[Quinn 02] - The Deceived Page 13

  There were no windows in the room. If they had been there once, they were now covered by a wall. There was also no closet. Either it, too, had been boarded over, or there never had been one in the first place.

  Lining three of the walls was a two-foot-wide workbench covered with tools and bits and pieces of electronic gear. And against the wall next to the door was a desk, complete with computer monitor and keyboard. Above the desk and mounted just below the ceiling were five television monitors. Each displayed a view of Blackmoore’s property. Live shots from cameras placed strategically so that no one would get near the house without being seen.

  On one of the monitors was a shot of the empty driveway. The same monitor Blackmoore must have been watching when Quinn approached the house.

  The former spy sat down in front of one of the computer terminals and began typing on the keyboard. Quinn watched as Blackmoore navigated through a website to the groups section. The old man signed in, then selected one of the groups from his list of

  member areas. Sandy Side Yacht Club.

  “There,” Blackmoore said. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “There what?” Quinn asked.

  Blackmoore turned, then looked at him like he was an idiot. “What do you think?”

  Quinn looked at the computer again and realized what Blackmoore meant. “This is your backup, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe you’re not so dumb,” Blackmoore said.

  In the field, there were always emergency contact systems. You’d never know when the primary route to your handler might not be available. There were fewer options in the pre–Internet days, but now an agent could have dozens of different backups if he really wanted them.

  Blackmoore clicked on one of the links and accessed a message board. “We’d post here. Use a simple location code.”

  “Key letters?” Quinn asked.

  “No. Place, number. Easier to sniff out, but also easier to use on the fly.”

  Blackmoore accessed the archives, pulling up the messages from two weeks previous. He clicked on one from somebody called SailorXsuper9393.

  “This is the last message Markoff posted to me.”

  Quinn leaned in. It had been posted to the message board sixteen days previously. He then glanced at the message itself.

  Place/number was a simple code. Which, Quinn realized, would have been the reason Markoff had chosen it. The code was perfect for someone who wasn’t used to operating in the world of secrets to grasp quickly and understand. Someone like Jenny.

  In the first sentence was the name of a location, Jamaica. That would be the key. Since Jamaica had seven letters, it was every seventh word after Jamaica that was important. Once those words were extracted from the post, reversing them gave you the real message. Quick, clean, and easy.

  Before Quinn had a chance to decipher it, Blackmoore said, “He was letting me know that he’d found her. Apparently she’d heard something she wasn’t supposed to hear, and had gone into hiding before anyone could get to her. He wrote he was going to help her out, and that he might be contacting me again in case he needed me to look into anything for him.”

  “But he never did,” Quinn said. “No.” Blackmoore located a message sent two days later. The sender’s ID

  was not Markoff ’s. “From you?” Quinn asked. “Not me.” Blackmoore opened the message. Again there was a place name.

  Miami this time. The message itself was short. “ ‘All safe,’ ” Blackmoore deciphered on the fly. “ ‘I wish you were still here. Hurry. Be careful. Love.’ ” The old man scrolled down. There was a response to the message.

  It was from SailorXsuper9393. “Markoff,” Quinn said. The response was also short: “Everything’s okay. I’ll fix this. Love

  back.” Quinn pulled back slightly. “The first message is from Jenny.” “So it would seem.” “Are there any others?” Quinn asked. “Yes,” Blackmoore said, obviously pleased with the question. He

  searched through the message board until he came upon one that had been sent ten days ago from Jenny’s address. “There are actually three messages. This is the oldest, then one from last Friday, and the latest from this morning. The first two are basically the same. ‘Where are you?’ But no response from Markoff.”

  “What about the message this morning?” Blackmoore found the message. The code key was Cape Cod.

  Quinn decoded the message himself this time. “ ‘I’m coming to find you. Love,’ ” Quinn said out loud. “Yes,” Blackmoore said. “You never replied to any of her messages?” “Why should I? They weren’t meant for me.” “But Markoff ’s dead.”

