[Quinn 02] - The Deceived Page 19

  “I don’t know about want, but he was giving you the option.”

  “So the fact that the Riegle 3’s last port of call was Singapore means nothing?”

  “I never said that.”

  Quinn tried to read Albina’s face. “You tell me that your client had nothing to do with Markoff ’s death. That the container was flown in. That Singapore is actually still in play. But you won’t tell me who your client is?”

  Albina finished a sip of his coffee, then set his cup down on the table. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “We need to get out of town tonight,” Quinn said.

  He and Nate had just arrived back at Aunt Jay’s house. Orlando was hunched over the computer in the same position she’d been in when they’d left.

  “I’m way ahead of you,” she said. “You’ve already got the tickets?” “Done,” she said. “But I haven’t told you where.” “I’m not that stupid.” “How many?” Orlando looked at Nate, then back at Quinn. “Three,” she said as if

  it was obvious. “You don’t have to come with us.” “Shut up.” “I’m serious,” he said. “So am I.” She looked back down at the computer, discussion

  closed. Quinn poured himself a glass of cold water and took a drink. “We

  shouldn’t leave from San Francisco,” he said. “We’re not.” “Or Oakland.” “We’re not.” “Okay, then,” he said. He looked over at Nate, who was standing

  near the kitchen entrance. “Let’s get packed.” “So,” Nate said, his brow furrowed, “where exactly are we going?”

  CHAPTER

  IT WAS RAINING WHEN THEY ARRIVED IN SINGAPORE,

  the remnants of a storm whose main thrust had struck Indonesia to the south. Outside the window of the airplane, the tarmac was soaked and the day was gray, but Quinn knew in no time the clouds would move on, giving way to a blue tropical sky.

  Orlando had made the decision to break up the trip into legs, making it harder for them to be followed. It was a good strategy in principle but was hell in practice.

  They had flown out of Sacramento, taking Air Alaska to Vancouver, B.C., via Seattle. From there, it was Cathay Pacific to Hong Kong, Thai Air to Bangkok, and finally AirAsia to Singapore.

  The only good thing was Quinn was able to sleep through most of it. Flying first-class was a definite advantage for international travel.

  Singapore’s Changi Airport was one of Quinn’s favorite in the entire world. Clean, efficient, fast in, fast out. In no time, he, Orlando, and Nate had passed through passport control and customs.

  Bags in hand, Quinn led them through the green X—nothing to declare—exit, and over to the doors leading outside.

  The system for getting a cab at Changi was efficient to say the least.

  Just prior to the door leading outside, there was a series of ropes herding people into a line like they were waiting to get a ride at an amusement park. Even if there weren’t a lot of people trying to get a cab, skipping the ropes was not allowed. It was the system, and everyone was expected to follow it.

  They joined a line of several others.

  Outside was a row of parking spaces numbered one to ten. A man standing next to the door stopped everyone, then said something into a walkie-talkie.

  Almost instantly, ten taxis came zooming up the road, each parking in one of the numbered spots. Most were the sky blue Toyota Crowns operated by Comfort Cab, the sides of their cars turned into rolling billboards that pushed, among other things, cell phones and Tiger beer and Milo chocolate-milk mix.

  Once the cabs were all parked, the man with the walkie-talkie gave the go-ahead for the line of people to start moving. As each group passed, he counted them off.

  “One...two...three... four...five...six...seven... eight... nine... ten.”

  The numbers corresponded to which cab would be theirs.

  “Okay, that was just weird,” Nate said once they were seated in the back of their cab. They had been number eight.

  “Not weird,” Orlando said. “Practical.”

  Nate raised an eyebrow. “All right. Weirdly practical, then. Better?”

  She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  The cab took them along the tree-lined East Coast Parkway toward the city. The rain had let up, and, in the distance, Quinn could see blue sky peeking through the layer of gray. The island nation usually felt like an open-air sauna as far as Quinn was concerned. But the storm had temporarily cooled the otherwise constant hyper-humid 85-degree temperature to a more bearable level.

  Through the trees to the left, he caught glimpses of the Singapore Strait. At its narrowest, it was ten miles across to Indonesia. And yet, it was one of the most crowded waterways in the world. An unending fleet of cargo ships passed through it every day, heading west toward India or the distant Suez Canal and all ports European, or northeast to Japan or China or the Americas.

  It all made Singapore one of the busiest ports in the world, where cargo was loaded and unloaded at a breathtaking speed, much of the merchandise just passing through on its way to somewhere else. The island was a vital piece of the world economic machine, but seldom the destination in and of itself.

  As they neared Marina Bay, the Singapore skyline came into view. Though a constant work in progress, the high-rises lining the west side of the bay were still an impressive sight. Not just typical skyscrapers, either. The architecture in Singapore was more daring than you saw in most big cities. Asymmetrical designs Quinn had noticed in few other places, and curves and lines that made several of the buildings look more like art pieces than places of business—every building a monument, a showpiece, letting the world know Singapore was important.

  The cab continued around the bay and into the city proper. It wasn’t long before the driver turned off the highway, weaved through the traffic, and pulled up in front of the Pan Pacific Hotel.

