The Enraged jqt-7

by Brett Battles

  Ten days and Quinn could take her back to California. He could live with that.

  Not home at first, of course, but closer than Isla de Cervantes. Two private hospitals that catered to people in his and Orlando’s world came immediately to mind. One was near his home in Los Angeles, while the other was near hers in San Francisco. He had more experience with the former, but the latter would be closer to her son, Garrett. Quinn could easily bring him to visit her every day.

  He suddenly realized everyone was staring at him. “What?”

  “I asked if you had any other questions,” the doctor told him.

  Full of thoughts about getting Orlando home, he almost said no, but as he started to speak, his hand brushed against his pocket and he felt the tiny lump of the microfilm canister. In his rush to fly back to be with Orlando, he hadn’t even realized he’d brought it along.

  He said, “Do you have a laboratory on site?”

  * * *

  The hospital did indeed have its own laboratory. It was located on the first floor between the in-house pharmacy and a CT scanner suite.

  Quinn’s knock on the locked door was answered by a woman in a white lab coat. Though she was probably in her early thirties, the pinched look on her face made her seem as if she was at least a decade older.

  “Dr. Montero called,” Quinn said in Spanish. “I believe you’re expecting us.”

  The only things that moved were the woman’s eyes, as she first scanned him and then Nate before moving out of the way so they could enter.

  Though the room wasn’t huge, it was impressive. Half a dozen workstations were split up long the walls, with four more taking up space on an island that ran through the center. The area between stations was filled with various pieces of equipment, the purpose of most known only to the specialists who used them.

  There were four other lab workers present. Three were so engrossed in their work they took no notice of the new arrivals, while the fourth merely glanced up before looking back at his computer monitor.

  Still silent, the woman who’d opened the door led Quinn and Nate across the room to an empty station far from the others. As Quinn had requested, a microscope — a Keyence VHX-2000—was sitting on the counter. A better machine than he’d hoped for.

  “Here,” the woman said in English.

  She pressed a button and the monitor next to the microscope came to life. She then demonstrated a few basic functions and started to leave.

  “Wait,” Quinn said. “How do we capture a picture?”

  She frowned, but showed him what to do.

  “We’ll also want to take the images with us. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare thumb drive, would you?”

  She stared at him as if he were crazy, but Quinn held her gaze, smiling. After a moment, she rolled her eyes, walked across the room to one of the stations, and pulled open a drawer. When she returned, she placed a black thumb drive on the counter, and looked at Quinn, her eyebrow raised. It didn’t take a genius to know she was asking if she could go.

  “If we have any problems, we’ll let you know.”

  She didn’t look happy with this response, but with a grunt Quinn guessed was a good-bye, she returned to whatever she’d been working on.

  Quinn pulled out the microfilm canister and Nate moved in behind him, creating a wall that would prevent anyone else in the lab from seeing the microscope’s monitor. After a few aborted tries, Quinn finally got the first frame under the lens.

  “That’s fascinating,” Nate said.

  Quinn looked at the monitor. On the screen was a big blob of white, with a hint of black encroaching at the top. The microscope’s current magnification setting was much too strong. As he began reducing the power, black moved in from all four sides, creating blurry lines and squares. When it was evident he had the entire frame of microfilm on the monitor, he fine-tuned the focus, sharpening the image.

  Just like he’d noted when he’d looked at the frames with the magnifying glass, the horizontal lines were made up of dozens of black squares. He took a picture, then moved the film to the next frame.

  “How many shots are there?” Nate asked.

  “Twenty-three.” Quinn took another picture and moved the microfilm again. “Eleven of them are like this.” He nodded at the screen. “The other twelve look like they could be photos, but we won’t know until we decode them.”

  He worked his way through the rest of the documents, and started in on the colored frames.

  As he was about to move from frame nineteen to twenty, Nate said, “Whoa, whoa.”

  Quinn sat back and raised his fingers off the keyboard.

  “What’s that look like to you?” Nate asked.

  Quinn examined the screen.

  “Right there.” Nate circled the upper right corner of the monitor. “See it?”

  “Looks like part of an ear.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  “Probably just the encryption. It could be anything.”

  “It looks pretty real to me.”

  Though it was purple and gray, it did look real — like the outside ridge of an ear near the base, with a hint of the lobe at the bottom. Since there was no way to know for sure, Quinn continued working his way through the rest of the photos, neither he nor Nate seeing anything else that looked familiar.

  Once he had all the images saved to the thumb drive, he switched off the monitor and put the microfilm back in the canister.

  At any other time, his next step would have been to give the images to Orlando, and she’d have them decoded in no time. But that option wasn’t open to him right now.

  There were a few other people he thought might be able to handle it, but he wasn’t sure how much he could trust them. This wasn’t just some job. This had been personal to Peter, and, if it was connected to the whole Romero thing, it was personal to Quinn, too, so he had to be very careful about whom he involved.

