“There’s not going to be a problem,” Quinn said. “How do you know that?” Quinn hesitated, then walked over to the desk and tore a corner
off one of the remaining pieces of stationery. On it he wrote one of his many dummy phone numbers. Calls to any of the numbers would be rerouted to his cell phone.
“Here,” he said, handing the paper to her. “But only if you have no
choice.” She put the scrap into her purse. “Wait,” she said. “I’ll give you mine, too.” She walked over to the desk and ripped off another strip of paper.
She wrote something on it and handed it to Quinn. “Promise me you’ll call me every few days to let me know what’s
going on,” she said. “I can’t do that,” he said. Her lips pressed together for a moment, and her eyes narrowed.
“All right. Then here’s the deal. If I don’t hear from you every...seventy-two hours, I’ll start looking for her again,” she said. “That I promise you.”
Quinn tensed, but he sensed this was not an argument she would give up on. “Fine,” he said as he jammed the paper into his pocket. “Let’s go.”
He headed for the front door. “Hold on,” she said. “I want to hear you promise me.” He looked back at her, annoyed. “Well?” “I promise,” he said.
CHAPTER
QUINN AND NATE TOOK A CAB TO AN ITALIAN RESTAU-
rant a few miles away, in Richmond. There was better Italian food in North Beach, but the quality of the meal wasn’t as important as the privacy of the location. And there was no place better for a meeting than a restaurant that served mediocre food.
Richmond was a mix of the new and the old. Family businesses that had been in the neighborhood for years, next to boarded-up buildings awaiting renewal. On some blocks, the gentrification had already begun. But that wasn’t true for the block Angie’s Fine Italian Restaurante was located on. It was part of a 1970s-era strip mall. Its neighbors were an insurance broker to the left and a defunct tanning salon to the right. The sign for Easy Tan was still mounted above the front window, but the space itself was empty.
The front window of Angie’s was unadorned except for a layer of grunge that had gathered on the inside over years of disinterest, blurring the view. The only thing that could be made out was the neon “Open” sign, but even that had a hazy, ethereal cast to it.
As Quinn opened the front door, they were assaulted by the odor of garlic and tomato sauce—but cheap, like out of a can.
“I think I lost my appetite,” Nate said.
The promise of a less than stellar experience conveyed by the exterior continued inside. Almost all expense had been spared on the décor. A row of high-backed booths lined the walls on both sides, with an additional set running down the center of the room. The seats and backrests appeared to be covered in brown vinyl that was no doubt some amateur designer’s idea of faux leather.
The main dining room was empty. No customers. No employees.
Quinn pointed to a booth halfway down the left side. They walked over and sat, Quinn taking the side with the view of the front door.
Almost a full minute passed before they heard footsteps approaching from the back of the restaurant. Soon a woman wearing a flower pattern dress and a red apron was standing at the end of their table. She was at least in her mid-sixties, Quinn guessed. And the smile she wore looked like it came more from habit than from pleasure.
“Thought I heard someone come in,” she said. “Did you get menus?”
“No,” Nate said.
“Two seconds,” the woman said.
She walked over to a small counter next to the front door and picked up two menus off a large stack.
Once she had handed them out, she asked, “Can I get you something to drink first?”
“You have Moretti?” Quinn asked.
“Should have a few bottles left.”
“Same for me,” Nate said.
“I’ll be right back.” She left the way she had come.
Quinn moved his menu to the side without even looking at it.
“I guess I could get the spaghetti Bolognese,” Nate said, studying his menu. “They can’t mess that up too much, can they?”
The sound of the traffic outside increased briefly as the front door opened. Quinn shot a glance over, then stood a moment later when Orlando reached the table. Nate jumped up as soon as he realized who it was and gave her a hug.
“I’m sorry about your aunt,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I wish I could have been there this afternoon, but I was put on babysitting duty.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” She looked at Quinn. “You send her off?”
“All done.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
Quinn moved out of the way so she could sit on his side of the booth.
“You’re going to make me sit on the inside?” she asked.
“Yes, I am,” Quinn said.
She rolled her eyes, then slipped in.
Before anyone could say anything else, the waitress returned. She was holding a tray with the beers. Only one was a bottle of Moretti. The other was a Red Stripe.
“Three of you now, huh?” the waitress said. “Only had the one Moretti.”
Quinn reached up, grabbed the Red Stripe, then handed it to Nate.
“So I guess this is yours,” she said, setting the Moretti in front of Quinn. She turned to Orlando. “Something for you, hon?”
“Pellegrino?” Orlando said.
“The only water I got comes with or without ice,” the woman said.
“I’ll take tea,” Orlando said. “Hot.”
The waitress lost a little bit of her fake smile as she sighed. “It’ll be a minute.”
“Take your time,” Orlando said.
When they were alone again, Quinn said, “I got a response.”
“From the message board?” Orlando asked.
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute,” Nate said. “I—”
“Genuine?” Orlando said, ignoring Nate.
