The tiniest crystal of an idea began to form in Tang’s brain.
He checked the time on his phone. The monstrous Airbus traveled at nearly 600 miles an hour. They would cross into Russian airspace in a little over an hour; a few minutes after that and they would be over land.
He needed more time — but to get it, he would somehow have to make the airplane turn around.
There was another chime and the captain’s voice blared over the speaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is Captain Rob. I apologize for that choppy air. Sometimes that happens out here over the Pacific. We’ve done a little checking with a couple of other flights ahead of us. It looks like we’ll have smooth flying for the next few hours.
No, Tang thought, the next few hours will be anything but smooth.
Chapter 46
Jacques Thibodaux rumbled up on a big BMW motorcycle twenty-five minutes later. He backed the bike into a parking spot in front of the used bookstore down the block from the bar. Joey Benavides and his young protégé were still inside finishing up what looked to be their last beer.
The streets were beginning to hop as government workers, congressional aides, and lobbyists poured out of the Adams Morgan district to return to work after lunch. Many were likely to return for happy hour, then be back in their offices again by seven or eight that evening — continuing to work for another three or four hours. It was a sobering thought that many of those running the government relied on so much liquid inspiration.
The hulking Marine swung a leg off his motorcycle and ripped an enormous and unashamed fart.
“Speak to me, oh, Toothless One,” he sighed to himself.
Bowen chuckled. It was impossible not to like this guy.
The Cajun’s black leather jacket hung open to reveal a tattered AC/DC BACK IN BLACK T-shirt. His jeans were faded and frayed at the cuffs from being just a little too long at the heels. The patch over his eye seemed to add inches to his already enormous bulk.
He took Bowen’s hand in a giant paw and drew him to his chest to give him a hearty pat on the back — the brotherhood hug. Bowen was no small fry but he felt like a toy in the Marine’s grasp.
As a deputy marshal he’d made a habit of sizing people up. There were those he could control by swagger alone. Some he knew he would have to lay hands on, while others might turn violent and needed a two-by-four to the head in order to bring them into line. Some were too dangerous even for that, and required a high-power rifle from very far away.
Jacques Thibodaux, a man who surely tossed around small cars and yanked trees up by their roots for sport, fell squarely into the last. Bowen noticed a dark red raspberry on the big man’s forehead over his good eye — and found himself wondering about the “other guy.”
Thibodaux saw the concern on his face and touched the wound with his fingertip. “Bedroom accident.” He grinned.
Fearing Benavides might come out at any moment, Bowen briefed the Marine quickly, highlighting the fact that Ronnie Garcia had asked for his help.
Thibodaux rubbed a hand over his square jaw, taking it all in.
“You want to get him off somewhere by hisself and ask him a few questions?”
“He’s with another guy, but there were two sets of keys on the table so I’m thinking they came in separate cars.” Bowen nodded across the street. “There’s a Metro police substation over there, so it’s not optimum.”
“That don’t matter.” Thibodaux smirked. “We’ll just watch which way your guy goes and follow him. You kick him in the nuts and I’ll drag him into the alley so we can chat.”
“Or,” Bowen said, “I can play back a little of the recording where he implicates his boss in the torture of a high-ranking US official.”
“Your call,” Thibodaux mused. “But he’d probably rather get kicked in the nuts.”
Benavides said good-bye to his young friend and then began to jostle his way through the crowds that mingled in front of Madam’s Organ. The kid turned right and, thankfully, Joey B turned left, away from the police station. He wasn’t drunk, but chose his steps carefully like someone who knew he had a pretty good buzz. He carried his keys in his hand, moving toward a silver Audi A8, wagging his head as he walked as if still singing his own mighty songs.
Bowen fell in behind him as soon as he left the restaurant. Thibodaux hung back a few steps.
“Joey,” Bowen said, stepping in before Benavides could unlock the Audi. “Got a minute?”
The ID agent turned a little too fast at the intrusion, teetering so he had to catch himself on the roof of the car. The tail of his white shirt hung half out of navy Sansabelt slacks. He held a chubby hand up to his face as if to ward off a blow or shield his eyes from a bright light. Three gold rings adorned stubby sausage fingers.
“Do I know you?” he said. He rubbed his waist with the other hand, obviously trying to remember what he’d done with his pistol. Bowen had seen it earlier, sagging in a loose sheepskin holster on the man’s left ankle. When caught unawares, having a gun in an ankle rig was akin to not having a gun at all.
Thibodaux moved up behind Bowen. “Afraid you’ve never had the pleasure, cher,” the Marine said. “But we know you. How about we all have a seat in your car and, you know, get to know each other?”
“I know one thing,” Benavides said. “You’re not getting in my car.”
“Au contraire, my brother,” Thibodaux said. He nodded at Bowen. “My friend here happens to be in possession of a recording you’re gonna want to hear.”
“How do I know you’re not going to kill me?” Benavides said.
“I can’t speak for my friend,” Thibodaux said, “but if I aimed to kill you, you’d be a greasy dot on the sidewalk already.”
Bowen stepped in closer and held up his phone. A quick replay of Joey B’s own words convinced him to unlock all the doors and slump behind the wheel. Bowen sat in the passenger seat. The big Marine folded himself into the back, behind Benavides.
“What now?” Joey asked, hands rubbing the sides of his head like he was getting a migraine.
Bowen half turned, his left arm running along the back of the seat between Benavides and his headrest. He held the phone in his right, between them. The recording played on, describing the treatment of a defenseless older woman at the hands of common thugs. Benavides closed his eyes when he heard his own voice connecting Agent Walter with the incident.
Bowen turned off the recording and returned the phone to his jacket pocket.
“Do you know why most people aren’t very good at boxing, Joey?” Bowen said.
“No,” Benavides scoffed. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“Because they worry too much about their teeth.”
Bowen grabbed a handful of Joey B’s greasy curls, yanking back just enough to make the moron pull against his grasp. As soon as he felt the tug, Bowen went with it, changing directions and slamming Benavides’s face into the top of the steering wheel again and again. Teeth shattered against the hard plastic wheel. At least two fell in a series of tiny thumps against the rubber floor mat, like coins slipping out of a pocket.
“Sthopppp it!” Benavides screamed. Blood poured from his burst lips. “What do you want from me?” He held up both hands, showing that he didn’t intend to fight back.