The Silenced

by Brett Battles

  “You, Ms. Taplin, already have plenty of blood on your hands. Being on his list is the least of your problems. But if you’re interested in staying alive and seeing what karma has in store for you in the future, then I suggest you continue being helpful.”

  Ten minutes later, Quinn reentered the bedroom. This time he left the door open.

  He looked at Petra. “To answer your question, I’ll help under one condition.”

  She looked surprised. “Anything you want.”

  “This is non-negotiable.”

  A hint of caution entered her voice. “What is your condition?”

  “I’m in charge,” he said. “Because I’m going after him no matter what, and unless you’re with me, you’re in my way.”

  “Only if you promise we take him alive.”

  He frowned. “I can’t make that promise.”

  Petra said nothing for several seconds. Then she nodded. “All right.”

  “NOTHING CUTE,” QUINN SAID. “KEEP TO THE script.”

  He and Annabel were the only ones left in his room at the Silvain. Orlando had gone upstairs with Petra and Mikhail into one of their rooms to arrange for the extra help Quinn’s plan would need. Petra had said she knew someone who could provide the men, but Quinn didn’t trust her enough yet to make the contact on her own.

  “Don’t worry,” Annabel said. “I know what to do.”

  He held his phone out to her. It was attached via wire to his laptop. Orlando had started a program that would make the call look like it was coming from a cell phone inside the Wright Bains building.

  She dialed a number, then held the phone up to her ear.

  “Fedor? It’s Annabel Taplin. I need to speak with Trevor.… Well, where is he? … No, I can talk to you.… It’s my understanding that your project with Wills wasn’t completed.… Because it’s my job to know, that’s why.… Thirty minutes ago, while one of my agents was cleaning Wills’s office, a call came in from someone who’d been working for Wills. They transferred it to me.… Someone who was working on your project. He said that he got a call yesterday asking him to stay on the job, but he had no way of knowing if he could trust the caller or not.…” She glanced at Quinn and nodded. “Then, you know who I’m talking about.… Quinn. That’s right.… I convinced him that your call was legitimate. He told me he’s willing to finish the job.… Correct. Just tell your boss to call him again and everything should be fine.”

  She listened for a moment longer, then hung up.

  “Did he buy it?” Quinn asked.

  “He had no reason not to. At least not my part of it. He may think you were feeding me a line, but I’m supposed to be on his side.”

  “How long do you think before they call back?”

  Taplin shrugged. “Fifteen minutes. Thirty tops.”

  “Then we wait.”

  Trevor Robb. That was the name of the light-haired Englishman who’d had the unfortunate luck of sharing a physical similarity to a Russian psychopath. His life had only been a placeholder for the day the Ghost would take it over. Over two decades dead, his was the body the man now using the name Trevor Robb wanted Quinn to remove.

  “According to the file, the Ghost rented several offices in the basement of a building in the financial district,” Annabel had told Quinn in the bathroom before he had reemerged.

  “The Alexander Grant Building,” Quinn said.

  “Wills told you?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Then you know it’s pretty rundown. In 1988 it wasn’t much better. After the real Robb returned to the U.K., he was instructed to go straight there. Palavin was waiting for him. He killed Robb there, then entombed the body in a small closet, walling him inside. Apparently, Palavin planned it as a temporary solution. When he came to MI6 to sell what he knew, he expected that we would remove the body for him. But my predecessors told him we wanted no part of it. They were afraid that he might kill others in the future and expect us to help again.”

  “You mean like he’s doing right now?”

  She squirmed uncomfortably. “At some point Palavin decided that the risk of leaving the body in the wall was less than attempting to get it out on his own. Ironically, MI6 realized that even though we had told him no, there was always a chance that if the body was found it might blow back on us. It took a couple of years, but it was finally decided to have the body removed. Only we didn’t want Palavin to know, so we made sure the closet tomb looked the same.”

  “Then, the body he wants me to remove isn’t even there?” Quinn said.

  “Not for almost two decades.”

  The return call came twelve minutes after Annabel’s conversation with Fedor.

  “Hello?” Quinn said.

  “Mr. Quinn?” It was the same voice that had called him not long after Wills had been gunned down.

  “Yes.”

  “We spoke yesterday,” Palavin said. “I was told you would be expecting my call.”

  “I appreciate you getting back to me.”

  “Perhaps we should put yesterday’s conversation behind us. It was a very stressful day for everyone.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.” Quinn gave it a beat, then said, “Do you still need your project completed?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Can I assume you’re willing to reconsider?”

  “I’ve had a conversation that leads me to believe you’re on the level. So I’ll do your job, but my fee has just gone up.”

  There was a pause. “Gone up how much?”

  “A hundred and twenty thousand. U.S.”

  Quinn could hear the other man clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You have me in a difficult position. And I don’t appreciate people trying to take advantage of me.”

  “I’m not taking advantage. I’m just being practical. With Wills’s murder, the risks have increased.”

