The Deceived

by Brett Battles

  “Punch this in,” Quinn said.

  He handed the original to Orlando. She looked at it, then looked back up at him.

  “Is this...?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be damned,” she said. “It’s a phone identity module.”

  “SIM card?” Nate asked.

  “Something like that.”

  She turned back to her computer and brought up the black screen with the two empty data boxes. She filled the first box, then typed the remaining characters into the second one. But this time, instead of having only five digits for the second box, there were nine.

  “These last two,” she said. “That’s where you got the ‘LP’ from, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I showed the paper to Blackmoore, and that’s the only thing that meant anything to him.”

  “Well, I can officially tell you they have nothing to do with the other numbers,” she said. “They’re extraneous.”

  “You’re sure?” Quinn asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  So whatever the “LP” meant, the two letters were a message unto themselves.

  “You know,” Orlando said, holding up the piece of paper, “if you’d shown me this earlier, I could have told you what it was.”

  Nate snorted. “I believe I made that very suggestion.”

  “Just show me where it points,” Quinn said.

  Orlando hit Enter. Again the screen went all black for a moment. When the map appeared, it was a familiar one. Asia again.

  “The good news is the chip is still active,” Orlando said.

  She started zooming in before Quinn saw where the blue dot was. Once more, the image closed in on the Malay Peninsula jutting south from Thailand. Only this time, it bypassed Kuala Lumpur, going further south down the peninsula before stopping above an island off the tip.

  “How about that?” Quinn said. “Singapore.”

  Orlando continued letting the map zoom in. Yellow lines started to outline the bay, then the Singapore River. Quinn began identifying the different quays: Boat, Clarke, Robertson. The map continued to zoom in, going further in than it had when tracking the cell phone. Streets began appearing, then the outlines of buildings.

  When the program could get no closer, the zoom stopped. There in the center of the screen was a single building on the edge of the river. And in the center of the building, the blue dot—now as big as a bottle cap—pulsed on and off.

  CHAPTER

  “I’M GETTING OUT,” MARKOFF SAID.

  “Right,” Quinn told him.

  They were on a twenty-one-foot Luger sailboat on Mission Bay in California. Markoff had rented the sloop for the entire week, but this had been the first day they’d taken it out.

  They were sitting near the stern, Markoff steering the boat while Quinn sat nearby, drinking a rum and Coke from a plastic cup.

  “I mean it,” Markoff said. “Not everything. But out of the field. They’ve offered me a desk job.”

  Quinn was having a hard time imagining Markoff stuck in some office, going to policy meetings and shuffling paperwork all day.

  He looked toward the opening that led down into the small galley where Jenny was changing into her swimsuit. “It’s her, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Markoff smiled. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve crossed over into a world I’m not familiar with,” Quinn said, then took a drink.

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. You might want to try it someday.”

  “Doubtful.”

  They both laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Jenny stood on the steps leading out of the galley. She was wearing a white one-piece swimsuit that showed every curve and contrasted nicely with her brown skin. On her head was a large floppy hat, also white.

  The conversation turned to the weather, to the ocean, to the beautiful day. Quinn watched as his friend interacted with Jenny. There was a change in Markoff, a mellowing. It surprised Quinn, and though he didn’t want to admit it, it also made him a bit jealous. For the afternoon, he wanted what they had.

  But he knew that was one thing that would never happen.

  “Eleven a.m.,” Peter said.

  “And he was okay with the location?” Quinn asked. He was sitting on one of the benches in Union Square, near the Financial District in San Francisco. Nate was standing nearby, keeping an eye on the morning crowd.

  “He wasn’t happy, but he’ll be there.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I had a deep cover guy who needed his help.”

  “A lie,” Quinn said, acting impressed. “You’re not afraid of ruining your name?”

  “Fuck him. Albina’s a jackass. What do I care what he thinks?”

  “He’s got a lot of contacts.”

  “So do I.”

  Quinn’s instructions had been precise. Albina was to get on the first outbound MUNI “N Judah” train arriving at the Embarcadero station after 11 a.m. He was to take the train two stops to Powell station. Peter had instructed him to get off the train, exit the station, and get in line for the cable car at street level. He was told he would be contacted at that point.

  The first part was right, but Quinn had a different plan for after Albina boarded the train.

  Since Albina knew Quinn by sight, Nate drew Embarcadero duty. He took up his position a full thirty minutes before Albina was due, and had a bag of groceries as a prop.

  While most of the inbound trains terminated at Embarcadero, the N train continued around the northeastern corner of the peninsula, taking riders all the way to the baseball stadium if they desired. So when it returned to the station on its outbound trip, more often than not there were already people onboard.

  Quinn waited one stop north of Embarcadero, timing it so he got on the train that would arrive closest to, but not before, the appointed time. It was a two-car train, so Quinn chose a seat near the rear of the first car. He was wearing a black San Francisco Giants baseball hat and a lightweight black jacket. He’d ripped open the lining of one of the pockets so he could hide his SIG inside. To further conceal his identity, he sat with his back against the window, facing away from the platform, his nose stuck in a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle.

