[Quinn 02] - The Deceived Read online

  Orlando was sitting at the desk, her computer open in front of her. She was alone. Nate was undoubtedly still asleep in his room.

  Quinn walked over to her. “Okay,” he said. “Show me.”

  She turned the laptop and tilted the screen so he could see it. She had the browser open to a newspaper article from the Washington Post.

  FORMER CIA OFFICIAL IN CRITICAL CONDITION

  Fredericksburg, Virginia—Derek Blackmoore was found unconscious in the entryway of his home outside Fredericksburg, Virginia, yesterday afternoon. Mr. Blackmoore, a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, had suffered multiple bruises and fractures when a neighbor discovered him.

  “He was beaten severely,” Detective Scott Geist said. “It appears that he was probably left to die. Mr. Blackmoore was lucky someone found him when they did. He’s in bad shape, but he’s alive.”

  When asked what might have motivated the attack, Geist said, “We’re operating under the theory that it was a robbery at this point, but we’re not ruling anything out.”

  The article went on to describe the scene in a little more detail. There

  were no witnesses, and no one heard anything.

  “Is this the latest?” Quinn said.

  “It’s the latest online,” Orlando told him. “But I made a few calls. He’s still alive, but that’s it. No one’s willing to make a guess if he’ll survive or not. I also found out it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken from the house.”

  “Robbers wouldn’t have beat him like that anyway,” Quinn said. “Killed him, or knocked him out. This was torture.”

  She looked up at him. “Do you think it was the same people who are after Jenny?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said.

  There was another question she didn’t ask, but Quinn knew all too well. Had he been the one to lead them to Blackmoore?

  Orlando was obviously reading his thoughts. “They could have come at him from all sorts of different ways. You weren’t the only one who knew Blackmoore’s connection to Markoff. He’d be a logical place for anyone to go.”

  “Yeah,” Quinn said. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

  “Something else,” she said. “What?” “LP.” “You know what it is?” “I know it has a few people scared. Nobody on our level knew

  what I was talking about. But a few higher up did. They didn’t come

  out and say it, but I could tell.” “Did they give you anything?” She shook her head. “No. But I was thinking. If these people

  know, maybe Peter does, too.” Quinn thought for a moment. “He might not tell me anything either.” “Could be worth a try, though,” she said. “He’s probably still at work.”

  Quinn looked at his watch: 8:35 a.m. The twelve-hour difference meant it was 8:35 p.m. the previous evening back in New York. From Quinn’s experience, Peter seldom went home before 10.

  “I’m not renegotiating our deal,” Peter said, once he knew it was Quinn on the line. “I’m not calling to renegotiate,” Quinn told him. “I have a ques

  tion.” “Okay, so ask.” “Peter, have you ever heard the initials LP?” Silence. “Do you know what LP might mean?” Quinn asked. “Where did you hear that?” Peter’s words were measured and low. “In a message. But I don’t know what it means.” “You don’t need to know—” “I do,” Quinn said. “If you can—” “No,” Peter barked. “Let it go.” “I can’t. It’s important.” “I’ll call you back.” “Peter, I need—”

  “Five minutes.” The phone went dead. “What’s wrong?” Orlando asked. “He knows something, but he didn’t want to tell me.” “So he hung up?” Quinn frowned. “Said he would call me back in five minutes.” They looked at each other, neither voicing what they both knew

  that meant. Instead, they remained silent, waiting as the seconds

  ticked slowly off the clock. It was almost five minutes exactly when the phone rang again. Quinn answered immediately. “Yes?” “Where did you hear that?” Peter asked. The sound over the phone line had changed. Not Peter’s voice so

  much as the ambient sound around him. Before it was hushed, like he was in a box. But now Quinn could hear other sounds in the distance. It confirmed what he and Orlando already knew. Peter had left his office and was probably using his personal secured cell phone for the call.

