The director of the CIA shook her head. The muscles in her face clenched, but she kept quiet. It was obvious she agreed with her FBI counterpart. Briefing such a low-level employee was just not done. Palmer decided to address that from the beginning, since it was, after all, a plan he had endorsed to the president.
He moved to the edge of his chair, leaning in to close the distance between himself and the young woman. “We have to assume these agents… these moles could be anywhere and that they-like Deputy Director Magnuson- have passed various backgrounds and security checks. An in-depth review of both Timmons’s and Gerard’s files found several glaring holes in their backgrounds-facts that when take separately mean nothing, but in light of what they did, mean everything.”
Garcia sighed, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she processed the information.
It was a lot of information to dump on her, but Palmer plowed ahead. “Both men are the sole survivors in their families. Neighbors who were interviewed for previous backgrounds admit they really knew the parents better than the boys. Neither have a single friend that remembers them earlier than the seventh grade. According to their supervisors at the Central Asia Desk, both were fluent in Turkic, but when we looked into it further, other than some Internet courses, there’s no record of them ever studying that particular language.”
“You believe them to be foreign born then?” Garcia mused.
“We do,” Palmer continued. “And we missed it in their initial backgrounds. Essentially, everyone in the government needs to be re-vetted-and that includes the ones doing the vetting.”
“Ah,” Garcia said, deflating slightly. “And since you feel you can trust me, I get to begin the process.”
The president held up the blue file folder containing the background investigation on Garcia. Palmer himself had completed a review only two hours before. “Except for your load of good old American credit card debt,” Clark said, “you come out smelling like a rose, my dear. Who would admit to having a Soviet father and Cuban mother if they wanted to hide something?”
Director Bodington folded his arms tight across his chest, looking toward the Rose Garden as if to distance himself from events unfolding before him. Palmer never had liked the man, finding him a bureaucratic bloviate without concrete facts to back anything up. All hat and no cattle.
Garcia’s eyes remained worshipfully attentive to the president, ignoring Bodington altogether. “I assume I’m being assigned to a team,” she said.
Palmer smiled. “This is the team,” he said. “Director Ross, Director Bodington… and you.”
“And we are to vet government employees?” Garcia went pale. “All government employees?”
The president laughed, sucking his front teeth again. “All two million of them-not counting the Postal Service-but we’ve prioritized the list. As you clear people, they will begin to assist with the background investigations.”
Garcia sat perfectly still.
“You in particular will focus on those with direct access to the president,” Palmer said, hoping to calm her fears.
She turned her head to one side, hands folded quietly in her lap. Her eyelids drooped with exhaustion. “If I might ask…”
Palmer’s chair began to chirp softly. Each piece of furniture in the Oval Office was equipped with a secure phone line so presidential guests could carry out pressing directives on the spot.
President Clark nodded. “Go ahead and take it, Win.”
Palmer slid open the upholstered drawer hidden below the seat cushion and took out a white handset.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Palmer,” the voice said. It was Millie, his secretary. “You need to turn on the news, sir. The president will want to see this…”
CHAPTER SIX
Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson Anchorage
Canadian cousin to the more ubiquitous government Gulfstream G5 business jet of Hollywood spies, the luxurious Bombardier Challenger CL 601 sat sleek and falcon-like on the ramp. Just as Quinn was an OGA-other governmental agent-the executive jet was an other governmental aircraft. Registered to the Federal Aviation Administration, the pilots were former Special Operations and reported directly to the national security advisor. Palmer had dispatched the plane to get the Quinns out of Alaska. If the sheikh had sent one team, he was likely to have sent two.
A low fall sun cast a pink blush on the snowy Chugach Mountains to the east, shining through the oval windows of the jet. Jericho knelt in the aisle, looking down at Mattie, who lay sideways in a soft leather seat, head resting in her mother’s lap.
Two seats back, Kim’s mother reclined with a damp washcloth over her eyes. Her head lolled from the effects of exhaustion and the Valium government medics had given her when they’d all been hustled away from an extremely curious Anchorage Police Department after the attack. Bo stood at the rear of the plane. Broad shoulder against the bulkhead, he chatted up the female Air Force staff sergeant who acted as safety officer and attendant. Brother Bo wasn’t about to let a little bloody ambush on the family cramp his ability to hit on cute women.
Quinn’s parents were out fishing for Pacific cod, the sheer danger of capricious Alaska waters protecting them from attackers.
Mattie looked up with a wan smile. Framed in a halo of her dark curls, the features of her perfectly oval face were drawn from fatigue. Her eyelids sagged. She blew him a kiss.
“You’re looking at me funny, Dad,” she said after a long, feline yawn. “I think I can trap you with my eyes.”
Jericho kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “If you only knew… Now, you better get some rest.”
Kim ran trembling fingers through their daughter’s hair. She affected a smile for Mattie’s benefit, but the tightness of her breath and the set of her jaw made it clear to Quinn she held him accountable for the attack on their family.
He didn’t blame her.
She jumped at the sudden buzz of the secure phone on his belt. He groaned and stepped across the aisle to take the call.
“Listen, Quinn…” Winfield Palmer rarely waited for the person he was calling to say a word beyond hello before he moved straight to the business at hand. If you answered, it meant you should be ready to listen. “There’s something I need you to see. Are you on the plane?”
“Yes,” Quinn said, eyes locked on Mattie as he spoke. “We’re fine, by the way. Thanks for calling.”
“Yes, of course,” Palmer said. “I mean… good. I’m glad… Anyway, I need you to take a look at the news.”
Quinn shot a look at his drowsy daughter. The last thing he wanted was to have her wake up to whatever catastrophe Palmer wanted him to witness on the news. He made his way down the aisle to the back of the plane, beyond Bo and his new girlfriend, to a teak cabinet on the galley bulkhead. “Any channel in particular?” he asked, turning on the seventeen-inch flat-screen satellite television.
“Won’t matter,” Palmer grunted. “This dumb son of a bitch is all over the place…”
Quinn left it tuned to CNN. He used the remote to turn up the volume as he swiveled the nearest seat to face aft, sinking back into the cool leather.
The red Breaking News ticker at the bottom of the screen introduced the speaker as Congressman Hartman Drake of Wisconsin. He stood alone, a dark silhouette in front of the brightly lit Capitol dome. A veteran of the first Gulf War with a Purple Heart to prove it, he’d served in the House for over a decade, working his way up to the powerful but slightly boring Transportation Committee. Chiseled, Ivy League good looks and a propensity to wear a bow tie over a starched white shirt made him instantly recognizable. He was well known as a stridently outspoken isolationist, and his handlers made certain he hit the talk-show circuits at least once a month.
Quinn yawned, wondering what Drake could have done to infuriate Palmer since they were both from the same party. The Canadair’s engines began to spool up without so much as a word of safety briefing from the flight