“Seems to be. The code word was Los Angeles. When I worked it out, this is what I got.” Quinn pulled the piece of paper he’d written the message on and handed it to Orlando—the series of numbers followed by “4:00 p.m. GMT Saturday.”
“Excuse me,” Nate said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What are these numbers at the top?” Orlando asked. “A phone number?”
Quinn nodded. “That would be my guess.”
She set the paper on the table and pointed at the first few numbers. “Brazil?”
Quinn shook his head. He had tried the number on the ride over just to check it. “I thought so at first, but the number doesn’t work.”
“Maybe you screwed up one of the digits.”
“Thanks for the confidence.” Quinn turned the paper around. “Anyone have a pen?”
Orlando didn’t, but Nate pulled one out of his pocket and held it out. “I’ll let you use this if you tell me what’s going on.”
Quinn snatched the pen from him, then set to work on the numbers. He applied the Los Angeles code—eleven digits, including the space—to the number Jenny had sent him one more time. This time, instead of skipping words, he increased each digit by eleven, starting again at zero once he reached the number nine.
“She double-encoded it,” Orlando said.
As soon as he finished, he turned the paper around so Orlando could see it.
“Six-six-eight,” she said. “Bangkok cell phone.”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
“Hold on,” Nate said. “Can one of you please—”
This time Nate cut himself off as the waitress reappeared. When she reached their table, she set an empty cup on the table in front of Orlando and placed a small teapot next to it.
She looked around the table. “You all going to order now?”
“Not yet,” Quinn said.
“
You are going to eat, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Quinn told her. “We’re not sure yet.”
This time the woman’s smile vanished completely. She turned without another word and headed back to the kitchen.
Nate leaned forward. “What message are you talking about?”
Quinn finally looked at his apprentice. “Jenny contacted me.”
“What?” Nate said, surprised.
Quinn gave him a quick description of how he’d used the message board to contact her, and of how he had just received her response.
“So she wants you to call tomorrow afternoon?” Nate said.
“GMT,” Orlando said.
“Right,” Nate said. He paused a moment. “So, nine in the morning for us.”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
“That’s great,” Nate said, a smile on his face. “Make sure she’s all right, tell her about Markoff, then you’re all done.”
“Do you really think she’s going to be all right?” Orlando asked. “Someone is obviously after her. Are you saying we should just let her hang out there on her own?”
The smile slipped from Nate’s face. “No,” he said. “Not really. I was just... just being a little hopeful.”
Quinn looked over at Orlando. “I want to record the call and see if we can trace it. You have what you need to do that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have something that will work.”
“Then come over to the hotel around seven-thirty,” he said. “That should give you enough time to set up, right?”
As Orlando was about to answer, the front door to the restaurant opened again. Moving only his eyes, Quinn glanced at the new arrival. A man, six feet tall, in shape, no more than thirty-five years old, with hair trimmed short and neat. He wore a dark suit that looked just a little too nice for this part of town.
“Keep your eyes open. I’m going to check him out,” Quinn whispered. Maybe this guy was a customer, but there was no sense in taking a chance.
As he started to rise, Orlando put a hand on his thigh. “I’m the unknown,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
It was the right move. If the man was looking for anyone, it would be Quinn. He wouldn’t recognize Orlando. The solution didn’t make Quinn happy, but he nodded.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” Orlando said just loud enough to be heard across the room. “Any of you want to join me?”
Reluctantly Quinn slid out of the booth so she could get up.
“Careful,” he whispered to her as she passed him.
Her quick smile told him to shut up.
He gingerly slipped his gun out from inside his jacket and placed it on his lap. From the corner of his eye, he watched the new arrival take several steps into the restaurant. The man picked up a menu off the counter and opened it. Unfortunately, he didn’t appear to have any interest in what was written inside. Instead, he used the menu as a prop so that he could scan the room unobserved. At least, Quinn thought, that’s what the guy believed.
Orlando worked her way around the center aisle of the booths, then headed toward the front door. She was playing it cool, her focus on the exit, never on the man. The new arrival watched her for a moment, then moved his attention back to the restaurant, scanning the empty booths.
A slight alteration in Orlando’s path put the man between her and the door. Just before she reached him, his gaze fell on Quinn and Nate. His eyes started to narrow, and a hand moved up a few inches toward the opening in his coat.
“Excuse me,” Orlando said.
“Huh?” the man said, glancing down at her. “Oh. Sorry.”
He moved to the side.
“Thanks,” she said, then slammed the palm of her hand into the bottom of his chin.
CHAPTER
THE MAN WENT DOWN HARD.
Orlando drove a knee into his chest, then hit him again in his face. He twisted violently, throwing her onto the floor near the front door.
Quinn was already out of the booth, racing toward them, his gun ready. But he had no clear shot.
The man slipped his hand under his jacket and pulled out a pistol. As he brought it around to aim at Orlando, Quinn did the only thing he could do. He dove forward, pushing the man’s arm back against the floor. There was a loud bang as the gun discharged, the bullet flying harmlessly into the counter a few feet away.
