Time of Attack (34 page)

W
infield Palmer answered on the fourth ring. His voice was hollow, preoccupied.

“Oda is dead,” Quinn said. He leaned against Ronnie, who sat with her back to a cedar tree supporting him while Thibodaux and Miyagi went to bring up the car.

“Good,” Palmer said. “That’s good.”

“He was up to something at Yanagi,” Quinn said. “I’d say everything they manufactured is highly suspect.”

“I agree,” Palmer said. His voice was a strained whisper, as if he didn’t want to wake someone beside him. “All that vaccine has been impounded. The pages from the notebook Miyagi texted me line out pretty well what happened. I’ve already got some of your OSI friends looking for the Kyrgyz barber at Bagram. There are others, as yet unidentified, that were spreading the infection by anything that would come in contact with the victim’s blood—infected razors, fingernail files, scissors—even dental floss. We’ve arrested a dental assistant in Cedar City and have leads on several others. Not much hope of finding them now, though.”

“You okay, boss?” Quinn was having a hard time grasping why Palmer wasn’t sharing in his enthusiasm that they had just dodged a very deadly bullet. He sounded like Eeyore.

“Not really,” Palmer said. “Chris Clark was pronounced dead an hour ago.”

“The president?”

“There’s more, Jericho,” Palmer went on. “Bob Hughes collapsed as well. It looks like they both succumbed to some kind of poison.”

Quinn sat up straight as the ramifications hit him. “That means—”

“Exactly.” Palmer spelled it out for him. “Pursuant to the Twenty-fifth Amendment, Speaker of the House Hartman Drake assumed the presidency of the United States. He’s already made an impassioned statement to the American people, reminding them that he was himself the victim of not one, but two terrorist attacks. Citing the need for continuity, he has already named Governor Lee McKeon as his vice president. Congressional approval is a foregone conclusion.”

“I gotta tell you, Quinn,” Palmer went on, “Drake knows who you are now. If you come back here, you’re as good as dead. I sure as hell can’t protect you.”

“Has he fired you?”

“Not yet,” Palmer said. “But it’s coming—probably by the end of the day.”

“Ronnie says the book ties Officer Larsson to this group. Does that put me clear of Jenny Chin’s murder?”

“In a word,” Palmer said. “But like I said, Drake hates you. And he’s the president of the United States, so he’ll push for a thorough investigation and your quick execution.

“Anyway, I used what little pull I have left to call off the Marshals. Deputy Bowen should be linking up with you anytime now, so do me a favor and don’t shoot him.”

“Got it,” Quinn said. “You holding up okay?”

“You know, I lost an extremely close friend,” Palmer said. “But the nation lost a great president. There are still a few of us left who know what Drake is all about. We’ll just have to work on this from the outside.” His voice grew distant. “I don’t know how long I can keep you and Jacques on the payroll.”

“I’m pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say we’re not doing this for the money.”

“Well,” Palmer said, “whatever you do, you have to do it from over there. The others can come home, but you need to sit tight . . . Listen, I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”

Quinn hung up and turned to Garcia. Thibodaux and Miyagi had come up at the end of the conversation. He relayed the information Palmer had given him.

“Well, l’ami,” the big Cajun said with a sigh. “I’ve done a lot of weird things since we met. I might as well add taking down the president to that list. Any idea where we’ll start?”

Quinn draped an arm around Garcia, leaning on her for support. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“Shimoyama’s book give us some guidance,” Miyagi said, her breath amazingly calm for what she’d just been through. “I suggest we begin in Pakistan . . .”

S
till uncertain about the effects of the plague, CDC personnel kept the quarantines in place. Once word got out that the disease was being spread one person at a time, hospitals in the western United States began to turn loose of their ventilators and ECMO machines. Before long, Todd Elton had more machines than he had sick patients. The only two fatalities were Mrs. Johnson, who was the oldest of those infected, and R. J. Howard, who, Elton thought, had just plain given up because his wife had left him.

Marta Bedford continued to count her boils, even after Mrs. Johnson had passed, but began to notice fewer and fewer every day. Brody Teeples’s wife pulled through as well, but he was in jail for riding his ATV drunk when she came off ECMO, so he wasn’t there to see her.

Sheriff Young interviewed all the victims and found that each of them had received a “particularly rough” pedicure at the hands of Haifa, Marta Bedford’s new employee. Of course, Haifa was nowhere to be found.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in coordination with the FBI, seized all the vaccine manufactured at Yanagi Pharmaceutical. Lab tests confirmed that it was not a vaccine at all, but the potent virus itself.

Fairfax County officer Jenny Chin’s funeral was attended by over four hundred uniformed representatives from departments all over the United States. Detectives weren’t able to make a solid case against Larsson for her shooting, but volunteers kept him busy in interrogation so he was not able to sully her memory with his attendance.

The arrest warrant for Jericho Quinn remained in effect.

 

 

Bowen and Hase met up with Quinn at a Buddhist temple cottage in Fukuoka. The monk, Kobo, stood by and played Angry Birds on his cell phone as they talked in his neutral zone.

“I never believed you did it, you know,” Bowen said, keeping his eyes flitting between the big Cajun, Garcia, and Emiko Miyagi. Thibodaux was as tough looking as they came, but Bowen somehow knew that if he’d tried to arrest Quinn at that moment, these women would chew him up and spit him out.

“That’s comforting,” Quinn said. “So what now?”

