“All right. That makes sense. Who is it?”
“Her name is Liz,” Quinn said. “She’s … my sister.”
Nate stared at Quinn, surprised.
“She’s studying at the Sorbonne,” Quinn explained. “We’re here because she might be in danger. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He paused. “But to do that, I need your help.”
Nate didn’t even hesitate. “Whatever you need, I’m there.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there anyone else you’re worried about?”
Quinn hesitated. Again, this was sacred ground. But he had no choice. “My mother. Orlando’s with her right now.”
“Whoa,” Nate said, shaking his head. It was a lot to take in. But like the professional he’d become, he seemed to quickly adjust and move on. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet. Liz and I, we aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”
“I sense a pattern. Does your mother hate you, too?”
Quinn shot him a withering look.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s complicated,” Quinn said. “And no, my mother doesn’t hate me.”
“Well, that’ll save you some therapy at least.… Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that either.”
In the distance, the old man who had been watching the birds started walking down the path toward their bench. His gait was slow, almost a shuffle.
“Does your sister know what you do?” Nate asked.
“Of course not,” Quinn said. “Wait. Does anyone in your past know what you do?”
“No.”
“I’m serious, Nate. Have you told anyone what you do? Have you even hinted about it?”
“No. No one.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And how did this suddenly become about me?”
Quinn leaned back, duly chastened. Nate was right. He’d momentarily channeled his anxiety into the possibility that his apprentice had screwed up.
“Liz thinks I’m in the international banking business. My mother thinks so, too.”
Nate had heard Quinn use the cover with other civilians in the past. “At least you can use that to explain why you’re in town.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said.
After a moment, Nate asked, “What’s Orlando setting up for your mom?”
Quinn explained the plan he and Orlando had worked out.
“When did you call your mom?”
“When we were waiting for the plane in Newark.”
“She go for it?” Nate asked.
“She didn’t say no. Secretly, I think she’s probably happy to have company. It’s been less than a month since she lost her husband.”
The old man had advanced down the path, but was still out of earshot. Quinn gave him a glance, then turned back to Nate.
“So what’s the plan?” Nate asked. “Are we just going to keep an eye on her?”
“I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“Do you know what Liz’s living situation is?” Nate asked.
Quinn nodded.
“Does she have any roommates?”
“No.”
“So only a one-bedroom apartment.”
“Yes.”
“I assume she has a couch,” Nate said.
“Of course she has a couch.”
“Then why can’t we do a variation on what Orlando’s doing with your mom? You introduce me as a friend who needs a place to stay for a little while. I can crash on her couch and watch the inside. You can get someone to help you watch the perimeter. Done and done.”
The old man moved into hearing range, so Quinn and Nate fell silent.
Quinn used the quiet to think Nate’s idea through. Would it work? It would depend on whether Liz would even talk to him or not. Their less-than-quality time at their father’s funeral tended to make him think the odds were against it. He tried to come up with another option, some other way of getting someone close to her for protection. But nothing came.
In front of them, the old man stopped on the path and stared in their direction.
“C’est mon banc,” the old man said.
“Pardon?” Nate asked.
“C’est mon banc. Vous devez bouger,” he said, waving his hands at them to get off the bench.
“Je suis désolé. Nous ne savions pas,” Nate apologized.
He and Quinn got up. Even before they started to walk away, the old man pushed past them and sat down.
“C’est mon banc,” he repeated.
“I guess he really likes that bench,” Nate said as he and Quinn walked toward the gate.
“He just wants to control his world,” Quinn said, painfully aware he was attempting to do the same thing.
“So what are we going to do?” Nate asked.
“Your idea is good. We’ll work with that.”
“Okay,” Nate said. “Then I guess there’s one more thing I need to know.”
“What’s that?” Quinn asked.
“What’s your real name?”
Quinn tensed. It was the final box that he’d left closed. The one he had thought he would never have to open.
“It’s Jake,” he said. “Jake Oliver.”
PETRA AND MIKHAIL ARRIVED IN LONDON AT 9:15 p.m. Once in the terminal, Mikhail located a pay phone and made a quick call.
“It’s all arranged,” he told Petra. “An apartment in Bayswater.”
“Good,” was all Petra could manage to say. She didn’t think she’d ever been as exhausted as she was at that moment.
They took the Underground into the city, and before they had even gone two stops, she was slumped in her seat, asleep. At Earl’s Court, Mikhail woke her so they could switch trains, and woke her again when they reached Bayswater.
“Let me take your bag,” he said.
She yanked it away from his hand. “I’m fine.”
Being Russian in London had its advantages. The city was teeming with their former countrymen. The Russian community was large, and very connected. The use of the apartment was courtesy of one of Mikhail’s distant cousins. It was in a tired-looking building on the second floor. A fine layer of dust covered the floors and the windowsills. With the exception of two thin mattresses, a couple of plastic chairs, and a folding table, the place was empty.
