The Silenced

by Brett Battles

  “Very close,” Natalia said. “Please, I need to leave. I’m supposed to be at work by ten, so I’m already going to be late.”

  “Where are you working tonight?” Petra asked.

  “The Silvain.”

  Petra looked at Mikhail. “What do you think?”

  “It’s worth checking.”

  She nodded. It’s what she’d been thinking, too. To Natalia, she said, “Did you see him leave this morning yet?”

  “No, but my shift was over at seven a.m. Can I go now?”

  “We’ll all go,” Petra grabbed the girl by the arm and started to pull her up. “Come on. We don’t want you to be late.”

  • • •

  Despite her reluctance, Natalia proved more than adequate. Not only did she supply Petra and Mikhail with all the information the hotel had on James Shelby, she also learned from one of her colleagues that Mr. Shelby had left the hotel around 8 a.m. that morning and had not returned.

  To top it off, Natalia made a copy of the keycard to Mr. Shelby’s room.

  Petra and Mikhail had waited down the street, out of sight, while all this had gone on. When Natalia showed up with the information and the key, Petra paid her the two hundred pounds she had promised her.

  “And our rooms?” Petra asked.

  “Two,” Natalia said quickly. “In the same part of the hotel as Mr. Shelby, but one floor up. I’ve put them on hold, but you’ll have to check in at the desk.”

  “Of course.” Petra handed Natalia an extra fifty for her efforts. “Thank you for your help.”

  The girl tried to smile, then said, “I must go now.”

  “If we need anything else, we’ll let you know,” Petra said.

  It didn’t seem to be what Natalia wanted to hear, but she tried to smile, then retreated back to the Silvain.

  “How do you want to do this?” Mikhail asked.

  “You check us in,” Petra said. “I’ll have a look at Mr. Shelby’s room.”

  Petra entered the Silvain and walked purposefully past the front desk toward the lounge. In the narrow corridor beyond, she found the elevator, and beside it a stairway. She rode the elevator up to the floor Shelby’s room was on, then followed the numbers on the doors until she reached the right one.

  Leaning close, she listened. There was dead silence on the other side. She pulled out the duplicate keycard and held it to the lock.

  There was a gentle click, and she slipped inside.

  The room was dark, not quite pitch black, but close enough. “Housekeeping,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She stepped to the end of the entryway and peeked into the room. The bed was made and empty. She stepped around the corner and nudged open the door to the bathroom. It was even darker inside than the rest of the room, and equally as unoccupied.

  As expected, Mr. Shelby was still out.

  She pulled a penlight from her pocket. The first thing she checked was the small wardrobe cabinet next to the window. Empty. That wasn’t necessarily unusual. Many people preferred leaving their belongings in their suitcases when they traveled. Of course, that should have meant there was a suitcase in the room. There wasn’t. In fact, there were no bags of any kind.

  Petra frowned.

  According to his registration form, Mr. Shelby had reserved the room for an entire week. So then, where was his luggage?

  She moved into the bathroom. Towels folded and ready for use, fresh bottles of shampoo and conditioner, but no personal items whatsoever.

  She touched the sink near the drain. Bone dry. The same went for the shower.

  Back in the bedroom, she located the wastebasket. Also empty.

  The room wasn’t being used at all, but why? The only reason she could come up with was that he was using it as a safe location, in case it was needed later.

  The question now was, would Mr. Shelby come back?

  “I DON’T THINK SHE’S GOING TO SHOW,” QUINN said.

  Orlando touched him on his thigh. “Let’s give it another hour. If we don’t see her by then, we’ll come back in the morning.”

  Quinn grimaced, but didn’t get up. He knew she was right. It was just that he was having a hard time reining in his impatience. Something that seldom happened.

  They were sitting by the front window of the Queen Anne Pub. From there, they had a direct view of the office building across the street where Wright Bains Securities was located. It was six stories of glass, steel, and stone, surrounded on three sides by similar generic, soul-sucking structures. The kind of place a secret division of MI6 would choose. There were two ways in: a glass door main entrance at the center of the building, and a less-flashy steel door off to the left. From Quinn and Orlando’s position, they could see both.

  With Wills dead, Taplin was Quinn’s best chance at getting information. His biggest fear had been that she was still in New York. But Orlando was able to learn that a U.K. citizen named Annabel Taplin had returned to London the night before. Which meant there was a very good chance she had returned to work that morning.

  When they got there, it was already lunchtime. Quinn had hoped they might spot her going out to eat with some of her colleagues, but no luck. And, as the afternoon turned to evening with no sign of Annabel among those heading home for the day, he began to wonder if she had come in at all.

  Orlando picked up the cup of coffee she’d been drinking and took another sip. Quinn, who had been nursing the same beer for over an hour, reached for his glass, but then decided against it. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Toilet,” he said, walking away.

  “Thanks for the information,” Orlando called after him.

  He headed across the pub and down a small hallway to the public toilets. He didn’t really need to use them; he just couldn’t stand sitting around any longer.