  As the train pulled into Embarcadero, he moved the paper down a few inches, giving him a view of the window on the opposite side of the car. He could see the reflections of around twenty people on the platform behind him waiting to get on. It only took a few seconds to pick out Nate.

  Quinn had given his apprentice Albina’s description. Once Nate made the ID, he’d been instructed to see who Albina was traveling with. He would then stand behind them as Quinn’s train pulled into the station. Hands at his sides meant Albina was alone. A yawn, and there was one person with him. A yawn with his hand in front of his mouth meant there were two others. More than that and Nate would stand to the side alone. If the latter was the case, Quinn would exit, and they’d call the meet off.

  Nate was yawning, but there was no hand in front of his mouth.

  One extra, Quinn thought. Albina’s trust for Peter didn’t appear to be one hundred percent, but he hadn’t been suspicious enough to get serious about it either.

  Quinn’s hope had been that the train would stop at a point where Albina would get into the same car as he was in. But no such luck. As soon as the doors opened, Albina and his man got onto the second car. Nate followed.

  Within moments, the doors shut and the train was on its way again.

  At the next stop, Montgomery Street, Quinn quickly exited and worked his way down the platform toward the second car. As much as possible, he kept other commuters between him and the windows. He was still able to catch a glimpse of Albina’s man. The bodyguard was standing near the center of the car, checking out the people getting on and off.

  Quinn moved to the last door of the car, slipping on board just before the doors shut again. Keeping his back to Albina’s man, he opened his paper and began reading ag
ain. For a few moments, he could sense he was being watched, but as the train started to move out of the station the feeling went away.

  It wasn’t long before a prerecorded voice announced, “Powell Station,” and the train began to slow again. Quinn shifted his weight casually, naturally, turning enough so that he could see the others through the corner of his eye.

  Albina was sitting on one of the yellow benches near the front of the car. His bodyguard stood a few feet away in the aisle, facing forward. Nate was also standing, but nearer the front exit. As the train pulled into the station, Albina stood. With his man in the lead, they made their way toward the still-closed door.

  Quinn let a few other people get up before he began walking down the aisle. He kept his face lowered so that the angle of his cap covered most of his features. By the time the train came to a complete stop, he was standing directly behind Albina.

  There was a pause, then the doors slid open.

  As they did, Nate stepped forward like he was about to get out, the rest of those waiting surging forward behind him. Just as he was crossing onto the platform, the bottom of his grocery bag split open—the product of a well-placed cut and a hand that had been under the bag until the critical moment.

  A jar of pickles, several apples, a carton of milk, and a bag of rice crashed onto the floor right in the threshold of the door. While the jar of pickles had stayed intact, the milk carton and the bag of rice had not.

  Everyone pulled back, both in surprise and in an attempt to keep from being hit.

  “Ah, hell,” Nate said. “Sorry.”

  Outside the door, those waiting to get on moved rapidly down the platform to another entrance, while two of those on the inside jumped over the mess so as not to miss their stop.

  The bodyguard glanced back at Albina, who nodded for him to do the same.

  “I’m really sorry,” Nate said to the guard.

  “Just get out of the way,” the man said.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  A tone went off, indicating the doors were about to close again.

  “Now,” the bodyguard said.

  Nate moved to the side.

  As the guard passed him, Nate reached up, put two hands on the man’s back, and shoved him as far onto the platform as possible. The man stumbled out of the train and fell to the ground.

  “What the hell?” Albina said.

  He started to move to the door, throwing out a hand to keep it from sliding shut.

  “Relax, Jorge,” Quinn said, poking the end of his concealed gun against Albina’s ribs.

  As Albina froze, the doors closed. On the other side, his bodyguard was pushing himself up, but it was too late. The train had already begun pulling away from the station.

  “Have a seat,” Quinn said.

  Making no sudden movements, Albina turned around.

  “Quinn?”

  Quinn nodded at the nearest bench seat. “Right there is fine.”

  Albina sat, then slid over against the window. Quinn glanced at the other passengers in their car. Only one man was looking in their direction, and he seemed more curious than anything else. Quinn signaled for Nate to keep a watch out, then sat down next to Albina.

  “You know you could have just stopped by my office,” Albina said. “You didn’t have to get all secret agent on me.” He glanced down at the bulge in Quinn’s pocket where the gun was. “And you definitely don’t need that.”

  “Yeah, but it got your attention, didn’t it?” Quinn asked.

  “Why didn’t Peter just tell me it was you?”

  “Because I told him not to. Thought maybe you wouldn’t be so interested in seeing me.”

  “Why would you think that? We’re friends.”

  “We’ve never been friends.”

  “You didn’t have to say that so fast,” Albina said. “Okay, to you we’re business associates, then. I still consider us friends. Besides, I’ve been waiting for you to show up for a couple days now. What the hell took you so long?”

  Quinn paused. “You were waiting for me?”

