thought back to what Sadiq had told him outside the mosque that night in Fallujah.
“My informant says this guy Farooq is determined to do something worse than the mall bombings-to bring America to her knees.”
“And then shoot us in the head.” Palmer gave a somber nod. “Unfortunately, everything we have on Sheikh Husseini al Farooq-or his organization-wouldn’t fill a double-spaced page. We could kill him-if we could find him-but for all we know he has a second-in-command that’s even worse. Are you still in contact with your informant?”
Quinn nodded. “He’s got my secure cell phone number and I gave him a stack of phone cards before I left Iraq. He’s too greedy not to call me when he gets anything.
Thibodaux scratched his buzz cut, staring at his reflection in the tinted window. “I got a question or two if I might be so bold.”
“By all means,” Palmer said, smiling like a friendly uncle. He nursed a bottle of water across a low teak table from Quinn and the Cajun. Both still wore their uniforms, though they’d taken off the tunics and, thankfully, the ties-to Quinn, wearing a tie was like being choked by a very weak man. It was late, after eleven, and the heavy armored limousine thumped slowly down deserted residential streets. Compared to his BMW, the limo was a cage. Palmer had assured him the motorcycle would be transported to meet him, but the thought of someone else riding, or even trailering, his baby ate a hole in Quinn’s gut.
“Well, first off,” Thibodaux said, “do I still report to my same command structure? I ain’t no mercenary, but the wife will want to know about little things like where my pay will come from. I got a few mouths to feed.”
“Fair enough question,” Palmer said. “The paperwork has already been processed to put you on loan to OSI-”
“Hang on a damn minute there, sir,” Thibodaux said. “I’m a Marine. No offense, Quinn, but I didn’t sign on to be a wing waxer.”
“You’re still a Marine, Jacques,” Palmer chuckled. “You’re just on loan to the Air Force. We have an arrangement with OSI that makes it easier this way. You are now both what we in the business call OGAs-Other Governmental Agents. I’ve found it’s much easier to hide my OGAs in plain sight rather than trying to set up some clandestine agency. It’s not at all uncommon for agents of the federal government to go on various assignments they don’t talk about. As you would assume, most of those assignments are yawners-dignitary protection, diplomatic missions, things like that. Even James Bond could get lost in a bureaucracy as big and complex as ours. Take it from me; it’s much easier this way than putting you on the CIA or NSA payroll. You both have clearances and I can read you in above TS. Your pay and benefits mechanisms are already in place. You’ll start to receive oh- six pay as of last week.”
“A colonel’s salary?” Thibodaux whistled. “The child bride’s gonna wonder what kind of deal I’ve made with the devil for that one. I’m still not sure what our duties will be on this ‘Hammer Team’ of yours.”
“Your duties”-the DNI grinned-“are whatever I find necessary. Apart from the fact that you saved my grandson, I chose you two because of your particular skill sets and above all, your personalities. Your records demonstrate you don’t kill just because you have the opportunity… but when it’s the correct thing to do, you don’t hesitate. Thankfully, the President has removed the chains of red tape from me. We can act when we need to act- without waiting for fifteen others to sign off on our actions.”
“Are there more of us?” Thibodaux asked. Quinn had the same questions but was happy enough to let the big Marine do the talking.
The limo turned into a tree-lined circular drive off a shadowed side street a stone’s throw from George Washington Parkway.
“There are a few, but I doubt you’ll ever meet. Terrorists learn from us… and we learn from them. Small, independent cells can act on their own and, better still, they can act with speed. It gives the President deniability.”
“Deniability…” Quinn mused, mouthing the distasteful word.
“Correct,” Palmer said. “You report only to me and I report to the President. No matter the politics, the person sitting in the Oval Office feels the harsh weight of reality settle on them pretty fast. Torture, enhanced interrogation-call it what you want, but every great once in a while such a thing becomes a necessity. Some play the game in the open, some more discreetly. The events in Colorado have purchased a new sense of realism from the citizens of the United States. For a time at least, they see the need to fight back.”
Thibodaux crunched his brow like his head hurt. “But if the President knows, he doesn’t have deniability.”
Palmer smiled. It was the sort of smile the general had warned them about when he mentioned men in suits. “He knows what I say he does.”
“So you’d lie?” Thibodaux released a deep breath.
“In a heartbeat,” Palmer said simply, “for a greater cause.”
“What about Congressional oversight? Isn’t it illegal to do this sort of thing without legislative approval?” Quinn studied the man’s cool eyes under the dim yellow dome light.
“We have our supporters,” he said, shrugging. “Call it a Select Committee of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence-I call them the Gang of Five. The SSCI has fifteen members, the majority party having one more seat at the table. Our Gang of Five keeps that same ratio-but again, they only know what I tell them-and generally they don’t do too much asking. I think they prefer to bust my chops after the fact than to know the whole truth up front. No matter what anyone weeps about in front of the television cameras, we have the backing we need-sometimes even from the same people who bash us on CNN. The Gang of Five likes to have their deniability, too.”
“So you’d lie to the Senate, but you won’t ever lie to us?” Thibodaux said.
“Never.”
“Is that a lie?” The Cajun grinned.
Palmer leaned back to study the limo’s carpeted ceiling a moment, and then put both hands flat on his knees. “I’ll make you this promise, gentlemen. I may not always tell you everything, but I’ll never send you to get killed without giving you the whole of it. That kind of mission should be voluntary and fully disclosed.”
“Sounds like it’d be pretty easy to drop us in the grease,” Thibodaux said, stone faced.
Win Palmer sighed, closing his eyes. When he opened them he looked directly at each man in turn. “Neither one of you would have stayed alive as long as you have if not for the ability to read people. You saved my grandson’s life and that’s something I don’t take lightly-but more than that, you have talents that can save countless other lives. I love my country, gentlemen, and from your records I can tell you do as well. I don’t believe I’ll ever have to ‘drop you in the grease’-I think you’d jump in on your own.”
Quinn kept quiet.
“Get some rest.” Palmer nodded toward a sprawling brick home behind an alternating row of sycamores and oaks that had already been big trees when George Washington was still receiving guests at Mount Vernon. “Miyagi will settle you in and see to your equipment issues in the morning.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Thibodaux grinned. “Mr. Miyagi works for you?”
“ Mrs. Miyagi,” Palmer corrected. “And no ‘wax on, wax off ’ jokes. This woman might not look like it, but she could seriously kick your ass.”
Quinn’s cell phone began to buzz in his pocket.
“Go ahead and take that,” Palmer said, pushing open the door. “But don’t loiter out here too long. Mrs. Miyagi is expecting you-and she’s not someone you’d want to have mad at you.”
Red oak and yellow sycamore leaves, the beginnings of an early fall, swirled under the tires in the feeble glow of the taillights as the limo crunched down the deserted street to leave the two men alone.
Quinn pressed the button on his cell. “Hello.”
Thibodaux leaned against the ghostly white bark of a sycamore tree and stared into the night.
“Daddy?”
Quinn put aside thoughts of grimy politics and let himself go soft inside. His five-year-old daughter was the one person in the world who never disappointed him.
“Well, hello, Mattie. What are you doing up so late?” She gave her trademark giggle. “Daddy, it’s always late where you are. It’s only eight in Alaska.”
Quinn looked at the Aquaracer on his wrist. Midnight. She was so far away.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
