“Did you not consider the fact that they themselves would want the device?”
Zamora ran a hand through his hair. “Of course I did,” he said. He neglected to mention the fact that the Chechens had paid him handsomely to choose the target for the St. Petersburg bomb action. Now they were, in fact, clamoring for more of the same. If they knew about Baba Yaga, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on her.
Nazif’s voice was breathy, snakelike. “Need I remind you of our timetable?”
“No, you do not,” Zamora said, rolling his eyes at Monagas as he stepped out the door, wiping blood off his hands. “If you will recall, it was I who suggested such a ripe venue in the first place.”
“We have paid a great sum of money for this thing,” Nazif said. “And with such a large sum come certain expectations. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Zamora said. “But things happen—”
“We have no interest in excuses,” Nazif said, and ended the call.
Bundu stepped out of the hangar just in time to see Zamora fling his phone into the weeds, cursing vehemently in Spanish. The Venezuelan stood there for a full minute, panting and glaring toward the sea. At length his breathing slowed and he looked at the newly promoted general.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said. “Go bring back my phone.”
CHAPTER 8
Since the days after 9/11, Pastor Mike Olson and his wife Deanne, had nurtured a dream. Death and fear and hate had no place in the world, particularly when it came to religion. An open-minded couple, they allowed all men the right to worship according to their own conscience while adhering strictly to their own beliefs. Deanne was an accomplished musician who ran the youth ministry at the Sacred Peace Interfaith Church. It had been she who’d first voiced the dream — a Peace Choir made up entirely of children of all ethnicities and faiths. What had taken over a decade to fully form was now just weeks from becoming a reality. Through a televised extravaganza they would show the world that children — and everyone — could come together through music, no matter their views about what God looked like or what He liked to be called.
Mike wiped a tear from his eye and sniffed. Deanne sat beside him and patted the back of his hand. They read the letter on the desk together for the third time.
“I just can’t believe it, hon,” the pastor said. He pushed a lock of blond bangs out of his eyes. “He’s paying the entire bill.”
Graying around the temples, Olson hadn’t changed his John Denver hairstyle since he’d graduated from the University of Texas in 1989. He’d gone on to get his master’s in divinity at UT as well and it was then that he’d met Deanne, the daughter of a local Presbyterian minister. She shared his goals in the ministry, and like him, wanted nothing more than a family. Though the good Lord hadn’t seen fit to bless them with children of their own, He had provided them with an outstanding youth group — and now this saint of a man, Mr. Valentine.
“The Erwin Center…” Deanne squeezed his hand. “Can you believe what we talked about all those years ago is actually happening? A choir of four hundred children from all over the world and now seating for over fifteen thousand. Oh, Mike, this could make a real difference. Mr. Valentine is truly an instrument in the Lord’s hands.”
CHAPTER 9
Emiko Miyagi reached across the seat of the fire-engine-red bike to hand Quinn the end of a ratchet strap so he could tighten it down to the wooden pallet for transport. Presumably in her early forties — though she could have been considerably younger — the enigmatic woman had her black hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck. She moved easily, each action with a specific purpose but without apparent forethought. Hers was an egoless air. She wore formfitting jeans and a red three-button polo, open enough at the neck to show the hint of the mysterious tattoo above her breast.
Neither Quinn nor Thibodaux could figure out what it was. They caught no more than a glimpse of the thing during her beloved yoga sessions or defensive tactics when she was kicking the stuffing out of both of them, often at the same time. Neither was brave enough to stare at her chest long enough to ascertain the true nature of the tattoo.
She patted the small seat on the angular red bike. “Zamora rides a Yamaha R1,” she said absent any trace of a Japanese accent, though English was her second language. “It should help you get close to him if you ride the same motorcycle. I’ve done a bit of work on this one to coax out a little more horsepower, so watch yourself around the corners.”
She leaned across the bike to pull in the clutch and pressed the starter, bringing the R1 to life. The throaty roar sounded more like a pair of motorcycles running together than a single race bike. “It is not the fastest motorcycle available, but with your riding skill, you could beat him if you wish.”
“I should probably avoid that,” Quinn said.
Miyagi killed the engine, showing the hint of a smile from her normally placid face. The guttural howl of the uneven firing sequence from under the seat was enough to put a grin on a marble statue.
“Palmer-san believes Agent Trainee Garcia will provide the bait you need to draw this man in close enough to see if he has the device.”
“Yes,” Quinn mused, picturing Ronnie Garcia’s long legs and broad smile. “She’s definitely good bait.”
He hooked the strap to an eyebolt on the pallet and worked it tight before tying off the trailing end. Satisfied the Yamaha was secure, he looked up at Miyagi. Apart from her assignment to keep Quinn and Thibodaux trained and outfitted, she was also a defensive tactics instructor at the CIA training facility outside Williamsburg known as The Farm.
Garcia had been in training there for almost two months now, and she and Quinn had not parted on the best of terms.
“How’s she doing?” he asked.
“She works harder than most,” Miyagi said. “Though she does not need to. I suspect she is trying to impress someone. Her shooting has improved dramatically — and it was not too bad to begin with.”
Quinn gave a slow nod, thinking about the times she’d saved his life. He started to say as much when the BlackBerry on his belt began to buzz.
Mrs. Miyagi motioned for him to take it and excused herself.
“Daddy?” It was Mattie, his seven-year-old daughter.
Quinn melted inside each time he heard her voice. She had his dark hair and copper complexion, but Kim’s accusing blue eyes.
“Three more days!” she squealed.
“You’re funny, sweet pea,” he said. “Christmas is still over a week away.”
“I know that, silly,” she said, sounding more and more like her mother used to, all those years ago when they were young and happy together. “I know when Christmas is. I mean when you’re coming home. I have a big purple circle around December twentieth on my calendar.”
“Yeah,” Quinn sighed. He had to be in Miami on the twentieth. “About that… how would you feel if I celebrated Christmas with you a little later this year?”
There was silence, the rustle of paper, and a sniff.
“You okay, sweet pea?”
Fortunately, Mattie had not inherited Kim’s unforgiving nature. “I’m sad,” she said. “But you tell me what day and I’ll put a circle around it.”
“Let’s make it January twenty-fifth. One month. If I can be there earlier I will.”
“Okay,” Mattie sighed. “Will you be sure and be here?”
“Count on it,” Quinn said, hoping he wasn’t telling his daughter yet another lie. “Can you put Mom on the line?”