  “And I didn’t know that until you just told me.”

  “Bullshit,” Quinn said. “Maybe you didn’t have any proof, but you had to believe it was probably true. You worked in the business too long to be that stupid.”

  “What did you want me to tell her? I think your boyfriend is dead,

  good luck?” “You could have tried to help her.” “How?” “Used your contacts. Done something.” “I think you’re overestimating my current state of influence.” Quinn could feel frustration building inside his chest. But after a

  deep breath, he was able to push it back down. Blackmoore was showing him a way to contact Jenny, after all. That was the important thing.

  “Do you know what she was running from?” “No idea.” “Something to do with her boss, maybe?” “That congressman?” Blackmoore asked. “Yes.” “Maybe. I don’t know. Markoff didn’t tell me. And I’m glad, be

  cause I don’t care.” Quinn thought for a moment, then said, “I need to send her a re

  ply.” “Not from my screen name.” “I’ll create my own.” “And not from my computer. I don’t want the message to be traced

  back to me.” Quinn stared at the old man. “I find it hard to believe anything could get traced back here.” There was a hint of a smile on Blackmoore’s face. Finally he pushed back from the desk and relinquished his chair. “A new ID,” he said. “I’m not giving you the password to mine. And no more than five minutes.”

  Quinn quickly composed what he wanted to say, then replied to Jenny’s last message with his new screen name. Hiding within a note about sailing off the coast of California was his true message:

  It’s Quinn. Please, I need to talk to you. Respond earliest.

  The place key he used was Coronado, the island where he had taken the picture of Jenny he had found on Markoff. He hoped it would make her realize it was really him.

  “Touching,” Blackmoore said, looking over his shoulder. “And if she responds?”

  “Then I help her.”

  “I guess you’ll be joining Markoff soon enough.”

  He tapped Quinn on the shoulder with the barrel of his gun. Quinn got the message and stood, then the old man started leading him toward the door.

  “There’s something else I wanted to ask you,” Quinn said.

  Blackmoore stopped just before the hallway and stared back at Quinn. “I’m done talking.”

  Quinn reached into his pocket. As he did, Blackmoore tensed, raising the gun in his hand a few inches.

  “Markoff left a message,” Quinn said as he pulled out his wallet.

  The air grew still.

  “You said he was dead.”

  “He was still alive when he was locked in the container. At least long enough to scrawl something on the wall.”

  “What?”

  Quinn opened the wallet and removed a piece of paper with a copy of the message on it. He held it out to Blackmoore.

  The old man hesitated several seconds, then walked back over and grabbed the note. Quinn watched as Blackmoore stared down at the characters.

  “Some sort of code perhaps?” Blackmoore said without taking his eyes off the paper.

  “You don’t recognize it?” Quinn asked.

  “No. But that doesn’t mean anything.” Blackmoore moved the paper slightly closer to his face. “What are these two characters? Are they part of the s
tring?”

  He was looking at the “lp.”

  “I’m not sure. He repeated the sequence twice, but these two were

  only after the second go-round. And they were set off by themselves.” “What is that? A one?” “Either a one or an L,” Quinn said. “L?” Blackmoore said, trying it out. “L...P?” Suddenly his face

  clouded over. “You need to get out of here now.” “Why? What is it?” Blackmoore began pulling on Quinn’s arm. “Jesus, I hope it’s not

  too late,” Blackmoore mumbled to himself. “Get the hell out of my

  house!” He was rushing Quinn down the hall toward the front door. “What is it?” Quinn asked. “LP? Is that it? What’s it mean?” “No. I’m too old for this shit.” As they neared the door, Quinn put on the brakes. “I’m not leav

  ing without my gun.” The old man dropped his hand from Quinn’s arm and hurried

  into the living room. A moment later, he returned with Quinn’s SIG. “Here,” he said, thrusting it at Quinn. “Take it.” Quinn took the gun, then said, “And I’m not leaving until you tell

  me what LP means.” Blackmoore raised his own gun and pointed it at Quinn. “Get out. Now.”

