National Security

CHAPTER 19

“I don’t think she likes me very much.” Thibodaux grunted, tossing back a liter bottle containing a mixture of water, chocolate protein powder, and a cup of raw oatmeal he’d let soak long enough he could chew it.

Across the breakfast table, Quinn made do with granola and soy milk. “Why do you say that?”

“I dunno…” The Marine wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. “Because I can’t do a handstand on my nose or some shit like that.”

Mrs. Miyagi had woken them before five with an entire new wardrobe, including T-shirts, running shorts, and shoes. They’d arrived with literally nothing more than what they had on their backs and had given their sizes to Palmer the day before, but neither expected to have the promised clothes by the next morning.

Each man was accustomed to a strict regimen of exercise and they put the new gear to use without being told. Thibodaux didn’t look like a runner, but as big as he was, he stayed shoulder to shoulder with Quinn for six miles through the neighborhoods around Mt. Vernon at a blazing seven-minute-mile pace. When they sprinted up Mrs. Miyagi’s tree-lined driveway, they found her in the backyard, resting serenely in a sort of handstand on her forearms; her back arched slightly, legs straight up in the air. It was, she explained, a yoga move called Pincha Mayurasana and the sooner they mastered it the better for everyone involved.

It was impossible to tell the mysterious woman’s age. She was compactly built, just a breath over five feet tall. Her black leotard revealed the muscular upper body of an Olympic gymnast, the defined hips and thighs of a sprinter. She moved like an athlete with a sort of fluid, feline confidence that took immediate control when she was present. Her coal-black hair was pulled back in a short ponytail. She wore no nail polish or any apparent makeup; her only adornment was the fleeting, crimson edge of an unidentifiable tattoo, barely visible at the scoop neck of the leotard over the swell of her left breast.

Her workout over, she dressed in faded jeans snug enough to accentuate the curves of her figure, and a white oxford polo that left the tattoo a hidden mystery. Under some lights, her flawless skin and ever serene demeanor made Quinn guess she was still in her thirties, but in momentary flashes, particularly when she spoke, the deep, ageless wisdom in her eyes said she was much older.

Miyagi joined the two men in the dining room just as Thibodaux finished his protein and raw oats. She carried an aluminum Zero Halliburton briefcase in each hand.

“The DNI tells me I am to issue your equipment immediately,” she said.

“Arigato gozaimasu.” Quinn accepted his case with both hands and a slight bow. It was large, at least five inches deep, and it had some heft to it.

“You are welcome.” Mrs. Miyagi’s lips perked into just the hint of a smile, the first Quinn had seen of such sentiment in the mysterious woman. “Palmer San said I should watch what I say around you.” There wasn’t the slightest trace of a Japanese accent in her words. Her teeth and her emotions vanished as quickly as they had appeared. “Now, if you gentleman will please open your cases, I will explain your new weapons.

“New weapons?” Thibodaux rubbed his big hands together. “I like the sound of that.”

Quinn snapped the latches and raised the lid on the brushed aluminum case to find a pair of Kimber Tactical Ultra II pistols chambered in ten millimeter. The Kimber was built on the venerable 1911 design some operators felt had to have been revealed by the Almighty to John Browning.

Nestled between the matched handguns was a custom Glock in .22 caliber with a threaded barrel, Gemtech silencer, and a box of subsonic ammunition. There were extra magazines and a variety of concealment holsters for each weapon.

Miyagi waved an open hand over the contents of both cases. “The Director leaves the choice of sidearm up to each of you, since that is a personal issue. He makes you the gift of these pistols and reminds you that you are no longer constrained by the need to carry NATO-approved ammunition. The ten millimeters are for times when immediate stopping power is required.”

“I can’t think of a time when it’s not.” Thibodaux smiled. He peered down the sights of one of the Kim-bers with the broad grin of a boy on Christmas morning. As a special agent with OSI, Quinn was accustomed to carrying a pistol wherever he went, both in and out of the United States. Thibodaux only carried a weapon when he was overseas or in training, and in the Marine Corps that was customarily a rifle.