  A doorman opened Quinn’s door the minute the cab came to a stop.

  “Welcome to the Pan Pacific Hotel,” the man said. “Checking in?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said.

  Orlando had arranged for them to stay in three adjacent rooms, but unlike the Marriott in San Francisco, there were no doors between each connecting them. Nate had a single room, while Quinn and Orlando had one-bedroom suites.

  “Thirty minutes,” Quinn told them. “Then meet back in my room.”

  Quinn took a quick shower and pulled on his clothes, finishing ten minutes early. Taking advantage of the time, he removed his computer from his bag, carried it to the desk in the living room, and turned it on.

  While it was booting up, he pulled out his cell phone. Though he never turned it off while he was flying, the phone did have a sleep mode that made it look to anyone checking like it had been shut down. He activated the display screen and was immediately greeted with a signal that he had a message.

  He accessed his voice mail and found there were actually three messages. An automated voice told him the first had come in ten hours earlier.

  “Jonathan, I made it to the house.” It was Tasha. “I thought I should let you know. Please don’t forget to call me...I mean...if you find her. I have to know she’s okay. Please.”

  He pushed 7 to erase the call, then went to the next message. It had come in six hours before.

  “I really would like to talk to you.” Tasha again. “I really think maybe I should come back. I know I can help you. I’m going to go crazy just sitting here. Can you call me?”

  He erased it. The last call had come through only two hours earlier.

  He was not surprised to find it was from Tasha again. “Why aren’t you calling me back? I need to talk to you. I know I can help you. Please, call me. Please.”

  After he erased the final message, he set the phone on the table, intending to turn his attention to his computer. But he paused, his hand hovering a few inches above the phone. He was going to have to call her back, if nothing else than to at least calm her down.

  Wait? Or call?

  �
�Dammit,” he said, then picked up the phone and dialed Tasha’s number.

  With the international dateline, it was still the previous night back in California. The phone rang four times, then mercifully went to voice mail.

  “Hi.” The voice was Tasha’s. “You’ve reached my cell. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “It’s Jonathan,” Quinn said, relieved he didn’t actually have to talk to her. “Nothing new on this end. But I’m still working on it. I’m glad you made it to the house. You’ll be safe there. I’ll call again within three days. But don’t worry. Just lay low.”

  He hung up and turned his attention back to the computer. Within thirty seconds, he was connected to the Internet.

  Before they left, Orlando had set the tracking software she was using to keep tabs on Jenny’s phone to run on automatic. It would then send periodic e-mails to both her and Quinn’s accounts detailing any activity. The first two messages were the same:

  Data check complete. No activity.

  The third, though, was different:

  Data check complete. Signal active: Kuala Lumpur, Sector 7. Signal Acquired: 23:59:49. Local. Signal Loss: 00:01:14. Local.

  Interesting, he thought. Jenny had turned her phone on the previous evening right at midnight. That corresponded to the same window of time she had had Quinn call her the night before.

  He used a bookmark in his web browser to bring up the Sandy Side Yacht Club message board.

  He perused the list of recent messages, concentrating on anything sent in the last thirty hours. The group was an active one, so even in that short span there were several hundred posts.

  Quinn paid attention only to the ID of each message. Forty-two messages in, he stopped. There was a message from Jenny.

  Just got back from Mexico. The Yucatán.

  We’d spend all day on the water. At night, one club after another. The music plus the girls—very cool. I’d call it one helluva vacation.

  As he started to work out the message, there was a knock at his door. “It’s Orlando,” a muffled voice called from the other side.

  Quinn got up and let her in. “Jenny went active again,” he said as he crossed back to his com

  puter. Orlando followed him. “Yeah. I got the e-mail, too.” Quinn sat, then turned his computer so she could see the screen.

  “You didn’t get this, though.” “What?” Orlando asked. “She sent a message on the group board.” Quinn sat back down in the chair, and Orlando leaned in. Mexico was the key word. Six letters, meaning only every sixth

  word after “Mexico” was relevant.

  day one plus call.

  Then the final piece of the code. Reverse the order. “Call plus one day,” he said. “So that’s why she went active last night,” she said. “Jenny thought

  we were going to call her again.”

  Quinn spent several minutes working out his reply. When he was done, he entered it on the website, and clicked the button to post it.

  Haven’t tried where you went yet. I’ve only been to Nicaragua, but your trip sounded great. Will spend time tonight on Internet checking it out. Have some vacation time next month but have no firm plans yet. Same old story, no time to plan anything!

  Yeah. Poor old me. HAHAHA.

  But sounds like you had a good time. Sailing, partying. What could be better? Sing me up!! Do you have recommendations for hotels in Cozumel? Also would be interested in other insights. Am always up for a good time.

  Thanks!

  “Sing me up?” Orlando asked “Typo,” Quinn said with a shrug. “Happens all the time.” “Weak.”

