closed his eyes, he could imagine he was in Urumqi, Samarkand, or any other large Central Asian city. When he opened them, the sea of yellow cabs reminded him he was in New York.
A cold breeze blew, swirling bits of litter from sinister alleys and clattering dungeon-like basement stairwells.
“Let us return to the issue of my wife.” The doctor took one last drag from the stub of his cigarette before tossing it to the gutter. “I am loath to give such an order,” he said, eyes sagging with exhaustion. “But times, they are very strange, causing those we care for to do strange things.”
“Indeed.” Beg nodded, glaring at a lanky Chinese woman hawking perfume. She had a mole on her eyelid that he found extremely off-putting. He suddenly found he wanted to kill her as well.
Badeeb’s searched his jacket in a fluttering panic for another cigarette. “If pressed,” he said, “I fear Li Huang might let the cat from the sack, so to speak.”
Beg stopped in his tracks, thought for a moment, then resumed his pace. “The bag,” he said. “You mean to say she would let the cat out of the bag.”
“Precisely so,” Badeeb said. “In any case, the sooner you get to it the better.”
“When?”
“Tonight. At once. Now.” Badeeb glanced at his watch. “Our plan has begun to unfold as we speak. I would consider it a personal favor if she were dead within the hour.”
Beg took a deep breath, picturing the old woman waiting patiently in the cramped apartment for her husband to return.
A devout Hui Chinese Muslim, Li Huang was responsible for the deaths of many in pursuit of sheng zahn, the Chinese word for jihad, and of her husband’s dreams. She had been a faithful wife and deadly coconspirator with the doctor for over fifteen years. Deadly or not, there would be no sport in strangling her. It would be like dispatching a venomous spider. She was dangerous, but no match for the heel of his boot.
In a near panic for a cigarette, Badeeb doubled his pace and shoved upstream through the crowd toward a magazine stand at the corner of Mott Street. Beg knew the Pakistani owner kept a good supply of Badeeb’s favorite Player’s Gold Leaf.
The old man wasn’t there, having left the shop in the care of a slender boy in his early twenties, likely his son.
“Peace be unto you,” Badeeb launched into the lengthy formalities of his pious greeting, right palm to his heart.
The boy leaned forward, both hands on the counter. He looked as though he was having trouble stifling a yawn.
Two more customers formed a line behind the doctor as he spoke.
The boy rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said in a dismissive New Jersey accent. “Do me a favor and just tell me what you want. You’re holding up the line.”
Badeeb slammed the money for two packs of Gold Leafs on the counter. He spun on his heels, ripping into the foil of one pack as if it contained the antidote to some horrible poison.
“His father is a pious man,” the doctor seethed. “But the child is an infidel. After you strangle Li Huang you should come back and kill him.” He flicked open his metal lighter, putting a flame to the cigarette. “His death would be most welcome.”
“Very well,” Beg said, following the doctor east on Canal Street.
“Very well, indeed.” Badeeb puffed away on his glowing cigarette. “So much hinges on this night. Plans are falling into place better than I ever imagined they could. In any case,” the doctor said as if he were actually going to be part of the immediate action, “let us go see to strangling my wife. Maybe that will cheer me.”
Beg followed, his mind floating to the mysterious face of Veronica Garcia. Killing the old woman, the street vendor with the mole on her eye, or even the young infidel at the cigarette stand would be little solace for missing the chance to catch another glimpse of the beautiful Cuban and treat her to the taste of the wire of his garrote. Soon, she would be dead at the hand of a rank amateur and he would never have the opportunity. Such a waste.
Marc Cameron
Act of Terror
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Georgetown University Hospital Washington, D.C.
Ronnie Garcia’s mind was awash with disjointed memories. An incessant beeping to her left set her nerves on edge. The smell of antiseptic and a lingering odor of chicken broth set her stomach doing sickening flips. Her back ached, and she was sure someone was sitting on her chest. Oxygen flowed into her nose through a tube looped over both ears.
Her eyes fluttered slowly. She blinked, allowing the sterile white walls, the television, the lumps under the sheet that were her feet, to come into focus. She found it difficult to swallow and nearly cried from relief when she found a Styrofoam cup of ice water on a rolling table by the bed.
Visions of icy stone mountains and roaring motorcycles flashed across her mind. Jericho Quinn… she’d thought he might be there when she woke up. She remembered the orphanage, the boys, the sickening impact to her back, and then searing pain as she realized she’d been stabbed. The sensations of not being able to draw a breath, of utter helplessness-of drowning in her own blood-all came roaring back. She could recall snippets of Quinn working frantically to save her life. She needed to tell him something, something she’d heard just before…
Her eyes flicked open, fully awake.
“Tara Doyle,” she said out loud. “ The queen of West Texas bitches. She’s one of them.” The F-22 fighter pilot was a mole.
The television was turned to CNN, but the volume was down. The ticker across the bottom read Breaking News… Governors Island Wedding. Ronnie used the remote to turn it up. A dapper reporter with gelled hair and a black tuxedo spoke into the camera.
“… Clark and the First Lady will be arriving within the hour via the Marine One helicopter. Now, Rene, we haven’t seen the vice president or Mrs. Hughes yet this evening, but since it’s their daughter getting married tonight, we’re pretty sure they’re already on-site. And FYI, Rene, this wedding is shaping up to match Prince William and Kate as far as royal nuptials go. It could be the largest gathering of world leaders and celebrities we’ve seen in the U.S. since… well, I can’t remember when…”
Ronnie’s heart monitor went crazy as she reached for the telephone beside her bed.
Tara Doyle flew the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world. The wedding had to be her intended target.
Ronnie knew she couldn’t simply call in and report the threat. Doyle could have too many accomplices in high places. If the call was somehow received or even intercepted by one of the moles, Garcia might inadvertently move up the time line and put more people in danger. She had to talk to someone she was absolutely certain could be trusted. She beat her head against the pillow, racking her brain.
Ronnie had a good head for numbers, but realized she’d never actually called Quinn or Thibodaux. They’d always called her. She punched in the first number that came to her head.
“Three-five-four-three,” a male voice said. He had a familiar Virginia twang.
“Director Ross, please.”
“She’s not available. Who shall I say is calling?”
A vision of CIA Deputy Director Marty Magnuson, walking through the food court and shooting his coworkers in the head, flashed before Ronnie’s eyes. She hung up. How could she know who to trust?
She dialed information and got two more numbers.
“White House switchboard, may I help you?” It was a woman, polite, but all business.
“I need to speak with Winfield Palmer.”
