“Long story, Scott, and no, but I could.”
“Where are you?”
“In a helicopter twenty minutes out from Phoenix airport.”
“There’ll be a welcoming committee when you land. Quinn, they want to know whether you have the weapon.”
“No. But I know where it is, and I can instruct them on safe handling. Look, Scott. I’m all in. Just tell me. When we land, handcuffs or highballs?”
“Well, no handcuffs, but I don’t think the FBI is much into liquor,” Scott said.
“Thank you… thank you, Scott.”
And, in front of a disbelieving Abdul and Adiba, hot tears rolled down Detective Chief Inspector Steven Quinnborne’s cheeks.
A cordon of white-helmeted military police surrounded the landing pad. Two men in full biological protection gear, looking like astronauts, greeted them at the helicopter. One, with a bullhorn in his white-gloved hand, addressed them over the sound of dying rotors.
“Please follow me.”
Adiba’s head was on a swivel. “What are they doing? Who are those people? Why are they dressed like that?”
“They’re making sure we don’t have any nanobots with us,” Abdul said.
A violent shiver went through her, and Abdul cupped her cheek in his hand. “It’s nearly over. I promise.”
The suited men loaded Sam and his passengers into the rear of a plain white van. They sat on uncomfortable metal bench seats. Abdul and Adiba positioned themselves either side of Quinn and supported him as they swayed and tore across the tarmac, past the runways, to two gray temporary buildings set up in a remote corner of the airport.
The white-suits led them into the first building. The men were ushered into one room. Adiba was pointed to a separate door. She panicked and grabbed Abdul’s arm. “No. What are you doing? Stop them, Mr. Quinn!”
One of the white-suits spoke. “We need you to remove your clothing and undergo a sterilization process. You can go together if you wish, we just thought…” He nodded toward Adiba.
“How long will it take?” Abdul asked.
“Ten minutes.”
He looked at Quinn, who nodded.
Abdul smoothed back her hair. “Adiba, do what they say. We’ll get clean, and I’ll meet you on the other side.”
“Okay.” She sounded so meek, so frightened. He’d worry the whole time they were apart.
Quinn handed over his gun, passport, spare magazine, the remainder of Nazar’s money, and the phone. They removed their clothes and dropped them in a chute before stepping into a large shower room. Powerful rotating jets blasted them with scalding, disinfectant-laden water from the walls, ceiling and floor. Abdul got a look at Quinn’s injuries. It was easier to spot the parts of him that weren’t bruised and cut. How was the big man not screaming in pain?
They changed into clean, cotton briefs, and one-sized, gray jumpsuits. A decent fit on Quinn and Sam, but Abdul’s hung like an empty sack. A uniformed MP led them through an airlock and along a connecting walkway into the next trailer. Adiba waited for them in a large conference room, sipping a soda. She jumped into Abdul’s arms, and they kissed as if they had been parted for a month.
“We’ll need to get those two a room,” Sam said.
Quinn smiled. Then winced because he opened a cut on his lip, but the smile still felt good.
A man wearing a dark suit, straight-backed, clean-shaven, neat hair, in his fifties, came through the door at the opposite end of the room.
“Here we go,” Quinn said softly.
The man introduced himself as Patton Armstrong. He didn’t say, but Quinn guessed FBI. He confirmed their names and explained that each of them would be separately debriefed. Then they were free to go. Quinn suspected freedom might depend on the results of the debriefing. But, all in all, he felt much better after the shower, and this reception certainly beat the hell out of getting eaten by nanobots, or slapped in prison for illegally entering the US with an unlicensed firearm, or the dozen other offenses they surely were guilty of.
In an interrogation room, Quinn sat at a table across from Patton who questioned him about the weapon. What did it do? How did it work? Where was it? How could he obtain it? Who else had knowledge of it? Quinn spoke for an hour. He held nothing back because he had no way of knowing what part of his story, if any, could put him behind bars. The atmosphere remained cordial, and the longer the questioning lasted, the more confident he became that they were going to be okay.
When Patton finished, he escorted Quinn back to the conference room where the others waited for him. Adiba jumped up, ran to him, hugged him and planted a kiss on his good cheek.
“What was that for?” he said.
“For being the bravest man I’ll ever meet, Mr. Quinn. I told them how you saved us, and how you saved those people at the plant.”
“Well, not single-handed. I think we shared the load.” Quinn’s cheeks grew hot.
His cell phone started ringing. An agent passed a bag with his belongings, and he fished the device out and answered. “Quinn here.”
Superintendent Porter’s voice said, “Quinn. Thank god you’re safe. The Yanks briefed me on the refinery. I believe congratulations are in order. You’ve done a great service for your country.”
Quinn had never heard his boss sound so happy. “I don’t know about that, but we’re all okay and looking forward to coming home.”
“From what I hear, you thwarted a major terrorist attack and helped defuse a political crisis. You’re a bona fide hero, Detective.”
Quinn opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. The last time he’d spoken to his boss he’d gotten reamed out and told to get on the next plane to London. Finally, he managed, “Thanks, Super.”
“Quinn, I understand the weather in Phoenix is nice this time of year, well, compared with England. Why not take a few days to recuperate, charge the hotel to the department? I’ll sign off on anything within reason.”
“Okay.” Damn, Scott must have done a fantastic sales job.
Abdul and Adiba flew out the next day. Abdul told Quinn that he planned to approach her father as soon as he’d talked to his parents in London. Quinn wished him luck and gave his blessing. The kids’ relationship was certainly battle-tested.
Quinn checked into the Phoenician in Scottsdale, on the outskirts of Phoenix. He ate four meals a day and slept, a lot. The FBI found him a dentist and arranged for medical care. No bones broken, just banged-up, the doctor told him — easy for him to say!
On the third evening, Quinn’s room phone woke him from a late afternoon nap.
“I heard a rumor you were going to play golf. I had to see that for myself,” Scott Shearer said.
“Where are you?” Quinn asked.
“The next room.”
Quinn hung up and opened his door. Scott stood in the hallway and offered his hand. Quinn knocked it aside and gave him a crushing bear hug. “Old friend, you saved my nuts.”
Scott pushed Quinn off. He was blushing.
“Damned stiff Brit,” Quinn said, and they shared a laugh.
After dinner, they retired to the bar and ordered malt whisky.
“The US President’s making a primetime announcement tonight,” Scott said.
“About?”
“Apparently there’s a significant development on the terrorism front.” Scott grinned like the cat that got the cream.
At 7:45 p.m., the major networks cleared their programming and talking heads began speculating. Cameras showed a still of the Oval office. Behind the president’s empty desk, next to the Stars and Stripes, a British flag was on display.
“A Union Jack?” Quinn said.
“You’ll see,” Scott said, still with the knowing grin.