“When silence is paramount”—Mrs. Miyagi smiled serenely as if she’d done her share of specialized pistol work—“the .22 caliber Glock fitted with the Gemtech should serve you very well. From my experience with the Director, it is my belief that you will employ this system far more often than you will the Kimber.” She turned to Quinn, studying him for a long moment. “I understand you often use a blade in such circumstances.”

“I have on occasion.” Quinn nodded, wondering how much this woman knew about him.

With his particular skills and the broad range of opportunities to put them to use in Iraq, Jericho had learned to utilize the weapon that got the job done. In the beginning, he’d never set out to kill a man with a knife, but it had happened more than once. Quinn had discovered the method to be supremely effective and silent. The aftermath of blade work had the added benefit of throwing a psychological headlock on others among the enemy camp who came upon the bloody scene. It also gave him a reputation that made other OSI agents steer clear of him at parties but jump at the chance to work with him in the field.

Mrs. Miyagi bowed slightly, folding both hands in front of her waist. “Would you permit me to see your blade?”

Quinn drew the CRKT Hissatsu killing tool from his waistband. Modeled in the style of an ancient Japanese dirk, it was one of the few knives on the market that wasn’t meant for double duty as a letter opener, or camp tool. The long, slender blade had no other job than the quick penetration of vital organs where it could inflict the most lethal damage.

“A knife?” Thibodaux tilted his big head, unconvinced.

“Why not?” The enigmatic woman peered through narrowed eyes. “Sicarii Zealots in first-century Palestine killed in broad daylight with a short sword known as a sica. The Fidaiin, most feared of the ancient assassins, always used a dagger to work their acts of terror. Even Spartans, whom you Marines revere so much, were renowned for their use of a short sword.”

“Short being the operative weakness,” Thibodaux said.

“Ah,” Miyagi said, scolding the Cajun. “When a Spartan youth once complained to his mother that his sword was too short, the warrior mother told her boy the weapon would be long enough if he would only step forward.”

Thibodaux sighed. “Touché,” he said, giving Quinn an I-told-you-so look.

Her history lesson over for the moment, Mrs. Miyagi turned her attention back to Quinn, who was grinning ear to ear at Thibodaux’s mental thrashing. “Very nice,” she said, drawing the twelve-inch blade from its Kydex scabbard. “I’m sure it has served you well.”

Quinn tipped his head, agreeing but saying nothing.

Mrs. Miyagi examined the Hissatsu under the natural light streaming in from her dining-room window. “Do you know of the ancient swordsmith Masamune?”

“I do indeed,” Quinn said. “Some feel Masamune was the greatest of all Japanese sword makers during the late thirteenth century. Leaves floating down a river toward his blade were said to have sensed the sharpness and veered away in the current. While other weapons were sharp, Masamune swords held a certain mystical power — discerning about what they cut.”

“You know your history.” Mrs. Miyagi gave an approving smile. She held the Hissatsu flat, across both hands. “Many years ago I was given a Masamune dagger — much like your blade. It is called Yawaraka-Te…”

“Gentle Hand, like the legend of the river and the leaves,” Quinn mused. It was so typical for the Japanese to give an instrument of death such a serene name.

“Yawaraka-Te now rests in your Halliburton case, under the guns,” Mrs. Miyagi said. “I make it a gift to you.”

Quinn caught his breath. A pair of pistols was one thing, but a centuries-old blade forged by a Japanese master was a heavy burden. He may have saved the Director’s grandson, but this woman didn’t know him at all. For her to give him a sword that for all practical purposes was a Japanese national treasure was unthinkable. Still, he could see from the set in Mrs. Miyagi’s jaw to refuse it would be unthinkable.

“Do I get a cool knife?” Thibodaux peeked under the corner of the foam insert inside his aluminum case.

A mischievous sparkle formed in Mrs. Miyagi’s bottomless brown eyes, flashing at Quinn. He nodded, understanding her meaning without words passing between them.

