'And why should I believe you?' Piper asked.
'I don't care if you believe me or not.'
'You should,' Tucker said.
'No,' Quinn said. 'I shouldn't. You think I'm here to foul up your gig and want to take care of me now or someone out there wants the money and shoots me in the back of the head tomorrow, what's the difference? Believe me or don't. Just choose one and let's move on.'
When no one said anything, Quinn pushed himself off his chair. 'Thanks for the talk, but I've got things to do.'
Tucker jumped up a moment after Quinn, but Piper remained seated. 'Which one of you is going to call me a cab?' Quinn asked. Finally, Piper stood up, a smile growing on his
face. 'It would be best if you left Vietnam.'
'Is tomorrow too soon?' Quinn asked.
'It'll do.' Piper laughed quietly. 'A piece of advice.'
Quinn said nothing.
'Get yourself a new partner. He's very sloppy. Leo followed him most of the day without ever being spotted. Clothing shops, a couple of cosmetic stalls, some T-shirt stands.'
Leo shrugged. 'When I left him, he was eating dinner at a restaurant off Hai Ba Trung.'
'If you're really leaving tomorrow, I think we can live with that,' Piper said. 'But don't push it. Twenty-five thousand dollars isn't enough for me to get involved. But I can't speak for Leo here. Or even Art. He may feel the money should be his in exchange for the pain you've caused him. If you're still here the day after tomorrow, I can't guarantee your safety.'
'No hard feelings, I hope?'Tucker asked. He held out his hand. Reluctantly, Quinn shook it. 'Can I get my money back now?' he asked.
'What? Oh, right.' Tucker pulled the cash and map out of his pocket and handed everything to Quinn, who then slipped it all into his pocket. 'I'll walk you out,' Tucker said. 'Make sure you get that cab.'
They turned for the door.
'Mr. Quinn,' Piper said. Quinn looked back. 'I don't know for a fact who's put up the reward, but that doesn't mean I don't hear rumors.'
'What's the rumor?' Quinn asked.
A pause. Then Piper said, 'Borko.'
'Borko?'
Piper nodded. 'He's no friend of mine, and by your reaction, he's not one of yours either. I'd be careful if I were you.' Quinn stood motionless for a moment, absorbing this new information, then nodded and left.
Chapter 15
It was during the cab ride back to the hotel that Piper's identity finally clicked in Quinn's mind. Reuben Piper. He could be no one else. Durrie's first partner, long before Quinn had joined the business. Durrie had seldom spoken of Piper, but occasionally a story would come out. Quinn could recall few details. The pairing had ended badly, though. That much he did remember.
The cab dropped Quinn off in front of the Rex at 11:30 p.m. Technically, it was after the citywide
11:00 p.m. curfew, but the streets were still busy, and Quinn had noticed several restaurants and clubs still open during the drive back. His mind spinning, the last thing he wanted to do was to go up to his room, yet the idea of returning to a club did not appeal to him. He considered for a moment walking over to Mai 99, but opted in the end for the rooftop bar at the Rex.
As he took a sip from a glass of Tiger beer, he couldn't help but consider the ramifications of his encounter with Piper. Quinn had thought he was coming to a safe haven in Vietnam. Instead he and Nate had been spotted the moment they'd stepped off the plane. And as if that little bit of news needed an extra kicker, Piper's revelation that Borko might be involved in the disruption was disturbing to say the least.
About the only positive that came out of the impromptu meeting was what Piper had not said. There'd been no mention of Orlando at all. If Piper had known she was also here, he wouldn't have let Quinn go so easily. It was bad enough having Quinn in town, but two top-level agents in Saigon at the same time? Two agents who not only knew each other, but had worked extensively together in the past? It would have been too much. But apparently their paths had not crossed in the couple of months Piper had been there.
Quinn's thoughts returned to Borko. He was a problem, and not just a small one. It was like going to the dentist for a cleaning and being told you had to have multiple root canals right away, Quinn thought, then quickly changed his mind. More like going to the dentist and being told all your teeth have to be pulled out.