  “Figured you’d want to talk to me at some point.”

  “And why would that be?”

  “Come on, Quinn. I know Markoff was your friend. I mean real friend. Not like me, I guess.”

  “You knew Markoff and I were friends?”

  “Why the hell do you think you were hired?”

  “You hired me because the body in the container was Markoff?” Quinn said, trying to make all the dots connect.

  “Well, it wasn’t my idea.”

  Again, Quinn paused before speaking. “Whose idea was it?”

  “My client’s.”

  “And who was your client?” Quinn said.

  “Do we have to talk here?” Albina asked. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  They found a small café just off Market Street. No waitresses, just a counter and a condiments table. After they each got a cup of coffee, Quinn told Nate to have a seat on one of the chairs outside, then directed Albina to a table along the wall.

  “Markoff and me, we did work on and off over the years,” Albina said. “He always treated me fairly, so I did the same for him. I’d feed him a little information, and for me, he’d look the other direction when it was convenient. Okay, so maybe we weren’t buddies, but I respected him. He was a good client.”

  “He told you we were friends?” Quinn asked.

  “He may have mentioned it.”

  Not a real answer, but Quinn let it drop for the moment. “That doesn’t tell me how you ended up with his corpse on your dock.”

  Albina ripped the tops off a couple of packets of sugar, then dumped the contents into his coffee. As he stirred the liquid, he looked up. “It was sent to me. By my client.”

  “And who is your client?”

  “Come on, Quinn. You know I can’t share that kind of information.”

  Quinn leaned forward. “On the train you acted like you’ve been waiting to tell me everything. So who the hell is your client?”

  They stared at each other for a minute.

  “You found the message Markoff left, right?” Albina asked.

  “I found it.”

  “Did you figure out what it means yet?”

  “Why? Do you know what it means?”

  Albina shook his head. “Nah. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “Client, Jorge. Who is it?”

  More coffee stirring, then a sip, then, “I can tell you this much. He knows you, and respects you.”

  “He respects me?” Quinn said. “I could care less what he thinks about me. He kills my friend, then ships him here for me to bury. Who is he?”

  “I told you. I can’t.”

  “Okay. We’re done.”

  Quinn started to get up, but Albina reached out and put a hand on Quinn’s wrist.

  “Don’t get confused here,” Albina said. “I believe my client was trying to do the right thing. He told me the dead should be with friends, not lost overboard somewhere.”

  “This is just bullshit. Who the fuck is he?”

  The café went quiet. Several people turned to look in their direction.

  “Relax,” Albina said. “Don’t get so worked up.”

  Quinn settled back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Who sent you the container?”

  Albina paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No. But there’s a reason why.”

  “I don’t care why.” Quinn leaned further back.

  “Yes, you do. You think whoever sent the container to me is the one who killed Markoff. But I happen to know that’s not the truth. But here’s the problem. Only two people know who that container came from. The person who sent it and me. If word got out, it could get ugly

  for him. Know what I mean?”

  “Who?” Quinn asked.

  “Were you not just listening to me?”

  “I was. I just don’t care,” Quinn said.

  “That’s up to you. I can only tell you wha
t I know.”

  “You can tell me the truth.”

  Albina raised his hands off the table, palms out to Quinn. “You don’t want to believe me, you won’t believe me.” He paused. “Look, there is something I can tell you. The container, it didn’t come in on a ship. It was flown in.”

  “Flown in?”

  “From my understanding, that particular container hadn’t been on a ship in at least three weeks.”

  Quinn processed this new information quickly, realizing almost instantly what it meant. Markoff ’s body hadn’t become bloated and discolored by a week at sea, but rather it had happened on land while the container just sat there, waiting. Someplace hot, where the warmth of the sun would have turned the metal tomb into an oven, slowly cooking him to death. Quinn was sure his friend had been alive when he’d been put inside the box; the message on the wall was proof of that. Sure, it could have been written by someone else, but Quinn’s instincts told him it was Markoff.

  And ultimately what Albina’s revelation meant was that the whole time while Markoff lay dying, he was likely less than a mile from people who could have rescued him.

  “Why take it to the port?”

  “You would have asked a lot of questions if it had been anywhere else.”

  “I’m asking the questions now.”

  “Sure, but you’ve also already been on the job for a few days, haven’t you?”

  The implication of Albina’s words surprised Quinn. “Your client wanted me to investigate Markoff ’s death?”

  “I don’t know about want, but he was giving you the option.”

  “So the fact that the Riegle 3’s last port of call was Singapore means nothing?”

  “I never said that.”

  Quinn tried to read Albina’s face. “You tell me that your client had nothing to do with Markoff ’s death. That the container was flown in. That Singapore is actually still in play. But you won’t tell me who your client is?”

  Albina finished a sip of his coffee, then set his cup down on the table. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “We need to get out of town tonight,” Quinn said.

  He and Nate had just arrived back at Aunt Jay’s house. Orlando was hunched over the computer in the same position she’d been in when they’d left.