The Cleaner

by Brett Battles

  The wait paid off. After nearly fifteen minutes someone stepped out from the shadows of one of the trucks. It was Borko himself, armed now with one of the G36K rifles. He appeared to be alone. Does the son of a bitch think he could take on an entire rescue team by himself? Quinn thought, then paused. He probably does, and probably could.

  The Serb walked around for a moment, gave each body a shove, then exited the building.

  Another fifteen minutes passed. Quinn wanted to wait longer, but knew they couldn't chance it. Finally, he said, 'Now.'

  Skyler started the engine and pulled out. 'Don't rush,' Quinn reminded him. 'Nice and easy. Like a routine you do every day.'

  Per their plan, Skyler didn't drive directly to the entrance of the garage. Instead he drove a route that took him around several buildings in the immediate vicinity, checking for Borko and his men.

  They found no sign of them.

  'What about SCG?' Glaze asked. 'We were transferring her to them. Their guys have to be here somewhere.'

  Quinn shook his head. 'Their guys never made it.'

  As Skyler drove toward the garage, Quinn handed Glaze two pairs of gloves. One pair was the lightweight rubber kind doctors used. The other was also rubber, only heavy duty – janitor gloves, extra tough. He and Skyler had similar sets.

  'What are these for?' Glaze said.

  'You're going to have to help us,' Quinn said. 'Gloves on at all times. Surgical first, then the others over the top. Only take the thick ones off if you need to do detailed work. But be careful. No prints. You get a tear, you let me know. I'll get you another pair.'

  Quinn could still see the fear in the other man's eyes. But to Glaze's credit, he didn't protest.

  'One more thing. When we're inside, I do the talking. No comments. No unnecessary noise. If you have a question, okay. But think it through first and keep it brief. Understand?'

  'I understand.' Glaze's voice was a dry whisper. At the garage, Quinn entered first, slipping in through the back door and making a quick search

  of the facility. Except for the bodies, they were alone.

  Despite not expecting any casualties, Quinn had come prepared with plenty of plastic sheeting. He, Skyler, and Glaze were able to get the bodies wrapped quickly, securing each package with duct tape, then loaded them into the back of the van. It was a tight fit, but they were able to get them all in. All, that is, except the civilian shot while running for the door.

  'Not yet,' Quinn said when the other two moved to wrap the man up.

  Instead, he had them turn their attention to the blood on the cement. While Skyler and Glaze mopped up the excess fluids, Quinn searched the garage. He found several bags of absorbent sand, probably used to soak up motor oil spills. Quinn brought one of the bags over to where the murders had occurred.

  As Skyler and Glaze finished, Quinn poured sand over the wet spots on the concrete to draw out as much of the blood as possible. He knew there would be a stain, but the plan he had in mind would deal with that.

  While the sand did its work, Quinn and his team did a detailed search of the room, collecting all the brass left over from the gunfire. When they were done, Quinn stood still for a moment, taking in the room.

  'Toolbox,' he said to Skyler.

  Skyler immediately walked over and picked up the abandoned box, then set it by the door so they'd take it with them when they left. They had already found the screwdriver. Borko had conveniently left it shoved up one of the asset's nostrils.

  To Glaze, Quinn said, 'Scoop up the sand. I notice a box of heavy-duty trash bags under the workbench. If you don't fill them too much, they should be able to hold everything. When you're done, get the wet-dry vacuum from the van to make sure you get it all.'

  'What about him?' Skyler said, nodding toward the dead mechanic by the door.

  'We leave him here,' Quinn said. 'There's spray paint in the kit in the back of the van. Tag a few of the vehicles, some of the walls.'

  They would make it look like an act of vandalism gone bad. To cover the bloodstains, Quinn would open one of the fifty-gallon drums of used motor oil, letting it spill over the entire floor. Hide one crime scene with another. And at least this way, one family would have some kind of closure.

  Quinn gave the room one final look before they left. It was a good job, and, surprisingly, it had gone quickly. Only eighteen minutes by his watch. But it wasn't their handiwork that stuck in his mind as he climbed into the van. It was Borko and that goddamn screwdriver.