  The men’s room was a single stall and one urinal. Tucked in behind the door was a sink with a mirror above it. It had obviously become a tradition to put stickers on the walls and mirror, most touting bands.

  Quinn turned on the cold water, then wiped some of it across his face. He felt the need to do something. Anything. This waiting was killing him. Usually he could be on a stakeout for days before he’d feel the need to get things moving. But never before had it been his own family who was being threatened.

  He stared at himself in an open spot on the mirror between a sticker for the Arctic Monkeys and a throwback for Stiff Little Fingers, but didn’t like what was looking back. There was something in his eyes that he had never seen.

  Fear.

  He couldn’t deny it. It was staring right back at him.

  Fear that he wasn’t in control of what was going on. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to make the problem go away. And most of all, fear that because he’d put his family in the line of fire, something would happen to them.

  He had to make this right. And once he did, he could never again assume that Liz and his mother were safe. For so long he’d been able to keep their existence a secret, but that secret was gone now, gone forever.

  Quinn grabbed a towel and dried his face. What all this meant about his future was something he was going to have to deal with once he’d taken care of his current nightmare. He was nowhere near in the right frame of mind to think about it now.

  His phone began to vibrate. It was Nate.

  Finally.

  He hit Accept, then headed back into the pub.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “We’re safe,” Nate said. “We found a room near—”

  “Hold on,” Quinn said, cutting him off.

  Orlando was no longer sitting down. She was standing near the door, waving him to hurry over. He took the phone from this ear, then pushed his way through the growing crowd.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “The woman on the sidewalk across the street. About thirty feet left of the main entrance. Is that her?”

  Quinn followed her gaze. Though the sun had gone down, the s
treetlamps provided more than enough light to see.

  “It’s her,” he said. “Go.”

  Orlando headed out of the pub.

  “Sorry,” he said into the phone. “Where are you?”

  “A small hotel near Sacré Coeur.”

  Outside the pub, Quinn could see Orlando cross the street and fall in about a half block behind Annabel. The MI6 woman had no idea who Orlando was, so the plan they had worked out was for Orlando to follow her, and Quinn to follow Orlando a couple of blocks back, using the GPS tracker in his phone. That way there would be no chance Taplin would spot him.

  “Did they check your ID?”

  “Of course not,” Nate said, his tone a little pissed off. “We wouldn’t be here if they did.”

  Quinn grimaced. That was basic training stuff. A dumb question to ask, but his objectivity was a little blurred at the moment. “How’s Liz?”

  There was a pause, then when Nate spoke again his voice was lower. “She’s a little freaked out. But that’s understandable. I’m actually surprised she’s still functioning at all.… She has been asking a lot of questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “About you. About what you do … what I do.”

  “What have you told her?”

  “I said that she needs to ask you.”

  That was something else he was going to have to deal with, Quinn realized. Liz was going to want to know what was going on. His mother, too, for that matter. “You did the right thing,” he said as he started for the door.

  “What if she keeps pushing?”

  “Tell her what you already told her.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s going to be enough.”

  Quinn stepped outside. Orlando was no longer in sight. He started down the sidewalk in the direction he had seen her go. “Is she giving you trouble?”

  “Not yet,” Nate said. “But I can see it coming. Don’t forget, she is your sister. She’s not stupid.”

  No, she wasn’t stupid. “Then use your best judgment. Tell her what you need to tell her, but nothing more.”

  “I’m not going to lie to her. I need her to cooperate with me, and she won’t if she thinks I’m just handing her another line.”

  “Okay. No lies,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Quinn stopped as he neared the end of the block. There was no way to know which direction Orlando and Annabel had gone. He was going to have to use the tracker on his phone. “I want you to get her out of Paris,” Quinn said.

  “I thought you might. Where do you want us to go?”

  Good question. What Quinn really wanted was for her to be close, but London might be just as dangerous for her as Paris. Still …

  “Bring her to England. Don’t take the Chunnel. Get a car and drive to Belgium. You can get a ferry in Ostend. We’ll get some rush docs for her. I think Orlando knows someone there who can probably do them for you tonight. I’ll have her let you know where and when to pick them up. Then I want you out of Paris by morning.”

  “I’ll make sure we’re up early and moving.”

  “And Nate …”

  “I know. Take care of Liz.”

  Quinn hesitated. “Yes. But also yourself.”

  • • •

  After almost losing them in the Underground, Quinn caught up to Orlando not far from Russell Square Station.

  “She went in there,” Orlando said, nodding down the street at a tan, three-story brick structure that had been designed to look like a series of row houses.

  “Apartments?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes. The index next to the front door lists twenty-four residents.”

  “Must go back a little ways. Doesn’t look like that many from here.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I was hoping I’d see a light go on in one of the rooms when she went in.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “What about her name? Isn’t she listed?”

  “There’s no Taplin.”

  “Do you think she might have spotted you, and used this place to throw you off?”

