Only Wrong Once Read online

  When Holly met Quinn for the first time, he wore a dark suit and aviator sunglasses. Holly imagined he had just stepped away from the president’s side. She didn’t waste a minute. She walked right over to Quinn, batting her eyelashes, working her hips, and making sure he noticed her spectacular body.

  “May I ask what do you do for a living?” she said.

  Quinn narrowed his eyes but smiled. “I have a government security job.”

  Good enough, so long as he looked and dressed like he did.

  Now, years later, Simpson was asking the same type of questions. “Counterterrorism?”

  “Yes. Intelligence and Analysis,” said Quinn.

  “Tell me about it, Quinn. It sounds fascinating.”

  “Like any job, sometimes it is, but most of the time it isn’t.”

  “He can’t tell us anything. Believe me, I’d love for him to entertain us with a few stories. But he can’t,” said Holly.

  Holly accepted a champagne flute from an attractive woman carrying a tray. “Thank you, sweetie.” She winked. “Simpson, you follow me. I have a piece you might like.” Over her shoulder she added, “Quinn, go ahead and introduce yourself around.”

  She guided Simpson to one of the priciest paintings, a giant canvas with bold red and black strokes titled Power Surge. “This one reminds me of you. It’s so powerful.” She leaned in close, pressing her breast against his arm while he stared at the painting. “I have to move along and be social now. You admire the painting and think about what I said.” She gently squeezed his upper arm before sauntering away.

  Holly surveyed the gallery, temporarily bestowing her gaze on various guests, deciding who to visit next, until she spotted someone she didn’t expect to see. Her smile disappeared. Christian stood just inside the front entrance wearing a black Armani sports coat over a grey shirt. He fit in well with the crowd, but she didn’t want him around. He wasn’t in the market for a painting, but more importantly, she didn’t want her lover mingling with her husband. And where was Quinn now? What would he do if he knew? How could he ferret out terrorists if he couldn’t detect an affair being conducted under his nose? Maybe, if he spent a little more time at home and less at work, there wouldn’t be the need for any affairs.

  She followed Christian’s fixed gaze to a corner of the gallery where one man stood alone. Of course, it had to be Quinn. Her heartbeat quickened. Was Christian about to cause a scene? Would tonight’s gallery show be memorable for reasons beyond the art? She imagined the two men fighting over her. The thought of a rivalry over the honor of her affection made her blood rush.

  Across the room, Quinn removed his phone from his coat pocket. He glanced at the screen and raised it to his ear, lowering his chin toward his chest. Holly knew what would follow.

  In record time, Quinn began the usual routine. The one leading to his polite escape; the one that made her blood boil. He found Mira Renault, the artist on display, and congratulated her, briefly holding her hand in his own. Next, he located Holly and quickly moved to her side.

  I’m sorry, Holly,” he said, his voice low. “I’m going to have to leave. Something came up.”

  “Of course it did.” Holly wrapped her finger around a small section of hair and began to twirl it, a habit whenever she was irritated.

  Out of the corner of her eyes, she spotted Christian walking toward them.

  “I’ll see you at home tonight.” Quinn’s statement almost sounded like a question.

  “Fine.” Holly’s body tensed. Christian moved steadily closer, only a few feet away now, his eyes locked on Quinn.

  Quinn turned, focused on the exit. He walked briskly past Christian, brushing his shoulder, without giving him so much as a sideways glance.

  Holly forced a breath through her mouth and sighed, not with relief, but disappointment. He’s always ready to save everyone and everything. Except for our marriage.

  Chapter Three

  Los Angeles

  September 20th

  The distinctive white shell of the Hollywood Bowl rose in the distance against the Hollywood Hills. Hundreds of people mingled across the grounds waiting for the beginning of the evening’s main event, part three of a classical concert series. Groups of friends, families with picnic dinners, and couples holding hands talked and relaxed in the cool September air.

  Looking straight ahead, Quinn walked up to a white van with the AT&T name and logo parked near an entrance. He slid the door partly open and stepped inside. The interior of the surveillance vehicle barely provided enough height for his six-foot two-inch frame. Cameras and camera monitors covered a large part of one side wall. “Hey, I’m here.”