  More silence. “I’ll give you eighty.”

  “I’ll go as low as a hundred thousand, but any lower and I walk.”

  “Fine, Mr. Quinn. One hundred thousand. I’m not happy about it, but I guess I can understand. I’ll wire it to you as soon as the job is done.”

  “You’ll wire it to me now.”

  Palavin took a deep breath. “Very well.”

  Quinn gave him the account number, then said, “To confirm, you want the package removed and delivered to you, correct?”

  “Correct. I will give you a place and a time where my associate will meet you once you let me know when you will be in possession of … it.”

  “It’ll be tonight,” Quinn said.

  “Tonight?” The Ghost sounded surprised.

  “I already did the preliminary work before yesterday’s events. We’re ready to go. I anticipate having the package ready for you before midnight.”

  “That’s excellent,” the Ghost said. “We will call you this evening with the drop-off location.”

  “Perfect.”

  Quinn disconnected the call.

  “So?” Annabel asked. “Did he believe you?”

  “Everyone believes in greed,” Quinn replied.

  “HUNGRY?” NATE ASKED, STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.

  Liz was lying on the bed, curled in on herself, her eyes staring at the wall.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” she asked. “Am I going to have to live on the run like this forever? And what’s going to happen to Mom? Is she going to have to give up her home? She’s too old for this.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about any of that right now. Your brother is going to take care of things.”

  She turned to him. “How can I not worry?”

  He wasn’t sure what to tell her. He certainly didn’t have an answer. So he said, “Let me get you something to eat.”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  He nodded. “Sure. Okay, I’ll come back later.”

  As he started to turn away, she said, “No. Lie with me. I think that’ll help.”

  He smiled. “That I can do.
Just let me put the food away first.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  In the kitchen, he gathered the meats, cheeses, and vegetables he’d set out to make sandwiches, and returned them to the refrigerator. He then got a glass and filled it with water.

  He was carrying it across the living room when someone knocked on the front door.

  He stopped and looked toward the entry, but made no other move.

  Another knock. Not pounding, and not a polite tap. Something in between.

  Nate remained still, listening. But the exterior hallway was carpeted and the door was thick, so he picked up nothing.

  Just as the visitor knocked for a third time, Liz stepped out of the bedroom.

  “What’s that—”

  Nate held a finger to his mouth, quieting her, then motioned for her to go back into the bedroom. She complied with the first part, but not the second.

  Five seconds passed, then ten. If there was to be a fourth knock, it should come within the next fifteen seconds. But those silently came and went.

  Though still uneasy, he smiled, and held out the glass. “Thought you might be—”

  With a loud crash, the front door splintered inward, flying open.

  Nate dropped the glass and raced forward. Grabbing Liz, he carried her into the bedroom, where he dropped her back to her feet, then slammed the door closed.

  “Help me,” he said, as he began to push the meager dresser in front of the door. Liz quickly joined him.

  Once it was in place, Nate raced to the window and threw it open. The drop was two floors. Ankle-breaking height, especially if you didn’t know what you were doing.

  He glanced back, then pulled a sheet off the bed.

  “Tie this end around your waist,” he said. “Tight.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked, grabbing the end of the sheet and looping it around her body.

  “It’s too far for you to jump, so I’m going to lower you enough so you can drop down without getting hurt.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

  They could hear people running in the apartment.

  “Come on. We don’t have time.”

  Someone slammed into the bedroom door.

  “Climb out,” he said. “I’ll lower you as far as I can, then let go.”

  “You’re not going to make it!”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just get down, and get the hell out of here. I’ll find you later.”

  “Where?”

  “Westminster Abbey.” It was the first place he could think of.

  Another slam. This time the door cracked.

  “Please, Liz.”

  She looked reluctant, but climbed over the sill. Nate held tightly to the end of the sheet as he lowered her as fast as he dared.

  A third slam toppled the dresser.

  “Stop!” someone shouted.

  Nate didn’t even look back, he just kept lowering Liz. Only a few more feet and it would be enough.

  “He’s letting her down into the alley,” the voice behind him said.

  “Roger.”

  Nate tensed. The second voice wasn’t from someone in the room with him. It had come over a radio.

  Movement at the end of the alley caught his attention. He looked over and saw two men running toward the back of the apartment building. There was no other exit. Liz was trapped. A second later someone grabbed Nate by the shoulder and pushed him to the side. Nate held tight on to the sheet, unwilling to let it go.

  “She’s far enough down that the fall won’t kill her,” the man at the window said.

  “You can let go now,” another voice said, this one behind Nate.

  Nate’s fingers dug into the sheet.

  “Let it go!”

  The man at the window shoved Nate, spinning him around. There were two men standing in the middle of the room, both with guns pointed at him.

  “Let. It. Go!” one of them said.

  “Not a chance,” Nate told him.

  He saw the muzzle flash, and felt the impact, but he never heard the gun go off.