Sleep was what Petra wanted, but she knew she needed to check in with Stepka first. So while Mikhail ran out to pick up some food, she called Moscow.
“Anything?” she asked.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three groups,” he said. “All in London. But I think that’s as far as I can get from here.”
“Who are they?” she asked.
“A group called CM8 run by a guy named Leon Currie. And another headed by an ops runner named David Wills.”
“And the third one?”
“That’s kind of tricky.”
“What do you mean?”
“It appears to be associated with British intelligence.”
“Associated?”
“From what I’ve learned, it’s a front for MI6. A business called Wright Bains Securities.”
MI6? Those were the last people she wanted to deal with.
“Do you have a name there?” she asked.
“No name yet.”
“See what you can dig up,” she said. “We’ll work on the others from this end.”
As she hung up, she felt a little better. They had a potential lead again. They just needed to figure out which of the three might be the connection to the Ghost.
“Finish it.” That’s what Dombrovski had said the last time Petra had talked to him.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You’re the smartest one of all of us.”
“No, I’m—”
“Yes, you are. You’ve been training for this moment for years. Your instincts are good. You’ve learned everything you need to carry t
his out. The names, the photograph. It’s the best lead we’ve ever had. Finish it, Petra. Finish it.”
Names, yes, but not the name. If she had that, finish it was exactly what she’d do. But she needed that damn name, the name the Ghost called himself now. Only so far all she had was a trail of useless bodies.
Petra looked at the picture again. Fourteen people, but only two who meant anything, the two young men standing at opposite ends of the bar. They almost looked like twins, but they weren’t. The one on the right was the one she was looking for, but it was the one on the left who was the key. Learn his name and everything would fall into place. But his identity had been so thoroughly erased that only a small group of people had known who he was. A small group that had become a handful, then that handful had been reduced to …? How many? Three? Two?
They had been so close with Moody. But in the end he, too, had given them nothing.
Petra lay down on the bed and pulled the thin blanket that had been left with the mattress over her shoulders. Tomorrow she had to be sharp. She needed to turn off her mind and sleep.
But so many things were still swirling inside. The Ghost. Dombrovski. Stepka.
And, of course, Andrei.
“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.”
LIZ OLIVER’S APARTMENT WAS LOCATED NEAR the heart of the Latin Quarter, within walking distance of the Sorbonne. It was in one of the thousands of stone apartment buildings that lined Parisian streets. Solid, tasteful, and very European. It had been two years since Quinn had last been in the building.
The apartment had come as a free perk of Liz’s scholarship. It was a far better place than what most students lived in. The letter from the foundation had explained the only requirement that came with the use of the apartment was that she could take on no roommates, the thinking being this would help her concentrate on her studies. Quinn had written the requirement himself, because, unknown to Liz, he was the foundation.
The ground level of the building housed a variety of shops: a shoe store, a used-book store, a small greengrocer, the prerequisite patisserie, and a café at the corner that even in the cool of fall had customers sitting at tables on the sidewalk. Above the businesses were five floors of apartments.
It being midmorning on a weekday, Quinn was all but certain his sister would not be home. He couldn’t recall her exact schedule, but he knew that she was usually out of the building by 9 a.m. and, more often than not, didn’t return until well after dark.
The residential entrance was a set of double wooden doors located between the shoe store and the greengrocer. Windows in the upper halves of each door looked in on an empty lobby. Mounted next to the door were a list of residents and an intercom. Liz’s name was in the middle of the second column.
Quinn thought about pushing the one for her place, but decided against it. If she was home, it would be better if he knocked on her door than if he rang her on the intercom. Harder to turn me away if we’re face-to-face. At least that’s what he told himself.
“Someone’s coming,” Nate whispered.
Quinn heard it, too. Footsteps, somewhere on the other side of the door. He peeked through the window, but saw no one, then motioned Nate to take a few steps back. Once they were far enough away, they began talking like two friends passing the time.
A few seconds later, the door swung open and an older woman stepped out. The moment she passed, Nate eased over and caught the door before it closed, then he and Quinn casually walked inside.
The lobby was fifteen feet wide by another twenty-five deep. It was clean, bright, and recently painted. There was a carpeted staircase to the right, an elevator just beyond it, and an opening near the back of the lobby that led to a rear hallway.
“Stairs or elevator?” Nate said.
“Stairs,” Quinn said. They started to climb.
“How far up?”
“One shy of the top.”
“How do you want to play this?”
“She should be in class, so she’s probably not home. We’ll keep it to a drive-by right now,” Quinn said. “Besides, I think you need a shower and a change of clothes before you meet her.”
“Thanks, boss. That’s sweet,” Nate said. “You’re not smelling so pleasant yourself.”
“Yeah, but she already hates me.”
