rules of civility. His rank and the suffocating air of fear that had enveloped the nation allowed him to handpick the harshest men from these ranks, men who would do the hard things no one talked about at parties. Self-taught in the tactics of the 1960s-era heavy-handed KUBARK CIA Interrogation Manual, all were NCOs, and none, as far as Fargo could tell, were used to taking any sort of order from a superior officer. They were perfect for what Fargo had in mind.
Psychology mixed with a liberal amount of thumbscrews was par for the course with these men. Spanish inquisitors had nothing on them. Pig-eyed and emotionless, they were extremely talented at what they did. A simple stare from any of them caused Fargo’s flesh to crawl. They were a necessary evil, just the sort of men he would need to capture and interrogate the backstabbing son of a bitch Jericho Quinn.
Fargo relished the control that this newfound fear had given him over his fellow soldiers. He recalled the motto of the Stasi: Schild und Schwert der Partei — Sword and Shield of the Party. He’d been a shield long enough. Being a sword was proving to be much more fun.
If it happened to get messy-so much the better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Alexandria, Virginia
The national security advisor sat behind an expansive desk. Abnormally clean in Quinn’s opinion, the shining mahogany surface was large enough to warrant its own zip code but had little more than a black leather blotter and manila file folder on top. Palmer turned a Montblanc fountain pen back and forth between his fingers, eyes playing between a pair of fifty-two-inch flat-screen monitors to his right that displayed CNN and Fox News. A third screen, separated from the others by an old-fashioned grease board, displayed a Google Earth map focused over the countries in Central Asia.
American paintings by Catlin and Remington hung on the dark cherry-paneled walls. A roughrider bronze identical to the one in the Oval Office sat on a small table to the right of Palmer’s desk. Above it, in a framed shadow box, hung a Winchester lever-action rifle. Apart from the flickering glow of the three flat screens, there was no other light in the room. All the masculine art gave it the aura of a perfect man-cave. Just a stone’s throw from the Pentagon, few knew of the existence of the office.
Quinn sat opposite Thibodaux on the burgundy leather button-tufted sofa. A rich Moroccan carpet that looked as though it were made from five kinds of chocolate stretched out on the wood floor between the couch and Palmer’s desk. On the coffee table were two files containing a wealth of intelligence information on the West Virginia paramilitary group calling itself the Constitutional Sword.
Apart from their white supremacist and anti-Semitic views, the CS portrayed themselves as strict protectors of American virtue and freedom. They were working off Drake’s list and had eight of the names, including Quinn’s, highlighted. Three of those on their shortlist were missing. One, a DOJ attorney named Rosenthal, had been found that morning shot to death in his Volvo near Dupont Circle.
Now that Bodington’s guys at the FBI had climbed up their collective rectums, they offered little threat to anyone but each other. Each CS patriot raced to out-rat their fellow zealots for the best plea deal they could get as the jaws of the Department of Justice slammed tight around them.
The real dangers were the other organizations, yet unknown, who might also have chosen targets on the list.
“Two pivotal calls today.” Palmer peered at the men from behind his desk like a high school principal. He had a habit of doling out precious pieces of information one at a time.
“And?” Quinn said. He knew Palmer well enough to prod him a little just to show he was fully involved with the conversation.
“An old yak herder stumbled across one of our blood chits in southern Badakhshan Province. He turned it in to a platoon of U.S. Marines out on patrol.”
“Any reports of aircraft going down in that region?” Quinn asked, accustomed to such documents being issued to pilots in the event they were shot down over hostile terrain.
“Bearer wasn’t a pilot. Coding on the cloth indicated she’s a CIA paramilitary officer attached to FOB Bullwhip in Nuristan.”
“Badakhshan is north,” Thibodaux mused. Collectively, he and Quinn had spent time in nearly all the
Stans of the world. “She’s on the move, but that’s a long ways away from any of our bases.”
“If we can believe the writing on the chit, she’s a prisoner and heading deeper into the Hindu Kush. The note says there’s a boy among her captors who speaks ‘perfect English.’ ”
“No shit?” Thibodaux rubbed his chin. “This just keeps getting worse. You think they’re holding an American kid prisoner?”
Palmer shook his head. “She indicates the boy is a hostile.”
Jericho moved to the edge of his seat. “You mentioned two calls.”
“I did,” Palmer said. “SecState called about the time you were getting your ass kicked at Cubano’s. You boys have no doubt heard of MSF- Medecins Sans Frontieres?”
Both men nodded.
“Doctors Without Borders,” Thibodaux translated the French.
“Ran across them all the time in Iraq,” Quinn said. “I’m pretty sure it was one of them stitched my brother and me up in Senegal a few years back.”
Palmer steepled his hands in front of his face. “In any case, Secretary Ryan faxed over a report from a certain doctor with MSF who’s done a lot of work in the Hindu Kush. Seems this doctor…” Palmer leaned forward to consult the notepad on his desk. “Doctor… Deuben has been sending reports to the U.N. about child trafficking in Central Asia for years. The last report says locals tell of a hidden orphanage where the kids all speak English.”
“Let me guess,” Thibodaux said. “This orphanage is supposed to be somewhere in Badakhshan Province.”
Quinn nodded. “Makes sense.”
“We’ve been getting similar reports from Pakistani Intelligence,” Palmer said. “But to tell you the truth, they all seemed like fables until recently.”
“The same ISI who was helping bin Laden hide out? I’m not sure I’d trust Pakistani intel with directions to the crapper,” Thibodaux scoffed.
“Touche.” Palmer rubbed his chin, thinking.
“Where is this guy now?” Quinn asked.
“Tending to the health and welfare of prostitutes in Kashgar,” Palmer said. “And it’s Dr. Gabrielle Deuben, a female, not a guy.” He looked directly at Quinn. “Your record says you’ve spent some time in Kashgar?”
“I have,” Quinn said, instantly recalling the frenzied sounds and spicy smells. “Shortly after I graduated from the Academy. Program called Lieutenants Abroad. The place is about as Muslim as you can get in a hardfisted regime like China. It’s untamed, like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.”
“Yes, it is.” Palmer put his feet up on the desk and stared at his ceiling with some obvious memories of his own. “I need you to talk to this doctor-find this orphanage if it exists. I could send in Special Forces, but it’s impossible to know who to trust. The Pakistanis warn we could have moles in key positions of the military. POTUS wants this close-hold. The fewer people who know the better until you get your ass back here with some useful intelligence. We could chase our tails hunting sleeper agents all day long.”
Palmer stood. “This Drake character is turning into a real pimple on my ass. His witch hunt hearings start tomorrow. People are starting to see ghosts where there aren’t any. This is shaping up to be a hell of a lot like the McCarthy era. We have to find out the man behind this and stop him-fast.”
“You think this is LaT?” Thibodaux offered. LaT or Lashkar-e-Taiba was a militant Pakistani group rivaling-and some said surpassing-al-Qaeda in danger to the United States. Their name meant Army of the Pure.
“Likely,” Palmer mused. “Or some offshoot cell thereof. But while that link matters as far as an investigation goes, this sort of operation is personality driven. There is always some despot with a lofty goal. Bin Laden, al- Zawahiri, Hitler, Pol Pot… every group needs a driving force. That individual is our target.” Palmer leaned forward at