Orlando tried to hold him down again, but the man twisted his body, throwing her off balance and into Quinn. The jolt sent Quinn’s SIG clattering to the floor, where it slid under a nearby table.
“What’s going on?” It was the waitress calling out from the back of the restaurant. “Stop it! Stop it! I’m calling the police!”
Quinn shot a glance back at Nate. His apprentice had climbed out of the booth and was holding his Glock, but he seemed torn between whether to help Quinn and Orlando or go after the waitress.
“Stop her!” Quinn yelled at him.
The words broke Nate’s indecision. He ran through the restaurant toward the kitchen.
The man tried to bring the barrel of his gun around to get a line on Quinn, but he’d only moved it a few inches when his body suddenly jerked. Orlando had pushed herself to her feet and was kicking him hard in the kidney.
Another kick. Another jerk. All Quinn could do was hold on so that their would-be attacker couldn’t put up any defense. The fourth time she brought her foot into the man’s back, it wasn’t just his torso that moved, his trigger finger also twitched. The gun went off with a deafening roar only inches from Quinn’s ear. He could feel the heat radiating off the barrel.
Orlando reached down and slammed her fist into the man’s face. Once, twice. By the third punch, he had gone slack.
Finally able to move again, Quinn ripped the gun from the man’s fingers, turning the barrel on its previous owner, then pushed himself up off the floor, watching for any sign of movement. Orlando held a couple of fingers against the man’s neck.
“Son of a bitch,” she said. “He’s still alive.”
Quinn knelt down and made a quick visual survey of the man.
He tapped Orlando on the shoulder. As she looked up, he put a finger to his mouth, then pointed to the man’s collar. On the knot of the man’s dark blue tie was a small disk. It was black and blended in with the fabric.
A transmitter.
Quinn then motioned to a bulge under the collar just below the man’s left ear. He carefully moved it so he could slip a couple fingers underneath. When he pulled them back out, he was holding a skin-tone earpiece attached to a wire leading beneath the man’s shirt.
He looked at Orlando. Her eyes were hard, all business.
Quinn pointed toward the rear of the restaurant. She nodded, then immediately got up and headed in the same direction Nate had gone moments before.
Quinn searched the man’s body, but the guy had nothing on him. No ID. No cash. No keys. His pockets were empty, not even a scrap of paper.
Who the hell are you? Quinn asked silently.
He scooted across the floor and retrieved his SIG. Carefully he rose into a crouch, then began running toward the kitchen, his back bent low.
Before he had even gone five feet, the glass covering the front door shattered. As he ducked back to the floor, he heard something crash into the wall not far from the booth he had shared with the others. Bullets.
Apparently, the unconscious man had friends, and they seemed to be armed and pissed.
Quinn turned his head, listening. There were footsteps running toward the restaurant. Two, maybe three people.
He pushed himself back to his feet and began sprinting. The kitchen door was still twenty feet away. He wasn’t going to make it in time.
Thup-thup. Bullets passing through a suppressor. Almost simultaneously, Quinn could feel the air change as the projectiles passed by only inches from him. He dove forward, pushing the swinging door open as another bullet smashed into the doorframe.
He rolled forward, then shoved the door clo
sed with his feet. He took two quick breaths, then jumped back on his feet and glanced around.
The kitchen was about half the size of the dining area. Along one wall were two ovens, a large blackened grill, and several burners. On the wall opposite was a prep table, much of it covered by boxes and bags of ingredients. It wasn’t the cleanest kitchen Quinn had ever seen, not even close.
Orlando and Nate were at the far end of the room, near the back door. The waitress and an older man—Quinn guessed perhaps the cook—were huddled on the floor under the prep table.
Quinn moved over to them.
“Do you have a pantry or a restroom or something?” he asked. “Someplace you can hide in?”
“What’s going on?” the man asked.
Quinn looked at the waitress, repeating his question without saying a word.
“Yes,” she said. She pointed toward a door just beyond the grill.
“Get in there now. After it gets quiet, wait at least thirty minutes, then come out.”
They didn’t move.
“Now,” Quinn ordered.
The woman nodded and pulled the man up with her. Within moments, they had disappeared into a small storage closest.
Quinn joined the others at the back door. “Everyone okay?” he asked.
Nods all around.
Quinn handed the weapon he’d acquired from the man out front to Orlando. Now they were all armed.
“No suppressor on that,” he told her. “So be judicious.” He looked at the back door. “This and the front are the only exits?”
“One-story building, shops on each side,” Orlando said. “So just the two as far as I’ve seen.”
Suddenly they heard someone running through the dining room.
“Keep an eye on this,” Quinn said to Nate, pointing at the back door.
He didn’t have to tell Orlando anything. She followed him without hesitation.
“How many do you think?” she whispered as they neared the front of the kitchen.
“Counting your friend on the floor out there, three or four total,” he said. More than that would have drawn too much attention.
The Deceived Page 16
