a church dance — but he didn’t think that one had made it into the file, so he said nothing.
Palmer continued, “You entered the pipeline for Air Force Special Operations right after the Fulbright Fellowship. That’s pretty tough duty — a year and a half training in firearms, scuba, running, swimming, HALO, more running, advanced trauma medical, more swimming, escape and evasion… Did I mention running and swimming?” Palmer smiled. “Graduated top of your squadron to become a combat rescue officer. So, what made you leave the CROs after just two years?”
Thibodaux looked on from the sidelines with renewed interest. CROs weren’t Marines, but they weren’t wing waxers either.
Quinn took a slow breath. For the first time since he’d met Win Palmer, his mind fell to the last conversation he’d had with Kim. “My wife worried about me being in harm’s way quite so much.”
“So you chose to switch to OSI thinking that would calm her sentiments?”
“I did,” Quinn said matter-of-factly. “Then when the Gulf heated up, so did OSI.”
“And you divorced.”
“We did.”
“One daughter.”
“Correct.”
Thankfully, Palmer changed gears, allowing Jericho to think of something else besides the cell phone call with his ex-wife, for the time being. “All right, men, enough of this getting to know each other. Let me, as they say in the Kashmir, get to the yolk of the egg. Your reports from Fallujah mention a man named Farooq.”
Quinn was happy to be out from under the microscope. “My informant didn’t have all the details, but there’s word this guy is one of the ones behind Colorado. He’s got something to do with all the kidnappings going on in Iraq as well — at least where American personnel are involved.”
“You know,” the DNI said, folding his arms, “everybody’s been so damned knotted up over Osama bin Laden. But I’m worried about the next one. We start to think everything bad comes from one man and we miss something important, like a Colorado shopping mall.”
“And we think Farooq is the next bin Laden?” Thibodaux asked, letting his big head loll to one side as if he was trying to let water drain out of his ear.
“We had indications Osama was going to hit us. Hell, Ollie North warned us about him years ago. I’m not anxious to keep repeating the same mistake.”
“So you want us to kill this guy Farooq?” Thibodaux voiced Quinn’s thoughts. It was odd enough they’d even have a meeting with the Director of National Intelligence, but for him to give the two of them such a high-level briefing brought to mind so many questions his head hurt.
“Ruguo ni zhiyou yiba chui, mei yige wenti jiu kan-qilai dingzi,” Palmer rattled as if he was native Chinese. “Did I get that right, Captain Quinn?”