  Agent Rashid Usman, who could read, write, and speak five Arabic languages, sat slouched in front of a wall of monitors. Light from an overhead video feed gleamed off his bald spot. He used two fingers to adjust his glasses. “You didn’t have to leave your wife’s gallery event. I only called to say we’re moving forward with Redman. We’ve got this.”

  “I know. I wanted to come.”

  Rashid grinned and shrugged. “Okay, you’re the boss.” He focused on one monitor with a zoomed-in view. In the center of the screen, a man stood alone inside the crowded entrance. His name was Dylan Redman. He was average height with a mess of dark hair, piercing brown eyes, and olive skin.

  Quinn shifted his gaze from Redman to another monitor. A man and woman around Quinn’s age, mid-thirties, sat on a blanket. The woman sipped from a glass of red wine and smiled at her companion. The man’s hand rested on her knee.

  “People rarely realize when they’re being watched,” said Quinn.

  Ten yards from Redman, a body-builder sold concert programs from behind a metal cart. His biceps strained against the fabric of his tight T-shirt. “Program?” he yelled, shading his eyes from the setting sun. He waved a handful of programs to attract attention and shook his head when no one expressed interest. Three teenagers passed within a few feet of his cart, laughing, smiling, and ignoring him. The body-builder scowled. “Get your programs here!”

  “Humph. Very convincing.” Quinn broke into a smile. “So, what have I missed?”

  “Nothing yet. Redman’s been standing there for twenty-seven minutes. He reminds me of a street performer who can’t remember his act.”

  “Or one with a serious case of stage fright, more likely.”

  Rashid’s lips parted unconsciously and his eyes zoomed in on an attractive woman jogging across his monitor. She wore tiny earbuds. Long, straight blonde hair swung from side to side in a ponytail. Her black stretch pants and running top revealed an exceptionally toned body. “Three times she’s run down that walkway past Redman, and he hasn’t noticed once.”

  Quinn’s eyes also followed the jogger onto the next monitor. She passed a handsome man in his early twenties on his cell phone. He wore an expensive dark suit and Italian loafers. His free hand made jerking, animated gestures through the air. Like everyone else wandering through the plaza or headed into the concert, he looked too self-absorbed to pay attention to what was happening around him. “I see everyone is in place.”

  “Yep. And no one here has noticed anything odd about Redman. Blows my mind. It’s seventy degrees and he’s wearing a big ugly coat. Makes him look like he marched out of a psych ward.”

  “He’s not different enough to warrant attention. He’s only different enough to ignore.”

  Rashid laughed. “Even if I didn’t do this for a living, I think I’d notice there’s something up with this guy. Wouldn’t you? There are enough shows about terrorism for people to recognize the classic signs by now. The thousand-yard stare, sweating, and especially that coat.”

  “People are here to enjoy themselves. They can’t do that if they’re worrying about terrorists.”

  “A little awareness wouldn’t hurt once in a while.”

  A breeze lifted Redman’s dark hair away from his forehead, revealing a wide-eyed, pained expression. Drops of sweat formed trails down the sides o
f his face. He gazed at the highway overpass in the distance. His fingers twitched against his side.

  Rashid suddenly sat up and leaned forward. “I can’t see him. Lost visual. Maybe a bus just arrived. There are too many people.”

  Quinn watched without blinking. This was supposed to be easy.

  The crowd thinned and Redman appeared again on the monitor in exactly the same position as before. Quinn took a deep breath. “You think he’s having second thoughts?”

  “No. Impossible. He was as ready as I’ve ever seen and very impatient. He thinks I’m an ISIS cell leader. If we didn’t set this up for tonight, he would have done something else soon. He told me he made a new contact, a guy in Syria whose group has a fool-proof project.”

  “He used the word project? Really? Like it’s some sort of school assignment?”

  “Yes, that’s what he called it—a project.”

  “Do you know who it is? The contact?” Quinn said.

