Bowen felt his stomach growl and looked at his watch. It was no wonder Azam was hungry. Bowen had come on shift at 0700, and he was starving. He was sure the Uzbek had been on the clock long before that, seeing to the needs of his boss, the Uzbek foreign minister, and working through the daily schedule so he could liaise with the DS agents about timing and routes. Dignitary protection required a certain artistic fluidity, often necessitating a move from one location to another at a moment’s notice. The Uzbek minister was a compulsive shopper during these trips to New York and had kept the eight people charged with protecting his life on the move all day. Bowen and the others on the detail had been able to wolf down a quick slice of pizza over the hood of the armored limo while the minister was inside being fitted for new suits. Other than that, it had been go, go, go all day long and none of them — including Azam — had had anything to eat but for the odd Skittle or breath mint they’d found hiding in a suit pocket.
New Yorkers seemed to have an affinity for late dining, but this was ridiculous. The Sultan of Brunei had spent the last two months vacationing in Hawaii and was accustomed to Hawaii Time. Since the Sultan was host and footing the bill for this event, he deemed it appropriate to eat when his internal clock said it was time to sit down to dinner — five p.m. in Hawaii was eleven in New York. And protective agents always ate after their protectees. Bowen felt his stomach growl again and thought how nice it must be to be a bazil-lionaire.
The annual General Assembly of the UN or UNGA, offered most of the one hundred and ninety-three member nations’ top diplomats an opportunity to visit New York City on an all-expenses-paid shopping trip. But one man’s boondoggle was another man’s opportunity for overtime, so Bowen had jumped at the chance when offered one of the few U.S. Marshals slots to assist Diplomatic Security protective details. Considering the ever-growing threat of terrorism, there was a fair bet the overtime would not be the relatively easy standing post and “smokin’ and jokin’” of times past. With attacks on American soil moving up the scale from possible to probable — Bowen’s chief had chosen him specifically for the assignment. Bowen’s experience in Iraq had earned him a Silver Star, along with silver hair and the “bevy of unresolved issues.” It had also made him one of the go-to deputies in the Marshals Service when it came to boots-on-the-ground tactical knowledge.
After the gas attacks in Dallas and Los Angeles, there was buzz that the Secretary General of the UN would pull rank and cancel, or at the very least postpone the late-night Plaza dinner. Many of the delegates agreed with the threat assessment, but none of them wanted to appear weak so they kept quiet. Ousted by the former President, Melissa Ryan, long-time romantic partner to the national security advisor had been reappointed Secretary of State by the new president. She’d arrived ten minutes before Bowen left to check the kitchen, flanked by a dozen dour DS agents who glared as if they viewed anyone who got in their path as food.
In the end, one hundred and sixty foreign minsters and their guests had weighed the possibilities of a gruesome death from poison gas against the benefits of a free meal and were now crowded into the Plaza Hotel’s Grand Ballroom listening to a very talented Chinese woman play the cello. For the poorer countries’ delegations, Bowen suspected this would be the most lavish meal they would have in their lives. For some, accustomed to living off the backs of their people, lobster bisque and macadamia-crusted halibut was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Bread and cheese is for pigeons and rats,” Bruce the sous-chef said in a heavy Brooklyn accent, waddling up to Bowen with a plate of halibut, a folded linin napkin, and a fork. “I want that you should have real-people food.”
“I appreciate it,” Bowen said as he saw Azam round the corner beside the walk-in freezer. “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend—” Bowen gave a slow nod when he saw the man walking behind the Uzbek.
Now it all made sense.
Jacques Thibodaux gave Bowen’s face a sidelong look with his good eye. The other was covered with a black patch that only added to the menacing demeanor of the gigantic Marine. “Oh, yea, yee!” He said under his breath.
Where every other person at the Plaza Hotel event was wearing either formal attire or a hotel uniform, the massive Cajun had shown up in a skintight T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He carried a heavy leather jacket draped over his arm. “I thought I’d find you were out sailing around the world and instead I see you been playin’ it rough with somebody. What in the hell did you do to your noggin, cher?” he asked.
Azam stood by, smiling happily while he munched on his plate of food. He spoke excellent English and appeared as interested in the story as Thibodaux.
Jacques nodded toward the bloody knuckles of Bowen’s right hand. “You know, I delivered my fourth kid on our living floor so I’m pretty much a doctor. Let me know if you need me to take a look at that hand.”
Bowen chuckled, hoping to move on with whatever spy games had brought the big Marine his direction. Men like Jacques Thibodaux didn’t just drop by to catch up. “It wasn’t much.”
“Pshaw!” Thibodaux scoffed. “You forget that I’ve seen you fight. Ain’t nobody get that many licks in on you without bein’ on the receiving end of a good ass whippin’.”
Bowen sighed, knowing he’d have to tell the story before Thibodaux would get to his reason for coming.
“I was walking back from the Waldorf yesterday after the night crew relieved us and happened on this guy who was beating the shit out of his girlfriend on 50th.”
Thibodaux gave a somber nod. “Must have been a big guy, judging from the looks of your swollen beak.”
“Big enough,” Bowen said. “Some kind of bouncer from the way he slammed my face into the sidewalk.” The deputy shook his head, remembering the fight in a whirlwind of painful detail.
Thibodaux’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to come to grips with the story. “Don’t you marshals ever call for backup?”
“That’s the policy,” Bowen said.
“Why didn’t you then? Hell, cher, this is Midtown Manhattan. The place is crawlin’ with cops.”
Bowen shrugged. “The math just didn’t work out.”
The Marine’s brow crawled above his black eye patch. “What’s math got to do with it?”
“Well,” Bowen said, as if it was all so clear, “You know what they say, ‘When seconds count, the cops are only minutes away.’ Every second I don’t step in, this guy puts another smack on his girlfriend.”
Thibodaux nodded. “So you just waded in amongst this big sombitch, and he gave you a fat lip…”
“Not quite.” Bowen gave a sheepish chuckle. “The girl gave me the fat lip while I was putting handcuffs on her boyfriend. No good deed goes unpunished, you know.”
“You’re a good shit, Deputy Gus Gus,” the Cajun said. “Oh, yes you are.” He turned and gave a wink to Azam. “You mind givin’ us a minute?”
The Uzbek shot a glance at Bowen, as if to ask if he was okay to be left alone with the big Cajun.
Bowen gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be fine, my friend,” he said.
Thibodaux leaned in after Azam had stepped around the corner. He kept his voice low. “Remember that little fais do-do we got you involved in a few months back?”