  At 6 p.m. Quinn and Orlando stopped for a quick bite at the Iron Duke in Victoria Station. All the pieces of the plan were in place. There was no question in Quinn’s mind whether they would succeed or not. They had to. The survival of his family depended on it.

  At 6:14 his phone rang.

  BLOCKED.

  It was time.

  He let it ring four times before he answered. “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Quinn,” Palavin said.

  “Been waiting to hear from you.”

  “Is everything still on schedule?”

  “Yes. Everything’s fine. You have the location for me?”

  “My assistant will be calling you with that information later,” Palavin said.

  Quinn tensed, not liking the deviation from what he expected. He stood up and walked to a less-populated section of the pub. “So you’re just calling to make sure everything is fine?”

  “Not exactly. I’m calling to ensure you know how important it is that you stay on track.”

  “Everything is on track.”

  Orlando walked up, her backpack over her shoulders, Quinn’s in her hand.

  “That’s good to hear. But sometimes I find that extra incentive doesn’t hurt.”

  “What incentive?” Quinn said.

  “I think maybe we should stop playing games with each other,” Palavin said. “You’ve known for at least a day now that I’ve had an interest in making sure you finished what I hired you for. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have tried to hide your sister from me.”

  Quinn froze.

  “What is it?” Orlando mouthed.

  But Quinn could only shake his head, his eyes wide.

  “I do appreciate that you brought her to London. It makes my job easier.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a sister.”

  “Oh, my God,” Orlando whispered.

  She walked away from him, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

  “I can let you talk to her if you’d like.”

  Quinn looked over at Orlando. She had her phone to her ear, but shook her head. Nate wasn’t answering.

  “What do you want?”

  “What I’ve wanted from the beginning. For you to finish the job you were hired to do.”

  Quinn’s grip tightened on his phone. “You don’t need my sister to make that happen. I’m already doing the job.”

  “Perhaps it would have been unnecessary before, but once you knew I was trying to find her, how could I trust you were being honest with me? Now that I actually have Elizabeth, I think maybe we can see eye to eye. You bring me the body, and I will let her go.”

  “I want to talk to her,” Quinn said.

  “Naturally. I wouldn’t expect you to believe me if you didn’t.”

  “Just put her on!”

  The phone fell silent for a moment. The next thing Quinn heard was heavy breathing.

  “Liz?”

  “Jake? God, Jake. Help.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Just bruised.”

  “That’s it?”

  “So far.”

  He then asked the question he’d avoided with Palavin. “What about Nate?”

  She sobbed. “They shot him. They—”

  There was the sound of movement. “I think you’ve talked enough,” Palavin said. “We’ll call later with the location.”

  Palavin hung up.

  Quinn grabbed Orlando by the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, pushing her toward the exit back into the station.

  “What happened?” Orlando asked.

  “Nate,” he said, then started sprinting for the entrance to the Underground.

  There were half a dozen police cars parked on Charlotte Street. A large area in front of the apartment building had been cordoned off. As with all cri
me scenes, a small crowd had gathered around the outside of the police zone.

  Quinn and Orlando approached a couple standing just off to the side.

  “What happened?” Quinn asked, trying to sound curious but unconcerned.

  The woman glanced over. “We heard a man was shot,” she said.

  “Really?” Orlando said. “In this neighborhood? Was he badly hurt?”

  The woman shook her head. “Don’t know. We’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “Thanks,” Quinn said.

  They walked over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. There was a waiter standing next to an empty outside table in front of an Indian restaurant. He was looking toward a group of police gathered beyond the police line. The restaurant itself was empty.

  “Someone got shot? Did I hear that right?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes. Apparently.”

  “Did you hear it happen?”

  “No,” he said. “But I saw people running out of the building. Then one of the neighbors came out yelling about gunfire.”

  “Just the one person hit?”

  “As far as I know,” the man said. “An ambulance took him away ten minutes ago.”

  “Unbelievable,” Orlando said. “I wonder what happened.”

  The man shrugged. “Drugs probably. Isn’t that what it always is?” He turned and walked back into the restaurant.

  Orlando pulled out her phone and began typing. While she did, Quinn guided them toward Tottenham Court Road.

  “The closest medical facility is University College Hospital,” Orlando said.

  “Is that where they took him?” Quinn asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” She pressed a button on the phone, then held it up to her ear. “Yes, hello,” she said, using a remarkably good British accent. “This is Chief Inspector Owens. I’m checking on the status of a man who would have been brought there within the last thirty minutes.… Yes, I’ll hold.”

  They had reached Tottenham Court Road.

  “Taxi or foot?” Quinn asked.

  “Foot for now,” she said, then pointed toward the north. “That way.”

  They darted through traffic to the other side of the street.

  “I’m here,” Orlando said as they reached the sidewalk. “Yes, I’m involved with the investigation on Charlotte Street. It was my understanding that the victim was brought to your hospital. Is that not right? … Oh, good. He is there.… And his condition? … No, I understand. Thank you.”