State of Emergency

CHAPTER 42


January 8

Iquique Bivouac

Northern Chile





Quinn sat quietly with a watered-down Gatorade in his hand, staring into the flames of a small campfire. They’d walked a hundred meters outside the bivouac fence and a small sand dune blocked them from the hubbub of scooters, power tools, and foot traffic that went on all night inside the enclosure. There was no suitable wood, but Bo made do by pouring two cups of gasoline on a mound of sand. Orange shadows played off the faces of Thibodaux, Bo, and Aleksandra, who all sat in folding camp chairs watching the same fire.

The KTM’s tires and oil had been changed, Quinn had been fed and watered and completed his road book after his shower. All his Dakar duties complete, it was good to sit for a moment and collect his thoughts—and try to figure out Zamora.

“Hey, Jericho,” Bo said. One hand held an open bottle of rum, the other was shoved down the pocket of a handwoven cotton hoodie he’d bought from a local street vendor. “Remember what Dad calls a fire like this?”

“Cowboy TV.” Quinn laughed, enjoying the memory. “Our old man tells the dumbest jokes.”

“I know a joke,” Aleksandra said. Flames reflected on her oval face. Both hands rested in the pockets of her fleece vest.

“A joke?” Bo said, taking a swig of rum. “Impressive.”

She glanced up from the fire to glare hard at him. “Russians are very funny people,” she said.

“Yeah,” Bo said, rolling his eyes. “That’s obvious.”

“We do not giggle like maniacs at every little thing.” Aleksandra turned back to the fire, her face bordering on a pout. “But Russians have a fine sense of humor.”

“I think Mr. Bo should take a little teaspoon full of hush.” Thibodaux leaned forward, big arms resting on his knees. “I want to hear your joke, cheri.”

“Me too,” Jericho said.

“Okay.” Aleksandra sat up a little straighter. The pout left as quickly as it had come. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson go to camp in the desert,” she began. Quinn couldn’t help but notice how her green eyes caught the dancing light of the fire. “They have a good meal and go to sleep. In the middle of the night Holmes nudges the doctor awake. ‘Look at the sky, Watson, and tell me what you see.’ Watson looks up and says: ‘I see millions and millions of stars.’ ‘And what does that tell you?’ Sherlock asks. ‘Well,’ Watson answers, ‘astronomically I see there are millions of galaxies and infer that there are billions of planets. Astrologically, I see that Saturn is in Leo. Meteorologically, I deduce from the lack of clouds that we should have pleasant weather in the morning. Theologically, I observe that God is infinite and we are but tiny, insignificant specks. . . . What do you deduce, Holmes?’ Sherlock shakes his head and says: ‘Watson, you idiot. Someone has stolen our tent!’ ”

Thibodaux’s easy belly laugh shook the chill from the night air. Jericho chuckled and even Bo cracked a smile.

Satisfied that her joke had gone over well enough, Aleksandra slid back in the canvas of her chair and closed her eyes. “That was Mikhail’s favorite,” she whispered.

Jericho looked up at the night sky. Like Dr. Watson, he saw millions of stars splashed across the Milky Way over an infinite desert night. Carina, Alpha and Beta Centauri, and the Southern Cross—they were foreign to the northern sky he’d grown up with.

“You know,” he said. “I assume since Russians have a sense of humor, you possess other feelings as well. We’ve been so busy trying to find this bomb that we’ve never stopped to check and see how you’re doing.”

“How do you mean?” Aleksandra looked up at him. “I am fine.”

“It’s difficult enough to lose a fellow agent.” Jericho shrugged. “But I can see you and Mikhail were very close. Losing someone like that is especially painful.”

“He was married, you know,” Aleksandra said, her voice low and reverent. “He had a lovely wife, Irina, and two beautiful daughters.”

An awkward silence fell around the fire, but for the uneasy squeak and shift of camp chairs and the distant sound of engine noise.

“We were not lovers,” she went on, now staring a thousand yards past the fire, into the black desert night. “Though most suspected so, even our superiors. No, my Misha was very much in love with his wife. He was my trainer, my mentor, and oftentimes my surrogate father when I had no one else to trust. But most of all, he was my friend.” A tear ran down Aleksandra’s cheek. She rubbed her nose with her sleeve. “I have had many lovers—but I have only ever had one friend.”

Bo looked around the group with glassy eyes, his chest heaving. Quinn knew his brother could be argumentative, but his emotions ran bright, just below the surface. The younger Quinn sniffed and raised the bottle of rum.

“To Mikhail Ivanovich Polzin, Agent Riley Cooper, and too many other good friends we’ve all lost to bloody men.” He took a drink, then tipped the bottle, letting it run for a moment into the sand. “And to tomorrow, when we find that damned bomb.”