Petra hesitated. Dombrovski had said Nova could be trusted. “We need to talk to them because we think they can lead us to someone else,” she said.
Nova let out a little laugh and shook his head. “Rurik, show our new friends out.”
The guard stepped out from the wall.
“The Ghost,” Petra said quickly. “We’re looking for the Ghost.”
Nova stared at her, his relaxed, superior attitude gone. “The Ghost?”
“Yes.”
“Who sent you to me? Dombrovski?”
Petra nodded. “We worked for him.”
“But no longer?”
She paused, then said, “He’s dead.”
“When?” Nova asked, surprised.
“Three weeks ago.”
“How did it happen?”
“The Ghost tracked him down,” she said, seeing no need to explain further.
Nova seemed lost in thought, then he shook his head incredulously. “He tried to convince me when I was still in Moscow to help him, did he tell you that?”
Yes, she thought, but she remained silent.
“I told him what he was trying to do was impossible. No one would find the Ghost. No one knew who he was, or what he looked liked. I told him for all we knew the Ghost was probably dead. That those he silenced were the only ones who could do anything now.” He locked eyes with Petra. “Are you telling me I was wrong?”
She stared right back at him. “How am I supposed to answer that?”
“Tell me the truth.”
“We don’t know the truth yet,” she said. “But we are close.”
“You know who the Ghost is?”
“We know his Russian name. Nikolai Palavin.”
“His Russian name? What do you mean?”
“We believe he fled Russia not long before Gorbachev gave up power.”
“So you think this Palavin is in London?” Nova asked. “I have never heard of him.”
“We don’t know where he is, but we think a person who does is here.”
“The men you asked about.”
“Yes,” Petra said.
Nova shook his head. “If they do, why would they tell you?”
Petra thought of Dombrovski, and of Kolya, and of Luka, and of all those lost. “Because we will make them.” She paused. “Will you help us?”
Nova was silent for several seconds, then he smiled. “I can tell you where they are, but you’ll have to figure out how to get them to talk.”
“That’s all we want.”
“There is a matter of payment,” Nova said.
“We were hoping you’d do this as a favor.”
The small man grunted a laugh. “I don’t even do favors for my family.”
“We don’t have very much,” Petra said.
“I don’t want your money.”
Petra was confused. “Then, what?”
He leaned forward, the look on his face deadly serious. “If you catch the Ghost, I want you to come back here, and I want you to tell me.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s enough.”
* * *
Nova had provided addresses and descriptions for both Currie and Wills. Mikhail went off to check out Wills, while Petra concentrated on Currie.
She had located the flat in Chelsea where Currie was supposed to be working, but after several hours she had not caught a glimpse of the man. It didn’t help that dark clouds had moved over the city and let loose a steady, cold rain.
Mikhail wasn’t having any better luck with Wills.
“There are lights on inside,” he said, “but no one has come out. How long do we wait?”
“As long as we need to.”
But by ten-thirty that evening there had still been no sign of either man, and, reluctantly, Petra decided they should return to the apartment.
“Tomorrow we’ll switch targets,” she said as she lay down on her mattress. “That way we will both be familiar with the neighborhoods they live in.”
For a moment there was no response. Petra thought that Mikhail must already be asleep, but then he said in a low voice, “Perhaps it will change our luck.”
She nodded in the dark. Perhaps.
Chapter 23
The Eurostar left Paris Nord at 8:13 P.M. On Its three-hour trip to London. As it emerged from the Chunnel — the tunnel under the English Channel — Quinn’s phone vibrated. He had two text messages. Both coming while he’d been under the sea. The first was from Nate:
In for the night. All clear here.
Good, Quinn thought. One less thing for him to worry about at the moment. The second was Orlando:
Have rerouted. Will arrive London in a.m.
Ck email 4 details.
This mean you’ve reconsidered the job 4 Wills?
Quinn had left her a message after Julien had shown him the photo, but he hadn’t told her yet that he would be there, too. Hopefully, she’d see that as a pleasant surprise.
That she hadn’t mentioned Quinn’s mother meant she’d been able to get everything set up. Add that one to the worry-less list, too.
Outside, the half-moon was still low on the horizon, but it provided enough light for Quinn to make out the countryside. There was a quiet to the land, a sense that tomorrow would be very much like today, and yesterday, and the day before that.
While he couldn’t pretend that even the simplest of lives had no complications, just for a second he longed for the sameness the people he was passing seemed to have, for the strength of continuity.
Of course he had had it once. When he was young. Only then he had chafed under the weight of small-town life. Back then he had longed for the anonymity that could only come when surrounded by millions of others. And truth be told, he knew that if he was to return to that quiet life now, he would once again go crazy. Maybe not at first, but in time.
“Where do you want to go most?” a seven-year-old Liz had asked her fifteen-year-old brother.
