State of Emergency

CHAPTER 28


Quinn took the long way home, cruising the bike slowly in and out of the crowds in front of the Mar del Plata Naval Base scanning for any sign of Kanatova. As a competitor, he enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity, and spent a good deal of his ride giving high-fives to children as he rode past.

After twenty minutes he gave up looking for Kanatova and arrived back at the rented flat nearly the same time as Bo and Thibodaux, who’d walked back up the hill. The crickets had already begun to sing and the evening gathered in fast around them.

With all the excitement of the race it was nothing short of a miracle that Winfield Palmer had been able to find them a place in the respectable four-plex on such short notice. Only a mile and a half off the beach, it was perfectly located—far enough from the crowds to sleep, close enough to get where they needed to be with minimal loss of time.

Quinn secured the bike inside the garage and sprinted up the long flight of aged wooden stairs to grab the duffel off the bed in his room. The flight from Dulles, coupled with the stress of the race logistics, left him with a sore back and a knot in his gut.

He’d tried Garcia again, but got her voice mail. Feeling like a stalker for calling so much, he left her a message telling her things were about to get really busy, so he’d check in when he got back. He hoped she understood the subtext of the message—because he sure didn’t.

A long run past Zamora’s chalet would be just the ticket to work out the kinks and clear his head.

“Dude, you’re going for a run?” Bo said, rolling his eyes when Quinn walked back down the stairs dressed in loose running pants and a dark blue T-shirt. “I forgot what an overachiever you are.”

“Helps me think.” Jericho shrugged. “And I like to get the lay of the backstreets as soon as practical.”

“The practical thing is to get some sleep.” Bo gave a long, catlike yawn, arching his back so his belly showed under the tail of his wifebeater shirt. “I’m glad it’s you on the bike, Jer. And I won’t be expected to keep up with you.”

“I gotta call my wife,” Thibodaux said, still trying to untangle himself from being crammed into business-class seating for so many hours on the plane. He stood blinking at the door, swaying like a huge tree in the breeze. “What time is it back home in Spotsylvania, Virginia?”

Bo looked at his watch, a TAG Heuer identical to Jericho’s. “We’re two hours later here, so it’s about nine-thirty.”

“Good,” the big Cajun said, moving his head from side to side as he raised his eyebrows. “Kids’ll be fed and bathed. Maybe Camille will be up for a game of escaped convict and the warden’s wife on the phone. . . .”

By the time Jericho snugged the laces on his Nikes and took a drink from the kitchen tap, Bo and Jacques had already disappeared to their rooms. Jacques’s belly laugh rattled the walls.

A long run was second only to a good motorcycle ride for clearing Quinn’s mind. Beyond the obvious physical and psychological effects, a run got him outside the false sense of security a rented room gave and allowed him to see if anyone had him under surveillance.

Standing in the moist night air on the cracked concrete driveway of the four-plex, Quinn studied a tourist map of the area under the streetlight. He made a mental note of the streets and alleyways around Zamora’s rented chalet less than a mile away.

When he ran at home Quinn usually stuffed the baby Glock 27 in an across-the-chest rig other runners might use to carry a cell phone or energy bars. It was easy to reach in the event of an emergency and snug enough to keep from bouncing around during a sprint. A pretty brunette with a thick Spanish accent had met them with two plain blue Colt Combat Commanders in .45 caliber, one for Quinn and one for Jacques. A proven weapon since 1911, it was still too large to carry on a run, so Jericho left it in his duffel beside Severance.

Unless he happened to be in a war zone, he was often forced by circumstance to be unarmed when overseas. Always happy to have a sidearm or blade, he knew enough not to bank on traditional protection. Weapons were available everywhere if one only knew where to look for them.

Noting the time of 11:40, Jericho turned and trotted into the darkness.

