Arab.”
“He used to be the CIA station chief in Cairo.” She watched Doyle’s eyes for any sign of a reaction. “His body was found with Ms. Arbakova.”
“Listen, Ms. Garcia…” Doyle released a long sigh. “I fly fighter jets for a living so I’ll leave the spy-hunting shit to you. But no matter what he tells you, this is gonna be awful hard on Jimmy. He’s always been a little on the sullen side. All he ever wanted to do was guard the president of the United States. Used to talk about it nonstop when he was a kid. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised the Secret Service even lets him near the veep. He can be kind of a downer to be around. Not a big one to demonstrate emotion. Neither was Nadia for that matter. Guess that’s a side effect from being orphaned young.”
“Wait a minute.” Garcia sat up straight. “Arbakova was an orphan too?”
“Raised by a couple of older sisters.” Tara Doyle gave a quiet little chuckle. “I guess Jimmy has an excuse to be sullen though. He gets himself orphaned twice-and then he has to be raised by the queen of West Texas bitches. Speaking of that, I have to get my bird ready for a flight. Are we done?”
Ronnie shut her notebook. “For now.”
Tara Doyle shut the door behind the nosy CIA agent and took a cell phone from the pocket of her flight suit. She pressed the second number on her speed dial list.
“Jimmy?”
“Hey, sis. What’s up?”
“Listen to me,” Tara said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re mixed up in, but a lady CIA agent just came by to see me.”
There was a long silence on the line. “And?”
“Nadia’s dead.”
“That’s not funny.” Jimmy’s voice turned ice cold.
“I’m not screwin’ with you. This woman is asking a lot of questions. You sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”
“Are you serious? Nadia’s dead? How?”
“She didn’t say,” Tara sighed. “Listen, Jimmy. I told her I’d met your aunt and uncle from the reservation in Montana.”
“Okay.”
“You understand what I mean?” Tara said. “When they come to talk to you, you just say you don’t remember any family but you’ve heard me talk about them. I’m afraid this could screw up your career if you’re not careful.”
“Understood,” Jimmy said. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”
“Listen,” Tara said. “I gotta go. I’m sorry about Nadia.”
“Me too,” Jimmy said. It was difficult for her to read his voice. “Me too.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
U.S. Naval Observatory Washington
Quinn sat on the vice president’s porch and waited quietly. Where others might feel the overwhelming need to ask questions during an interview, he let silence do much of his work for him. Garcia was in the chair next to him, leaning forward, but following his lead. Thibodaux stood back, listening but giving the group some space.
James “Jimmy” Doyle stared out over the rolling green lawn as if in a trance. He wasn’t a tall man, but what there was of him was built like a tree trunk. He had the slightly narrow eyes and Asiatic look of a Native American.
“You’ll find out soon enough…” Broad shoulders rose and fell with calculated breaths. “But she was starting to get really paranoid. I told her she was going to get fired… I guess it got her killed.”
Doyle had hung his jacket over the back of the white wicker chair exposing his sidearm, expandable baton, handcuffs, and radio. His shirttail had come untucked and his dark tie hung loose and cocked to one side, like a silk noose around his muscular neck.
Palmer had called ahead to Sonny Vindetti, the special agent in charge of the VP’s protection detail, to let him know one of his agents was about to get what might turn out to be devastating news. Nancy Hughes, the vice president’s wife, had been delivering a tray of cookies to the small cottage below the residence that acted as the Secret Service security office. She’d seen the look on Vindetti’s face when the call came in and demanded to know what was going on. It was a standing opinion with most detail agents that snowy-haired Mrs. Hughes was the best suited of anyone in the United States to run the country if anything ever happened to the president. She had the brains, the fortitude, and, coming from the old money of a father in the West Texas oil business, the family name to make her political royalty.
As Robert Hughes was happy to point out in the self-deprecating way that had served him so well, he was “no rocket surgeon, but he was, at least, smart enough to marry the right gal.” Nancy could be as unforgiving as a concrete wall if she felt she was being wronged, but she cared about her agents as if they were her own children. The VP’s code name was Pilot. Hers was Peregrine, but the Secret Service satellite detail that saw to her security referred to her as Mother Hen.
Quinn, Thibodaux, and Garcia had arrived at roughly the same time. Peregrine had met them at the driveway and ushered them up her steps, insisting Special Agent Doyle hear the news from the comfort of her front porch. She personally brought him a glass of lemonade and a box of tissues.
He hardly even blinked at the news. His angular jaw tensed; he stared a thousand-yard stare.
“Tell us about her theories,” Quinn said.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. She was acting crazy, but I didn’t know why. She started sleeping with a gun under her pillow, said she didn’t know who to trust.” Doyle rubbed a hand over a thick head of black hair. “I told her she needed to get some help and she went off on me.”
Quinn’s eyes shot to Garcia, then back to the stoic young agent. “But you have no idea who might have wanted to kill her?”
They’d agreed before leaving Rockville he’d lead the discussion. An interview would work better than a dog- pile interrogation-and Nancy Hughes would likely peck the eyes out of anyone she thought was bullying one of her agents.
Doyle gazed out over the hedges and flower beds of the manicured lawn. “Nadia was an agent and all, but she just did intel… Paranoid or not, nobody should have wanted to hurt her.” A single tear, the first sign of real emotion, pooled in the corner of Doyle’s eye. He sniffed, using the back of his forearm to dab at his nose.
Quinn nodded to himself. One of the first rules of an interview was not to believe in tears unless the snot was flowing.
Garcia slid forward in her chair, leaning in slightly. “Do you remember what you talked about last?”
Doyle shrugged. “No…”
Good answer, Quinn thought. People who remembered too much were rehearsed-and lying.
“You know a man named Tom Haddad?”
“No,” Doyle said. “Do you think he killed her?”
“We can’t give you details at this point,” Quinn said. “But whoever killed her probably killed him as well.”
Doyle suddenly sat up and straightened his tie. “I need to get back to work. My boss wants to see me after this.”
Mrs. Hughes cleared her throat and peered over the top of gold reading glasses, a clear sign that the interview should wind down.
Quinn got to his feet and stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Agent Doyle.” He never carried business cards, so he handed his Moleskine notebook to Garcia so she could write down her contact numbers. When she was finished, she tore out the page and handed it to Doyle, who shuffled off toward the detached security office as if he