The landing on Liz’s floor opened into a carpeted hallway that led through the center of the building. On either side were the entrances to the apartments. Three doors per side, six apartments per floor. The apartments on the right looked out on the street, and those on the left faced whatever was behind the building. At the far end of the hallway, another door led to the emergency staircase.
“What’s her number?” Nate asked.
“Twenty-one. Middle one on the right.”
Quinn glanced at Liz’s door as they started to pass it, then stopped abruptly and knelt down. He moved in close, his attention on the doorknob and lock.
“What is it?” Nate asked.
Instead of answering, he pointed at the metal plate surrounding the lock. There was a scratch on it. To the trained eye it was like a neon sign.
Nate nodded. He wet his finger, then touched the carpet on the floor below the lock. When he brought it back up, Quinn could see two tiny metal shavings.
“Fresh,” Nate mouthed.
Perhaps Liz had caused the damage with her key, but Quinn didn’t think so. The groove was too narrow, like it was made by a wire.
Or a pick.
The base of Quinn’s neck began to tingle in apprehension.
He started to reach for the handle, but Nate touched him on the shoulder and shook his head. His apprentice then eased his backpack onto the floor and unzipped one of the sections just wide enough so he could reach in.
From inside, he pulled out two pairs of thin rubber gloves and handed one to Quinn.
Quinn donned the gloves, then tried to turn the knob. The door was unlocked.
“I’m going in,” he whispered. “You stay here.”
Nate didn’t look happy, but said nothing.
Painfully aware that neither of them was armed, Quinn pushed the door open a few inches, then paused to listen.
There was a sound from deep in the apartment. Quinn pointed at his ear, then at the opening, telling Nate someone was inside. Standing up, he pushed the door open several more inches and slipped through the gap.
A small entryway led into a living room. He eased to the end of the foyer and peered around the corner. The living room contained a mishmash of furniture. A cloth-covered couch, a matching chair, an ornate coffee table, and two bookcases filled but not overstuffed.
Quinn glanced at the metal-framed windows, half covered by white sheer curtains. Through them he could see the building across the street.
Everything within his view looked normal. So normal, in fact, that he began to doubt himself. Perhaps Liz had made the sound. Perhaps there was another explanation for the scratch. Perhaps she had left her door unlocked by accident, or maybe she was expecting someone. Perhaps she was only seconds away from walking into the living room and seeing him standing there.
Then what?
Before he could retrace his steps, he heard a drawer being yanked out, then slammed back into place. It had come from the left, toward the bedroom.
Quinn slipped his backpack off his shoulders and placed it on the floor in the entryway. He motioned for Nate to come inside and wait by the door. Once his apprentice was in position, Quinn crossed the living room, stepping carefully so as not to cause any of the floorboards beneath the carpet to creak. If it was Liz in the bedroom, he could sneak back out. If it wasn’t, he’d let his instincts take over.
At the hallway, he paused again. Like elsewhere in the apartment, the lights were off. Would his sister be moving around in the semidarkness?
The hallway was only five feet long. At the other end, an open door led into the bathroom. To the right, another door, also open, led to the bedroom.
Another drawer yanked open.
Unconsciously, Quinn’s hand moved toward where his gun would have been if he’d had one. He stopped himself halfway there, annoyed.
He scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use as a weapon. A paperweight, a letter opener, or even an ashtray—though he would have given Liz hell about that later if he’d found one. But he saw nothing he could use.
In the bedroom, the drawer moved back into place, this time with less force. Then the floor creaked. Once, twice, a third time, each wooden groan moving closer to the doorway.
Quinn pressed himself against the wall just inside the living room.
Another creak. This time in the hallway, not the bedroom.
He tensed, ready to move, but instead of heading toward the living room, the unseen person entered the bathroom.
A sudden splash of illumination spilled into the hall as the bathroom light came on. Quinn could hear the person going through the cabinet and drawers. Then there was the thunk of porcelain, and a second later the sound of water hitting water. From a distance.
Definitely not Liz.
The intruder was male.
Quinn moved into the hallway, anger bubbling just below the surface of his skin at this intrusion on his sister’s life.
When he reached the bathroom, he peeked between the door and the jamb. Two feet on the other side was the back right shoulder of a large man in a dark coat. Quinn estimated the guy was at least six foot three. His hair was covered by the kind of stocking cap favored by the reggae set from the seventies and eighties—loose and baggy, falling against the nape of his neck. The man was staring at the wall above the toilet in the time-honored tradition of males around the world.
The torrent of water began to slow, then finally stop. After a last push to clean out the pipes, the man bent down to zip himself up.
Without another thought, Quinn slammed the door into the man’s back.
A pained grunt was followed by the sound of the porcelain lid to the toilet’s water tank being jarred loose.
Quinn slammed again, harder.
Another grunt.
The Silenced Page 12