  “I told you, it was in a message,” Quinn said. “What message?” “Is that really important?” “Jesus, Quinn. Just tell me how the hell you heard about LP.” Quinn hesitated, then said, “Markoff.” “Markoff?” Peter paused. “CIA Markoff?” “Yes.” “Why the hell would he mention LP?” Peter asked. “He’s out of

  the game, isn’t he?” “He’s dead.” That stopped Peter. “I think this LP, whatever it is, had something to do with it,”

  Quinn said. “So what if they did?” “It’s important to me.” Peter said nothing for a moment, then, “Why?” “Because Markoff was a friend of mine. Because I think they may have been the ones who killed him. Because if they are, then they’re the ones trying to kill his girlfriend right now. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “You don’t want to go up against these guys.”

  “Who are they?”

  Again silence.

  “The straight answer is I don’t know exactly,” Peter finally said. “Let’s just say they want things to run their way. And the way they try to do it is from within.”

  “What do you mean? Try to run what?”

  “Ultimately? Everything.”

  “So they’re some kind of organization?” Quinn asked.

  “I guess you could call them that.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “That’s what no one knows. There’s no working list of probable members. They could be anybody.”

  “What does it mean? LP?”

  “All we know is they go by LP,” Peter said. “What it means...who knows? It probably isn’t important anyway.”

  Quinn thought for a moment. “Why did you leave your office to call me back? You think you’ve been infiltrated?”

  He could sense Peter’s hesitation. “I don’t think so,” the head of the Office said. “But no reason to take a chance. Look, Quinn. I’ve told you more than I probably should have. All I’ll say is, if you think LP is involved, it’s best if you leave it alone. Trust me on this.”

  Quinn started to ask another question, but Peter was no longer there.

  Orlando was looking at him as he set the phone down. “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He’s almost as scared as Blackmoore,” he said. He then repeated what Peter had told him.

  “He could have been a little more helpful,” Orlando said.

  “No kidding,” Quinn agreed. “It’s not much. In fact, he was basically telling me to just let it go.”

  “Do you want to let it go?”

  Quinn frowned at her. “Since when do I let anything Peter tells me scare me off?”

  Though Singapore was a place in a constant state of renewal, it had changed little in the eighteen months since Quinn’s previous visit. That time, the job he had been hired for had turned into nothing, a situation that occurred about thirty percent of the time. He’d be moved into place before a particular action was to occur, then, if things went wrong, he jumped in to clean up the mess. Sometimes, though, things went right, and he’d get an all-expenses-paid trip plus his fee deposited into his account for what amounted to hanging around.

  On his last trip to the island, he’d spent more time at the Kinokuniya Bookstore on Orchard Road than he had discussing the job with his client. And in the end, he was told, “Thank you very much. We’ll call you when we have something else.” Though there was something to be said about making money for doing nothing, Quinn preferred to be in action. It’s what he’d been trained for, after all. He hated getting mentally prepped to do something that didn’t materialize.

  Of course, everything was an opportunity, and while he might have spent a lot of t
ime perusing the shelves at Kinokuniya, he’d also spent time deepening his knowledge of the island and strengthening his relationships with some of the local talent he had gotten to know over the years. You never knew when something like that would pay off.

  Like that morning.

  Quinn and Nate took a cab from the hotel to the west end of Orchard Road, getting out in front of the OG Orchard Point department store.

  Orchard Road was the Champs-Élysées of Singapore. On this street, shopping was the main religion. Department stores, malls, small shops, fancy restaurants, fast food. It all blended together on Orchard. You could find places that catered to the Rodeo Drive mindset across the street from tiny bargain shops that appeased the thriftier customer.

  “That way,” Quinn said to Nate, pointing to his right across a small side street at the Orchard Point shopping complex.

  It was a multilevel shopping center, with many stores advertising discounts and bargains. At street level, small shops opened directly onto the sidewalk. There were tailors and luggage stores and camera shops and shoe stores. And while prices might not always be negotiable, they weren’t out of sight, either. Often the owner or one of the employees stood outside the shop, beckoning potential customers to come in.

  Quinn led Nate to a wide set of stairs near the center of the mall, then headed up to the second level. By American standards, the hallways were narrow for a shopping center, maybe five or six people wide. Both sides were lined with stores similar to those outside.