  Karma was something Quinn was pretty sure existed. Only in his mind it wasn't perfect. Some people got away with some pretty bad shit. If Borko's karma ever came back at him, it was going to be hellish. And for just a moment, Quinn was not opposed to exacting some of the payment himself.

  'Have you ever dealt with anything like that before?' Glaze asked as they drove away.

  'It's what we do,' Quinn said.

  'Are they all like that?'

  'I've seen worse,' Quinn lied.

  Quinn ordered another beer. It was nearing midnight, and the Saigon evening had finally turned pleasant. Still warm, but the humidity had dropped to bearable levels. There were about a dozen or so other people spread out across the rooftop dining area. But at the bar there was only Quinn and the bartender.

  Quinn took a deep drink from the bottle before setting it down on the counter. It had been six years since that incident in Toronto, yet Quinn had still never encountered another incident as brutal.

  Borko.

  Shit.

  He raised his beer to his lips and finished it off. 'Another,' he said to the bartender.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning there was another message from Duke.

  Xavier, We're on. Need you in Berlin by Sunday. You are registered as Donald Bragg at the Dorint Hotel Am Gendarmenmarkt. Contact information and update after you arrive. Advise any arrangements I need to make for your team

  P4J

  Quinn sent Duke a confirmation.

  'We're definitely leaving today,' Quinn said.

  He and Nate were sitting with Orlando at the table in her dining room eating pho – Vietnamese soup – that Trinh had made. Quinn had already filled both of them in on his meeting with Piper, leaving out only the part about Leo Tucker tailing Nate. Though Orlando was aware Piper and his

  team were in Ho Chi Minh City, she was pleased to hear they weren't aware of her. Quinn turned his attention to the job in Berlin. 'Were you able to find anyone for me?'

  'I don't want you to argue with me about this,' Orlando said, her eyes locking on his. 'It makes the most sense.'

  'No,' Quinn said, realizing where she was headed.

  'I'm the logical choice. There's going to be a lot of surveillance going on. That means a ton of data that needs to be processed and analyzed. That's what I do. I'm the best and you know it.' She paused. 'There's no choice here, Quinn. You need me. And I'm coming.'

  'We can do this without you,' he said. 'There are others who can handle it.' She stood, picking up her empty bowl of soup. 'I've already got my ticket,' she said. 'I leave tomorrow.'

  Nate looked down at his bowl of pho as if it had suddenly become the most important thing in the world.

  'Dammit!' Quinn said. He stood and followed her into the kitchen. 'I said I don't need you.'

  'My son will be fine while I'm gone.'

  'I didn't say anything about him,' Quinn said.

  She set the empty bowl in the sink, then looked at Quinn for a moment. 'But it's what you're worried about.'

  Quinn took a deep breath. She was at least partially right. But it was more than just her son that concerned him.

  Orlando returned to the living room. Again, Quinn followed.

  As she sat back down she said, 'Remember that

  Indian restaurant near Oranienburger Strasse?' 'What are you talking about?' Quinn asked. 'It was just north of the Mitte.' Quinn closed his eyes for a moment as his mind

  switched gears. 'Amit? Amid? Something
like that?' 'Amirit,' she said. 'We'll meet there at nine p.m.

  Saturday.' 'Orlando –' 'Quinn, don't. Just tell me you'll meet me there.' He didn't bother masking his irritation. 'I'm not

  going to be happy about it.'

  'Good. You shouldn't be,' she said. 'Today I'll work on getting all the equipment arranged. Any special requests?'

  Quinn took a deep breath, then thought for a moment. 'A surveillance kit. Weapons. We'll need video taps, too.'

  'How many?' 'I don't know,' Quinn said. 'At least fifteen to be

  safe.' She looked over at Nate. 'What do you use?' Nate looked up seconds later, confused by the

  silence. 'What? Are you talking to me?' 'What kind of gun?' 'I have a Walther back home.' She frowned. 'A Glock would be better. Light

  weight. Single-action. Easy to use.' 'I've never had any problems with the Walther.' 'A Glock would be better.' A hesitation, then he said, 'Okay.' Orlando wasn't writing any of it down, but Quinn

  had no doubt she would remember. She asked, 'Is that it?' 'If you have any time, a little info on what Borko's been up to lately could be useful.'

