The national security advisor rubbed a hand over the top of his head in thought. It was nearly one in the morning East Coast time, and even on the small screen it was easy to see the strain in his eyes. Quinn was sure the man hadn’t had a moment to stop running since the attacks — and was not likely to slow down any time soon. He drove his people hard and himself harder.
“You’re going to be with me,” Palmer said to Garcia. “I have Thibodaux partnered with the deputy marshal you all worked with a few months ago.”
“Gus Bowen?” It was Quinn’s turn to look at Palmer a little cross-eyed. Quinn had broken Bowen’s nose back when they were in college — Quinn boxing for the Air Force Academy, Bowen for Army ROTC. Neither man had been too friendly with the other since. Beyond that, Quinn didn’t like the way Bowen grinned when he was around Ronnie. And the fact that he felt jealous at all made him annoyed at himself — which made him even madder.
“The marshal’s a hell of a manhunter,” Palmer said. “Dr. Volodin was married to a Ukrainian scientist who emigrated to the U.S. in the early nineties. They have a son together. The ex-wife passed away three years ago, but the son lives in Brooklyn. Just so happens that Bowen is assigned to New York at the moment. This may be nothing, but we have every available agent and case officer working round the clock checking every possibility. Chances are you’ll run these particular leads to the ground in a few hours. Call when you do and I’ll put you on something else.” He gave a slight nod to Ronnie. “Five of the scientists are Russian so I can use you back in DC. I want someone I trust in on the interrogations.”
“Of course, sir,” she said. “I’ll jump on the next flight.”
“The next flight is the one in front of you,” Palmer said. “Be on it.” As was his custom, he signed off without another word.
Beaudine scooped up her bag and went looking for the powder room. The Challenger pilots returned from the break room. Both were aware Garcia was to be their passenger and gave her a twenty-minute warning so they’d have time to push the plane back out and refuel.
Quinn leaned against the wall by a fifty-five gallon drum of engine oil next to Garcia.
“What did she say to you?” He spoke five languages but Russian wasn’t one of them.
“A Russian saying,” Garcia said. “She basically called me a fool for wanting to get involved.”
“Really? Because you want to help out?” Quinn groaned. “This is going to be rich.”
“I don’t envy you,” Garica said, glaring at the doorway through which Beaudine had disappeared, before breaking into a series of Spanish epithets that seemed strong enough to peel paint. “She’s one of those nails that stick up on the dojo floor that has to be pounded down…”
“I’ll have my mom send your clothes,” he said.
“I don’t like her,” Garcia said.
“My mom?”
“You know who I mean, postalita.” She sometimes called him a “little postage stamp” when she was angry. Quinn could never bring himself to ask her why, figuring she could have gone with a lot worse.
She turned to face him, toying with the buttons on his shirt. “Just be careful, Jericho.”
“You’re the one who needs to be careful,” he said. “I’m only flying out to check on a dead end. DC is a lion’s den even without a bunch of nerve gas and Russian scientists.”
Ronnie gave him a kiss on the lips, the first since they’d left for their afternoon motorcycle ride. “Jacques is right,” she said, her lips lingering near his. “This woman is crazy.”
“You know,” Quinn laughed, raising his eyebrows. “He’s always telling me the same thing about you.”
Chapter 13
Forty-five minutes after it had arrived, the Bombardier Challenger was wheels up and winging its way back toward Washington, DC, leaving Quinn and Special Agent Khaki Beaudine alone in the hanger.
“So,” Quinn said, nodding to the 5.11 backpack at Beaudine’s feet, “I guess you got all the gear you need?” The tough tactical bag was slightly larger than Quinn’s Sagebrush Dry pack, but his was completely waterproof. His father had told him from the time they started hunting together that the more comfortable he became in the outdoors, the less he would need to bring with him to survive. Still, Alaska was an unforgiving mistress, and some things were a necessity no matter how comfortable you were.
Beaudine looked at her watch and shrugged. “We’re lookin’ at nearly ten o’clock. If I forgot anything I doubt there’s anyplace still open where I can go buy it now anyhow.”
“True enough,” Quinn said. He shouldered his pack and walked toward the truck. “Come on. We’ll have to drive around the flight line and catch our ride from there. I’m sure you’re fine. As long as you have some kind of knife, a light, and a way to start a fire, you should be okay.”
“You didn’t even mention a gun,” Beaudine said.
“A gun is important,” Quinn said. “But bullets won’t keep you warm when it’s dark and you’re freezing to death.”
A half an hour later, Khaki Beaudine sat with her nose pressed to the window of the Air Force C-12, watching the lights of Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson slip away beneath her. Quinn had fallen asleep as soon as they started rolling, kicked back in the worn leather seat across the aisle as if he was accustomed to flying on last-minute missions to track down Russian chemists bent on destroying the free world. There was a relaxed surety about him that could easily have come across as conceit — or at the very least intimidating. When he spoke with you, he appeared to be genuinely interested in what you said, rather than simply waiting for his turn to talk again.
Khaki had only been out of Quantico for a year, and she vividly remembered the buckets of testosterone exuded by so many of the male students itching to prove they were the best in their class of NATs — New Agent Trainees. Type A personalities were the norm in law enforcement, and the FBI in particular, but she could tell even from the short time she’d been around him that Quinn wasn’t so easy to put into neat descriptive boxes and columns. She was pretty sure Myers-Briggs had an entire “Q” category developed just for him. He was driven, to be sure. Mr. Palmer had told her as much. But now, he looked like he’d been run over by a truck.
It was apparent that he would have been more comfortable working with Veronica Garcia or Jacques. Khaki knew Quinn and her cousin were closer than brothers, so she was certain they had talked despite the vague denial from Ronnie Garcia. She just wondered how much Jacques had given up. Some things you didn’t even tell your brother. Quinn had his own dark secrets. She was sure of that. Everybody did, no matter how pretty and perfect their life appeared on Facebook.
Quinn must have known she was new to the Bureau. He could have quizzed her about her skills and abilities but instead decided it was best to catch up on his rest. Odd behavior for a warrior type who’d just had a new partner thrust upon him. Beaudine looked past her own reflection in the window and wondered what she would have done under the same circumstances.
The pilot climbed out to the north, banking slightly west as he flew over the Knik Arm of the Cook Inlet. A few moments later the lights of Anchorage winked out behind them as they flew into the inky blackness of Alaska. It was plenty warm inside the plane, but Khaki pulled her vest up around her shoulders and shivered. The vastness of the land outside made her wonder if there was a backpack large enough to bring all the things she might need to survive.
She’d been minding her own business, happy to be shed of her worthless husband, and working in the Washington Field Office. WFO was where the real work happened. And now she’d been sucked into this nothing assignment out in the middle of Iceberg, Alaska, chasing some Russian scientist who had, from all accounts, lost his marbles.