Bowen blew air into his cheeks, thinking. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure. It’s a damn strange coincidence that both the president and vice president were killed while you’re being framed for murder. I’m no superspy like you, but I’d say some things don’t add up.”

Quinn sat mute, offering no explanation.

“Anyway.” Bowen took a piece of white paper from his inside jacket pocket. It was folded once down the middle. “I did a sketch of you on the way over, you can have—”

Garcia snatched it out of his hand. “I’ll take that,” she said. “He’d just throw it away.”

“So, you’re going back to the States?” Miyagi asked. It was more of a suggestion than a question.

“That’s what they tell me,” Bowen said. “Like I said, I’m not an international person of mystery like you guys are. I’m just a POD.”

Quinn extended his hand. “Having someone among the front lines might be handy in the near future.”

Hase stood back a bit, looking more at the ground than anyone in particular. “There is the matter of over a dozen deaths of Japanese citizens,” he said, still staring at the floor.

Everyone in the room tensed. They couldn’t go back to the U.S., and Detective Hase appeared about to make it impossible to stay in Japan.

“What about them?” Quinn asked.

“I was wondering,” the detective said, “if you ever hear anything regarding these deaths or who might have perpetrated them, would you be so kind as to let me know?”

 

 

Vice President–elect Lee McKeon’s wife had returned to the governor’s mansion in Salem to make things ready for their move to the Naval Observatory once Bob Hughes’s widow moved out. Secret Service agents, not Oregon State Police, now stood outside the door to this suite at the Hay Adams—on high alert considering the state of the nation.

McKeon stood in front of the bathroom mirror and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. As far as his protective detail knew, the pert little staffer in the other room was supposed to be helping him with some correspondence. It would, he hoped, be a very, very long letter.

Putting his hands flat on the counter, he stared at himself and couldn’t help smiling. His biological father had envisioned this day, methodically moving aside anything and anyone that got in his way. And then, Jericho Quinn had come along and forced him to kill himself. McKeon knew Quinn was still out there and that he would come for the president. And, McKeon thought, that was all right. For all anyone in the United States knew, he was not the son of Pakistani doctor Nazeer Badeeb and the Chinese Muslim Li Huang, but a natural-born citizen of the United States of America, perfectly capable of assuming the presidency if Hartman Drake happened to be assassinated by a madman.

The pert young staffer walked in and stepped between him and the mirror. In her mid-twenties, she was Japanese, with long black hair and eyes that were more ochre than brown. She wore nothing but a long-sleeve pajama top, deep maroon to match her lipstick.

Round where he was angular, pale where he was dark, she was over a foot shorter than McKeon and had to stand on tiptoe to get her arms around his neck. She pressed against his body and kissed him long and hard.

“You don’t need those stupid Secret Service agents,” she growled, biting him on the lip.

He jerked away, finger to his mouth, tasting blood.

“Maybe I need them to protect me from you.” He grinned.

“Nonsense,” the woman said, letting the pajama top slide to the floor.

His hands snaked around her naked waist, pulling her roughly to him.

Her lips nuzzled his neck and his eyes fell on the intricate tattoo inked across her back—a snarling foo dog, mouth open, fangs bared.

Sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his ear, she once again drew blood. He shuddered at her whisper.

“I
am
your protector.”

Until this year, it had been over thirty years since I set foot in Japan. A young lady told me the last time I left that something about the place would forever tug me back. Turns out she was right.

Yukiko Pollard made this trip more than I could have hoped for. She proved to be an excellent interpreter—bridging the gap where my rusty language skills fell off—and the perfect guide, consultant, and traveling companion. Her insight into the culture and people helped developed nuances and backstory for Jericho’s adventure that I could never have gotten otherwise.

Lan Yamada offered me a place to stay and write and provided much in the way of background regarding Fukuoka and the surrounding area. I cannot look back on my time there without thinking that I not only gained valuable writing contacts but lifelong friends. A four-hour dinner with several officers from the Fukuoka Police Department, who wish not to be named, provided invaluable assistance with the subtleties of working in Japanese law enforcement—not to mention helping me see that there is a particular kinship shared by police officers wherever they happen to serve.

I also need to thank the proprietor of an unnamed love hotel in Tokyo for the guided tour. Interesting, to say the least.

Thanks to Brad Husberg and Doctor Dustin H. for their ideas and pointers regarding plagues of biblical proportions. It is indeed a frightening thing to get scientists talking what-ifs over a bowl of curry chicken.

Thanks to Ben for his assistance with Mandarin and the aforementioned Yukiko and Lan for their help with Japanese.

As always, Ty Cunningham, my martial arts instructor and friend, helped walk me through the violence and fight dynamics. I’m still sore from getting my throat “cut” so many times with a silicon spatula.

Thanks to Andy Goldfine of Aerostich riding gear, who helped me work through what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a police dog bite while wearing an armored motorcycle jacket.

Thanks to Scott Ireton, Sonny Caudill, Vic Aye, and my other motorcycle buds for letting me talk through the riding scenarios.

My agent, Robin Rue, and my editor, Gary Goldstein, are great people and a pleasure to work with.

Ryan and Ray at Northern Knives in Anchorage continue to provide insight into all things edged.

My hat goes off to the men and women of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations—and especially, to my friends with the United States Marshals Service—heroes all.

And, most important, thanks to Victoria, my kindest critic and greatest support.

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 2014 Marc Cameron

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3182-5

 

First electronic edition: February 2014

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-3183-2
ISBN-10: 0-7860-3183-2