  'Don't press your luck,' she said.

  'What kind of name is Borko?' Nate asked.

  'That's a stupid question,' Quinn said.

  Nate looked momentarily stung, then his eyes narrowed in thought. 'Okay,' he said. 'Should I be worried about him?'

  'That's better. And the answer is yes,' Quinn said.

  'He led a group of Bosnian Serbs during the war,' Orlando added. "They were particularly adept at ethnic cleansing.'

  'Great,' Nate said, not looking happy.

  Quinn turned to Orlando. 'So how about it?'

  'I'm going to have to bring in some outside help on this,' she told him. 'Your paranoid friend?' 'Not paranoid. Just cautious. He's already helping

  us with the slide, anyway.'

  Orlando's contact went by the name 'the Mole.' Quinn had never talked to him. For all he knew, the Mole was some college geek playing spy out of his dorm room. Given his choice of a code name, Quinn wouldn't have been too surprised if that was true. 'Just don't run up a big tab. Okay?'

  'Mama?'

  The child's voice came from behind Quinn. He turned.

  Garrett, Orlando's son, was standing near the entrance to the dining room. Awake, he looked even more Caucasian than he had when he was sleeping.

  'Garrett,' Orlando said as she stood up. 'I heard loud talk,' the boy said in English. 'Are you mad?' 'No, honey. Everything's fine. Come and say hello to Jonathan and Nate.' The boy approached cautiously, then stuck out his hand. 'Hello, Mr. Jonathan. Hello, Mr. Nate.' Quinn squatted down to the boy's level to shake

  hands. 'Good morning, Garrett,' Quinn said. 'Are you a friend of Mama's?' 'Yes. I am.' Garrett turned to Nate. 'What about you?' Nate nodded his head. 'Sure. I'm her friend.' 'Do you want to watch a movie with me?' Garrett

  asked. He looked up at his mom. 'Can we watch

  Increbidolls?'

  'We'd love to,' Quinn said. 'But we have to leave.' Garrett frowned, disappointed. 'Maybe next time,' Orlando said. 'But you can

  watch it in my room, okay?' 'Okay,' Garrett said, brightening. Quinn put a hand gently on Garrett's shoulder. 'It

  was a pleasure meeting you. You take it easy, okay?' 'Yes, sir.' Quinn looked at Orlando. 'I don't want you to

  come.'

  She looked back at him. 'Neither do I,' she said. 'I'll see you in Berlin.' She pulled Garrett to her and mussed his hair.

  Her son smiled. 'Mama, stop.'

  Back in his hotel room, Quinn gathered the few things he'd unpacked and threw them back in his bag. The new clothes and other items Nate had picked up had already been split between them and put in each of their bags. He then met up with Nate downstairs so they could make their flight arrangements.

  'There are several airlines that fly out of Ho Chi Minh City,' the woman at the desk told them. 'Thai Airways. And Air France, of course. Their office is just across the street, next to the Hotel Continental.'

  Quinn thanked her, then headed for the exit with Nate in tow. While Thai Airways was one of his favorite ways to fly, Air France sounded like the better bet. They should be able to make it all the way to Europe with minimal trouble. And if they could go through France, even better. A couple of Caucasian passengers carrying European passports and arriving on a European airline would draw little attention.

  The woman at the counter of the Air France office informed Quinn that there was a flight leaving that evening for Bangkok, where he could connect on a flight to Paris. 'Are there any seats available?' Quinn asked.

  'How many tickets do you need?' She looked Vietnamese and spoke English with a French accent.

  'Two,' Quinn said. 'That shouldn't be a problem. May I see your passports?' Five minutes later, they had their tickets.

  Quinn allowed Nate a final meal at Mai 99, but didn't let him go alone. Of course, Anh was there.

  In a way, he envied the distraction she had provided Nate. There were times when Quinn longed for a similar tangent, a little time when he could forget the shit his life had become. In reality the few women he had gotten even remotely close to had only served as ultimately unsuccessful attempts at self-deception, none ever completely helping him forget the fact he wanted to be with someone else. They basically ended up being only bridges from one point to another. Nothing more. An emotional connection, something deeper that could have lasted more than a few months or even a year, eluded him.

  He tried to convince himself it was his line of work that made things difficult.