  Quinn returned to the car, his head spinning from the encounter with Blackmoore. Something had scared the old spy, something to do with the letters LP. But what?

  He wanted to run the entire conversation through his mind again, see if there was something he’d missed. Unfortunately, Tasha had a different plan.

  “Thank God,” Tasha said. “Thank God.” She seemed agitated, almost hysterical. “What is it?” he asked as he slipped his gun under his seat. She held her cell phone in her hand and was staring down at it.

  “My...my brother called. From Houston. Someone broke into my apartment. Went through everything I have.” She put a shaking hand to her brow. “The place is a disaster, he said.” She looked at Quinn. “They know where I live. I can’t even go home now. What am I going to do?”

  He got her calmed down, then drove her back to the Marriott in Crystal City.

  Once inside his room, he pointed toward the bathroom. “If you want to get freshened up.”

  She raised a hand to her face self-consciously, then, without a word, she turned and walked to the bathroom.

  Quinn wasted no time collecting his bag and setting it on the bed. He did two passes through the room, making sure he had everything, then a third pass wiping down any surface he may have touched.

  Tasha reemerged from the bathroom a couple moments after he’d finished. “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What about me?”

  Quinn hesitated before answering. The best thing for her would be to go someplace where she knew no one. A big city, far away from the East Coast, where she could become one of the anonymous. St. Louis, Minneapolis, Detroit, any of those would work. He was tempted to give her the keys to the rental and say, “Drive west.” And, “Good luck.” But he couldn’t do that. He still wasn’t ready to trust her completely, but she might very well hold the key to contacting Jenny. So keeping her near seemed a more secure option than letting her fend for herself.

  “I’m going back to Los Angeles,” Quinn said. “You’ll come with me. It’ll be safer there.”

  He could see her relief as her whole body seemed to relax. “Okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Traveling under her own name, though, was out of the question. He would have to dummy up an ID for her, but he had the gear to do that with him. Nothing too fancy but it would work in the short run. And they’d have to get her some other clothes. Again not impossible either, even at the late hour.

  He excused himself and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. After he splashed some warm water on his face, he put the top down on the toilet and took a seat. From his pocket, he pulled out his phone and called Nate.

  “I’m heading home,” Quinn said. “Things have gotten a little complicated here. I’m also bringing someone with me. I’ll call you back when I know our arrival time so you can pick us up.”

  “Quinn, wait,” Nate said. “What?” “I talked to Orlando.” There was something in Nate’s voice that made Quinn pause.

  “When?” “About an hour ago.” “I’ve left her a couple messages, but she hasn’t called back.” “She’s... not herself. I think she thought she was calling your cell.” “What’s going on?” There was a long silence. “Her aunt died.” Whatever strength Quinn had left drained away. “No.” “It happened when you were in Houston.” Quinn put an elbow on his knee and rested his forehead in his

  open palm. “What was it?” “Cancer. I guess she was diagnosed a couple of months ago, but only told Orlando last week.” No wonder he hadn’t received a call back. “How did Orlando sound?” “Dazed. Like she couldn’t believe it.” Nate paused. “The funeral’s

  tomorrow afternoon.” Quinn sat up. “Are you kidding?” “No.” Quinn stared at the tile near his feet, his mind thousands of miles

  away to the west. “Quinn?” Nate asked. “Still there?” “I’ll... call you back.” Quinn disconnected the call. For the next ten minutes, he didn’t move.

  CHAPTER

  SAN FRANCISCO BAY ROSE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE

  plane. For a moment, it seemed as if they were going to land on the water. Then all at once there was runway beneath them.

  After the phone call with Nate, Quinn forgot about his planned return to Los Angeles. Orlando had lost her aunt. With the exception of her son Garrett, her aunt had been the only close member of her family left. Quinn needed to be there for her.

