They started talking smack about the United States and, for all his faults, that’s one thing Bo won’t stand for. Just as my squadron marched by, I saw two of them jump him from behind while the other three squared off in front of him…”
“So let me get this straight. You, as a flight commander, broke ranks from your squadron during pass in review, and jumped into the scrap to help your brother.” Palmer grinned. “In front of ten thousand people and the superintendent of the United States Air Force Academy. Four years of putting up with the grind of cadet life and you were willing to toss it to the wind one day away from graduation?”
Quinn looked ahead, his eyes locked on Palmer. “Some things you just do without thinking, sir.”
“Like saving your little brother from an ass kicking?”
“Exactly like that.”
Palmer nodded. “You and your brother put three Russian nationals in the hospital before security forces broke up the fight. Two of them had to have their jaws wired shut. As much as I admire your courage, I find myself forced to ask you a question. Do you have a temper problem, Captain Quinn?”
“No, sir,” Jericho said. “I believe I have an excellent command of my emotions.”
“Where do you stand on Arabs?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” This was definitely not what he’d expected.
“Arabs. Muslims,” Palmer said, locking eyes in a sort of visual jousting match. “Your record shows you’ve had a hand in sending more than a few to meet their maker.”
Quinn nodded slowly, taking time to choose his words. “I don’t have a problem with any particular group or religion. My problem is with thugs-of any kind. If the U.S. was being attacked by the militant Irish terrorists, I’d respond the same way I always do. And my father is Irish. If you’ll note my file, you’ll see the time I spent in Morocco was more of a humanitarian mission-no guns, just hammers and nails, building houses for the poor.” It wasn’t like Quinn to try and defend himself, but for some reason, he felt a compelling need to have this man understand him-as much as that was even possible.
At length the DNI peered up over the open folder. “Well, I guess the Academy thought it would be imprudent to hold up the graduation of their top athletic cadet and distinguished graduate just for protecting his kid brother.”
“The district attorney in Colorado Springs declined to file charges,” Quinn said.
“So, let’s see here,” Palmer said, as if eager to change the subject. “Turns out you’re quite a motorcycle enthusiast. Your file says you raced the Dakar Rally in 2004 along with that same kid brother.”
Quinn smiled. There had been another fight just after he and Bo had crossed the border into Senegal-one that made the graduation-parade scrap look like a church dance-but he didn’t think that one had made it into the file, so he said nothing.
Palmer continued, “You entered the pipeline for Air Force Special Operations right after the Fulbright Fellowship. That’s pretty tough duty-a year and a half training in firearms, scuba, running, swimming, HALO, more running, advanced trauma medical, more swimming, escape and evasion… Did I mention running and swimming?” Palmer smiled. “Graduated top of your squadron to become a combat rescue officer. So, what made you leave the CROs after just two years?”
Thibodaux looked on from the sidelines with renewed interest. CROs weren’t Marines, but they weren’t wing waxers either.
Quinn took a slow breath. For the first time since he’d met Win Palmer, his mind fell to the last conversation he’d had with Kim. “My wife worried about me being in harm’s way quite so much.”
“So you chose to switch to OSI thinking that would calm her sentiments?”
“I did,” Quinn said matter-of-factly. “Then when the Gulf heated up, so did OSI.”
“And you divorced.”
“We did.”
“One daughter.”
“Correct.”
Thankfully, Palmer changed gears, allowing Jericho to think of something else besides the cell phone call with his ex-wife, for the time being. “All right, men, enough of this getting to know each other. Let me, as they say in the Kashmir, get to the yolk of the egg. Your reports from Fallujah mention a man named Farooq.”
Quinn was happy to be out from under the microscope. “My informant didn’t have all the details, but there’s word this guy is one of the ones behind Colorado. He’s got something to do with all the kidnappings going on in Iraq as well-at least where American personnel are involved.”
“You know,” the DNI said, folding his arms, “everybody’s been so damned knotted up over Osama bin Laden. But I’m worried about the next one. We start to think everything bad comes from one man and we miss something important, like a Colorado shopping mall.”
“And we think Farooq is the next bin Laden?” Thibodaux asked, letting his big head loll to one side as if he was trying to let water drain out of his ear.
“We had indications Osama was going to hit us. Hell, Ollie North warned us about him years ago. I’m not anxious to keep repeating the same mistake.”
“So you want us to kill this guy Farooq?” Thibodaux voiced Quinn’s thoughts. It was odd enough they’d even have a meeting with the Director of National Intelligence, but for him to give the two of them such a high-level briefing brought to mind so many questions his head hurt.
“ Ruguo ni zhiyou yiba chui, mei yige wenti jiu kan-qilai dingzi,” Palmer rattled as if he was native Chinese. “Did I get that right, Captain Quinn?”
Jericho nodded, impressed at the Director’s flawless Mandarin. “ If you only have a hammer, every problem looks like nails. You have a good ear, sir. You must have spent some time in China.”
Palmer gave a wry smile, as if remembering better days. “As a matter of fact I have. But, since my Senate confirmation seven months ago, I have come to see that we have exactly the opposite problem of that particular proverb. I have at my disposal a myriad of sophisticated tools: vast communications systems, crack military units, spy satellites, billion-dollar warplanes and ships… the list goes on and on. But there are times when a fancy, more specialized tool just won’t work. What I really need is a bona fide pipe-hitter that’s unencumbered by the cords and fancy systems of red tape.”
Jericho knew from the look the DNI gave him, the next conversation he would have with Kim was not going to be a good one.
Palmer nodded slowly, as if passing judgment.
“I need a hammer.”
CHAPTER 14
Al-Hofuf
Sheikh Husseini al Farooq gazed serenely through the one-way glass. Small, feminine fingers toyed with the ruby ring on his right pinkie. His long white robe just brushed the marble floor.
“How long?” Zafir, who stood to the sheikh’s immediate right, asked. He kept his head slightly bowed but could still make out the reflection of his master’s waspish face in the tinted glass.
“Mm?” Farooq looked up, startled from a thought.
“How long until they die?”
“Soon,” Farooq said. “If not from the disease, then from dehydration.”
On the other side of the thick partition, a scene from an American horror movie stared back at them. Even Zafir, who’d spilled his share of blood and misery, was repulsed by the sight. Farooq appeared to marvel at it. Five of his test subjects lay in a row of mean cots. The sheets, once white, were filthy, stained in unclotted blood and human filth. The room was now so contaminated, no one, not even Dr. Suleiman, the veterinary scientist Farooq had paid to conduct the experiments, would enter to feed or tend the dying souls.
Zafir mused at the dying people, consoling himself as to what they represented. Three were men-two American hostages and a Shiite pig who deserved the flesh-eating death that now ravaged their bodies. The fourth