  A young family walked at a leisurely pace toward Redman and would pass him in a few seconds. Two children wearing matching outfits, one on either side of their father, had to lift their arms almost overhead to hold on to his hands. The mother pushed a baby carriage. Redman glanced in their direction. Rashid watched the scene intently as he answered Quinn. “I don’t know who the contact is yet. Redman said the guy used to live in America. Hold on…he’s doing it!”

  Redman’s hand moved away from his side, parting his coat. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the button.

  An alarm sounded inside the surveillance van. A computerized voice indicated the “bomb” had been activated. At the same time, Rashid turned on his headset. “Done. Get the bastard!”

  Redman opened his eyes and his mouth fell open in shock. The muscular man selling programs, Ken, wrapped his hand around Redman’s arm and held it in a grip like a vise. Rick, the handsome young man from the bench held the other arm, trapping him. The blonde jogger, Stephanie, prevented him from moving forward. She quickly pulled Redman’s coat closed to cover the explosive device Their movements were quick and natural, like three people had simultaneously recognized an old friend and rushed over to catch up with him.

  An elderly man and woman, clutching their tickets, gawked at the foursome. Stephanie offered a friendly wave. The woman’s face slowly relaxed and the man waved back.

  “What happened?” Redman said, as the agents led him to the surveillance truck.

  Stephanie’s pleasant smile remained, but her voice, barely above a whisper, indicated her disgust. “You have the right to remain silent….”

  When Stephanie finished reading his rights, Rick burst out with, “You’ve spent the last three weeks sharing your big plans with an agent from the FBI’s Counterterrorism Unit. The bomb we gave you is authentic looking, but harmless, if you haven’t figured that out yet. Everything was recorded. You’ll be locked up for a long, long time. Not exactly the paradise you imagined, is it? Or are you relieved you didn’t blow yourself to bits?”

  Ken rolled his eyes. A vein in his temple flickered.

  “We don’t usually share all that info,” Stephanie whispered, shooting Rick a warning look.

  “Oh, sorry.” Rick was almost breathless with excitement.

  Redman’s head dropped. He trudged along in silence between the agents toward the surveillance truck. Inside the vehicle, all pretenses were dropped. Stephanie removed Redman’s coat and fake bomb while the other agents held him. He was handcuffed, patted down in search of other weapons, and pushed inside a small temporary holding cell. Ken clanked the steel door shut and locked it, glaring at Redman.

  “If he took much longer I could have gotten my full cardio work-out in.” Stephanie opened a bottled water, took a long swig, and turned to Rick. “You did okay. For a new guy. Very convincing as a yuppie banker in your fancy suit.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s a Saint Laurent. Went smoothly, didn’t it?”

  “Try not to be so excited next time. We don’t owe him any explanations,” said Ken.

  Rick’s face was still flushed. “Yeah. Okay. Got it. What an adrenaline rush! Now what?”

  Rashid lowered his voice so Redman couldn’t hear. “We’ll take him in for interrogation. See if we can find out who his new contact is.”

  Redman lifted his head and looked around the truck. His gaze settled on the gas masks hanging from the wall in one corner. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. His eyes shone with an intense and crazy gleam. “This was nothing. Nothing compared to what’s coming.”

  “You’re right that you accomplished nothing. We could see that,” Rick said. “Still puts your ass in jail for a long time.”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop talking to him.” Ken narrowed his eyes.

  Redman pressed his chest against the steel cage. “I should be thanking you. All of you. Now I’ll be here to see America brought to justice. Because it’s going to happen. Soon. America will suffer like never before.”

  Stephanie pulled a cord above the cage. A black shade descended over its front, effectively silencing Redman.

  Chapter Four

  Syria

  September 21st

  Kareem had been summoned by Muhammad Al-Bahil. He was used to it by now, still, he hated having to rush out of the lab. He’d learned that working slowly and patiently produced better results, but today he had no choice. When Al-Bahil said come—you did. When he said jump—you did. Over the past year, the instructions he’d given Kareem involved actions far worse than come and jump. And so far, Kareem had done everything Al-Bahil told him to do. He had seen what happened to those who didn’t. Blinded, mutilated, or executed, depending on how they had displeased him. Al-Bahil made sure everyone in the compound witnessed the consequences of disloyalty.