When the Quinn boys were younger, their father had often taken them hunting in areas known for large populations of Alaska brown bear. Rather than letting them hide frightened in the tent cringing at every crack of a twig or crunch in the gravel late at night, the elder Quinn encouraged his boys to step outside and “take a look” at whatever was out there. Likely as not the noise turned out to be a weasel or night bird, but the old man reasoned that if it did happen to be a bear the thin layer of tent fabric was no more than imagined safety anyway. It was always better to see what wanted to eat you. It was a contradiction, but Quinn felt safer in the open than he did holed up in the dark.

A gentle salt breeze jostled the warm night air as Quinn trotted quietly down the dark and deserted streets. Pools of light and raucous laughter poured out from a bar here or a party there. Dakar Village, the ad hoc city within a city three blocks to the east, lit up the night sky. The steady thrum of tango music sulked over the sea wall and coursed between the buildings of Mar del Plata.

Well into his stride, Quinn ran on, jogging uphill to pass two snarling dogs fighting over something in the shadows. A block away from Zamora’s, he slowed to a walk, catching his breath and popping his neck from side to side. His plan was to watch, gain information, nothing more. But planning on violent action and being prepared for it were two completely different things.

The houses in the quiet, upscale district sat on a small bluff overlooking the silver ribbon of beach and the blackness of the southern Atlantic. Lofty trees lined the streets and ornamental shrubs and stone sculptures set off the careful landscaping of the larger lots. Decades old, each was tucked back in the shadows of their own private garden.

It was late and even the most intense of prerace parties had quieting down. Still, Quinn kept to the shadows, keeping up the pretense that he was jogging in case someone happened to look out their window.

He stopped behind a dark blue Volkswagen Passat parked in the street and stooped as if to tie his shoe, watching, straining his ears for signs of more movement.

Zamora’s rented stone block chalet sprawled over a large corner lot. An ornate set of wrought iron gates closed off the wide driveway. Thick tree branches brushed the top of a six-foot wall of gray stone that matched the house.

Hearing nothing but chattering music from a dozen different parties, Quinn shot a glance up and down the street, then sprinted across to the far side of the neighboring house. It was set slightly higher on the hill and might give him a better vantage point.

He vaulted to the top of the wall and scrambled up the adjacent patio roof that overlooked Zamora’s garden. The thorny boughs of a mesquite tree gave him good cover and by pressing facedown against the ridgeline of clay tile Quinn was able to see the man moving along the inside edge of the wall behind a trellis of flowering fuchsia plants.

Quinn relaxed against the cool tile and watched, taking the opportunity to rest. He didn’t have long to wait.

The twin glass doors to the main chalet flung open, exposing the dark garden to a flood of light and sound. Zamora came out, followed by Monagas, who shut the door behind them. Zamora opened his mouth to speak, but the big man raised a small black device Quinn recognized as an RF scanner.

Monagas played the device around the foliage and statuary beside his boss.

In an age where satellites could be tasked with counting the dimples on a golf ball, good guys and bad often grew too dependent on gadgets to keep them safe. Listening devices and long-range weapons were only tools. Entire cities could be carpet-bombed back to the Stone Age, but in the end the powers that be still had to send in a guy with a knife to root out any survivors. All the bug sweepers in the world were worthless if one forgot security measures like drawing the curtains or simply looking up in the trees before speaking.

Satisfied, Monagas returned the RF sweeper to his pocket and nodded at his boss.

“What did you find?” Zamora asked, the coal of his cigar casting an orange glow across his face.

“They have someone in the race,” Monagas said.

Quinn’s breath caught in his throat.

“Who?” Zamora said, his face falling into a dark frown.

“I do not know yet, patrón,” Monagas said.

Quinn felt as if he’d been kicked between the shoulder blades. If Zamora found out who he was there was nothing left to do but pick him up and risk losing the bomb.

“We think it’s someone on one of the British teams,” Monagas continued. “Or maybe even one of the racers themselves. Daudov went to university in the U.K. He has many contacts there who would kill if he paid them well enough.”