She pushed the Hissatsu toward the Cajun. “Blades are far more powerful when they come to us as a gift. Quinn San wants you to have this one.” Offering him Jericho’s knife with both hands, she changed the subject. “Now, there is much to do. Please put that away and follow me.”

Thibodaux slumped, shoving the present in his aluminum case. “I told you she didn’t like me,” he whispered. “But hey, thanks anyway for the pigsticker, beb.”

Quinn was severely tempted to look under the pistols in his case. He longed to touch the eight-hundred-year-old blade. That would be rude though, so he let it wait.

Mrs. Miyagi stepped out to her front porch and motioned toward the circular driveway. “The Director authorized a second BMW Adventure, identical to yours, Quinn San, but for the color.”

Thibodaux all but vaulted onto the red and black GS. Except for the color it was the twin to Jericho’s gunmetal bike, complete with Touratech aluminum cases.

Mrs. Miyagi ran her hand over the huge gas tank on Quinn’s motorcycle. “The Shop made a few adjustments while you slept. A little more travel in the front suspension… tuned the engine to coax out an additional ten horsepower to your original one oh five… and added run-flat tires.”

Sitting astride his new bike, Thibodaux tipped back and forth on the center stand. He looked like a giant kid on an electric pony. “I’ll bet they shoot rockets or some—”

“Don’t touch that!” Mrs. Miyagi snapped. She stepped closer, pointing at a gray button on the handlebars.

“Really?” The Marine jerked his hand away as if he’d been bitten.

“No, Thibodaux San,” Mrs. Miyagi laughed. “That controls your heated hand grips. Motorcycles do not make a good platform for rockets.” Her smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “However, these particular motorcycles will carry you from point A to point B very fast, in places where a conventional vehicle can not always go. As riders you won’t stand out when wearing armored clothing. We have full custom suits based on the measurements you provided. They are fashioned from Aerostich Transit Leather — both the pants and the jackets. Breathable and waterproof, but engineers at the Shop have installed a small cooling system for more pleasant summer wear. Ballistic shielding has been added to the crash armor already in place.”

“I’d like to visit this Shop,” Quinn said, giving his bike a quick once-over to make sure everything was in the proper place. He called it his pre-flight.

“Ah.” Miyagi smiled. “Perhaps someday I can arrange this. The Shop is a small, subunit of DARPA specializing in equipment for teams such as yours.” DARPA — the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency — was a component of the Department of Defense comprised of government and contracted research specialists in everything from nano-bots to guided missile lasers.

Miyagi continued with her gear issue. “Our engineers have added a heads-up display to the visor of your helmet, using the same technology employed by fighter pilots. You will be able to keep your eyes on the road but still access night vision, GPS, and even a video link if that should become necessary — though I don’t recommend it while riding, for safety’s sake. Your helmets have also been wired with a voice encrypted, wireless STU.” The STU was a secure telephone unit usually operated with an encryption key.

“Once they are imprinted, you’ll be able to speak securely to the Director’s office as well as to each other and, when needed, more conventional telephones.”

Thibodaux rolled the black, visored helmet in his beefy hands. “I’ll bet I could check my Facebook on this thing.”

Quinn’s head snapped up. “You’re on Facebook?”

“Sure ’nuff.” Thibodaux grinned. “You’re not?”

“Indeed, you could use the equipment to check such things…” Mrs. Miyagi pursed her lips as if she was about to say something else but turned her attention to Quinn instead. She rested a bronze hand on the handlebar of his motorcycle. “There are quite a lot of improvements, too many to comprehend in a short briefing. They were designed to be intuitive so nothing should surprise you. I believe you will be pleased as you learn of them. Some may even save your life.”

“So,” Jericho said, already feeling the calm waves of normalcy his bike provided, “we train with you?”

“That is correct,” Miyagi said. “I am aware of your previous curriculum. I will provide a more spiritual… esoteric sort of guidance to prepare you for what the Director has in mind.”

“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?”