  It was hard to believe only a year had passed since the day Al-Bahil walked into Kareem’s busy Damascus University lab with two formidable men dressed in black moving like shadows behind him.

  “Which one of you is Kareem Sarif?” Al-Bahil focused on one of the lab assistants. The young graduate student didn’t hesitate before pointing out Kareem, probably anxious for Al-Bahil to move on to someone else’s space.

  “Kareem, I want to talk to you.” Al-Bahil’s stare sent a shiver down Kareem’s spine like the temperature had just dropped ten degrees.

  Kareem stepped away from his research, glancing over his shoulder at the vials left out on the counter, and sat down with Al-Bahil in a private room. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on the sides of his lab coat and tried to block out the bodyguards and their penetrating stares. He had no idea who Al-Bahil was, yet he understood he was a powerful man with a commanding presence. Back then, Kareem’s life revolved around scientific exploration. He had largely managed to ignore the hostilities building around the Middle East. He only wanted to be left to his virology research, his passion.

  “Tell me about your virology skills,” said Al-Bahil.

  Kareem crossed his fingers under the table when he answered, hoping his work was about to be recognized and esteemed on a global level. His hopes wavered when Al-Bahil’s questions focused more on what he could do, than what he had already accomplished. Was he being interviewed for a specific job? Perhaps Al-Bahil was a billionaire with a child or spouse in desperate need of a cure for a currently incurable disease. Explanations flew through his mind, propelled by his ego. But he’d never come close to guessing the real reason and he hadn’t asked. Anyone in Al-Bahil’s presence instinctively understood he was not to be questioned.

  “Allah had a plan for you before you were even born. An important plan. One that will have a positive impact on the world,” Al-Bahil said after the interview, if that’s what it could be called.

  With a persistent knot in his stomach, yet feeling like he could now conquer the world, Kareem was hired at a ridiculous salary, five times what the University was paying him, for a “top-secret” job. Men arrived to pack up his personal belongings and move him from his university apartment int
o a new rent-free apartment in Al-Bahil’s modern compound outside the city of Aleppo. Just before he left the University, Kareem had his first huge clue that he might be in over his head, although in hindsight there had been many others along the way.

  “Bring samples of Ebola, Marburg, Lassa, and Machupo with you,” Al-Bahil said, as if it was no big deal to borrow highly contagious viral samples from the University’s maximum containment lab.

  “Um, excuse me?” Kareem hoped he’d misunderstood.

  “You’ll need samples of those viruses to continue your work.” The way Al-Bahil’s eyes bore into Kareem’s soul made it clear he wasn’t used to telling someone to do something more than once. “You can get them, can’t you?”

  Kareem only nodded, reasoning that he had been trusted with those viruses at the University of Damascus, he would now trust himself with them elsewhere so his important research could continue. He believed what he needed to believe because it felt too late to turn back.

  A private lab with innovative equipment, everything he required, was waiting for him at Al-Bahil’s private compound. A bioreactor, high-performance liquid chromatography, a PCR thermocycler, and a qualified lab assistant—Aamaq. A continuous loop of ISIS propaganda, much of it well-made and inspiring, he had to admit, although he did his best to ignore it, played out in video and intercom feeds throughout the day. Only after Kareem was comfortable in his lab, and feeling a bit like he’d won the lottery, like he was indeed special and chosen, did he learn why Al-Bahil had spent months searching for a scientist with Kareem’s background and capabilities. Kareem’s American passport and flawless English were simply huge bonuses.

  Al-Bahil’s plan, further weaponize an already lethal virus to facilitate its spread, was not a beneficial use of Kareem’s skillset. But, Kareem reasoned, having a weapon and using it were two different things. Possessing a weapon and being properly afraid to use it was the whole point of nuclear bombs. Kareem had learned that somewhere. The weapon’s very existence could deter violence. Kareem had come up with many other similar arguments to have with himself while moving forward with Al-Bahil’s “project”.