  Near where the hall reached the end of the building and made a ninety-degree turn to the right, Quinn found a dress shop. A sign above the entrance identified it as “Ne Win’s Fine Dresses.”

  The shop itself was only about twenty feet deep and about the same wide. Racks had been mounted to the walls on both the right and left, double high like clothing bunk beds. There was also a mannequin near the front entrance wearing a beautiful red silk gown.

  Before entering, Quinn told Nate, “Wait here.”

  “You looking for something to wear?” Nate said.

  Quinn didn’t even honor the comment with a dirty look. Instead, he stepped into the store.

  Two well-dressed women in their early twenties were talking to an older man, the owner of the shop. One of the girls looked full Chinese, while the other was definitely a blend. Quinn moved over to the side, pretending to look at some of the clothes on the racks.

  “And it will be ready by Thursday?” the second girl asked, her accent a mix of British, Australian, and Chinese.

  “Of course. No problem,” the man said. His own accent was more pronounced. English was not the language he’d grown up learning.

  “And you won’t charge her any extra, right?” the second girl said. “Not like last time.”

  The old man smiled, but Quinn could tell he was holding back. “Of course not. No reason.”

  The girls looked at each other, happy. The first girl nodded, then said, “All right. We’ll be back on Thursday.”

  As they turned to leave, they noticed Nate standing near the entrance of the shop. Each girl gave him a coy smile, the girl who was full Chinese looking away first while her friend’s eyes lingered on Nate a moment longer. From Quinn’s angle, it looked like his apprentice’s eyes were lingering a bit too long, too.

  “Excuse us,” the girl said unnecessarily as she passed Nate.

  Quinn smirked to himself, then approached the shop owner. The old man hadn’t moved. The same forced smile he’d given the girls while they were in the shop remained on his face as he watched them walk away.

  In a quiet, friendly voice, he said toward their receding forms, “Go fuck yourself, ladies. See you Thursday.” After a moment, he dropped the smile and looked at Quinn. “Goddamn SPGs,” he said, then headed toward the back of the store.

  Quinn couldn’t help but smile. SPG, Sarong Party Girl. It referred to that group of young Singaporean women who went out dancing and clubbing, all the time on the lookout for Caucasian husbands. The shop owner had used the term like he was a hip local kid and not the Burmese refugee he really was.

  The old man, Ne Win, had escaped his homeland in 1989 when he was suspected of organizing several pro-democracy demonstrations. He once told Quinn if he’d stayed, he’d be nearly twenty years dead by now. That was where he was lucky, he had said. Where he was cursed was with his name.

  There was a much more infamous Ne Win, the general who had led the military coup that had taken over Burma in 1962. He was the dictator who had ruled the country for decades, and whose presence was still felt years after his death.

  Quinn had known the shop owner Ne Win for a while. It had been Markoff who had introduced them. It had been about five years earlier, during a summit of Asian financial leaders. The connection was one of the reasons Quinn was paying him a visit that morning.

  “You hear her tell me not to charge her more?” Ne Win asked.

  There was a gray metal cooler against the back wall. The old man opened it and removed two cans of Tiger beer. He tossed one to Quinn.

  “Last time her friend order a dress, she come in after I’m almost done, have me change everything. Not my fault. I do exactly what she wants. So she change, I charge her. She mad, but so what? Not mad enough she not come back, eh?”

  They opened their beers and knocked them together in a silent toast.

  “You want good work, you have to pay for it,” Quinn said, then took a drink.

  “Damn straight,” Ne Win said.

  Quinn laughed. That was a phrase Quinn had taught him.

  Ne Win lifted his can to his lips and took a deep drink. “Your friend want a beer?” he said, nodding his chin toward Nate.

  “He’s fine,” Quinn said.

  “Maybe I have seamstress make the dress a centimeter or two too small. Tell her she must have put on weight since I measure her.”

  “You’d do that, wouldn’t you?” Quinn asked.

