“I work for MI6,” she blurted out.
Quinn looked at Nate, and Nate nodded.
“Wright Bains is an MI6 front,” Nate said. “Our contact didn’t even need to check. Knew it the moment I said the name.”
That was why the name had been familiar.
“So you’re MI6,” Quinn said.
“I’m a researcher. Strictly office work.”
“Then, what are you doing in New York?”
“We have meetings here sometimes. That’s all.”
“I’m confused. Why were you in the lobby looking for me?”
“No one else was available. I was here, so they used me.”
“Does that happen often?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
Quinn took a deep breath. He was having a hard time believing her story, but had no time to press her. He needed to warn Wills off and move the meeting someplace else.
“Secure her,” he said to Nate.
“What are you going to do?” Annabel asked.
“We’re going to leave you here,” Quinn said.
Nate emptied one of the pillowcases, then used his pocketknife to cut it into long strips like Quinn had taught him.
“Tie her to the desk,” Quinn said.
“What?” Annabel asked.
“We can’t have you leaving at the moment,” Quinn said. “It’s either that or knock you out.”
It took her only a second to make her choice. She moved over to where Nate was waiting and sat on the ground. He tied her hands and feet to the desk. It left her in an awkward position, but she’d be fine for an hour or two.
“Mouth?” Nate asked.
“Yes,” Quinn said. “But not too tight.”
Annabel glared at Nate, but said nothing as he used two of the strips as a gag. While this was going on, Quinn removed the image of the unidentified man from the folder and snapped a photo of it on his camera phone, then put it back with the other two. He emailed the photo to Orlando with a short message: Need ID.
“All right, Annabel,” Quinn said. “In a while I’ll call the front desk and have them send someone up to release you. Until then, it would be best if you just relax. Understand?”
She nodded.
Quinn stood up and grabbed the folder with the pictures off the dresser. “Next time someone asks you to do an errand like this, I’d advise you to say no.”
“WHERE ARE YOU?” QUINN ASKED, HIS PHONE tight to his ear.
He and Nate were on Lexington Avenue walking toward the side entrance to Grand Central Terminal.
“Still in the cab,” Wills said. “The traffic is miserable, but I should be there in ten minutes.”
“No,” Quinn said. “The Hyatt is off.”
“Problem?”
Quinn gave him the short version of what happened.
“Give me the phone number she was supposed to call,” Wills said. “I’ll have someone check it out.”
Quinn pulled out the hair clip, read the number to him, then said, “If he hasn’t left already, get your man out of there.”
“Right.” Wills paused. “I still want to meet.”
“Give me an hour. I’ll call back with a new location.” Quinn hung up.
“I think we’re clean so far,” Nate told him. He’d been keeping tabs to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Stay on the street or take the subway?”
“Subway,” Quinn said. If they had picked up a tail, whomever it was would be easier to spot below ground than above.
Once inside they made their way through the labyrinth of Grand Central Terminal to the subway, then chose the uptown 4 train. As they stepped onto the platform, a train was just pulling in.
Nate raised an eyebrow, asking whether they should take it or wait for the next.
“This one,” Quinn said. “We’ll go two stops and get off.”
They spent the next forty minutes hopping trains, changing lines, and checking their back trail to make sure they were alone. When Quinn was satisfied, they resurfaced at 110th Street and began walking west.
At Columbus they turned south, walked on for a block, then stopped. Quinn scanned the neighborhood. This will work, he thought. There was little chance anyone would look for them in this part of town.
He pulled out his phone and called the Grand Hyatt first.
“Grand Hyatt Hotel, how may I direct your call?”
“I’m in 2465, and there’s a terrible smell coming from next door, room 2467. Can you send someone up to check it out?”
“Absolutely, sir. We’ll get someone up there right away.”
Quinn clicked off, then called Wills. “There’s a restaurant on Columbus,” he said, randomly choosing a place on the opposite side of the street. “It’s called Crêpes on Columbus, just south of 109th. Be there in thirty minutes.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
• • •
As Quinn and Nate entered the restaurant, a tall man with dark hair lightly sprinkled with gray greeted them with a warm welcome and a large smile.
“Just the two of you?” he asked.
“Three,” Quinn said. “A friend will be here in a bit.”
The man started to lead them toward a table near the front, but Quinn stopped him.
“How about that one,” he said, pointing at one near the rear wall.
“Sure,” the man said. “Wherever you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
The man showed Quinn and Nate to the table, then handed them menus. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”
“Water,” Quinn said.
“Me too,” Nate said.
“You got it,” the man said. “My name’s Steve. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said.
Twenty minutes later, as Quinn was working his way through a tiger shrimp and spinach crêpe, the restaurant door opened.
