“Martel?” Quinn mused. “Like Charles Martel — the Hammer that stopped the Muslim invasion into Western Europe at Poitiers?”
“That’s the one. Charlemagne’s granddad,” the national security advisor said. “Code name for Russian agent Mikhail Ivanovich Polzin. Polzin was known for his belief in the existence of a powerful, man-portable nuke from the Cold War days. If he was correct as the text suggests, Baba Yaga has been found.”
“Baba Yaga?” Thibodaux tilted his head as if trying to call back pertinent memory. “Sounds familiar…”
“An evil witch from a Russian fairy tale,” Palmer said. “Intelligence sources back in the seventies picked up chatter about a Soviet nuclear device code-named Baba Yaga. Small and portable enough to be moved by a single man, it was thought to be double the power of similar known devices. Langley believes it to be as much as five kilotons.”
“You said we’re dealing with dirty bombs,” Quinn mused. “A man-portable nuke is another thing altogether. Does your agent in Uzbekistan have any more information?”
“Damned little, I’m afraid.” Palmer tipped his head toward a freshly covered grave in the distance. “I just presented a flag to his mother.”
Thibodaux released a captive breath.
They’d all lost far too many brothers and sisters at arms over the last decade.
“Cooper was a good man,” Palmer whispered. “Worldly-wise and innocent at the same time. His father’s a Virginia state trooper.”
“Wait,” Quinn said. “Are we talking about Riley Cooper? OSI, stationed at Manas?”
“He was one of mine.” Palmer nodded. “We used to hunt birds together when Riley was a boy… ”
Quinn gave a low whistle. “I thought I knew Riley Cooper pretty well. He was two years behind me at the Academy, but he beat me to OSI because I did Combat Rescue first. He graduated from FLETC in the OSI Basic ahead of me but came back to visit when we got our B’s and C’s.”
FLETC was the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center near Brunswick, Georgia. B’s and C’s were badges and credentials, presented at graduation from OSI Basic.
“I wish I’d known,” Quinn said, put out that Palmer hadn’t seen fit to mention the death of a fellow agent until now. “I could have attended.”
“The family requested a private ceremony,” Palmer said, sensing Jericho’s concern. “OSI will release a story this afternoon about him being killed by a roadside bomb.”
“Riley Cooper…” Quinn shook his head, processing it all. Of course there were others like him. Palmer had made it clear early on that he had a special arrangement with OSI. It stood to reason that other agents Quinn knew would be part of his unit.
“He wasn’t aware of you either,” Palmer said. “If that makes you feel any better.” He motioned for them to follow him up the steps and into the amphitheater proper, taking a seat on one of the long marble benches. A small crowd had formed outside, waiting for the changing of the guard that would happen every half hour, but they were alone inside the amphitheater.
Palmer glanced up from black, spit-shined shoes.
“At any given moment, at least a dozen credible threats against the United States fall across our radar. The Bureau and the CIA investigate the bulk of them with military Special Ops mopping up the pieces overseas. Our alphabet-soup agencies do a damn fine job of mounting a wall of defensive offense. But, as you know, some cases need less bureaucracy. Riley Cooper did jobs for me all over Central Asia. His father is my friend. I watched him grow up, so I knew I could trust him.” Palmer stared back down at his feet, rocking slightly on the cool stone bench. “He wanted to be an Olympic sprinter when he was a kid. Did he ever tell you that?”
“No, sir.” Quinn shook his head. Thibodaux sat completely still.
“He was so very talented,” Palmer went on. “When he talked about going to Virginia Tech, I was the one who convinced him to attend the Air Force Academy. I told him he could make a difference there.” He glanced up at Quinn, eyes brimming with the pain of a leader who sent young men into battle. “ ‘If they question why we died, tell them because our fathers lied… ’ ”
Quinn was all too familiar with the Kipling verse, written in the writer’s grief of losing his only son in World War I. “I knew Riley Cooper, sir. He was not only where he needed to be, he was where he wanted to be.”
“I told him he was cut out for something big,” Palmer said. “Saving the free world and all that.”
“Who knows, sir?” Quinn looked out at the distant crosses. “Maybe he has.”
“Maybe,” Palmer said, his voice tinny and unconvinced. “But one day, in the not too distant future, I owe his parents an apology.”
Thibodaux shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable seeing a superior showing so much emotion. “What was his business in Uzbekistan?”
Palmer nodded as if he realized it was time to move on. “Following a Russian agent when he was killed.”
“Martel?” Quinn asked. “Is he good for the murder?”
“Martel.” Palmer’s normally expressive face had fallen placid from sadness and fatigue. “His body and Cooper’s were discovered only a few yards apart. We have a little intel on him, but not much. Mikhail Ivanovich Polzin. Forty-one years old. Attended university in Moscow and joined the military shortly after graduation. Served as an army Spetsnaz troop and was eventually recruited for the Federal Security Service. We believe he worked Spetsgruppa V.”
“Vympel,” Jacques said, obviously impressed. “That’s my old man’s KGB.”
“We know he saw service in Chechnya,” Palmer said. “Other than that, he’s been off our radar for the last several years.”
“Until?” Jericho prompted.
“Until Cooper ran into him eighteen months ago in a Bishkek bazaar favored by black-market arms dealers. Some of our intel boys and girls think the Soviet Union lost track of as many as eighty Special Atomic Demolition Munitions — portable nukes — in the aftermath of its collapse. Hell, even Putin admits he can only confirm the security of their nuclear devices from the time he came into power. We believe Vympel is the unit within FSB charged with finding and retrieving these lost items.”
Thibodaux leaned forward to rest massive forearms on his knees. His Transit Leather jacket hung open to reveal a black AC/DC T-shirt. “So whoever killed Cooper and Comrade Polzin got their hands on a Soviet nuke?”
“We have to assume so.”
“What about the dirty bombs?” Quinn said. “Maybe it was nuclear material they found and not an intact device.”
“We considered that.” Palmer rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Cooper knew the difference between material for a dirty bomb and a portable nuke. Intelligence files regarding Baba Yaga during the Cold War noted a significant amount of plutonium was stored with her. Sources inside the Kremlin called it a package deal — Baba Yaga and her children.”
Quinn looked out across the field of crosses and sighed to himself. There were those who thought al-Qaeda already possessed a nuclear device. He was no such believer, knowing from firsthand experience that though jihadi operatives clamored for a nuclear weapon at every turn, if they had a bomb, they would have already used it. The hate they carried for the West was too great to hold off and posture. The posturing would come later, on the heels of their attack.
“I’m assuming you have some sort of lead,” he said, studying Palmer. “You’ve never been one to use your blunt instruments as investigative personnel… ”
“We have several in fact,” the national security advisor said. “But one in particular seems tailor made for you two.”
CHAPTER 6