Day Zero (26 page)

Lin glanced at him from her seat next to the window, perfectly silhouetted against the beam of light pouring in from the thin air outside. She’d become animated again—like she was on some kind of happiness drug. She tilted her head, and then reached to touch his arm. Her tray table was open and on it was a card drawn in the hand of a child—it said “double happiness.”

Tang almost screamed when he saw it.

“What is this?” he said in rapid Mandarin. It didn’t matter if they could understand him or not, the other passengers recognized a man chiding his wife in any language. They looked away in embarrassment.

The stupid little
guizi
had come to bother Lin once again, stirring up old thoughts and pain.
Double Happiness,
indeed. Tang ground his teeth with the anger of a helpless man. If he could not bring down the plane, he would strap what was left of the explosive to the little girl’s back. That would punish her for the pain her antics were causing his wife.

Lin sat quietly, waiting for him to calm down.

He decided to keep Gao’s clumsiness to himself. In her present condition, Lin would see it as a sign. Instead, he ignored his wife’s new mood and stared forward, toward the stairs. There had to be another way.

The cockpit doors lay on the level below, at the bottom of the stairwell. Surely the PETN alone would be enough explosive by itself to breach the flight deck. But even if they were to get through the reinforced door, there was the strong possibility that at least one of the crew had a pistol.

Tang was not afraid to die. He was, in fact, resigned to it. But he did not want to waste his life by giving it prematurely—without bringing down the aircraft.

By the time the turbulence settled to a low rumble, Tang felt as if a bleeding ulcer might kill him. He was just about to resign himself to failure when the two business-class flight attendants began move back and forth in the galley two rows ahead. The smell of beef and pasta began to drift down the aisle. Dressed in bright red aprons, one woman prepared silver and glassware, while the other pulled tray after tray out of the warming oven. Machinelike, she removed the aluminum foil cover from each meal and threw it in a plastic recycle bag before passing the tray to her partner.

The tiniest crystal of an idea began to form in Tang’s brain.

He checked the time on his phone. The monstrous Airbus traveled at nearly 600 miles an hour. They would cross into Russian airspace in a little over an hour; a few minutes after that and they would be over land.

He needed more time—but to get it, he would somehow have to make the airplane turn around.

There was another chime and the captain’s voice blared over the speaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “This is Captain Rob. I apologize for that choppy air. Sometimes that happens out here over the Pacific. We’ve done a little checking with a couple of other flights ahead of us. It looks like we’ll have smooth flying for the next few hours.

No
, Tang thought,
the next few hours will be anything but smooth
.

 

J
acques Thibodaux rumbled up on a big BMW motorcycle twenty-five minutes later. He backed the bike into a parking spot in front of the used bookstore down the block from the bar. Joey Benavides and his young protégé were still inside finishing up what looked to be their last beer.

The streets were beginning to hop as government workers, congressional aides, and lobbyists poured out of the Adams Morgan district to return to work after lunch. Many were likely to return for happy hour, then be back in their offices again by seven or eight that evening—continuing to work for another three or four hours. It was a sobering thought that many of those running the government relied on so much liquid inspiration.

The hulking Marine swung a leg off his motorcycle and ripped an enormous and unashamed fart.

“Speak to me, oh, Toothless One,” he sighed to himself.

Bowen chuckled. It was impossible not to like this guy.

The Cajun’s black leather jacket hung open to reveal a tattered AC/DC B
ACK IN
B
LACK
T-shirt. His jeans were faded and frayed at the cuffs from being just a little too long at the heels. The patch over his eye seemed to add inches to his already enormous bulk.

He took Bowen’s hand in a giant paw and drew him to his chest to give him a hearty pat on the back—the brotherhood hug. Bowen was no small fry but he felt like a toy in the Marine’s grasp.

As a deputy marshal he’d made a habit of sizing people up. There were those he could control by swagger alone. Some he knew he would have to lay hands on, while others might turn violent and needed a two-by-four to the head in order to bring them into line. Some were too dangerous even for that, and required a high-power rifle from very far away.

Jacques Thibodaux, a man who surely tossed around small cars and yanked trees up by their roots for sport, fell squarely into the last. Bowen noticed a dark red raspberry on the big man’s forehead over his good eye—and found himself wondering about the “other guy.”

Thibodaux saw the concern on his face and touched the wound with his fingertip. “Bedroom accident.” He grinned.

Fearing Benavides might come out at any moment, Bowen briefed the Marine quickly, highlighting the fact that Ronnie Garcia had asked for his help.

