“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said, but her trembling jaw revealed the truth.
They needed to get out of the rain and dry off, fast. He looked through the window into the patisserie. Definitely dry, and probably warm, too. But Nate was hesitant to slow their progress. At the moment, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the apartment building was their number one goal.
A taxi? Not the best option. A cabbie might remember them. Steal a car? Even in the rain, they might be noticed. Then Nate spotted an entrance to the Métro across the street. He’d avoided the stations closer to Liz’s place, but they were far enough away now that the risk was minimized, and with the way Liz was shivering, he knew they had little choice.
“This way,” he said, then led her over to the stairs and down into the station.
He could feel her trembling under his arm. Whether it was from the cold or from fear, he couldn’t be sure. He guided her over to a map on the wall and said, “We need to get as far away from this part of town as possible. So I need you to tell me which way we should go.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice weak. “We’re here.” She pointed to a station called Saint-Placide. “Only one line. The four.”
Nate examined the map. South wouldn’t get them very far.
“Looks like we should go north,” he said.
“If we go all the way to Gare du Nord, we’ll have lots of choices of where we can go from there.”
“Perfect. You’re doing great.”
She smiled weakly. Within five minutes they were settled on a northbound train, as far from the other passengers as possible. With nothing to do for the first time since Julien had pounded on Liz’s door, Nate pulled out his cell phone to check it. As he looked at the display, he realized there was something he should have done before they’d even left Liz’s apartment.
“Did you bring your phone?” he asked.
“My phone?”
“Yes. Do you have it?”
“It’s in my purse.”
“Let me see it.”
She furrowed her brow.
“Please,” he insisted.
Liz opened her purse and hunted around until she found her phone, then reluctantly handed it to him. Immediately, he popped open the back and removed the battery and SIM card.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You can get a new one later,” he said as he slipped the pieces into his jacket pocket. “This one goes in the trash.”
“Why?”
“Because they can track us using your phone even if it’s off.”
“You have a phone.”
“Mine’s special. Can’t be tracked.”
He looked back at his cell. Two text messages, both asking the same thing.
The first was from Julien:
Are you safe?
Nate wrote a one-word reply:
Yes
But when he tried to send it, it failed. He had no signal on the train.
The second message was from Quinn:
Update
Nate typed out an answer, knowing he’d have to wait to send.
Got her out. Looking for place to lay low.
Julien working diversion.
“What are you doing?” Liz asked.
“Responding to your brother,” he said. “He wants to know what’s going on.”
She hesitated, then asked, “You really work for him?”
“Yes.”
“And that other guy, he works for my brother, too?”
“Sometimes, I guess,” Nate said.
“You guess?”
“Yesterday was the first time I met him.”
She was quiet for a while. “What exactly is it my brother does?”
“I think maybe he should answer that one.”
“But he’s not here. You are.”
Nate had no response for that, so he kept his mouth shut.
They rode in silence, stopping at several stations before Liz suddenly sat straight up. “My mother. If people were coming after me, do you think someone might go after her also?”
“We have people watching her, too. She’ll be fine.”
“She can’t run like me,” Liz said. “If they get close, she won’t be able to get away.”
“Your brother won’t let that happen.”
“He let that happen with me,” she snapped.
Several of the passengers at the other end of the car looked over. But they soon returned to their own worlds when it was apparent a yelling match wasn’t about to break out.
After several seconds of silence, Liz whispered, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Nate said. “I’d be mad, too.”
“I need to ask you something.”
Nate gave her a sideways glance. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”
That drew out just the barest of smiles on her face.
“Is Jake a criminal?”
Nate had to catch himself from laughing. “No,” he said. “Well, I guess it depends on how you look at things. Some people might think so. But no, he’s no criminal.”
“That’s not exactly a clear answer.”
Nate thought for a moment, then said, “Your brother is one of the most honorable people I know. If he gives someone his word, he doesn’t break it. I’d trust him with my life any day of the week.” Nate paused for a moment. “He’s not the easiest person to get to know. And he doesn’t have a lot of close friends. But that’s not because he’s not a good person. He is. He cares more than he ever shows. He’s just … Quinn.”
“There’s that name again. Quinn.”
“It’s his name now.”
“Jake Oliver wasn’t good enough for him?”
“In our world it’s safer to create a new identity. Hell, until just before I met you, I didn’t know him by anything but Quinn.”
She scrutinized him again. “So you’re saying your name really isn’t even Nate?”
He smiled. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On if we’re talking about before or after I started working for your brother.”
Just then the train began to slow as they pulled in to a new station. Nate looked out the window. A sign on the wall said Gare du Nord.
“Our stop,” he said.
He stood up and walked toward the door.