Still, Quinn had to admit, Borko's involvement made a certain amount of sense. Undertaking a disruption was a huge task, one that usually wasn't worth the risk. But Borko's organization was the Sex Pistols of the intelligence world, willing to do things that few of their competitors would touch. The strategy both helped and hurt Borko. Most clients wouldn't deal with him. But occasionally an unconventional need would arise, and that's when he'd get a call.
While Quinn's path had crossed that of the Serbian's organization only once, it was enough. No matter how hard he tried, the memory of that job was something he could never forget.
It had been six years earlier in Toronto.
It started off like a lot of his jobs did, with Quinn crammed in the back of a van, staring at a rack of monitors mounted temporarily against the wall. This time the images on the screens were different angles of a work area in a City of Toronto vehicle maintenance facility. He wasn't the only one watching. Two other guys were shoehorned in there with him.
'What's that? Eight shots?'
'Nine,' Quinn said.
Dan Skyler, the one who asked the question, was sitting to Quinn's right. He was a local guy Quinn had hired for the gig, a disposal specialist among other things, though Quinn wasn't planning on tapping into that part of Skyler's talents.
When the job had been offered to him, it had been characterized as being straightforward. Keep an eye on things as the exchange went down, then go in after everyone was gone and sanitize the scene
– remove any trace of their presences: tire tracks, fingerprints, footprints, things moved out of place, any physical evidence at all that might lead someone to pick up the trail of the asset. If someone had later been able to trace the asset to the exchange location, it needed to be a dead end. Quinn liked to think of it as a water job. Like in a movie, where someone would run into a creek and use the water to cover his tracks and wash away any scent he might leave behind. Quinn's job was to be the creek.
Only based on the scene in front of them, it was going to take more than just a creek to clean things up. Skyler's specialty was going to be needed after all.
To Quinn's left was Joseph Glaze. He was with the client, a group called V12, there to monitor Quinn's work and communicate back to his superiors when everything was done. Not a situation Quinn was particularly fond of, but it sometimes came with the job.
'Jesus Christ,' Glaze said, his eyes wide. 'We need to do something.' He started to push himself up out of his chair, but Quinn reached over and grabbed Glaze's shoulder.
'Hold on,' Quinn said.
'But –'
'It's not our job.'
Reluctantly, Glaze sat back down.
For nearly a minute, all was quiet on the display screens. No noise, no movement. Quinn took a slow, deep breath as he scanned the monitors. What was supposed to have been a simple asset transfer had turned into a massacre. The floor of the garage was becoming stained by something more than motor fluids.
'I count three down,' Quinn said.
'That's the whole transfer team,' Glaze said. He leaned forward for a closer look. 'Where's the asset?' They scanned the monitors for several seconds. 'There she is,' Skyler said, pointing at one of the
screens.
Quinn looked over. The asset was half hidden in a shadow cast by a stack of steel drums. As Quinn watched, her right foot moved a few inches.
'She's still alive,' he said.
'Are you sure?' Skyler asked.
Quinn nodded.
'We've got to do something,' Glaze said.
'You want to tell me what?' Quinn asked.
'We can't just sit he
re.'
'Yes, we can.'
'We've got movement,' Skyler said.
Four men were moving into frame on the wide shot. Each was dressed in dark clothing, and all were carrying identical weapons – Heckler and Koch G36K assault rifles. Those were not the weapons V12's team had been equipped with.
The four men moved cautiously across the floor, the barrels of their guns sweeping the areas in front of them. As they reached the first of the bodies lying on the floor, one of the men pushed it with his foot. There was no reaction. The second body yielded the same results. But the last moaned as the foot was jammed into his side. Without hesitating, one of the armed men pointed his G36K at the man's head and pulled the trigger.
As they rounded the stack of drums, their rifles suddenly tightened against their shoulders, barrels pointed at the asset.
'Secure,' one of the gunmen called out. 'She's unarmed.' Then, more quietly, said, 'Get up. Slowly.'
