A moment later a pair of cheap drugstore reading glasses sailed through the small hatch from the cockpit. Quinn played them across the face of his phone like a magnifying glass. What he saw made him catch his breath.
He looked again to make certain, then passed the phone and glasses to Kanatova.
“Look at Nazif’s left wrist,” he said, tapping the face of the phone with his index finger.
“I don’t…” Her voice trailed. “I see it!” she exclaimed. “He has a tan line indicating a missing watch, but there are still two gold rings on his hand.”
“I’m betting he still had money in his pocket,” Quinn said.
“I’m looking at the police report now,” Palmer said, still on the line. “You’re right. Bexar County said this wasn’t a robbery — more like an assassination. Initial shots to the chest, then a coup de grâce in the back of the head.”
“And who do we know who assassinates people and takes something from them as a memento of the act?”
“Julian Monagas,” Aleksandra whispered. “And if he went after the bomb…”
“Then Zamora is still alive.” Quinn finished her thought.
“But why would Zamora kill the guy he sold the bomb to?” Palmer mused.
Quinn continued to scroll through the photos. “There are no photos of Matthew Pollard here. His body wasn’t found?”
“Nope,” Palmer said. “He’s MIA along with the bomb.”
“Maybe Zamora wanted a different target than Nazif did,” Quinn mused. “Anything else going on in Texas in the next couple of days?”
He heard the click of computer keys as Palmer searched the Internet.
“Son of a bitch,” the national security officer gasped. “The governor of Texas will attend an interfaith youth choir concert in the Frank Erwin Center at the University of Texas. Press release says the event will consist of children representing all faiths from around the world. It will be televised live before a sold-out crowd of over sixteen thousand… ”
“And Zamora was kicked out of the University of Texas on suspicion of rape,” Quinn said. “The events drove a real wedge between him and his father. From what I’ve seen of Valentine, he’s the type to carry a grudge.”
“Think you can get the Bureau to send a couple of guys to talk to the people putting on this show? Maybe have them postpone it?”
“Everyone is so invested in the target being Houston, it will take me hours to get ahead of the investigative inertia. It’s too late for that anyway,” Palmer said. “Curtain goes up in less than three hours.”
“Hang on, sir.” Quinn flipped the radio and spoke briefly to Moore before switching back to Palmer. “I’m just informed we can be there in two.”
CHAPTER 72
Valentine Zamora limped slightly from the bullet wound to his thigh. Nothing vital had been hit and some antibiotic under a few wraps of tape had made him as good as new. The wound had given him the perfect opportunity to slip away — and he would have stayed away but for the fickle Yazid Nazif. If he’d only kept with their original plan, he and his brother would still be alive to carry on with their jihad. But they hadn’t, so there they were, dead on the grimy asphalt, along with their dreams.
Pastor Mike Olson stood grinning like a fool at the delivery entrance on the south end of the huge, drum-shaped building. He vouched for them with the overweight security guard at the loading dock.
“You have already given us so much, Mr. Valentine,” the pastor said, shaking his head in disbelief. “May I ask what is in the box? It looks heavy.”
Monagas wheeled the green footlocker containing Baba Yaga up the ramp, a forced smile on his crooked lips. Pollard slumped along behind, looking as if he’d been whipped.
“Merely some little gifts for the children,” Zamora said, flipping his hand.
“That is a large case,” Olson said. “But there are over three hundred in the chorus. Not to seem ungrateful, but I’d hate for any child to be left out.”
“Not to worry, my friend.” Zamora put up his hand. “College savings bonds take up very little space. There will be plenty for everyone.”
“I need to check it.” The security man walked toward them. Monagas’s hand drifted toward the pistol under the tail of his sport coat. Zamora gave an imperceptible shake of his head.
“And you, Officer…?” Zamora looked at him sweetly.
“Potts,” the security guard said.
“How about you, Officer Potts? Do you have children?”
The man shook his head. “I got a nephew.”
“Is he in the choir?”
“No.”
“No matter.” Zamora gave a flip of his hand. “I’m sure a thousand-dollar savings bond would come in handy. Stop by and pick one up for him after the performance.”
The corners of the man’s mouth perked with a hint of guile. “Well, okay,” he said. “I’ll see you after the show.” He walked away whistling to himself, no doubt already making plans on how to spend the new windfall.
“My goodness,” Pastor Olson sighed after Potts had gone. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Valentine. What have we all done to deserve this kindness?”
Zamora pointed to a series of thick concrete columns under the auditorium, motioning for Monagas to put the case there. He shot a glance at Pollard, who stared back with glassy eyes. “In my experience, Pastor”—Zamora clasped his hands together and held them to his lips—“at some point, we all get exactly what we deserve.”
CHAPTER 73
Austin-Bergstrom International Airport’s tower gave Major Moore clearance for an unscheduled landing after received a direct order from FAA brass. A maroon Ford Crown Victoria bristling with antennas waited on the tarmac, just off the taxiway.
Quinn thanked the pilots for the ride and climbed out of the bomber with Aleksandra to a Texas winter evening. The western horizon still glowed with a faint orange line and a crisp twilight had settled in.
A tall man in a tan golf jacket and a gray felt Stetson stood beside the sedan. Razor-sharp creases ran up the front of heavily starched blue jeans.
“Detective Lonnie Fulton, Austin PD.” He shook Quinn’s, then Kanatova’s hand in turn. “I’m assigned to the regional intelligence unit. We just got the call an hour ago that you were coming in.” Fulton spoke with a thick Texas accent, friendly and earnest.
“How far to the Erwin Center?” Quinn asked.
“Eight or ten miles,” Fulton said. “You wanta tell me what’s going on?”
Quinn nodded toward the sedan. “You drive. I’ll explain on the way.”
Detective Fulton was wide-eyed and quiet by the time he turned off I-35 frontage road and into the University of Texas campus. On Quinn’s direction, he drove past the event center, watching and getting a lay of the land. Crowds of people milled around the entrances, chatting like good Southern folk as they worked their way in. The governor’s motorcade had been delayed with a call from Palmer but had not been given a reason why.
“He’s in there,” Aleksandra said from the backseat. “I can feel it.”
Quinn wondered if she meant Zamora or Monagas.
“Let’s park in there.” He pointed toward a secluded lot across Red River Street, behind the nursing school. He looked at his watch—6:45.
A white Crown Vic pulled in next to them, followed by two marked sedans and two more motor officers on BMW RTs. A muscular man in a tight black T-shirt and 511 Tactical khaki slacks got out of the white unmarked and stood beside the door, arms crossed and sneering at the new arrivals. Quinn had seen the type before and was amazed the man wasn’t already pissing at each corner of his vehicle to mark the territory.