  Perhaps he could try to decode the images himself. The gear they’d had on the jet that had taken them to and from Duran Island was now in a locker in the hospital’s basement. Orlando’s bag would be there, and in it would be her laptop. He might not be as quick as she, but with a little trial and error, he thought he could figure out which program to use and how to work it.

  He put the drive into his pocket and stood. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 19

  SEPTEMBER 3rd

  ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

  Morten’s phone rang softly on the nightstand. As always, he had activated the cell’s DO NOT DISTURB function, so that the only calls that got through were from Griffin.

  He picked up his phone and grunted.

  “I apologize, sir,” Griffin said. “I know it’s late there, but there’s been a development.”

  “What is it?” Morten was using the least amount of energy possible.

  “I’m being ignored by O & O.”

  Morten rolled onto his back. “What do you mean, ignored?”

  “They haven’t contacted me since I requested the forensics search of the Virginia home, and they’re not returning my calls.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. Call Stone directly. Tell him to fix the problem.”

  “I’ve tried to get ahold of Director Stone as well, even routed the call so it looked like I was phoning from CIA headquarters, but I was told he was unavailable. I think I should probably get involved personally now. Bypass O & O completely.”

  Morten thought for a moment. Having Griffin move into the field instead of using a government-run third party such as O & O could expose Darvot if something went wrong, but then again, not putting a lid on this problem could be even worse.

  “All right,” he said. “Just be careful. And only use your team if you absolutely have no choice.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  CHAPTER 20

  ISLA DE CERVANTES

  Quinn had fallen asleep in the chair by Orlando’s bed. On the rolling table next to him was her laptop.r />
  He’d worked late into the night, trying to figure out how to decode the images, but it wasn’t nearly as clear-cut as he’d hoped. When he had set the computer to the side, he’d told himself he would rest his eyes for a few minutes, but ended up falling deep asleep.

  The glare of the early morning sun through the window woke him. He covered his eyes and squirmed in his chair, attempting to get out of the light’s direct path.

  “Too bright for you?”

  At first he wasn’t sure where the voice had come from. It had been no more than a whisper, like the lingering wisp of a dream.

  He looked toward the door, blinking both sleep and the afterimage of the sun away.

  “You should really sleep in a bed, you know.”

  He twisted around and saw her. Orlando. She was looking at him, her eyes half opened. He nearly knocked the computer off the table as he pushed himself up and moved to the bed.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling.

  “Hey.”

  For a moment, he couldn’t get another word out and just stared at her. Finally he managed, “How are you?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re alive.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “And the doctor says you’re doing better every day,” he added quickly, pulling himself out of his shock.

  She closed her eyes and readjusted her head on her pillow. When she opened them again, she asked, “How long have I been here?”

  “A week and a half.”

  “That long?”

  “The doctor said we can take you home soon.” He hoped that would make her feel better.

  She studied his face as if trying to see if he was lying. “How soon?”

  “Another week or so.” He leaned over the bed and brushed away a strand of her hair that had fallen over her cheek. “You need to build up some strength first, that’s all.”

  He took her hand, and realized she was staring at him again.

  “How bad?” she asked.

  “How bad what?”

  One side of her mouth rose in a weak smirk. “How bad am I?”

  “Not as bad as you were.”

  “Don’t do that. Please.” She squeezed his hand. “Just tell me.”

  He smiled as best he could. “At some point soon, you’re going to need to get your knee replaced.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You’re missing a couple things.”

  She stiffened slightly, and he could see her mind racing as she wiggled the toes on her uninjured leg, and the fingers of both hands.

  “Nothing on the outside,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “Your left kidney, and your spleen.” He raised an exaggerated eyebrow. “Apparently we’re born with two kidneys. Did you know that? And the spleen? Don’t need it. The things you learn hanging around a hospital.”

  She rolled her eyes back and let out an exasperated huff. “Dammit, Quinn. You could’ve just said that right off. For a second there I thought I was going to have to worry about mixing up prosthetics with Nate.”

  “Don’t think you guys would get mixed up. He’s a lot taller than you.”

  She clamped down on his hand, her grip surprisingly strong for her condition.

  “Hey,” he said. “Just being honest.”

  The short laugh that escaped her lips quickly turned into a cough.

  Quinn grabbed a pitcher of water on the nightstand and filled one of the waiting cups.

  “Here,” he said, slipping a hand under her head, and moving the cup to her lips. “My fault. I shouldn’t have gotten you going like that.”

  The warmth he’d begun to feel as they’d talked had disappeared the moment she stopped laughing.

  When she had enough water, she pulled back and cleared her throat. “I’m okay. My throat’s dry, that’s all.”

  He lowered her head to the pillow and returned the cup to the nightstand. “You need to take it easy. Getting stronger is your only job now.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “Get some more sleep. That’s the best thing you can do.”