“Everywhere,” Jake replied.
“You have to pick just one. You made me pick one.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Pangaea.”
It was a name he’d read in a geography book. The name of the continent formed when all the continents were still together.
“Pangaea?” Her face crinkled in thought. “Where’s that?”
“I’ll let you figure it out.”
“When you go there,” she said, suddenly serious, “you’ll always come home, right?”
Home to Liz meant Warroad, and the farm, and the way of life that was already crushing him. But home to Jake was going to be somewhere else entirely. Chicago, perhaps, or Miami. Or even New York or Los Angeles. Places that had possibilities. Places that could act as hubs from which to explore the rest of the world.
“Yes,” he said to her. Not lying, not really.
Beyond the window of the train, the farmland was slowly being replaced by city. Soon he’d arrive in London.
He closed his eyes for a moment. So many lies he’d ended up telling. And what had they got him? His sister in peril. His mother hosting a man who was trained to kill in her guest room. Everything he’d worked to hide, exposed.
He blinked, then looked out the window again.
He’d made a promise long ago to always protect his family from harm. And no matter what it took, that was one promise he could never allow himself to break.
* * *
Like many places in London, Belgrave Road had once been a residential street that had, at some point in the past, been converted for business use. In this case, what had previously been five-story homes sitting side by side had been turned into a dozen or more small hotels.
Quinn chose one of the larger establishments, a place called the Silvain Hotel. He liked the fact that it was located on a corner, and since it was four homes wide, there would be plenty of exits if he found himself in need of a quick escape.
“May I help you?” The man at the front desk was of Indian de
scent, but his accent was pure British. His colleague, a blonde woman with fair skin and an almost model-like angularity to her face, came off as either Nordic or Eastern European. She glanced up from her terminal, gave Quinn a quick smile, then returned to her work.
“I’m wondering if you have any rooms available?” Quinn asked.
“How long would you like to stay with us?”
“At least a week.”
The clerk smiled. Long-term guests were always good for business. “Let me check.”
While he did, Quinn scanned the lobby. There was a comfortable seating area, and beyond it a small bar with a lounge that disappeared around the corner.
“We have two rooms to choose from,” the desk clerk said to Quinn.
“Excellent.”
“May I please have your name, sir?”
“Of course. James Shelby.”
“And you’ll be with us for a week?”
“We’ll start with that.”
* * *
His room was two floors up. It had a double bed that took up over half the available floor space, and a small but serviceable bathroom. Along the back wall a single window looked across a narrow alley hemmed in on the other side by a brick apartment building. Quinn raised the window, then stuck his head out into the cold night air and looked down.
Not as bad as he thought. A three-floor drop might have been doable in a pinch, but there would have been too much chance of injury. Fortunately, the ground floor stuck out into the alley two stories below, making the drop more manageable.
He looked at his watch. It was late, almost eleven. He could pack it in for the night, but he still needed to figure out what he should do next. He needed to find out why MI6 would send someone to check out his sister’s apartment. But how to do that?
The more he thought about it, the more his mind kept coming back to the same solution. David Wills. Wills had mentioned his connection with the British intelligence agency. He could be a way in. Quinn pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Hello?” Wills’s voice was groggy.
“David, it’s Quinn.”
There was a pause. “What time is it?”
“Eleven,” Quinn said. “Thought you’d still be up.”
“Hold on.” Movement on the other end, then, “Okay. Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m in London,” Quinn said.
“I thought none of your team would be here until tomorrow.”
“I made a few schedule adjustments.”
“So you’ll get started right away?”
“Already have,” Quinn said. A happy Wills would be more willing to help Quinn with his problem.
“Fantastic. I appreciate that.”
“Any luck IDing the man in that photo I gave you?”
“None,” Wills said, far too quickly.
Quinn’s internal radar perked up, but now was not the time to pursue it. “That’s too bad. Listen, I was hoping you can help with something.”
“Any equipment or vehicles you want, just let me know.”
“Thanks. I will,” he said. “But that’s not the kind of help I’m talking about.”
“What is it, then?”
Again Quinn hesitated. Over the phone might not be the best way to do this. “I’d like to meet.”
“Now?”
“If possible.”
Wills paused. “It’s not.”
“Because you’re busy sleeping?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Then I’m sure whatever you need can wait until tomorrow.”
Though tomorrow seemed like a year away, Quinn reined in his impatience. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “In the morning.”
Silence on the other end.
“David?” Quinn said.
“I’m thinking.”
For several more seconds dead air filled the line.
“Nine a.m.,” Wills said. “There’s a park just north of Embankment Station. Sit on one of the benches and I’ll find you.”
The line went dead.
At least the call with David had set things in motion. What it hadn’t done was ease any of Quinn’s concerns. Orlando could do that, but she was already in the air on the way to him, so was unreachable. Nate? Not a good idea. If Liz was around, it would be hard to explain why her guest was getting phone calls from her brother.
