Both of this man’s hands were visible, one hanging loosely at his side, the other holding a Dunkin’ Donuts cup. It was a calm person indeed who could hold a cup of coffee at the same moment he intended to do violence. Still, Quinn kept a hand in his jacket pocket, fingers wrapped around the Beretta. In his other hand, he held his BlackBerry.
The man’s jaw hung open in mortified surprise when he saw Quinn, but his hands remained motionless.
“Sayonara dake ga jinsei, sa,” Quinn said, snapping a photo with his cell phone as he passed by on his way back down. It was a line from an old movie, certain to make sentimental Japanese women cry — and the man looked as if he was close himself. Life is nothing but good-bye.
Quinn dropped the phone back in his jacket pocket and nodded at the man, whose face now burned at his error. At the bottom of the escalator Quinn walked briskly toward the exit door that would take him to the taxi stands. He’d come back for his car later with a bomb tech. For tonight, a random taxi seemed the more prudent way home.
CHAPTER 21
Aquick 5K run under the leafless oaks and sycamores of George Washington’s old haunts raised Jericho’s spirits. Zamora’s girl, Cathy, hadn’t given them anything useful except that her boyfriend was a cold-blooded killer. They already knew that.
Garcia had returned to training, leaving Quinn feeling empty and mixed up. He’d kept the pace to a brisk six-minute mile in an effort to keep Thibodaux from broaching the subject of relationships. It had worked. The big Marine stayed right beside him through the entire run despite his massive bulk. He hadn’t liked it, but he’d done it, along with the hour of yoga led by their defensive tactics trainer and quartermaster, Emiko Miyagi.
Now, the enigmatic Japanese woman sat ramrod-straight at the edge of a high-backed wooden chair in her study. Small hands rested neatly in the lap of her faded jeans. The open collar of a robin’s-egg-blue shirt revealed the slightest corner of her hidden tattoo.
In point of fact, neither Quinn or Thibodaux knew much about the mysterious woman except that Palmer trusted her implicitly both in ability and devotion. She could have been forty or fifty. Flawless skin and extreme athletic ability made it impossible to tell her age. If she was younger, she had crammed a great deal of knowledge and skill into a short life span. She went by Mrs. Miyagi, but wore no ring and Quinn had never heard anyone mention a Mr. Miyagi. It seemed impolite to ask.
A flood of morning light reflected off the highly polished bamboo flooring in the study. Though numerous books on kendo, yoga, and the philosophy of combat lined the back wall, the room was sparse, with only a small center table and four identical wooden chairs. Contemplation and comfort did not, in Miyagi’s opinion, go hand in hand.
Sitting in the chair beside the woman, Quinn used a remote to scroll through a series of photographs that flickered across a flat-screen monitor in the center of the bookcase. Thibodaux stood, wearing a pair of Miyagi’s required fluffy maroon house slippers with his 5.11 tactical khakis.
Winfield Palmer was connected by video link, his face appearing in the bottom right corner of the monitor. He was able to view the same files from his remote office near Crystal City, a stone’s throw from the Pentagon.
“No word yet on the fingers you gave me,” the national security advisor said from behind his huge mahogany desk. “Or the photo of the man at the airport. I have a friend in the Japanese government who’s checking back channels, though, so I’m not giving up yet.”
“I appreciate it, sir,” Quinn said.
“As for your mystery woman at Zamora’s party,” Palmer continued, “NSA gave us everything they have on known female Eastern Bloc operatives. I had them prioritize from your description.”
A series of new photos began to flash on the screen. Quinn found the woman he was looking for less than ninety seconds into the search.
“That’s her there,” he said, hovering the cursor arrow over the headshot of a pleasant-looking woman in her twenties. She had emerald eyes and a splash of freckles across a smallish nose. Her particulars appeared under the official visa photograph. “She looks less world-weary than when I saw her and her hair is longer now, but it’s definitely the same person.”
“Agent Aleksandra Kanatova of the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti,” Thibodaux mused. “FSB. You were close, l’ami, when you guessed SVR.”
According to official policy the FSB, or Federal Security Service, generally worked within the confines of the Russian border, much as the FBI or Homeland Security operated in the United States. Like the CIA, the Federal Intelligence Service, or SVR, was supposed to handle missions outside the Russian Federation. In reality, the lines often blurred. Each agency had authority to act on orders directly from the Russian president to carry out actions up to and including directed assassination — and agents from both worried little about borders when it came to the security and intelligence needs of Mother Russia.
Quinn scrolled through the sparse NSA file.
“She comes by her job naturally.” Palmer’s voice crackled over the video link as he perused the file on his own. “Her father was a colonel in the KGB and her mother was a gymnastics coach, so they traveled a great deal when she was young. Looks like she was an Olympic hopeful until she shattered her wrist at sixteen…. Studied international business at Moscow University… ”
“International business.” Thibodaux smirked. “Another term for majoring in spy craft.”
Miyagi glared at him.
“Just saying.” He rolled his eyes.
“You’re right, Jacques,” Palmer said. A photograph of a much younger Kanatova appeared on the screen. She was standing on a rooftop restaurant somewhere in New York with the Empire State Building in the background. A rugged-looking man with a weathered face and wide grin stood beside her. He looked to be several years older than Kanatova. His broad arm draped around her shoulders.
“This photo is from eleven years ago. She speaks fluent English and German,” Palmer said. “CIA shows her working in Manhattan as a translator for two years right after college. She was likely already set up with FSB by this time.”
“Who’s the guy with her?” Quinn asked.
“Mikhail Polzin,” Palmer said.
“Hmm.” Thibodaux gave an understanding nod. “The agent who was killed with Cooper in Uzbekistan.”
“That’s right,” Palmer said. “We don’t have any record of him coming to the U.S., so he must have been active then. Polzin was believed to be her handler.”
“They seem pretty damned cozy,” Thibodaux said. He kept his head turned so he wouldn’t have to see Miyagi’s glare.
Quinn used his remote to scroll through the attached pages on the screen. “Doesn’t appear to be much else. She shows up in Chechnya for a short time as some sort of military liaison, then nothing.”
“The fact that she and Polzin were acquainted means something,” Palmer said. “On another matter, this race you’ve signed up for is causing me no small amount of heartburn. I may as well be buying a banana republic with the money we’re paying to get you in at the last minute and on the QT. The cover is that you signed up months ago but your paperwork got lost.”
“Thanks, boss,” Quinn said. “It looked like the best way to stay close to Zamora for a while.” He couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration just thinking about the sand and heat and speed of the Dakar Rally. The wildness of it made him breathe a little faster.
“Border Patrol popped a Syrian with ties to al-Qaeda coming across from Canada near Niagara Falls. Documents in his car tie him to a shipping container that delivered, among other things Chinese ATMs manufactured by Shenzhen KVSIO, the same company that made the ATMs used in the first two bombings.”