The asset rose to her feet. The gunman who had spoken motioned for her to move forward. As she stepped out of the shadow, she appeared to be
cradling her right arm. Blood soaked her sleeve, but otherwise she appeared uninjured. 'Who's that?' Quinn asked. Movement had caused him to look at the monitor on the far right.
From the same direction the four gunmen had entered, a fifth man appeared. This one was different from the others. He was wearing an expensive-looking gray suit, and unlike his friends, he wasn't carrying a rifle. But there was a bulge at the small of his back, under his jacket. So he wasn't completely unarmed. He was tall and thin; Quinn guessed maybe six foot three, and 170 pounds. His dark brown hair was long, falling just below his shoulders in waves and curls that made his head appear larger than it was. Though there was no smile on his face, Quinn sensed an air of satisfaction surrounding him. No, it was more than that – an air of superiority, of extreme confidence in every step he took.
'I think we need to get out of here,' Glaze said.
'What are you talking about?' Skyler asked.
'We need to leave,' Glaze said. 'Now.'
'A minute ago you were ready to rush in there and help,' Quinn said.
'I was wrong.' Glaze started to rise again. This time instead of heading toward the back door, he was turning toward the front of the van.
'Hold on,' Quinn said. 'We're not going anywhere.' 'Don't you know who that is?' Glaze stared at the other two, eyes blazing. 'That's Borko.' There was a moment of silence as Quinn and Skyler looked back at the screen. 'No shit?' Skyler said.
Quinn stared intently. He'd only seen pictures of Borko before, none very good. The man in the garage certainly could have been the Serb. He fit the description.
'How do you know?' Quinn asked.
Glaze stared down at Quinn. 'Because I worked with him before, that's how,' he said, as if daring Quinn to challenge him. 'Last year. We used him on a job. I met him at the setup meeting. He didn't do what we asked. People died who shouldn't have died. But he didn't care. I don't think he cares about anything.'
Glaze couldn't fake the fear that radiated from his words. There was little chance he was lying. Quinn looked at the screen again.
Borko was one fucked-up son of a bitch. Not everyone in the business knew who he was, but Quinn had heard stories from several very reliable sources. Borko reportedly cut his teeth as one of the late Slobodan Milosevic's ethnic-cleansing experts. He was even said to be a member of the Sluzba drzavne bezbednosti – Milosevic's malevolent state security service – getting his start in the early 1990s infiltrating university student groups to help quell an uprising that threatened to topple the regime.
He should have been arrested years ago. He should have stood trial for crimes against humanity in the World Court in The Hague. He should have been killed a thousand times over, but he hadn't been.
In fact, he'd simply disappeared when the war ended, his name never appearing on any wanted list. A few years later he resurfaced, this time as the head of his own little organization. For a price, he and his team were available to do people's dirty work. The only limitation on projects they would accept was the price clients were willing to pay.
'Don't you get it?' Glaze said. 'He's going to come after us next.'
'No,' Quinn said. 'He isn't.'
'What the fuck are you talking about?' Glaze said. 'He's going to kill us.'
Quinn looked up at Glaze, his gaze steady but calm. Finally, the look in Glaze's eyes changed from fear to dawning understanding. Slowly, he sat back down.
'If he knew we were here,' Glaze began, 'he'd already have come after us, right? Before he went inside.'
'Exactly,' Quinn said.
'You're sure?' Glaze asked.
'I'm sure.'
They returned their attention to the screens. Two of Borko's men had escorted the asset into the center of the room. She didn't even try hiding her fear; Quinn could clearly see it on her face. What was happening wasn't part of the plan that had been laid out to her. V12 was just supposed to transfer her to a team from SCG, who in turn would have been responsible for getting her safely out of the country. That was the service her friends had paid for. That was what the asset had been expecting.
Borko approached the woman.
'Are you Karina Sanchez?' he asked. 'I don't know who that is,' she said much too quickly.
Borko smiled, then casually removed his pistol from under his jacket and slapped the woman across the face with its barrel. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. When she looked up, blood began seeping out of the new cut on her cheek.
'Are you Karina Sanchez?' Borko asked again.
Before she could answer, a noise came from the side of the room. It was a door opening. Borko's gunmen whipped around, their rifles pointed at the source.