But he needed to talk to somebody.
“Oui?” Julien’s deep voice resonated through Quinn’s phone.
“It’s Quinn. Just checking in.”
“Good trip?”
“Uneventful. How are things there?”
“Uneventful.”
“You’re watching the building?”
Quinn could hear Julien moving around on the other end. “For another thirty minutes. Then I have a friend who will take over for me.”
“A friend? Someone you trust?”
“Of course it is someone I trust. Don’t worry. He is just looking for people who don’t belong. I have told him nothing else.”
Quinn didn’t like it, but Julien couldn’t keep watch twenty-four hours a day. “Okay.”
“I get a little sleep and come back before our friends upstairs even wake up.”
“Any contact from your client?”
“No. I’ll call them in the morning with an update. It’s fun making up stories, you know. Easy money.”
“Just be careful,” Quinn said.
“If I was careful, I would have become a demolition expert like my brother.” Julien laughed.
“Might still be worth considering,” Quinn said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Quinn hung up satisfied that the situation in Paris was under control, but no closer to falling sleep. He pulled his jacket on and headed back outside. He’d been hired for a job, so he might as well earn some of the money Wills was paying him.
* * *
According to the information Wills had given Quinn in New York, the body was located in the Alexander Grant Building in the financial district, not too far from the Lloyd’s of London and the Swiss Re buildings, both modern landmarks of the city.
“This is good,” Quinn told the cabbie, a block from Lloyd’s. As soon as they pulled to the curb, he paid the driver and got out.
This was the land of the briefcase and business suit, uniforms of daytime animals who, at near midnight, would be miles away, either tucked in bed or sitting at an after-hours bar. Any that did remain were the workaholics trying to impress a boss or the fearful trying not to lose their jobs. In both cases, they would be chained to their cubicles and offices.
Quinn found the Alexander Grant Building several streets away. He kept to the other side of the road and slowed his pace.
The information had claimed the Grant Building was due to be demolished. But one look at the place had Quinn wondering why it hadn’t happened sooner. It was sitting on a corner lot, so the land was worth a considerable amount of money. But the building?
The best words he could come up with to describe it were “unremarkable,” “rundown,” and “aging.” Eight floors of grimy stone. The kind of place a person could walk by every day for years and never notice. It was just there.
Scanning upward, he saw that most of the windows on the upper floors had been removed. So the demolition’s already under way, he thought. No wonder Wills’s client is anxious to get the body removal started.
But why did he need Quinn to do it? Any decent cleaner could handle the project with no problems. Didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. It was another question for Wills when they met up.
He was about to walk around the block when he saw a light flicker in the building. He stepped into a darkened doorway a few feet away and crouched down.
The main entrance to the Grant Building was at the midpoint of the ground floor. Two glass doors led into what had been a darkened lobby. Only now a flashlight beam was lighting up one of the walls. A moment later an overhead light came
on, revealing a security guard at the far back of the room.
He walked up to the front door, unlocked it, then stepped through. Super cop he was not. Five foot eight, about twenty-five pounds overweight, and bored. He strolled along the front of the building to the three-foot gap between the Grant Building and its neighbor, then turned and walked back past the entrance and around the corner, disappearing from sight.
Quinn held his position, counting off the time in his head. It was just over four minutes before the guard reappeared. When he did, he was speaking into a walkie-talkie. Quinn couldn’t make out the guard’s words, but a tinny, overamplified voice responded through the receiver, “… second floor …” Quinn glanced up at the darkened windows, but saw nothing of interest.
The guard spoke again, then clipped the radio to his belt and finished his walk to the front door. A moment later he disappeared inside, turning the lobby light off as he passed. Quinn retrieved his phone, accessed the camera, and switched to night vision. He took several pictures, then used the zoom to check the street in both directions.
London was a city that lived under the camera’s eye. Thousands of closed-circuit television cameras, CCTVs, were installed throughout the metropolis, where they passively watched everyone and everything. When people like Quinn worked in London, they had to take this citywide surveillance into consideration — altering appearances, doing nothing to attract attention, and, whenever possible, keeping real business to those dead zones with no coverage.
Occasionally, some of the quieter streets fell through the city’s video net. Quinn was pleased to see the street the target building was on among them.
Minor good news, but good news nonetheless.
He settled in and waited for the guard to reappear so he could gauge the schedule of rounds. When the lobby light came back on, Quinn checked his watch. An hour and seven minutes.
Say an hour to an hour and a half between rounds. He watched as the door opened again and the man stepped outside. Interesting.
While the pattern was the same, the guard was not. This was a younger guy, probably early thirties, and in a bit better shape. So there are at least two of them, he thought. For an abandoned building this size, Quinn could see it go as high as three, but no more.
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