  'Getting hooked on one woman is the last thing you want to do,' Durrie had told him when Quinn once casually mentioned he'd met a woman he liked. 'She becomes your weak spot. And once you have a weak spot, you're through. Fuck around all you want. There's pussy everywhere. Just don't get hung up on just one. It'll get you killed. Understand?'

  Ironic, given Durrie's own entanglement with Orlando, but it had stuck with Quinn. He even turned it into a kind of mantra, using it as an excuse for why he had to live his life alone. But deep inside, in the part of his mind he always tried to ignore, he knew the truth. He knew the reason why his relationships didn't work. It had nothing to do with his mentor's advice.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it. He had made a promise, and to act on his true feelings would mean breaking that promise.

  It didn't matter that Durrie was dead. Quinn had given his word to avoid getting involved with her.

  'You're her best friend,' Durrie had said. It was a week before the operation that took him down. He had asked Quinn to fly down to San Diego to discuss the upcoming gig. 'If she needs anything, and I'm not there to help, you make sure she gets it.'

  'You know I will,' Quinn said.

  'By helping, I don't mean moving in. You get me?'

  Quinn froze momentarily. 'I –'

  'Shut up,' Durrie said. 'I'm not stupid. I know you love her, Johnny. But she'll always be mine. Understand?'

  The only thing Quinn could do was nod. Durrie was a shit to the end. He knew Quinn too well. He knew when Quinn made a promise, he'd keep it. Even a promise to a dead man.

  He'd kept the promise, too. Even in the years he and Orlando had not talked, he'd kept tabs on her. Paying others to go to wherever she was living, checking that everything was okay. But he never went himself. He feared he wouldn't be able to stay away from her if he did.

  After Quinn finished his dinner and drank the last of his Tiger beer, he slipped Nate five hundred dollars under the table.

  'What's this for?' Nate asked.

  'Put it under your plate when we leave.'

  Nate still stared at him, not getting it.

  'It's a tip.'

  'This is not a tip,' Nate said.

  'Think of it this way,' Quinn said. 'You may not ever see her again, but she'll never forget you.' 'I thought the idea was always to be forgettable,' Nate said. Quinn stood up, gave Nate a half smile, then turned
for the door.

  Chapter 17

  They separated in Bangkok, Quinn sticking with Air France headed to Paris, while Nate flew British Airways to London, transferring to a British Midland flight across the Channel.

  Quinn was waiting for him near the gate when he arrived, and was happy to see Nate had followed his directions. Gone were the jeans and short-sleeved shirts he had been wearing in Vietnam. They had been replaced by a sharp-looking dark blue business suit, white shirt, and matching patterned tie. Gone, also, was the slightly unkempt brown hair. Now he was sporting a slicked-down, side-parted hairdo. The gel he used had darkened the shade of his hair considerably.

  'Well done,' Quinn said as he fell into step next to his apprentice.

  'Thanks,' Nate said. 'I had, like, fifteen minutes in London to change, goop up, and catch my flight. I probably had some of that crap still on my hand when I gave the attendant my ticket.'

  'Really?' Quinn asked, suddenly concerned.

  'No, Dad. Not really,' Nate said. 'I like your glasses.'

  'You can have them when I'm through.'

  'I don't like them that much.'

  Like Nate, Quinn had also changed his appearance. The glasses were black framed, narrow and stylish. He, too, wore a suit, only his was black and the shirt beneath a dark shade of gray. But unlike Nate, he'd had more time to deal with his hair. He'd shaved it close, leaving little more than a quarter inch all the way around.

  'We're on the five p.m. to Berlin,' Quinn said. 'Lufthansa.'

  As they moved on, Quinn sensed the mood of his apprentice changing, becoming tenser. Until now, they had been playing a game of hide-andseek. But Berlin was a real job, real work, and, undoubtedly, real danger. And the memory of Gibson couldn't be far from Nate's mind.

  'Pop quiz,' Quinn said.

  'I'm sorry?'

  'In The Odessa File, tell me what Jon Voigt's character did right at the printer's shop.' 'Um . . .' Nate blinked. 'He took the gun.' 'Right. And what did he do wrong after breaking into Roschmann's mansion?'