“When this is over”-Jericho looked at Thibodaux-“you and I need to pay a little visit to the halls of the Senate Hood and have a chat with our Gang of Five.”
Marc Cameron
National Security
CHAPTER 35
15 September U.S. Customs Holding Center Dulles International Airport
FBI Special Agent Bob Chaffee leaned back against the edge of the metal table and exhaled through his prominent nose like an angry bull. His thinning blond hair was combed straight back, plastered to his scalp with gel. A dark suit jacket was folded neatly on the table to his right.
The Arab man handcuffed to the wooden chair in front of him wasn’t talking and Chaffee was beginning to look foolish in front of his new partner.
“I think we’re supposed to call someone with the CDC,” a portly customs inspector with gray hair offered from the other side of a metal government-issue desk. His name was Ernie and he was a likeable enough sort for a grandpa. Chaffee thought the man a little too sweet faced to be a gun-toting U.S. customs officer.
“The hit was flagged for national security,” Chaffee tossed the words over his shoulder to Ernie, but his steel blue eyes still locked on the suspect. “Last I heard the Bureau retains jurisdiction on national security matters no matter what some CDC doctor puts in a computer field.” He opened his fist to reveal a clear glass vial about two inches long.
The prisoner’s eyes focused intently on the vial, following it as a cobra might follow the bobbing of a flute. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, though the room was cool enough that Ernie had to wear his dark blue grandpa sweater.
“What’s in this thing, Hamid?” Chaffee asked. “Drugs?”
Liz Miller, Chaffee’s Betty-Bureau-Blue-Suit partner, chimed in. “There is a flag that pops up to say specifically we’re supposed to notify CDC. Maybe this is some sort of swine flu. I’ve read theories that Al Qaeda is trying to weaponize it…”
Special Agent Miller was an attractive enough woman, tall and triathlete fit with a pile of flaming red hair and a splash of freckles across her cheeks. Fresh out of Quantico, she thought she actually had something to offer to an investigation-some unique insight from her twenty-six weeks of study that trumped Chaffee’s twenty-three years on the street. What she had yet to learn was when to shut her yap and observe.
Chaffee shook his head. He was not about to call the CDC. The CDC was supposed to call the FBI. That’s the way things worked. He’d show this nubile newbie just how terrorism investigations were done.
Loosening his tie, he rolled up the sleeves of his custom-made white shirt and folded his arms across his chest. It was important he let the suspect know he was prepared for the long haul.
“So, Hammy,” he said, hoping the Arab was smart enough to get the pork innuendo. “Let me tell you what we do know. You came in this morning on the 9:06 flight from Dubai. Your passport is in good order, but… and this is a big but, my friend… your visa has some problems. The thing is, it’s not even a very good forgery. Visa fraud is a felony, you understand me?” Chaffee craned in close, inches from Hamid’s twitching cheek. “You understand prison, shit for brains?”
“Allahu akbar,” Hamid whispered.
“What did you say?”
Hamid hawked up a throat full of phlegm and spat. Yellow mucus dripped from Chaffee’s nose and chin.
He wiped it of with a handkerchief, pausing a moment to gaze at the office door before he doubled his fist and hit the prisoner hard in the jaw. Handcuffed, the Arab was unable to catch himself. Both he and the chair pitched onto the rough carpet, face first.
“Bob!” Agent Miller grabbed Chaffee by the shoulder, but he shrugged her off, towering over the prisoner.
Hamid lay on his side, panting, but still tight-lipped. A trickle of blood ran from his nose, spotting the scabby carpet.
“I’m calling the CDC,” Ernie whispered from behind the desk. “This is getting out of hand.”
Chaffee wheeled, a shock of gelled hair hanging down across a pink face. “Don’t you even think about it, old man. I told you, this is a national security issue. I’ll have your ass for hindering my investigation if you so much as touch the phone.” His starched shirt was askew, half untucked. One sleeve hung unrolled and unbuttoned, loose around his wristwatch.
A beige desk phone began to chirp. Ernie snapped it up. He, listened for a moment, nodded curtly, and then extended the handset toward Chaffee.
“Plain fact is I already called them, Bob. This is Dr. Mahoney with the CDC. She wants to talk to the agent in charge.” The inspector’s jowly face tightened. “And you’ve made it pretty clear to all of us that that’s you.”
Chaffee snatched up the phone, and then promptly slammed it back on the receiver. He threw up his hands in disgust. “You’re an idiot, you know that, Ernie.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Three thousand people died in Colorado. This guy could be connected to that and you call in the disease police. Unbelievable!”
“The computer hit said to call them.” Ernie stood his ground. “When you go back up to Mount Olympus with all your other Bureau gods, I have to answer to my boss. I followed protocol.”
“Shut up.” Chaffee turned away. “You’re a disgrace to the badge.”
Agent Miller touched his arm. “Bob-”
“Don’t you Bob me,” he snapped. “Sit back and shut your yap. You might learn something useful.” He hitched up his suit pants, making certain his sidearm was snapped securely into the holster on his belt. Handing her the glass vial, he rolled up his dangling sleeve and turned his attention back to Hamid.
“Hold on to that for me. It’s evidence and I’m gonna need both of my hands.”
“They hung up on me.”
Megan Mahoney sat in the back seat of her Toyota 4Runner, dwarfed by three black parachute bags containing biohazard suits and portable air units. She lowered a cell phone from her ear in dismay.
Thibodaux sat behind the wheel, whipping expertly in and out of traffic. He took the spur road off highway 267, following the signs to the International terminal. It was midmorning and the commuter gridlock had let up enough that an aggressive driver could make good time, particularly going away from the Beltway. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Mahoney.
“Sure you had the right number?” he said, slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a Boar’s Head meat van.
“I spoke to the customs inspector.” Mahoney nodded, redialing and getting nothing but a busy signal. “He said he was putting on someone from the FBI.”
“What’s the Bureau doing there?” Quinn sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes shut, head back.
“Beats me,” Mahoney said. She couldn’t blame Quinn for resting. Since Win Palmer had put Hamid’s name and photograph on every lookout in the Western world, they’d been to Reagan National airport twice and Baltimore once, checking possible hits. Until now, they’d been false alarms, look-alikes. She’d assumed this one would be the same until they’d hung up on her. She’d dealt with the Bureau before, and though most of the individual agents were highly capable and pleasant enough, the agency had a certain inertia to it that could be difficult to overcome. “From my experience these guys can be mighty parochial.”
“That’s an understatement, cher,” Thibodaux said. “I’m fixin’ to get us right up by the door. We’ll crash their party no matter if they invite us or not.”
Quinn had his door open before Thibodaux put the Toyota in park. Mahoney handed a black bag marked XXL to Thibodaux just as a security guard in a gray uniform and yellow vest strode up. He was bald in the back, but his remaining hair was cut in a long flattop, pointing skyward like a smokestack, badly in need of a trim.
“You can’t park that here,” the guard said, nodding toward a sign along the curb. “Tour buses only.”
“FBI,” Thibodaux barked.
“Oh, uh…” the guard stammered. “Okay.”