  “I wondered about that,” Orlando said. “But I don’t think so. She was exhausted, even fell asleep for a few minutes on the train. I don’t think she noticed much of anything.”

  “Could have been faking it,” Quinn suggested.

  “She wasn’t.”

  Quinn looked back down the street. “Well, we can’t go door-to-door.”

  “Yeah. Bad idea.”

  “And if she was that tired, she’s probably in for the evening.”

  “I’d agree with that, too.”

  Quinn turned to her, his eyes narrowed. “Then, what do you think we should do?”

  She took another look at the building, then said, “Nothing’s going to happen tonight. Let’s come back early tomorrow and pick her up when she leaves for work.”

  Quinn frowned.

  “You could use some sleep yourself,” she said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  He stared at the building a moment longer, knowing she was right but wishing there was more he could do. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. The weight of it all seemed to be increasing every second.

  “You’re not alone,” Orlando said softly as she put an arm around him. “This is our family in trouble, not just yours. And if we want to help them, we need to be sharp.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her, saying nothing.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  He said nothing for a moment, then he nodded once. “Okay.”

  “I KNOW,” NATE SAID. “TAKE CARE OF LIZ.”

  Quinn hesitated. “Yes. But also yourself.”

  Then the line went dead.

  Nate stared at his cell. His boss didn’t sound quite like the Quinn he knew. But, of course, Quinn had never been in a situation like this before. Nate had no idea how he would handle it if it was happening to him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Liz was standing in the doorway to the tiny bathroom. She wore a baggy T-shirt they’d purchased that afternoon and was drying her hair with one of the thin hotel towels.

  Nate slipped his cell into this pocket. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Were you on the phone?”

  He hesitated. No lies. “Yes. I was talking to Quinn.”

  “I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to that name.”

  “I could try to call him Jake if that helps.”

  “That would be just as odd for you. Call him Quinn.” She let out a humorless laugh, then said “Quinn” again as if she was trying it out.

  She shook her head, and rubbed the towel across her hair one last time before tossing it on the floor in the corner.

  The room was barely big enough for the full-size bed that dominated it. There was no dresser, no desk, no table, no chairs. Just the bed. But the clerk downstairs had taken cash and had asked no questions, so the room was perfect.

  “How was the water?”

  “Started hot,” she said, then added, “but more lukewarm by the end.”

  “No worries. I’m fine with lukewarm.”

  The truth was he was glad she’d used up the hot water. The rain had stopped around four, so by the time they found the hotel their clothes were no longer soaking wet, only damp. But Liz had continued to shiver.

  That would be ironic, Nate thought. Save her from whoever it was who was trying to kill her, only for her to die of pneumonia.

  They did an awkward dance around the end of the bed. His hand accidently brushed against her stomach, but she showed no signs of noticing. Nate entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He put the lid down on the toilet, then sat down so he could remove his prosthetic leg. As he did, he could feel his stump sigh in relief.

  Even on the most strenuous jobs with Quinn, he’d seldom had to push his leg as much as he had escaping with Liz. So it wasn’t surprising that his thigh muscles ached.

  There was a knock at the bathroom doo
r.

  “I’m sorry,” Liz said from the other side. “I meant to grab my jeans so I could dry them on the heater.”

  “Hold on,” Nate said.

  He spotted them on the floor, picked them up, then opened the door just enough to slip them through.

  “Thanks,” she said, then added, “My purse is in there, too.”

  The smile she gave him made him forget for a moment about the pain in his leg.

  “Sure,” he said.

  He found her purse and gave it to her.

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” she said, again with the smile. “Enjoy your shower. Maybe it’s hot by now.”

  As he closed the door he couldn’t help thinking that maybe he needed a cold shower more than a hot one. What he got was the lukewarm one he’d said earlier would be okay, but turned out to be as unsatisfying as it sounded. He spent the whole time alternating between praying to the water gods for hot and trying not to think about Liz. He was unsuccessful on both fronts.

  Oh, no, he thought as the realization struck him. He’d been so focused on getting Liz to safety, he hadn’t thought about their sleeping arrangements. They were going to have to share a bed.

  What if he reached out and put an arm around her in his sleep? How would she react to that? Perhaps he should suggest that he sleep on the top of the covers while she slept beneath. That would put a nice, physical barrier between them, and lessen the chance that Quinn would kill him and drop his body in the middle of the ocean later.

  When he finished showering, he dried off and pulled on a T-shirt and clean pair of boxer briefs from his backpack.

  He was still thinking about the potential pitfalls of who slept where as he opened the door and hopped into the bedroom. “Do you have a side of the bed you prefer?”

  Liz was sitting at the end of the mattress, holding a small brush in midair, but she was staring at Nate, a look of confusion on her face.

  “What happened?” she stuttered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your … your leg.”

  His brow furrowed momentarily, then he realized he’d never said anything about his missing leg. Like that would have been an easy topic to bring up. “I was … in an …” No lies. “I got hit by a car.”