The doors opened again and one of the gap-toothed twins came out with a glass of wine, begging Zamora to return to his party. The doors shut behind them, throwing the garden into silence again.

Quinn began to breathe easier. So that was it. The Chechen had someone in the race. That certainly added a new wrinkle. It also meant Quinn needed to keep Zamora alive long enough to find out where he had the bomb.

A movement in the shadows closer to the house caught his eye. Behind a plaster statue of a winged angel a woman crept toward the chalet. Dressed in black, she wore her hair in a sensible ponytail. Even in the shadows, Quinn recognized her as the Russian agent, Aleksandra Kanatova—and she was completely unaware of the bearded man moving through the shadows less than twenty feet behind her. Quinn was too far away to get to her in time—with no way to warn her without alerting Zamora’s men.

He was over the wall in a matter of seconds, lowering himself silently to the soft grass. Picking up a small stone, he tossed it into the bushes behind Kanatova.

On the ground now and separated by hedges, statuary, and darkness, Quinn heard a muffled thump as Kanatova turned to defend herself. There were two distinct pops of a suppressed weapon, then silence. Quinn caught the unmistakable odor of cordite on the breeze.

The door to a detached garage apartment suddenly swung open, spilling a swath of light and the clatter of voices into the garden. Quinn dropped to the ground beside his unconscious opponent and froze. The door squeaked shut and he heard the snick of metal in the darkness. At first he thought it was the safety of a pistol, but a whiff of burning tobacco told him one of Zamora’s men had just stepped out for a smoke. That was good. A smoker would be unlikely to smell the cordite.

Everything seemed fine until the bushes beside the winged angel began to rustle. The movement stopped almost immediately, but the damage was already done.





“Quién es?” Zamora’s man stepped away from the door and into the garden. Quinn heard the unmistakable rattle of a pistol sliding out of a holster. A flashlight flicked on and the beam began to play back and forth among the trees. It was only a matter of seconds before he would see something he didn’t like and call for help.

Quinn pulled a cotton sock from the pocket of his running shorts. It was small, unobtrusive, and easy to carry. Stooping quickly, he scooped up a handful of stones before moving through the shadows. Better than a fist and easy to dump, a sock full of rocks made an excellent and relatively silent weapon.

Zamora’s man moved forward, holding his light in one hand and the pistol in the other. The cigarette hung loosely from his lips and he padded through the darkness muttering to himself as if he didn’t really expect to find anything. The sock full of rocks hit his temple like a lead sap.

Quinn caught him as he fell, lowering him softly to the grass.

“You again?” a female voice said from the shadows. Alexandra Kanatova stepped out, red hair framing her scowling face. “Why do you follow me?”

Quinn pointed at the guy on the ground. “I’m pretty sure he was about to ruin your evening. Who’s the guy with the beard?”

“A Chechen pig.”

“I’d like to ask him some questions,” Quinn whispered.

“Too late for that.” Kanatova’s eyes flicked between the back door of the house and the wall. “He is dead. Someone will come to check soon. We should go.”

Quinn shot a glance at the door. It wouldn’t be long before someone missed the unconscious security man. With any luck they’d chalk it up to an intruder who’d been scared away by the confrontation—so long as they didn’t find a dead Chechen in their garden.

“Do you ever take anyone alive?”

“Rarely,” she said.





Quinn and Kanatova carried the Chechen out the back gate and half a block away to deposit him unceremoniously in the Dumpster behind a wineshop. He had no identification on him and Quinn reasoned that, with all the international media attention, Argentine police would want to keep such a murder quiet until the race festivities were over.

Three streets away, with the safety of added distance, Quinn turned to look at Kanatova in the darkness. She walked with her head bent, hands in the pockets of her jacket, ponytail bobbing with each step.

Kanatova had very likely guessed he was a government agent by now, but giving up the fact that he even knew who she was would make her certain of it. “At the risk of getting kicked in the nuts again,” he said. “I believe we may be after the same thing.”