“Is it him?” Nate asked, his eyes on his own plate.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
Quinn had met David Wills in person twice in the past, once in London for a meet-and-greet five months earlier, and a second time in Chicago on a brief for another project. The Englishman was almost six feet tall and thin. His hair was a short but shaggy, fifty-fifty mix of gray and dark blond. Like on the two previous occasions, Wills was wearing his uniform—a dark suit, colored shirt, and expensive tie.
The Englishman scanned the dining area, then raised his hand a few inches when he saw Quinn.
“Welcome,” Steve said from behind the counter. “I’ll be right with you.”
“He’s with us,” Quinn said.
“Great,” Steve said. “I’ll bring over a menu in a moment.”
Wills walked over and sat down across from Quinn, in the chair next to Nate.
“Nothing like a little excitement to get the day going, is there?” he said.
“I prefer dull,” Quinn said.
Wills looked at Nate.
“My colleague,” Quinn said.
“I assumed as much. Does he have a name?”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
When Quinn offered no more, Wills frowned, but said, “The number you gave me went straight to voicemail. A beep and that was it.”
“Could you trace it?”
“Still working on that,” Wills said. “But I was able to confirm that a woman by the name of Annabel Taplin, fitting the description you gave me, does indeed work for Wright Bains.”
“And therefore MI6,” Quinn said.
“That would be the assumption.”
Quinn reached for the folder he’d taken from Annabel so he could show Wills the picture of the third man, but stopped as Steve approached the table and started to put a menu in front of Quinn’s client.
Wills waved him off and pointed at Nate’s plate. “I’ll just have what he’s having.”
“You got it.”
After they were alone again, Quinn pulled the picture out. “Do you know who this is?”
“No. Should I?” the Englishman asked. The look on his face seemed to back up his words.
“It was in Ms. Taplin’s briefcase along with pictures of you and me. She was told he might be joining us for our meeting.”
Wills’s brow furrowed. “Joining us? I have no idea who he is. Do you?”
“No.”
“Give it to me. I’ll check it out.”
Quinn handed him the printed photo. “Do you at least know why MI6 would be interested in our meeting?”
Wills hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m dealing with that. Don’t concern yourself.”
“I wouldn’t be concerning myself if I hadn’t had to get involved,” Quinn said.
“It was a miscommunication. They won’t be bothering us anymore.”
“A miscommunication?”
Wills frowned. “I won’t go into it more than that.”
“All right. Fine,” Quinn said, sitting back.
“Tell me again about Maine,” Wills said.
Quinn gave him the same story he had on the phone. He paused for a moment when he was done, then said, “Anything new about the shooter from your end?”
“Nothing.”
A possibility had been floating around Quinn’s mind since the drive to New York. “Any chance it might have been a member of the ops team?”
“The team was cleared personally by me.”
“I did see Mercer there toward the end, though. He was out of position.”
Wills looked uncomfortable, but said, “Mercer’s clean, too. He’s working for me directly.”
“Directly?”
“My eyes on the ground. He did the same in Los Angeles.”
“I never saw him there,” Quinn said. Of course, he hadn’t seen anyone on the L.A. ops team.
“The Russian woman,” Wills said, changing the subject, “you’re sure she was in both L.A. and Maine?”
“One hundred percent.”
The look in Wills’s eyes became guarded.
Quinn asked, “She’s been seen before, hasn’t she?”
Wills reluctantly nodded. “In the vicinity of liquidations in Hong Kong and Bangkok.”
“All part of this same project?”
“Yes.”
“Damn,” Nate said. “How long is your list?”
Quinn looked at his apprentice, surprised. He’d been thinking the same thing, but knew to keep his mouth shut. Still …
“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “None of our business.”
“That’s right,” Wills said. “It’s not.”
The silence lasted only a second before Quinn decided it was time to push. “I’m not so sure it’s not becoming our business,” he said. He could feel the other two look at him. “You obviously came here for a reason. We could have just talked on the phone.”
Wills looked toward the kitchen as if wondering where his food was. When he looked back, he said, “I wanted to speak with you about Maine because you were an independent observer last night. I wanted to be sure the story Donovan told me was completely accurate. You blow a mission, you really want to play that down. And then there’s L.A. You were there for both. So I felt a face-to-face would be best.”
“And?” Quinn said, knowing there was more.
Wills looked around the restaurant. “You’re sure this place is clean?”
“I haven’t done a sweep,” Quinn said. “But I never knew it existed until I spotted it less than an hour ago, and I know we weren’t followed. If someone’s listening in, it’s because they followed you.”
Wills looked around the dining room again, then glanced at Nate.
“What?” Nate asked.
“Don’t insult us,” Quinn said to Wills, knowing full well what the man was thinking.
Before the Englishman could respond, Steve arrived with his meal.
“Here you go,” he said as he set the plate in front of Wills. “Roasted chicken crêpe with mango red pepper sauce.”
“Thank you,” Wills said.
“Anything else, gentlemen?”
Quinn shook his head. “Think we’re all good. Thanks.”