* * *
“Movement,” Orlando said.
She was at the dining room table, her laptop in front of her. Quinn moved in behind her. The image on the screen showed the blue dot representing Nate’s phone moving west from Liz’s apartment. But was Liz with him? For that matter, had they been taken or were they still free?
Quinn pulled out his phone.
“You still shouldn’t call him,” Orlando said.
“I’m not calling. I’m texting.”
Orlando rolled her eyes as he brought up the virtual keyboard and tapped in one word.
Update
He hit Send. If he didn’t hear back within the next thirty minutes, they’d go to Paris whether it was a bad idea or not.
Orlando’s phone began to ring. She looked at the display, then at Quinn. “It’s Scott Bethel.” Bethel was the person in Moscow she’d asked to follow up on the Stepka lead. She hit Accept. “Hold on, Scott. I’m putting you on speaker.”
She set the phone down next to her computer and touched the screen.
“Okay,” she said. “What have you learned?”
“I found this Stepka guy in an apartment full of highend computer gear,” Bethel said. “Didn’t want to talk at first. But he’s the soft type.”
“Did you hurt him?” Quinn asked.
“Didn’t have to,” Bethel said. “I don’t think he goes out much.” Bethel’s specialty was getting in and out of places unseen. Though he wasn’t large like Julien, he was solid, and could be intimidating if he wanted to.
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in front of me.
”
“What?”
“I’m in his apartment. We just had a nice little talk. But I thought you might want to hear directly from him what he had to say.”
“I’d love to.”
“Let me put him on speaker.” There was a bit of static, then Bethel said in a voice more distant than before, “All right, Stepka. Why don’t you tell my friend what you just told me?”
Silence.
“Stepka. My name is Quinn. Jonathan Quinn. I believe you were doing a little research on me. I’d like to know why.”
More silence.
“So you’re not going to talk to my friend?” Bethel asked. “Maybe this will change your mind.”
There was a loud crash and the sound of something breaking into several pieces.
“No, don’t!” a voice yelled. English with a Russian accent. Stepka.
“What was that?” Quinn asked.
“This kid’s got more computer equipment jammed in here than most IT departments I’ve seen. Well, a little less than he had a moment ago.” Bethel paused. “How about we try this monitor now?”
“No! No, I will talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Mr. Quinn. I … I was only checking on you because … because you have been getting in our way.”
“In your way of what?” Quinn asked.
“Our search for the Ghost.”
“The Ghost?”
“His real name is Palavin. Former KGB. A butcher.”
That jibed with both what Orlando had uncovered and what the Russian woman had claimed. “Why are you looking for him?”
“We want to … talk with him.”
“Talk with him? Really? I get the feeling you want to do more than that.”
Stepka said nothing.
“All right,” Quinn said. “Tell me about the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman who is here searching for him.”
“Petra,” Stepka said. “She is the team leader.”
“How many in her team?”
“Now? Just two. She and a man named Mikhail.”
“Why is she interested in me?”
“You have information that will help us find Palavin.”
“I have no such information.”
“Of course you have,” Stepka said. “You’ve been working for him. We need what you know. Petra will find you. She will—”
“Take him off speaker, Scott,” Quinn said. He shared a look with Orlando.
There was a faint click, then Bethel said, “Okay, it’s just me.”
“Put him on ice for right now. Someplace no one can find him for a few days. I’ll let you know when you can release him. But don’t hurt him. Feed him and give him a place to sleep.”
“I can do that.”
“Good,” Quinn said. “We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as he hung up, Orlando said, “What do you think?”
“If Palavin really was Wills’s client, then that might explain why Annabel Taplin had his picture with mine. But even then, whatever these Russians are up to could mess things up for us. My family’s safety comes first. I’m not going to allow them to get in my way.” He paused. “What we really need to do is have a little chat with Ms. Taplin. Can you find out if she’s returned to London yet?”
Orlando smiled. “I can do that.”
Chapter 32
Petra visited restaurants and grocery stores and hotels and massage parlors and whatever else she could find that was owned and operated by Russian expats. At first, when they realized she was also Russian, they were friendly enough. But when she showed the drawing of Quinn and started asking more questions, they became wary. Some refused to give her any more answers, while others kept their responses to one or two words.
She knew the look in their eyes well. She’d borne it herself more times than she could remember. It was the fear and suspicion that came with having grown up in the former Soviet Union.
She returned to the apartment just before 9 p.m., unsuccessful and completely drained.
“Mikhail?” she called out.
There was no response.
She sat down at the table and tried calling Stepka, but he didn’t answer. So she left a message, folded her arms, and lay her head down, intending to rest her eyes for a moment.
The sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door made her snap back up. The side of her mouth was damp, and she realized she’d fallen asleep. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see a half hour had passed.
She rubbed her face as she turned toward the door. That’s when she got her second surprise. It wasn’t Mikhail. It was a young woman.
She was beautiful. Long blonde hair that had been clipped in place so that it flowed down her back, bright blue eyes behind a fashionable pair of semi-rimless glasses, and a trim but appropriately rounded figure that would go unnoticed by no one.
“Who are you?” Petra asked, rising from her chair.
An instant later Mikhail entered behind the woman. “Please,” he said to the girl in Russian, motioning toward the table. “Sit down.” The woman looked at him uncertainly, so he smiled and pointed again. “Please.”
Once she’d sat, Mikhail signaled for Petra to join him near the door.
“Who is she?” Petra whispered.
“Her name is Natalia,” he said. “She recognized the picture.”
Petra’s eyes widened as she glanced at the girl.
“I was checking a couple of Russian-run hotels in the West End,” Mikhail went on.
“She saw him in a hotel?” Petra asked.
“Well, yes, but not the one I found her in. She works at two different places. Where I met her, and another in Belgravia called the Silvain Hotel. It’s not owned by Russians, but they employ several of our people.”
“So she saw him there?”
Mikhail led Petra to the table, then said to Natalia, “Tell her what you told me.”
The girl looked nervous. “A man like the one in the picture arrived at our hotel last night.”
“The Silvain,” Mikhail clarified.
“Yes.”
“Describe him,” Petra said.
Natalia bit her lip, then closed her eyes for a moment. “Brown hair, dark and cut short above his ears. I don’t know age, probably less than forty.”
“Height? Weight?”
“Maybe five foot ten. Normal weight. In shape.”
“Did you at least get his name?”
“The last name he used was Shelby. The first name I don’t remember. I wasn’t the one who checked him in, so I didn’t look at his passport.”
Shelby? The name meant nothing to Petra. “Did he arrive alone?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he looked like the man in the drawing.”
“Very close,” Natalia said. “Please, I need to leave. I’m supposed to be at work by ten, so I’m already going to be late.”
“Where are you working tonight?” Petra asked.
“The Silvain.”
Petra looked at Mikhail. “What do you think?”
“It’s worth checking.”
She nodded. It’s what she’d been thinking, too. To Natalia, she said, “Did you see him leave this morning yet?”
“No, but my shift was over at seven a.m. Can I go now?”
“We’ll all go,” Petra grabbed the girl by the arm and started to pull her up. “Come on. We don’t want you to be late.”
* * *
Despite her reluctance, Natalia proved more than adequate. Not only did she supply Petra and Mikhail with all the information the hotel had on James Shelby, she also learned from one of her colleagues that Mr. Shelby had left the hotel around 8 a.m. that morning and had not returned.
To top it off, Natalia made a copy of the keycard to Mr. Shelby’s room.
Petra and Mikhail had waited down the street, out of sight, while all this had gone on. When Natalia showed up with the information and the key, Petra pai
d her the two hundred pounds she had promised her.
“And our rooms?” Petra asked.
“Two,” Natalia said quickly. “In the same part of the hotel as Mr. Shelby, but one floor up. I’ve put them on hold, but you’ll have to check in at the desk.”
“Of course.” Petra handed Natalia an extra fifty for her efforts. “Thank you for your help.”
The girl tried to smile, then said, “I must go now.”
“If we need anything else, we’ll let you know,” Petra said.
It didn’t seem to be what Natalia wanted to hear, but she tried to smile, then retreated back to the Silvain.
“How do you want to do this?” Mikhail asked.
“You check us in,” Petra said. “I’ll have a look at Mr. Shelby’s room.”
Petra entered the Silvain and walked purposefully past the front desk toward the lounge. In the narrow corridor beyond, she found the elevator, and beside it a stairway. She rode the elevator up to the floor Shelby’s room was on, then followed the numbers on the doors until she reached the right one.
Leaning close, she listened. There was dead silence on the other side. She pulled out the duplicate keycard and held it to the lock.
There was a gentle click, and she slipped inside.
The room was dark, not quite pitch black, but close enough. “Housekeeping,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She stepped to the end of the entryway and peeked into the room. The bed was made and empty. She stepped around the corner and nudged open the door to the bathroom. It was even darker inside than the rest of the room, and equally as unoccupied.
As expected, Mr. Shelby was still out.
She pulled a penlight from her pocket. The first thing she checked was the small wardrobe cabinet next to the window. Empty. That wasn’t necessarily unusual. Many people preferred leaving their belongings in their suitcases when they traveled. Of course, that should have meant there was a suitcase in the room. There wasn’t. In fact, there were no bags of any kind.
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