  It wasn’t until he and Tasha were in the air heading west that he remembered there was someone else he could pay a visit to while he was in town. Jorge Albina, the son of a bitch who hired him to get rid of Markoff ’s body, was based out of San Francisco.

  At the airport, Quinn rented a sedan, and soon he and Tasha were driving north into the city.

  “After we check into the hotel, maybe you can get a little rest,” he said.

  “Sure,” she replied, sounding like she needed it.

  Using one of his aliases, Quinn had reserved two adjoining rooms at the Marriott on Fourth Street before they left D.C. Quinn had stayed there before, and knew the hotel was always packed with guests attending conferences and conventions at the nearby Moscone Center.

  It was the perfect blend of comfort and size, providing them whatever they might need, including anonymity.

  When they pulled up out front, he told the valet to keep the car close as he would be leaving soon.

  Tasha shot him a questioning look.

  “I have something to do,” he told her. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes. He smiled and put a reassuring hand on her arm. “You’ll be fine. No one knows you’re here.”

  “I don’t want to be alone. Maybe I should go with you.”

  “You won’t be alone. Someone will be in my room next door.”

  She pulled away. “Who?”

  “A friend.”

  She looked at him, obviously not pleased. But she said, “Okay. I trust you.”

  Once inside, they bypassed the reception desk and made their way directly to the elevators. There were two choices: High Rise or Mid Rise.

  Quinn pulled out his phone and punched in a speed-dial number.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  “Rooms twenty-seven-forty-six and -forty-seven,” Nate said.

  It didn’t take Tasha long to fall asleep. Quinn had introduced her to Nate, then showed her that their rooms were connected on the inside. He could tell she still wasn’t happy with the situation, but she didn’t say anything more.

  Once Quinn was sure she was out, he closed the door between the rooms so she’d have some privacy.

  “Suit?” he asked Nate.

  “In the closet.”

  Quinn found a garment bag hanging inside. He removed a black suit and started to change.

  “Protection?” Quinn as
ked.

  “One for each of us. In there,” Nate said, nodding toward the suitcase at the end of one of the beds.

  Inside would be a replacement for the SIG Quinn had had to leave in D.C. and a Glock for his apprentice.

  “Do you want it?” Nate asked.

  Quinn thought for a second, then shook his head. Though Orlando probably wouldn’t be upset if he was armed, it seemed wrong to go to her aunt’s funeral with a gun. “When I get back. I should be all right for now.”

  “I feel bad that I can’t go,” Nate said.

  Quinn gave him a half smile. “She’ll understand.”

  “You’ll tell her I’m sorry, right?”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  They fell into silence as Quinn continued dressing.

  As he was tying his tie, Nate looked toward the adjacent room. “What if your friend wakes up?”

  “Get her something to eat. Let her watch TV. But don’t let her leave.”

  Nate nodded, then as Quinn headed to the door he said, “Don’t forget to tell Orlando.”

  “I won’t.”

  Orlando’s Aunt Jeong had lived in one of those Edwardian shotgun houses built not long after the famous 1906 San Francisco earthquake. A two-story with a basement. But unlike most of the other homes in the neighborhood, the building had not been subdivided into separate upstairs and downstairs apartments. Somehow Aunt Jeong had resisted the urge to mutilate her home for the quick cash.

  It was the second time in the last five years Quinn had been to her house, and neither time had been a happy one. In fact, his previous visit had marked the beginning of a four-year stretch during which he and Orlando had lost contact with each other.

  “Lost” wasn’t the right word, Quinn knew. More like “broke off.” But he preferred “lost”; it smoothed over the pain. That first time had been after a job he and Durrie had been on. But instead of bringing Durrie to her alive, Quinn had brought her an urn filled with ashes they both thought belonged to her boyfriend. That later it turned out not to be true didn’t change the fact it had been the worst day of Quinn’s life. And, he guessed, of Orlando’s, too.