“Just give me a yell if you want anything.” He headed back to the counter.
“So what’s it going to be?” Quinn asked. “You going to trust us? Or do we walk?”
Wills looked at his plate and said nothing.
“Let’s go,” Quinn said to Nate. They both started to rise.
“Wait,” Wills said. “I trust you. It’s not that. It’s … it’s the terms of the job.”
Quinn scowled. “Fine. Nate, find another table.”
Nate paused, a fork full of crêpe halfway to his mouth. “Sure,” he said. He picked up his plate and headed toward a table near the front of the restaurant.
“Better?” Quinn said.
Wills relaxed. “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry I had to do that, but … well, you understand.”
After several seconds of awkward silence, Wills went on, “The project I hired you for came through a small group at MI6.”
“Wait,” Quinn said. “If you were working for MI6, why would they send someone to spy on our meeting?”
“First, like I said before, it was a miscommunication. My people in London have already straightened it out. Second, the job’s not for MI6. Occasionally there are projects that come to them from someone outside the organization that would be problematic if they got involved. When that happens, one of the people they like to call is me. MI6 makes the introduction, then steps back into the shadows.”
Quinn nodded. It was a standard tactic. “Then, who’s your client?”
Wills paused for a half second, then said, “They’re not a big player in our world. Actually, I’ve never had dealings with them before, so as far as I’m concerned, they are not a player at all.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Remember, though they would deny it, this is MI6 approved.”
“So who is this client?” Quinn asked, knowing he was crossing way over the line with the question.
“A corporation, actually. My understanding is that they help out MI6 every now and again.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the best you’re going to get.”
Quinn shrugged. It had been worth a try. “What exactly is the gig, then?”
“This corporation deals with several classified technologies that the government deems necessary to keep both secret and under British control. I’ve been told a lot of money has been spent to ensure this. Unfortunately, two months ago, someone with access downloaded some extremely sensitive blueprints and technical specs to several flash memory cards. By the time alarms went off, the person had disappeared.”
“What kind of information?” Quinn asked.
“The kind of information North Korea would want to buy.”
What North Korea needed was food and help for its people. But what it wanted was weapons and power to annoy the West.
“Nuclear,” Quinn said. It was the only real answer.
Wills nodded. “It was the design for a bomb. Portable. Lightweight. Easy to produce even with Pyongyang’s limited resources. They would have paid millions for the information.”
“Would have?” Nate said. “They didn’t get the cards?”
“No. That’s what we’ve been doing.” Wills checked again to make sure no one was near. On the table in front of him, his untouched crêpe was growing cold. “The head of security—”
“Does he have a name?” Quinn asked.
Wills thought for a moment. “Call him Mr. B.”
“I assume there’s a Mr. A.”
“There is.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Just wondering.”
“Mr. B knew that finding the cards might involve methods his corporation was not capable of performing.”
“Why not?”
“They are a publicly traded organization. Shareholders frown on wet work. Mr. B talked to one of the company�
��s contacts at MI6. The contact was concerned, but also smart enough to realize that knowledge of the leak needed to be kept to a small circle of people. That meant mounting an operation outside normal governmental channels.”
“You.”
“Yes, me,” Wills said. “We were told that this was to be a terminate operation from the start, and that all members of the thief’s network needed to be eliminated to prevent the potential release of the information. There was no telling which of them had copies. Our job was to isolate and eliminate. MI6 would then go in, do a search, and recover the cards and any copies that might have been made.”
“You weren’t doing the search?” Quinn asked.
“We were hired to question each target, and only search their person before removing them. MI6 would do the rest.”
It wasn’t a particularly unusual arrangement. A private group does the dirty work so that another agency can keep its hands clean. Quinn had been on similar projects in the past. The only unusual aspect was the involvement of a third organization, this corporation whose information had been stolen. Still, Quinn couldn’t help thinking that the story was almost too pat. The feeling wasn’t a strong one, just something that tickled at the back of his mind.
“Then who are these Russians?” he asked.
“We think they’re part of a Georgian group fighting to rejoin Russia. In other words, terrorists who want to get their hands on a bomb. The big problem now is that they’ve been able to take one of the targets before we could get to them. If he had one of the disks on him, the information could be anywhere by now.”
“I can’t imagine MI6 is happy about that.”
Wills paused. “MI6 doesn’t know yet.”
“You haven’t told them?”
Wills shook his head.
“Could they suspect something went wrong? Maybe that’s why they sent the watcher.”
“I told you, it was a miscommunication.” Wills’s tone was less convincing than his words.
“So what are you doing about Moody?” Quinn asked.
“I have a team trying to track the Russians down. Find them and we find Moody.”
“Donovan?”
“No. Donovan and his team have split and gone to ground. I haven’t talked to him since thirty minutes after the operation. If Moody’s found, the new team will take care of him.”
The Silenced Page 10