  Her eyelids were already half shut, the exertion of their conversation clearly having taken its toll. Thinking she was on the verge of knocking out, he took a silent step backward and turned toward the door.

  “You weren’t here before,” she whispered.

  He stopped.

  “I woke up…I don’t know when, but you weren’t here. Liz said…you were…you were away.”

  He licked his bone-dry lips, his guilt thundering back down on him like an avalanche. “I’m here now,” he said.

  “Liz told me you were trying…to find out who was…responsible.” Her volume decreased with every syllable, each new word a struggle.

  “We can talk about it later.” Dammit. He knew his sister had said more to Orlando than she’d let on.

  Orlando took a couple of breaths. “I…want…”

  The pause was long, and Quinn wondered if she had finally drifted off. But then she cracked her eyelids open again.

  “I want…to help.”

  “Just sleep now,” he said. “That’s the best help you can give us.”

  But he needn’t have said anything. She was already out.

  TREVOR HOLLOW, VIRGINIA

  Daeng looked out the cabin window. Sometime during the night, clouds had begun rolling in. They were darker now than when he woke an hour ago, and held the promise of rain. Maybe in an hour. Maybe at the end of the day. It was hard for him to tell. In Bangkok he would have known without even thinking about it. Los Angeles, too. But this part of the States was unfamiliar to him.

  Across the room, the bedroom door opened, and Misty stepped out quietly.

  “How’s he doing?” Daeng asked.

  “I gave him some more ibuprofen, and he fell back asleep.”

  Daeng knew Howard could probably use something stronger than over-the-counter drugs, but without robbing the drugstore where they’d stopped, their choices had been limited.

  “I made some fresh coffee,” he said.

  Misty allowed herself a small smile. “Exactly what I need.” She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a cup. “You want some?”

  “I’m fine,” Daeng replied.

  When she joined him at the table, she looked at the cloth grocery bag containing Peter’s files, sitting off to the side. “We should get rid of those.”

  “Why not now?”

  Half a minute later they were kneeling in front of the fireplace, the bag between them. Using some kindling and a few pieces of wood from the holder on the hearth, Daeng got a fire going. Misty then pulled out a file, opened it, and began feeding sheets of paper one by one into the flames.

  Daeng considered helping, but he could tell that for her, this was more than a simple task of getting rid of unwanted documents. This was an act of finality — a cleansing, even — one of the last things she would ever do for Peter. There was a respect to the way she placed each page into the blaze — gently, a pause as the fire caught, then the next sheet.

  After a file was empty, the folder itself was burned before Misty moved on to the next. When she finished the last, she stared at the flames until the final bit of paper curled into black ash.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Daeng dipped his head in acknowledgment.

  He gave her another moment before he stood and grabbed the bag. The heft of the bag caused him to pause. He reached inside and pulled out the wooden box. He opened the top, expecting to see the metal canister, but it wasn’t there.

  “Do you have the microfilm?” he asked.

  “It’s not in there?”

  He turned the box so she could see.

  “Quinn must have taken it with him,” she said. “He had it last, didn’t he?”

  “Must have,” Daeng said. Not wanting to take a chance, he sent a text asking Quinn if he took the microfilm, and then carried the bag and the box to the table.
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  The reply came quickly: YES.

  That was a relief. Daeng had no desire to retrace their steps in hopes of locating the spool of film. He started to shove the box back into the bag, but stopped. He took his new role as the main support member of Nate and Quinn’s teams seriously, and had learned to always be an asset rather than a liability. One of the things Nate had stressed was details. These were the backbone of a cleaner’s job. Missing a detail could blow a whole mission and quite possibly get someone imprisoned or even killed.

  He’d almost missed such a detail. It had been right there in front of his eyes as he’d looked inside the box. The black foam that had held the canister in place had not been level with the plane of the box. Rather, it was tilted, albeit just a fraction of an inch.

  He opened the box again and double-checked to make sure he’d seen it right. He stuck a finger into the hole where the canister had been, and pulled up. As he’d suspected, the foam wasn’t glued in place. Once it cleared the opening, he could see something underneath.

  A stack of photos. Different sizes, maybe a dozen or more.

  He pulled them out.

  “Misty,” he said after he perused them. “Take a look at this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, rising off the floor.

  He showed her what he was holding.

  She held out her hand. “Let me see.” She shuffled quickly through the photos. “Where were these?”

  “In the bottom of the box. That’s her, isn’t it?”

  She said nothing until she’d looked at each one. “Yes. These were the ones in Peter’s missing file. It’s his wife, Miranda.”

  CHAPTER 21

  WASHINGTON, DC

  As soon as Griffin felt a drop of water hit the back of his hand, he turned and looked up at the sky. Dark gray clouds hung heavily over the city, the leading edge of a tropical storm that, not long before, had been an early season, category-two hurricane. According to the news, rainfall in the DC area was predicted to reach an inch and a half before the storm passed further inland.