Act of Terror

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Fort McNair Washington

C ongressman Drake’s list had sent a shock wave through the military. Ranking officers from each branch had appeared on the list-and anyone who looked or acted out of place fell under immediate scrutiny from peers and superiors alike. All branches of the service took on an immediate shroud of darkness and mistrust reminiscent of Cold War Europe and the East German Stasi. Informants sat behind every desk. Old scores begged to be settled.

No one trusted anyone else.

Lieutenant Colonel Dane Fargo stood with both hands planted on the gray military desk, reading the top folder in the stack of file folders before him. The file, thick and dog-eared, literally made him want to sing. He’d cashed in every favor, called in every debt, and used the last drop of his political capital, but he’d gotten one more name added to Congressman Drake’s list.

He knew in his heart that Jericho Quinn should have been on the list from the beginning. The man was too good to be true. He spoke Chinese like a native and his Arabic was flawless. Months of his life were completely unaccounted for. Even his dark complexion and heavy black stubble suggested he was of foreign blood.

Even now, when the veracity of all those on the list was in question, Jericho Quinn had gone completely underground. When they did find him, Fargo knew he’d be a tough nut to crack. But that would be the most enjoyable part of the process.

Fargo had traded his customary camouflage battle dress uniform for a dark blue business suit that hung awkwardly off sloping shoulders. A white shirt gaped around his neck as if he were a child wearing his daddy’s clothes. Ill-fitting suit or not, Fargo couldn’t help but feel that his time had finally come.

Congressman Drake’s list of possible subversives had caused no small stir among the halls of government. Men and women formerly trusted as golden children by their superiors-civilians and soldiers alike-found themselves under deep suspicion. Men like Fargo with rock-solid backgrounds, who also happened to have a close relation in the U.S. Congress, had finally been given the opportunity to rise to the top of their respective heaps.

When he’d heard about the massive, government-wide vetting process, he’d called his uncle the congressman right away. A few handshakes and backroom deals later and Lt. Colonel Fargo had been given a special team of investigators stationed at Fort Lesley J. McNair along the Potomac River. It was altogether fitting, Fargo thought, that his task force was headquartered on the very same spot where Mary Surratt and her coconspirators were hanged for their part in the plot to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.

In reality, the men on his team made the flesh on the back of his neck crawl. Trained at Fort Huachuca at the U.S. Army’s Interrogator School, these four were Senior Echoes, an unofficial subunit within the Five Hundredth Military Intelligence Group that called themselves the Boom Squad.

Military interrogators often referred to themselves as Echoes. Fargo needed rogues, men willing to bend the rules of civility. His rank and the suffocating air of fear that had enveloped the nation allowed him to handpick the harshest men from these ranks, men who would do the hard things no one talked about at parties. Self-taught in the tactics of the 1960s-era heavy-handed KUBARK CIA Interrogation Manual, all were NCOs, and none, as far as Fargo could tell, were used to taking any sort of order from a superior officer. They were perfect for what Fargo had in mind.

Psychology mixed with a liberal amount of thumbscrews was par for the course with these men. Spanish inquisitors had nothing on them. Pig-eyed and emotionless, they were extremely talented at what they did. A simple stare from any of them caused Fargo’s flesh to crawl. They were a necessary evil, just the sort of men he would need to capture and interrogate the backstabbing son of a bitch Jericho Quinn.

Fargo relished the control that this newfound fear had given him over his fellow soldiers. He recalled the motto of the Stasi: Schild und Schwert der Partei — Sword and Shield of the Party. He’d been a shield long enough. Being a sword was proving to be much more fun.

If it happened to get messy-so much the better.