his desk, looking hard at Quinn. “I’m not clear yet on what their plan is, but you have to find out who that person is before their sleepers make us tear ourselves apart as a nation.”
Palmer took a TV remote from the lap drawer of his desk and pointed it at the screen displaying Google Earth. The bird’s-eye view zoomed in over the rugged confluence of three of the world’s highest mountain ranges- the Pamir, the Himalayas, and the Hindu Kush.
“I want you in Kashgar ASAP,” Palmer said, shining the red dot of a laser pointer on Western China. “But the Chinese would have a fit if we send you in on government business. I think it’s time you took some shooting leave.”
Jericho smiled at the notion. During the nineteenth-century spy/counterspy Great Game between England and Russia, British soldiers had often been given “shooting leave” so as to venture into neutral ground without official cover-or protection.
“Now wait just one damn minute,” Thibodaux all but roared from his seat on the couch. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think Quinn should be sent over to Kashgar all by hisself to talk with this fille doctor and her string of Chinese hookers.”
“Don’t worry. He’s not going alone, Jacques. He just won’t be going with you.
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said, shaking his head ever so slightly. He was a Marine, and Marines took orders whether they liked them or not. Quinn respected that, but he could also understand the big Cajun’s disappointment.
Palmer produced two blue passports from his desk drawer and shoved them toward Quinn. “You and Miss Garcia will go over posing as a couple on a motorcycle adventure vacation. It’s the end of the season, but you should still have a couple of weeks of good riding weather. See what Dr. Deuben knows and get her to show you this orphanage. Keep me apprised of what you find on the Secure Satellite Link.”
“Adventure motorcyclists…” Thibodaux muttered, arms folded across his chest in a muscular pout.
“I get it, Jacques,” Palmer said. “But you don’t speak Chinese and with your bulk, you’d draw too much attention.” Palmer grinned. “If I ever need someone to go undercover as a pro wrestler, you’ll be our guy.”
Palmer’s cell phone gave a soft chirp. He looked at it and nodded grimly. “It’s POTUS,” he said. “Garcia will be here any minute. Let her in and play nice. I have it on good authority she carries a knife.”
“I’m just sayin,” Thibodaux sighed after they left Palmer’s office and shut the door behind them. “I can’t believe they’re sending you over to Bootystan with nobody to watch your back but the new kid.”
Quinn grinned. “There is that thing about her saving my life in the men’s room. Besides, I thought you liked her.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, she’s hot as a firecracker and all that,” Thibodaux said. “But have you looked in her eyes? She’s got crazy-ass clowns in there with knives and meat cleavers and shit… All of ’em do…”
“Even Camille?” Quinn chuckled.
“Are you kiddin’ me, beb?” Thibodaux threw up both hands and scoffed. “Hell yes, even Camille. I love her to death, but my little Cornmeal is the worst. Sometimes, when I’m lookin’ down into those spooky eyes of hers, I can see her with a pair of scissors tippy-toein’ up on me when I’m fast asleep…” His broad shoulders shook with a full- body shiver. “Ohhh-weee, that little woman can bring some misere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Spotsylvania, Virginia
Lieutenant Colonel Fargo kept to the paving stones as he picked his way across the yard. He stayed a half step back from his partner, wanting him to reach the door first. Piles of dog crap lurked like land mines, half hidden in the thick grass. Three overturned bicycles, a red tricycle with no wheels, and assorted cap pistols and water guns lay strewn from street to porch. A headless GI Joe doll hung by one leg from the dead branch of a lone elm in front of the modest gray two-story.
Dogs and kids… they both gave Fargo the creeps.
Both Fargo and his partner wore dark suits and Wiley X tactical sunglasses, looking every inch like the proverbial government men in black that they were. Though members of the American military rarely went armed on the soil of their own country, drastic times called for drastic measures, and each carried a Beretta M9 pistol in a shoulder holster under his suit coat.
First Sergeant Sean Bundy, a classic thug if the Army had ever seen one, tossed a condescending look over his shoulder as the two men wove their way through the maze of toys and lawn clutter. The stinger of a three-inch scorpion tattoo stuck above the size-eighteen collar of his white dress shirt. Sunlight shone off the pink of his freshly polished scalp. “Tell me this guy’s name again?” Bundy asked.
“Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jacques Thibodaux,” Fargo said, feeling a touch superior as the words left his mouth. “You know, this is the second time you’ve asked me that. I thought you Echoes were keen on remembering the slightest details.”
At the steps now, Bundy spun, his top lip pulled back in a quivering half snarl. “I’m not asking because I want to know,” he snapped. “I’m asking to give you a concrete thought to focus on… sir. You’ve been whistling a bad rendition of a Rossini opera ever since we got into the car this morning.”
The blood drained from Fargo’s face.
“You need to calm your ass down… sir.” Bundy glared. “I’ll handle the gunny’s blushing bride.”
Any trace of superiority left Fargo as if a plug had been pulled. From the moment he’d met Sergeant Bundy his gut had felt as if he’d drank a quart of curdled milk.
A day ago, when they were putting together their action plan, it had seemed like a good idea to interview Mrs. Thibodaux while her gigantic husband was away. Now that they were actually standing on her front porch, Fargo wasn’t so sure. He would have turned away had it not been for fear of looking weak in front of a man who was his subordinate. He bit his bottom lip. Had he really been whistling Rossini?
“His wife’s name is Camille,” Fargo offered, trying to save some semblance of dignity. “Maiden name was Bottini. Her friends call her Cornmeal.”
“Cornmeal,” Bundy chuckled, turning back to the door. “That’s messed up.”
Sergeant Bundy pounded with his fist, rattling the entire house. Fargo felt his flesh crawl.
“Maybe they’re not home,” he muttered, half under his breath.
Bundy looked over his shoulder again and shook his head. “I hear footsteps. They’re home.”
A shadow drifted across the glazed oval window and the door flew wide open.
“Help you?” A pregnant woman leaned into the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Mussed, coal- colored hair was pulled back in a faded blue bandana. Her white T-shirt stretched tight against the beginnings of a swollen baby-belly. A small child wearing nothing but a sagging diaper clung to the leg of her gray sweatpants.
“Gunny Thibodaux hereabouts?” Bundy asked, without introducing himself.
“Who would be askin’?” The woman glared with haggard green eyes under a furrowed brow. Fargo thought she might be attractive if she put on a little makeup and lost the baggy sweats. She certainly filled out the white T- shirt with more than just her belly.
Fargo stepped up next to Bundy, drawn forward in spite of his nerves. He opened his black credential case and held it at belt level. “Army CID. Actually, we’re trying to find a friend of your husband’s. Jericho Quinn.”
Camille touched the corner of Fargo’s credential case, looking back and forth from the photo to his face.
“Your picture don’t favor you at all.” She smirked.
The snot-nosed kid at her leg reached up and tugged at the case, trying to have a look of his own. Fargo yanked it back and slid it in his suit pocket.
Camille tossed her head, blowing dark bangs out of her eyes. “Listen, boys, if you’ll excuse me I got baths to give and supper to cook. Leave your card and I’ll tell Jacques you stopped-”
Without warning, Bundy shouldered his way inside the house. Fargo’s gut lurched into his throat, but he followed dutifully.
Camille’s look shot daggers as both men barged past.
