Marc Cameron - National Security

“And we are to stay here?”

Miyagi remained stone-faced. “For a time…”

The buzz of Quinn’s cell phone interrupted Mrs. Miyagi’s answer. She stepped back, motioning for him to take the call with a wave of her open hand.

“Hello?”

“ Assalaamu alaikum, Jericho.” The Arabic voice was unmistakable. It was Sadiq. “I hope you have much money, for I have much news for you.”

In his typical fashion, Sadiq meandered on about the weather, his ailing grandmother, and his fat uncle, all in windy, unending detail, refusing to get to the meat of the matter. After two minutes, Quinn had had enough.

“Well, well, my friend…” He risked butting in, hoping the thin-skinned boy’s lust for money would win over his ego. “You said you have important news…?”

The line went quiet. “I do,” Sadiq said at length, the irritation at having been interrupted clear in the staccato clip that had fallen on his speech. “News the Great Satan will, no doubt, find extremely vital.”

“I am authorized to pay you well.”

“This is much more than I’ve ever given you…”

“How much more?”

“Come now, my friend. Can one put a price on human life?”

Jericho nodded at that. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Four hundred American dollars bought the lives of two American hostages. What would the Great Satan pay to save millions?”

Quinn directed Sadiq to call him back on a landline inside Mrs. Miyagi’s house. Unless fitted with sophisticated adapters, cell phones were about as secure as shouting from the rooftops, and though Quinn’s was secure, he’d only issued such a device to Sadiq when they were actually on a mission.

Once connected on the hard line, they exchanged code words. Jericho quizzed the boy for a short time about a few of their past experiences to be sure he hadn’t been compromised. In the meantime, Thibodaux called Win Palmer and briefed him on the situation. The Marine listened intently, then scribbled something on a notepad and handed it to Quinn.

“Two million U.S. dollars,” Quinn read aloud, raising his eyebrows. “ If the information is as you say.”

“ Raa’irh,” Sadiq gasped. Splendid. “But, I cannot spend even one penny if I am a dead man.”

“We’ll get you out of the country, give you a new name.”

“That is better,” Sadiq said in passable English. “I have always wanted to attend Harvard. You think I could go to Harvard? Maybe become a learned man in the law?”

Quinn thought of the quick two million the kid had just negotiated by spying on his friends and relatives. “I think you’ll make a fine lawyer,” he said.

“Very well,” Sadiq said. “Since we are in agreement I will tell you what I know. My uncle has an acquaintance, a very fat man from the south of the city-his name is Malik. I am told he supplies American prisoners to this man, Farooq, just as Ghazan al Ghazi did. Lately, Malik has spoken of unspeakable experiments in Saudi Arabia, a laboratory where the prisoners he has supplied are used to test a special weapon that will certainly kill millions of infidels.”

“The Saudi Kingdom is a big place,” Quinn mused. “You’ll have to do better than that to get your law degree.”

“Of course, of course, my friend.” Sadiq chuckled with a little more abandon that he should have, considering what his life was worth at the moment. “I know this laboratory is at a university that trains

… how do you say… medical doctors for animals…”

“Veterinarians?”

“ Ajal,” Sadiq said. Precisely. “That is the word. There is a campus of King Faisal University there for agriculture and veterinarians. Women may also study at this university. I understand you allow women to study at Harvard. Do you think this is wise?”

Jericho rolled his eyes. “Stay focused, my friend. We are talking about the lab”

“Yes, the lab… Farooq is said to have a small residence near the oasis of Al-Hofuf, adjacent to the stud farms belonging to the university. That is all I know.” Sadiq’s voice fell to a whisper. “But I think it is enough. Is it not?”

“Farooq is in Al-Hofuf now?”

“According to the information I have. This is timely, is it not?”

“It is enough,” Quinn said. “Tell no one that we’ve spoken. Stay where you are. I’ll send someone to pick you up.”

Quinn hung up Miyagi’s phone as Thibodaux handed him the cell with Win Palmer on the line.

“Looks like someone needs to go to Al-Hofuf,” Quinn said, knowing as he spoke who that someone would be.

“I’ve got the Shop working your background even as we speak,” the Director said. “The Bombardier will be waiting at Langley inside the hour. I’ll meet you there for a better briefing.”

“And Jacques?” Quinn asked, reading the concern on Thibodaux’s face. “What’s his role in this?”

“He’ll be backing you up in spirit from a remote location. Unless you can teach him Arabic in the next few hours, you’ll have to go this one alone.”

“I have to ask, sir…” Quinn paused, not wanting to overstep his bounds with a member of the President’s Cabinet. “The Saudis are our allies. We’re not going to try any diplomatic channels here?”

“This is one of those times I mentioned when we first met. We can’t use you and the diplomats. If our experts at CDC are correct about the stuff these guys are making in their lab… we don’t have the luxury of waiting for the glacial pace of diplomacy. Besides-” Palmer chuckled. “Diplomats aren’t very good with hammers.” Then he cut the connection.

“You trust this kid Sadiq?” Thibodaux asked fifteen minutes later as they packed new gear in the Touratech aluminum cases on their respective motorcycles. “I mean, he could be setting you up.”

Quinn shook his head. “I don’t trust anyone over there. But there were a lot of times he could have gotten me killed if he’d wanted to.”

“My experience,” Thibodaux said, stepping in to his black Aerostich Transit leather pants and shrugging on the jacket. In the tight, armored leather he looked like a superhero without a cape. “Snitches just love to hear themselves blab. Wonder how many folks he’s told about Al-Hofuf besides little ol’ you.”

“There is that.” Quinn swung a leg over his BMW, happy to be back aboard his beloved bike. “But it can’t be helped.”

He’d been itching to see what the bike could do ever since Mrs. Miyagi told him “the Shop” had tweaked it. The engine popped to life with the same purring roar he was accustomed to. He toed the shifter into first and held the clutch, letting her roll forward a few feet before gassing to a wheelie. After a short fifty feet, he let the front wheel settle back to the pavement and made a tight circle next to a waiting Thibodaux. He waved a good-bye salute to Mrs. Miyagi, nodding slightly to let her know he was pleased with the modifications.

“Well, here we go, Chair Force,” Thibodaux said, gunning the throttle. “No matter how this turns out, at least you’ll get to take care of some ’surgents.”

Fallujah

From his years of service to the sheikh, Zafir had learned that black trousers were less likely to show blood. He would have worn a black shirt as well, but decided that would look too conspicuous if he was forced to make a quick escape. He slipped a pair of vise grips and a small roll of duct tape wound around a Popsicle stick into the pocket of his slacks and bounded up the concrete stairs to Sadiq’s tiny apartment. He’d dressed the part of a simple Iraqi shopkeeper and taken an overly contrite mood at every American checkpoint. Since he carried nothing they recognized as a weapon, none of the U.S. military personnel who detained him had paid him a second notice after the initial humiliation of being stopped in the first place.