  The real message read:

  am in sing a poor same time tonight

  The cab from the Pan Pacific dropped Quinn and Nate on the north side of the Singapore River along Clarke Quay. Their destination was still another quarter mile up the river, but taking the sidewalk that lined the shore would be an easy and inconspicuous way to get there. Plenty of tourists used the walkway. Who would notice two more?

  Clarke Quay had once been the place merchants would bring their ships in and sell their goods directly to the shop-houses that lined the river. But that was another century, long removed from the present. Now business was conducted at the huge port a few miles away on ships that would fill the river side-to-side and then some. Ships that were stuffed with cargo emptied by giant cranes instead of the shop owners’ sons, and transported in quantities the merchants of the 1800s could never imagine.

  The shop-houses were rows of two-story buildings pressed up against each other, following the edge of the river. Shop on bottom, home on top. Many were gone now, lost in a wave of rejuvenation and renewal that seemed to be a constant state on the island. But several remained.

  No longer the businesses of old, though. They had been turned into clubs and restaurants, some even extending to the outside, providing dining on the wide path that had been built up many feet above the river water. These reclaimed buildings had been painted in bright colors—blue, pink, yellow, green, orange—as if the brightest would attract the most customers.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nate said.

  Quinn looked back, then followed his apprentice’s gaze toward one of the buildings. In bright orange letters above the entrance was a sign that read Hooters.

  “One of the great American exports,” Quinn said.

  Nate smiled. “Maybe we can stop in for a drink later.”

  “Not likely.”

  Precise, man-made walls of stone lined both sides of the Singapore River, guiding it in the direction man wanted it to go. The path along the top curved gently with the dictated contour of the waterway. It was kind of a metaphor for Singapore itself—clean, man-manipulated, and tightly controlled.

  As they moved west out of Clarke Quay and into Robertson Quay, the shops were replaced by apartments. Nice ones, Quinn noted. Not like some of the government flats they’d passed on their taxi ride into the city. Those had looked like they’d been stuffed full of people. He’d been in buildings like them before on one of his previous trips. Extended families crammed into two-room apartments sometimes not big enough for even one person.

  Quinn had also been in buildings like those they were walking by now. Large apartments. Two, maybe even three bedrooms, and none with the feeling that the walls were pushing in on you. Families lived here, too, but seldom more than parents and one or two children. And often they were occupied by only a single person. These were the flats favored by the large ex-pat community. Brits, Aussies, Japanese, Americans, Canadians.

  They were the people recruited by the large corporations to come and provide their expertise and to help spur on the continual Singaporean growth. Quinn had known people who’d lived in the area, but was unsure if they were here any longer.

  “We’re getting close, aren’t we?” Nate asked.

  Quinn nodded. “Just like we talked about.”

  “No problem.”

  The plan was to just do a walk-by, then circle around and return back to Clarke Quay.

  They passed a footbridge, its structural design again more than merely utilitarian. Large, curving pipes created the illusion of an oversized cage surrounding the bridge. It was painted in bright colors, like something out of a child’s imagination.

  But it wasn’t the bridge that caught Quinn’s attention. It was the building ahead and to his right.

  “There it is,” he said.

  He pulled a slender box out of his pocket. It looked liked a reduced version of a late-twentieth-century pager. It was a cell phone tracker. Orlando had programmed it earlier to home in on the module Markoff had been pointing them toward. The data on the display indicated they were getting very close.

  He slipped the device back in his pocket, then pulled out his phone and switched it to digital camera mode. “Let me take a picture of you.”

  Nate took several steps ahead. “Where do you want me?”

  “Lean against the railing. I want to get t
he river in the shot,” Quinn said in a normal tone, smiling like a good tourist. “It’ll be nice. You can show your girlfriend when we get home.”

  Nate moved into position. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect.” Quinn aimed in Nate’s general direction, cheating the lens to the right, and taking in the building that, until a few minutes before, had only been a blue dot on a computerized map.

  The structure appeared to be two separate buildings joined in the middle. The first two floors were common to both, but above the second floor, two towers—one at either end—rose up an additional nine floors. The towers didn’t take up the whole footprint of the second-floor roof, though. The remaining area appeared to be a large patio. Quinn could make out the tops of several umbrellas near the edge of the roof. Perhaps, Quinn guessed, there was even a pool.

  “Got it,” he said, lowering the camera.

  “You want me to take one of you?”

  “Maybe later.” Quinn pushed a few buttons on the touch screen, e-mailing the picture to Orlando. He traded the phone for the tracking device in his pocket, then pointed at a vehicle bridge that spanned the river just beyond the building. “Let’s stop at that bridge. We can head back then.”

  They began walking again. Quinn stayed on the river side so that Nate would be between him and the building. It would make it easier for him to look at the structure without being obvious.

  “After dinner, I want to go over the presentation again,” Quinn said, maintaining character. “I want to make sure we’ve got it down before tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nate said, falling into the act. “We’ll do fine.”

  “And the forecast numbers. We should call New York and make sure those haven’t changed.”

  “I’ll send an e-mail as soon as we’re back at the hotel.”

  “No,” Quinn said. “Call them.”

  “New York’s still sleeping,” Nate said. “You know that, right?”