“Is that so?” She walked on without looking up. Her small shoulders were slightly stooped and she bent forward as if she was pulling a heavy load. For the moment they were heading in the general direction of his rented flat.

Quinn stopped. “Hear me out.”

“Okay,” she said, turning to face him. He stood over her by almost a foot, but she didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. Her hands remained in her pockets and it occurred to Quinn that she had the same gun hidden in there she’d just used to kill the Chechen. All she had to do was pull the trigger now that he knew her identity.

Thankfully, she just stood there, staring up at him, blinking in the darkness while New Year’s Eve revelers shot fireworks in the background. Her English was excellent, but held the hollow slur of a Russian accent Quinn found pleasant against his ear.

“And what is it you think I am after?” she asked.

“This is the second time we’ve run into each other near Valentine Zamora.” Quinn narrowed his eyes. “I know he’s an arms dealer and I also happen to know who you work for.”

“Is that so?” Kanatova gave a wary half smile. “You believe we should work together to achieve our goal?”

“The thought had occurred to me,” Quinn said. He listened to her rhythmic breathing for a long moment as she considered this.

“I suppose the alternative would be us getting in each other’s way at every turn,” she said. “Or . . . I kill you, but that might prove messy.”

He gave a solemn nod. “It would.”

“Work together?” She stared at his face. “To recover the device?”

“That would be the plan,” Quinn said. “We’re not certain he’s even the one who has it.”

“I am,” Kanatova said without further explanation. “At first I believed it was the Chechens, but the way Rustam Daudov pesters him, he has to be trying to get the device from Zamora. What I do not yet know is where Zamora has it hidden or what he plans to do with it.” She cocked her head to one side. “I find myself at a disadvantage. If we are to be a team, as you Americans say it, I should know who I’m to work with.”

He put out his hand. “Captain Jericho Quinn, United States Air Force.”

Kanatova raised a wary brow. The corners of her small mouth pricked in the beginnings of a smile as she held on to his hand. “An Air Force captain who fights like spetsnaz?”

“It’s complicated,” Quinn said. “But I’ve raced the Dakar before, so I was a natural choice for the assignment.”

“And I see you have other skills beyond racing motorcycles?”

“I boxed a little in college.” Quinn shrugged, working through a plan in his head.

“To play devil’s advocate, as they say. If Zamora has such a device—as we believe he does . . .” Aleksandra’s voice trailed while she waited for two men wearing red Loctite shirts to stumble past in the darkness, on their way to another party. “. . . why is he going to the trouble to run this stupid race?”

Quinn had been struggling with the same question. A bomb worth over a quarter of a billion dollars on the black market would make anyone change his plans.

“These old Soviet devices would have at least some level of safeguard, right?”

“That is correct,” Aleksandra said.

“So, in order to use the bomb, Zamora would have to get past those safeguards.”

“And bring the device back into working order.” Kanatova nodded. “They are small and portable, but this fact makes them lightly shielded. Radiation is extremely hard on the circuitry.”

“Ah.” Quinn rubbed his dark whiskers. “It makes perfect sense then. If Zamora values his life, he’s going to be as far away from the bomb as possible while his people get it in working order.” He looked at her, playing the thought over and over in his head before voicing it. At length, he sighed. “Listen, where are you staying?”

“A tent near Dakar Village where the spectators have a large camp. My government does not pay to put me up in fancy hotels with entertainment, caviar, and endless champagne.”

“Mine either anymore,” Quinn laughed. “But we’ll have plenty of opportunity for staying in tents at the bivouacs on the course. Zamora has already seen us together. It won’t be a big stretch for him to assume you came here with our team. We have an extra bed at our place for the night.” He raised a wary brow. “Though, considering who you are, my government would consider it a serious breach of etiquette that I’m even talking to you alone right now.”

“Breach of etiquette?” Kanatova scoffed, resuming her head-down walk. “I am discussing a missing Soviet nuclear bomb with a foreign operative. My superiors would have me shot.”