Quinn's eyes jumped to the monitor with the best view. Two men had just entered the building. They were talking at first, two friends arriving early to work. One was carrying a cup of coffee, while the other held a toolbox.
The moment they saw Borko and his men, the man with the coffee dropped his cup and bolted for the door. A bullet took off the back of his head before he could escape. His friend watched, frozen to the spot where he stood. As he turned his eyes back toward the center of the room, he was greeted with the barrels of four guns pointed at him.
'Hey, it's cool,' the man said. 'Listen, I don't care what you're doing. Just let me go and I'll keep my mouth shut.'
Borko reached down and lifted the asset back to her feet, then looked at the new arrival. 'Why don't you come over here for a moment?'
The man hesitated. 'I think it might be better if I just leave.'
'You a mechanic? This where you work?' Borko asked.
The man nodded.
'You're a little early, aren't you?'
'Just picking up a little overtime,' the man said. 'That's all. I'll come back later, okay?' 'Bring him over,' Borko said to his team. One of the men approached the mechanic, his
gun pointed at the man's head. 'Move,' the gunman said. The mechanic did as he was told, stopping when he was only a few feet away from Borko. 'You can put that down,' Borko said, glancing at the toolbox.
The man seemed to suddenly remember he was carrying something, then quickly set the box down on the floor. 'I swear, you let me go, I'll forget I ever saw you.'
But Borko had stopped listening. His attention was back on the asset.
'Miss Sanchez, the person who paid me to find you is not very happy that you decided to find employment elsewhere. As you can imagine, he is not anxious for others in his organization to follow your lead. So he has asked me to make sure you let the others know you made a mistake.'
Borko nodded once. Two of his men quickly shouldered their rifles and grabbed the mechanic by the arms. Once he was secure, Borko kneeled down next to the toolbox and opened it.
'What do you carry in here?' Borko asked. Before the man could reply, Borko reached into the box and pulled something out. 'This will be fine.'
As
he stood up, Quinn could see a long, thin screwdriver in the Serb's hand. Borko looked back at the woman.
'Don't worry. I am not actually expecting you to make any kind of speech. There are many ways to deliver a message. Perhaps you'd like to get a preview of what your message will look like.'
Borko turned to the mechanic, the screwdriver held tightly in his hand.
'What the fuck?' the man said. 'Come on. I ain't done nothing. Please.'
The Serb put his free hand on the man's shoulder, smiled, then jabbed the screwdriver deep into the man's abdomen.
The mechanic cried out in agony and started to double over. But the gunmen held him up so Borko could pull the tool out. Borko waited a moment, then shoved it in again, this time on the other side.
The mechanic vomited, his breakfast barely missing Borko's shoes. Borko once again removed the screwdriver. This time he held the bloody weapon in front of the asset's face.
'You see, one more time and he'll probably pass out,' he said. 'He won't be dead yet, but he will miss all the fun. This method is effective, but most of the damage is on the inside. Outside? Only a couple of small holes. Not very dramatic. To be an effective message, there has to be a more dramatic presentation.'
Without warning, he lashed out with the screwdriver, slashing its blade across the mechanic's face, detaching part of the man's cheek. He did it again and again and again. Face, neck, shoulders, chest.
Finally he plunged the weapon upward under the man's rib cage, undoubtedly aiming for the heart.
Within seconds, the mechanic was dead.
As the gunmen let the body slump to the floor, Borko pulled his makeshift weapon out and turned back to the asset, smiling.
'So, Miss Sanchez, are you ready?'
He raised the bloody screwdriver again.
After Borko and his team cleared out, Quinn told Skyler to get behind the wheel, but not to start the engine yet. Quinn glanced at his watch, then fixed his eyes on the monitor displaying the wide shot of the carnage. Each minute that passed was agony to Quinn. The chance that another civilian – perhaps a security guard, or another city worker arriving early – would enter the room and find the massacre increased with each moment Quinn continued to hold their position. But he'd been well trained, and understood that caution was one of the most important parts of the job.
The Cleaner Page 12
