“Damn it, Leclair,” she snapped. “Hang up the telephone right now and take the specimens to the nearest BSL-four containment-someplace you’d take the deadliest stuff you’d ever even thought about.”
“Impossible,” Leclair huffed.
Mahoney threw up her hands. “And just why is that?”
“Quite simple,” Leclair sniffled. “I do not have them. The FedEx messenger picked them up from my office five hours ago. They are already en route to you.”
CHAPTER 13
The two men with the suits were operators, there was no mistaking that-Secret Service or some other steely-eyed protective agency who knew their stuff and hired their beef by the pound. Both wore pressed but not overly expensive suits, cut full to allow for athletic shoulders as well as an assortment of hidden weapons underneath. Quinn had several identical suits stashed in his own closet, complete with gun patches to keep his sidearm from wearing out the lining. Earpieces with flesh-tone wires hung from each man’s left ear. Their eyes locked on the newcomers like targeting radar as they flanked their boss, who was finishing a conversation on the phone.
Quinn couldn’t place the suit’s face. He was a tall man, with close-cropped charcoal-gray hair and a ruddy, smiling face. He looked familiar, even fatherly, like a television news anchor you might let into your living room every night, but not quite recognize on the street.
“Winfield Palmer,” the suit said, extending a strong hand. “Director of National Intelligence. My friends call me Win.”
Of course, Quinn thought. That’s why he recognized the man. Winfield Palmer was arguably one of the most powerful men in Washington. As DNI he was said to have the President’s ear-and support-on anything and everything of consequence regarding the Global War on Terror-and no matter what they called it in public, to those fighting it, a global war was exactly what it was.
Quinn shook his hand, as did Thibodaux.
Palmer dismissed the two bodyguards with a nod. They left without making eye contact.
“Gentlemen, I know you’ve both had an extremely long day. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.” He glanced at the stainless TAG Heuer Aquaracer next to the platinum cufflink on his French shirt, giving a nod of approval to the identical dive watch on Quinn’s left wrist.
“Please, have a seat.” Palmer pointed at two leather chairs beside a long mahogany coffee table. He came around to sit on the edge of the general’s highly polished wooden desk.
“Let’s cut to the chase. I’ve been around enough to know men like you two don’t trust guys like me from the get-go. Lark-the young Marine you saved in Fallujah-happens to be my grandson. What you men did was incredibly brave-”
Thibodaux cut in. “With all due respect, sir, we were only doing-”
Palmer held up an open hand and wagged his head with a smile. “I get that, Gunny. Certainly, there are thousands of men and women in the desert doing brave and dangerous things for our country every day. You are right. Neither one of you have a corner on the bravery market. The fact is you two fell under my radar so I took the liberty of looking over your files.” The DNI turned slightly and retrieved a thick, red-striped folder from the desk behind him. “I have to say I’m impressed, Gunnery Sergeant Thibodaux. Starting shortstop for LSU, where you graduated summa cum laude…” He glanced up with the chuckle of someone holding a winning hand. “I’d ask why you aren’t an officer, but I don’t want to hear your BS about wanting to work for a living…” Palmer’s eyes fell again to the file. “Let’s see… an only child, your parents own a restaurant in the French Quarter… champion Greco Roman wrestler, ranked mixed martial artist where you fight under the name ‘Dauxboy’… You’re fluent in French, and surprisingly enough, Italian-”
“My wife’s Italian.” Thibodaux gave a modest grin, dipping his nearly shaven head. “It comes in handy so I know when to duck if she goes on one of her tirades.”
Palmer ignored the comment. “Your file goes on to say that you’re an expert marksman, defensive tactics instructor at Quantico, and somehow, in between four deployments to the desert, you’ve managed to sire six sons, all of whom are under the age of eleven.”
Quinn started at this, stifling a grin. Six sons. There was definitely more to Jacques Thibodaux than met the eye.
“And every one of ’em a bouncing baby stud,” Thibodaux beamed. “Does my file mention I play a mean mandolin?”
“As a matter a fact it does.” Palmer dropped the folder on the desk. “It also notes that you are a smart-ass. A valuable and talented smart-ass, but a smart-ass nonetheless.” He clasped his hands in front of him. “So, do you recall the protective operation you worked a year ago when the commandant of the Marine Corps visited Mosul?”
“I do, sir.”
“DOD did an investigation for a top-secret clearance on all personnel involved with that op. That certainly makes things handy for me…”
Palmer chuckled, turning to Quinn, who couldn’t help but wonder how much of his file this man had in front of him. As the Director of National Intelligence and as such the top dog of both the National Security Agency and the CIA, Quinn supposed he’d have access to the whole of it.
Palmer skimmed the three-inch ream of dog-eared papers, nodding here and there, muttering quietly at various points of interest along the way. Finally, he began to speak without looking up.
“Captain Quinn, as an agent in the Air Force Office of Special Investigations you already hold a TS clearance. I see here you swam varsity for your high school in Alaska-did quite well in swimming and track. Looks like you hold some kind of state record in the eight-hundred-meter run.”
“It’s a sparsely populated state, sir,” Quinn said.
Palmer peered over the top of his folder, apparently unimpressed by the show of modesty. “I see. So, your father is a commercial fisherman and your mother teaches eighth-grade history-both dangerous jobs.” Quinn smiled. Palmer went on playing This Is Your Life. “You have one brother… but we’ll get to him in a minute. After high school you received an appointment to the Air Force Academy, where you participated in Army Jump programs and the Navy’s Mini-BUDS course. I happen to be an old West Point man. What I can’t figure out is why in the world you’d pick the Air Force if you weren’t going to fly?”
Quinn made it a point not to answer rhetorical questions.
Palmer studied him a moment with flint-hard eyes before returning to the file. “Your record says you speak Japanese, Mandarin Chinese
… and Arabic. That’s amazing. Are you fluent in all three?”
“Chinese and Arabic,” Quinn said. “More what you’d call conversant in Japanese.”
“We’ll see,” Palmer said before changing the subject. “You won the Wing Open boxing tournament your junior year-that makes you quick with your brain and your fists… Sandhurst Military Competition each year, team captain while you were a firstie… though you spent the first half of that year in Morocco taking part in a study-abroad program. Did a Fulbright Fellowship there as well after graduation… No offense meant here, son, but you have a dark and swarthy look about you. I’m thinking you could pass for an Arab without too much trouble.”
Quinn nodded. “My great-grandmother was a Chira-cahua Apache. I got her coloring.”
“Among other things,” Palmer said, perusing something else in the file. “Tell me about your graduation.”
Quinn took a deep breath. The man had the file. He hated telling the story, but was quizzed heavily about it by his commanding officer every time he moved to a new assignment. It had become the stuff of Air Force Academy legend and it was better he did the telling than let it grow out of proportion.
“I very nearly didn’t graduate, sir,” Quinn said.
Palmer nodded. “Report says your younger brother-what was his name
… Boaz-started some sort of brouhaha during the graduation parade the day before commencement.”
“I believe he’d say the drunks waving a Russian flag during our national anthem started it,” Quinn said. There was no use in holding anything back. “Bo happened to be standing next to some Russian men visiting the Academy.
