Free State of Emergency by Marc Cameron

out of Bishkek the day after Cooper was killed. One is an Iranian student named Naseer al-Karradi. His uncle is a nuclear scientist for the regime. Langley likes a Saudi merchant they tagged in Tashkent shortly after Cooper’s murder. They link him to a plan to get a Soviet man-portable antiaircraft missile into Manhattan.”
    â€œThey still got eyes on their suspects?” Quinn asked.
    â€œBoth Karradi and the Saudi are in the wind,” Palmer said. “Every asset in Asia and Europe is looking for these guys. We don’t know who’s allied with who or, more importantly, who has the bomb.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t the Bureau like Zamora as the coordinator?” Quinn asked.
    â€œProfilers at Quantico believe he’s too unstable to carry out this kind of orchestrated action.” Palmer leaned back, looking skyward to stretch his neck. “To be honest, it’s hard to disagree. Everyone who’s met him says he bounces all over the place—erratic and flighty like a BB in a boxcar. But he was in Uzbekistan and he’s a killer. I don’t care what the Feebs say, this is too important to rule him out just yet.”
    â€œLet’s go get him then,” Thibodaux said.
    â€œI’d like nothing more than to have you jerk a knot in this guy’s ass, Jacques,” Palmer said. “But that wouldn’t get us very far. Interrogation won’t do us any good at all if the bomb is moved. If he does have it, chances are his people would move it the moment we pick him up. NSA is up on all the phones we know about, but he’s got access to some pretty sophisticated technology so who knows what we’re missing. We need to watch for a few days, see what we can learn. The FBI can look for their boy from Bishkek. Langley can follow theirs. I want you two to check out Zamora.”
    Palmer reached into his jacket pocket to produce a folded piece of computer paper.
    â€œI’ll send an encrypted file with what we have to each of your phones. But the small screen won’t do justice to the twisted sort of man we’re dealing with. Zamora supplies heavy weapons to the Zetas Cartel in Mexico, among others.” He handed the document to Quinn, who held it so Thibodaux could look as well.
    Palmer looked away, apparently having seen enough.
    â€œThe dead girl was a student from the University of Matamoros. She wrote a thesis indicting the cartel’s cruelty toward regular citizens, so they kidnapped her and made a gift of her to Zamora.” He nodded at the photograph. “Informants in the cartel say he did this for no particular reason but to impress a sadistic girlfriend.”
    In another venue the girl in the picture would have been pretty. The stark whiteness of naked flesh under the flash of the crime scene photo made even Quinn, who had seen more than his share of carnage, flinch in disgust. She was stripped of her clothing and bound to a wooden bedframe on a blood-soaked mattress. Someone had traced a sloppy outline of her body with gunfire, stitching the bed with a dotted line of bullet holes. Zamora hadn’t been any too careful with his aim, taking bits of flesh and shards of bone every few shots. One of the poor girl’s elbows was completely gone. Her left ear, the opposite knee, and right shoulder suffered the same grisly fate. A single gunshot to the center of her chest had finally ended her agony—presumably when Zamora and his girlfriend had grown bored with their game.
    Quinn’s gut turned. The sight of any woman in pain made him associate the victim with his own daughter or ex-wife, so much so that he had to check himself when he was around them or become maniacally overprotective.
    â€œI think I might throw up,” the big Cajun groaned. “I’m really gonna enjoy gettin’ my hands on this shithead.”
    â€œGood to hear,” Palmer said, “because I want you in Florida in three days. Zamora likes to