Thibodaux rubbed a hand over his square jaw, taking it all in.

“You want to get him off somewhere by hisself and ask him a few questions?”

“He’s with another guy, but there were two sets of keys on the table so I’m thinking they came in separate cars.” Bowen nodded across the street. “There’s a Metro police substation over there, so it’s not optimum.”

“That don’t matter.” Thibodaux smirked. “We’ll just watch which way your guy goes and follow him. You kick him in the nuts and I’ll drag him into the alley so we can chat.”

“Or,” Bowen said, “I can play back a little of the recording where he implicates his boss in the torture of a high-ranking US official.”

“Your call,” Thibodaux mused. “But he’d probably rather get kicked in the nuts.”

 

 

Benavides said good-bye to his young friend and then began to jostle his way through the crowds that mingled in front of Madam’s Organ. The kid turned right and, thankfully, Joey B turned left, away from the police station. He wasn’t drunk, but chose his steps carefully like someone who knew he had a pretty good buzz. He carried his keys in his hand, moving toward a silver Audi A8, wagging his head as he walked as if still singing his own mighty songs.

Bowen fell in behind him as soon as he left the restaurant. Thibodaux hung back a few steps.

“Joey,” Bowen said, stepping in before Benavides could unlock the Audi. “Got a minute?”

The ID agent turned a little too fast at the intrusion, teetering so he had to catch himself on the roof of the car. The tail of his white shirt hung half out of navy Sansabelt slacks. He held a chubby hand up to his face as if to ward off a blow or shield his eyes from a bright light. Three gold rings adorned stubby sausage fingers.

“Do I know you?” he said. He rubbed his waist with the other hand, obviously trying to remember what he’d done with his pistol. Bowen had seen it earlier, sagging in a loose sheepskin holster on the man’s left ankle. When caught unawares, having a gun in an ankle rig was akin to not having a gun at all.

Thibodaux moved up behind Bowen. “Afraid you’ve never had the pleasure,
cher
,” the Marine said. “But we know you. How about we all have a seat in your car and, you know, get to know each other?”

“I know one thing,” Benavides said. “You’re not getting in my car.”

“
Au contraire
, my brother,” Thibodaux said. He nodded at Bowen. “My friend here happens to be in possession of a recording you’re gonna want to hear.”

“How do I know you’re not going to kill me?” Benavides said.

“I can’t speak for my friend,” Thibodaux said, “but if I aimed to kill you, you’d be a greasy dot on the sidewalk already.”

Bowen stepped in closer and held up his phone. A quick replay of Joey B’s own words convinced him to unlock all the doors and slump behind the wheel. Bowen sat in the passenger seat. The big Marine folded himself into the back, behind Benavides.

“What now?” Joey asked, hands rubbing the sides of his head like he was getting a migraine.

Bowen half turned, his left arm running along the back of the seat between Benavides and his headrest. He held the phone in his right, between them. The recording played on, describing the treatment of a defenseless older woman at the hands of common thugs. Benavides closed his eyes when he heard his own voice connecting Agent Walter with the incident.

Bowen turned off the recording and returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

“Do you know why most people aren’t very good at boxing, Joey?” Bowen said.

“No,” Benavides scoffed. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“Because they worry too much about their teeth.”

Bowen grabbed a handful of Joey B’s greasy curls, yanking back just enough to make the moron pull against his grasp. As soon as he felt the tug, Bowen went with it, changing directions and slamming Benavides’s face into the top of the steering wheel again and again. Teeth shattered against the hard plastic wheel. At least two fell in a series of tiny thumps against the rubber floor mat, like coins slipping out of a pocket.

“Sthopppp it!” Benavides screamed. Blood poured from his burst lips. “What do you want from me?” He held up both hands, showing that he didn’t intend to fight back.

Bowen shoved him sideways. He wiped the hair gel from his hand on the back of the calfskin seat. “Come on, Joey,” he said. “I just helped out your boxing career. Now you don’t have to worry about so many teeth.”

“Whath the hell?” Benavides said. He sounded like he had a mouthful of marbles. “Do you know who I work for?”

“Wait,” Thibodaux said, grimacing. “Don’t tell me you’re with ID.” He shot a fearful glance at Bowen. “We’re done, brother. They’ll arrest us for sure now, steal our clothes, and send this jackass in to rape us. . . .” He cuffed Benavides on the back of the head with a hand the size of a pie pan. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Of course, we know who you work for,
cochon
.”