  “Hell, yes. Done before. Very funny.”

  They both took another sip of their beers.

  “How’s business?” Quinn asked.

  Ne Win shrugged. “Everyone always wants dress. Just some don’t want to pay big store price, huh? My dresses better anyway.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Who you hear that from?”

  “Well... actually I heard that from you.”

  Ne Win huffed a mock laugh, then brought the can back to his mouth.

  “I’m in need of a few items,” Quinn said.

  Ne Win continued to hold the beer to his lips, allowing the amber liquid to trickle into his mouth, his expression unchanged. Except for his eyes. They seemed to take in the whole room before focusing on Quinn. The old man lowered the beer, then shook his head once in each direction, the movement all but unnoticeable.

  “I don’t make men’s shirts anymore,” Ne Win said, his voice the

  same as it had been before. “I have friend, though. Very good.” “That would be great,” Quinn replied. “Is he here in the building?” “No. No. Down the street.” Ne Win set his can on top of the

  cooler and turned to Quinn. “I show you, okay?” “What about the shop?” “My daughter watch. She work next door.”

  Ne Win was silent until they were on the sidewalk walking west along Orchard Road. “Everywhere someone listening, you know?” Ne Win said, voice

  low. “Never know when someone put bug in my shop.” “You don’t do a sweep?” Nate asked. Ne Win narrowed his eyes, giving Nate the up-and-down. “Stupid

  question.” “This is Nate,” Quinn said. “He’s my apprentice.” “Ah, explains it. Well, Mr. Apprentice. Do I check for bugs? Of

  course. Do you think I’m stupid? Every morning. Every night. I still

  find them. Couple times a week.” “Who’s putting them there? The police?” Nate asked. Ne Win blew out a loud, dismissive breath. “Police don’t touch me.” Nate looked confused. “Competition. Young guys, you know. Work out of Geylang.


  Want to find out who my clients are.” “Why don’t you just stop them?” Nate asked. “That’s enough questions,” Quinn said. The old man smiled. “Someday when I’m bored, I take care of it.” It never mattered what day it was, as long as the shops were open,

  Orchard was crowded. Like a lot of Singapore, it was a mixed crowd— Chinese, Caucasian, Malay, Indian, and all combinations in between. And those were just the residents. There were tourists also— Europeans, Japanese, Australians, and a few Americans—all enjoying a little bit of Asia lite.

  They passed two women pushing baby carriages, then stopped at a corner to wait for the streetlight to change.

  “The usual?” Ne Win asked. “To start,” Quinn said, knowing the old man knew about his preference in firearms. “Something for him, then?” Ne Win’s gaze flicked toward Nate. “You sure you can trust him with weapon?”

  Quinn smiled. “He’s all right,” he said. “There’s a few other things I’ll need.” He pulled a list out of his pocket and handed it to the old man.

  Ne Win looked it over, then nodded. “Easy, easy.” The light turned green and they began to cross. “There’s something else,” Quinn said, getting to the other reason

  for his visit. Quinn’s supplier tensed. It was subtle, but Quinn had seen it. “What is it?” Ne Win said. “I’m looking for someone.” “Good luck. Singapore big city.” Quinn paused. “Someone you know.” “I know lots of people.” Quinn looked over at the old man. “It’s Steven Markoff.” Ne Win smiled at a passing woman, but said nothing. “Have you seen him?” The old man took a deep breath, then said, “He not here. Was, but

  not now.” “When was this?” They reached the curb and stepped up onto the sidewalk. “Don’t re

  member. One week, two weeks, a month? Don’t know where he is now.” “He’s dead.” Ne Win reacted a moment too late. “Dead?” “You knew that, didn’t you?” Quinn said. Ne Win looked at Quinn. He didn’t appear to be scared, just annoyed.

  From behind Quinn, there was the sound of footsteps approaching. “We’ve got company,” Nate said. The footsteps stopped only a few feet away. But Quinn didn’t

  turn. Instead, he kept his focus on the old man. “Tell them everything is okay,” Quinn said, his eyes still on the old man.