The intern slumped. “I understand. Won’t happen again.”
“Good,” Mahoney said, knowing that it would most certainly happen again… and again. They had a similar talk about every other day. Talking about a roll in the hay with the beefy youngster had caused her hood to fog up even more.
When this is over, she thought, I’ve gotta find a full-grown man who can really fog my face mask.
Seven yellow airport fire trucks moved in to form a loose perimeter outside the ring of deputy marshals who now surrounded the aircraft. Tentatively, the copilot opened the door and stepped out onto the rolling metal stairway. He waved sheepishly, looking relieved to be on the ground. The lead marshal pointed back in the plane, shaking his head.
“Please stay aboard, sir,” he shouted. “No one out until we give the order.”
“I’ll be the only one to go aboard,” Mahoney said over the radio so the marshals could hear her. “My team and security contingent will take the package. The rest of you can secure the aircraft and crew for decontamination.” She turned to her pouting assistant. “Justin, grab the bubble stretcher and wheel it up to the base of the steps.”
The bubble stretcher was a Plexiglas box, long enough to hold a human body, fitted with an electric air pump and HEPA filter. Any virus or bacteria was kept inside by the constant negative air pressure provided by the pump.
“On it, Doctor,” Justin said, professional, for the moment.
Mahoney stopped and took a deep breath at the base of the Jetway. Through unthinkable errors of miscom-munication between governments, FedEx had just accomplished the very act terrorists had failed to complete on Northwest 2. They had landed a weaponized version of the deadliest virus known to man on American soil.
She glanced at her watch to confirm what she already knew.
It was September 11.
CHAPTER 17
In the back of a dark blue armored limousine, where the Director of National Intelligence conducted the lion’s share of his work, Win Palmer briefed his new agents on the events surrounding Northwest Flight 2 and what he believed to be the inevitability of a bioterrorism attack with weaponized Ebola.
Quinn let out a deep sigh. The conversation with Kim had gone as expected. There was no ranting, no screaming, just a long, resigned sigh and a sullen “I knew better than to hope.” Quinn was sure that wasn’t the end of it. Rather than dwell on his own sorry problems, Quinn turned his thoughts to the tragedy of the Northwest flight. He’d heard of Steve Holiday, one of the most beloved squadron leaders ever to command the Blue Angels. He thought back to what Sadiq had told him outside the mosque that night in Fallujah.
“My informant says this guy Farooq is determined to do something worse than the mall bombings — to bring America to her knees.”
“And then shoot us in the head.” Palmer gave a somber nod. “Unfortunately, everything we have on Sheikh Husseini al Farooq — or his organization — wouldn’t fill a double-spaced page. We could kill him — if we could find him — but for all we know he has a second-in-command that’s even worse. Are you still in contact with your informant?”
Quinn nodded. “He’s got my secure cell phone number and I gave him a stack of phone cards before I left Iraq. He’s too greedy not to call me when he gets anything.
Thibodaux scratched his buzz cut, staring at his reflection in the tinted window. “I got a question or two if I might be so bold.”
“By all means,” Palmer said, smiling like a friendly uncle. He nursed a bottle of water across a low teak table from Quinn and the Cajun. Both still wore their uniforms, though they’d taken off the tunics and, thankfully, the ties — to Quinn, wearing a tie was like being choked by a very weak man. It was late, after eleven, and the heavy armored limousine thumped slowly down deserted residential streets. Compared to his BMW, the limo was a cage. Palmer had assured him the motorcycle would be transported to meet him, but the thought of someone else riding, or even trailering, his baby ate a hole in Quinn’s gut.
“Well, first off,” Thibodaux said, “do I still report to my same command structure? I ain’t no mercenary, but the wife will want to know about little things like where my pay will come from. I got a few mouths to feed.”
“Fair enough question,” Palmer said. “The paperwork has already been processed to put you on loan to OSI—”
“Hang on a damn minute there, sir,” Thibodaux said. “I’m a Marine. No offense, Quinn, but I didn’t sign on to be a wing waxer.”
“You’re still a Marine, Jacques,” Palmer chuckled. “You’re just on loan to the Air Force. We have an arrangement with OSI that makes it easier this way. You are now both what we in the business call OGAs — Other Governmental Agents. I’ve found it’s much easier to hide my OGAs in plain sight rather than trying to set up some clandestine agency. It’s not at all uncommon for agents of the federal government to go on various assignments they don’t talk about. As you would assume, most of those assignments are yawners — dignitary protection, diplomatic missions, things like that. Even James Bond could get lost in a bureaucracy as big and complex as ours. Take it from me; it’s much easier this way than putting you on the CIA or NSA payroll. You both have clearances and I can read you in above TS. Your pay and benefits mechanisms are already in place. You’ll start to receive oh-six pay as of last week.”
“A colonel’s salary?” Thibodaux whistled. “The child bride’s gonna wonder what kind of deal I’ve made with the devil for that one. I’m still not sure what our duties will be on this ‘Hammer Team’ of yours.”
“Your duties”—the DNI grinned—“are whatever I find necessary. Apart from the fact that you saved my grandson, I chose you two because of your particular skill sets and above all, your personalities. Your records demonstrate you don’t kill just because you have the opportunity… but when it’s the correct thing to do, you don’t hesitate. Thankfully, the President has removed the chains of red tape from me. We can act when we need to act — without waiting for fifteen others to sign off on our actions.”
“Are there more of us?” Thibodaux asked. Quinn had the same questions but was happy enough to let the big Marine do the talking.
The limo turned into a tree-lined circular drive off a shadowed side street a stone’s throw from George Washington Parkway.
“There are a few, but I doubt you’ll ever meet. Terrorists learn from us… and we learn from them. Small, independent cells can act on their own and, better still, they can act with speed. It gives the President deniability.”
“Deniability…” Quinn mused, mouthing the distasteful word.
“Correct,” Palmer said. “You report only to me and I report to the President. No matter the politics, the person sitting in the Oval Office feels the harsh weight of reality settle on them pretty fast. Torture, enhanced interrogation — call it what you want, but every great once in a while such a thing becomes a necessity. Some play the game in the open, some more discreetly. The events in Colorado have purchased a new sense of realism from the citizens of the United States. For a time at least, they see the need to fight back.”
Thibodaux crunched his brow like his head hurt. “But if the President knows, he doesn’t have deniability.”