“Why are you doing this?” Benavides whimpered. “I . . . I . . . don’t even know you guys. . . .” Each breath brought a wincing gasp as he sucked air over the freshly broken teeth.

“Waaa,” Thibodaux mocked. “
I don’t even know you guys
.” He looked at Bowen, telling him it was his turn.

“Where is she?” Bowen said. The “tell me or I’ll kick your ass” was implied.

Benavides gulped. “Look, guys. I—”

Thibodaux cuffed him again. “I swear, Joey . . .” A slap from the big man was the equivalent of being hit in the head with a baseball.

“Where?” Bowen repeated.

“Bethesda,” Joey said. “A secure wing of the psychiatric hospital.”

Bowen shot a glance at Thibodaux, who raised the brow on his good eye.

“Makes sense,” the Cajun said.

“Are they going to take her in front of a judge?” Bowen asked.

Benavides braced himself for another blow from Thibodaux. A smear of bloody drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know.” He choked back a sob. “I’m just a grunt. I do what Walter tells me to. He’s the one running the show.”

“I guess your boss wouldn’t be too happy to hear you’re blabbing your head off in a bar,” Bowen mused.

Benavides slumped even farther in his seat, defeated. “He’d kill me.”

“Okay,” Bowen said, “Walter doesn’t need to know anything. As long as you keep me informed about Director Ross.”

“That’s all?”

Thibodaux loomed over the backseat. “Hell no, that ain’t all,” he said. “Both hands on the wheel and hum quietly to yourself while I make a call. Don’t be listenin’ in. That’ll get you killed.”

Benavides looked as though he’d been shot. “I can’t help but hear if you talk sitting back there. Can’t . . . can’t you just step out of the car if it’s a secret call?”

Bowen stifled a chuckle as Thibodaux pressed the phone to his ear and swatted Benavides in the back of the head. “I told you to hum.”

Joey B began to hum something unrecognizable—far from the mighty songs of himself he’d been crooning earlier.

Thibodaux hit him again. “Would you shut up,” he snapped. “I’m on the phone.”

Bowen had to look away to keep from laughing.

Dazed and confused, Benavides leaned his forehead on the steering wheel, bloody lips emitting something in between a sob and a hum.

“It’s me, sir,” Thibodaux said in the backseat. “Yes . . .”

Bowen wasn’t sure who the Cajun was talking to, but it was someone he trusted. Thibodaux ran down the specifics of the conversation with Joey Benavides—who hummed louder every time his name was mentioned.

“Yes, sir,” Thibodaux said after he finished his report. He listened intently, nodding and making just enough noise so the other party knew he was still on the line. “I understand, sir,” he said at length. “No, I agree. It has to be done. We’ll take care of it.”

“What
has
to be done?” Benavides sobbed, unable to contain himself. “You don’t
have
to do anything. . . .”

“Ahhh.” Thibodaux tilted his head to the side and leaned over the seat. “Somebody’s been listenin’ when I told them not to. . . .”

Benavides deflated like an empty balloon.

“Here’s the deal, Joey B,” Thibodaux said. “Turns out Director Ross will be moved today. You’re gonna call me and tell me where they’re takin’ her.”

Benavides groaned. “I’m not approved to know that kind of thing before it happens.”

“Well go and get your ass approved,” Thibodaux whispered. “Because if you screw me around, I’m gonna come to your house and mess up your shit.” He leaned in so his eye patch was almost touching Joey B’s cheek. “And I don’t mean your stuff. I mean your actual shit. Your house will be covered in little tiny bits of what was once you. Understand?”

Benavides nodded quickly, forehead wrinkled like his head was about to explode. Unintelligible whimpers gurgled from his throat.

“I’m done here,” Thibodaux said. “Being near this guy makes me feel like I might catch PMS.”

Bowen looked at him.

“Puny Man Syndrome,” Thibodaux said.

Bowen gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” He raised a brow at Joey B. “Not a word to your bosses about our meeting.”

Benavides dabbed at his split lip. “What do I tell them about what happened to my face?”

“Not our problem,” Thibodaux said. He flung open the rear door.

“Run your car into a tree on the way home,” Bowen offered on his way out. “Tell them you fell asleep at the wheel. I got a feeling they’d buy that.”

Thibodaux leaned down, looking in the window with his hand to his face, thumb and little finger extended to look like a telephone. He grinned like they were old friends. “Call me,” he said.