The Cleaner (27 page)

Quinn found an Internet cafe on Ku'damm called Easy Everything. He paid in advance for an hour of time, then sat down at one of the machines in the back of the store, where there would be less chance of someone looking over his shoulder.

He logged on to the computer and used its browser to access one of the many services that provided free e-mail addresses. It took him less than three minutes to sign up for a new identity. Composing the short message to the Mole took longer.

You're doing an appraisal for me. A bracelet I picked up in Colorado. 0 said I should contact you directly about authenticity. Can we talk?

JQ.

He clicked on Send. Now it was just a matter of waiting. While leaving the window with the mailbox open, Quinn brought up a new window to access the website of a printing firm based in Chelsea, Massachusetts. Using a back door he'd secretly placed on their server, he routed himself to a paper supply company in Baltimore, Maryland, and from there into the computers at the Government Services Administration, the GSA, in Washington, D.C. Now it was a simple matter of skipping over to the FBI's system, using channels Orlando had set up long ago.

Once he was in, Quinn spent thirty minutes going over the list of potential missing persons that could be Taggert. He was even able to cross half of them off his list.

Before he went further, Quinn opened another window, and used it to access MapQuest for the U.S. He typed 'Campobello, Nevada' in the appropriate field, then hit Return. He was greeted with a map for Campobello, South Carolina. He tried again, but got the same results.

He switched from Mapquest to Google. For his next task, a simple search engine would be enough. He typed 'Campobello, Nevada' into the subject line, then clicked on Search.

Within seconds, he was presented with a list of over ten thousand hits, but none of them were for a Campobello, Nevada. The hits had keyed in on either the word 'Campobello' or the word 'Nevada' but not both. He scrolled through the first couple of pages. In Italy there was a city named Campobello di Mazara on the island of Pantelleria. Italy also produced a product line called Campobello Riserva Olive Oil & Balsamic Vinegar. Probably from the same region.

In Canada there was a Campobello Island, where Franklin Roosevelt had had a summer retreat. There was a Campobello's Pizzeria in St. Louis, and a Campobello Lodge at the Bar-N-Ranch in West Yellowstone. But no Campobello, Nevada.

Quinn rolled his shoulders back, stretching. He moved his head from side to side and was greeted with a loud pop as his upper vertebrae realigned.

Since Campobello didn't seem to be getting him anywhere, he decided to check if he'd received any e-mail yet. He brought the window forward and clicked the Refresh button.

There was one message. He clicked on the link to open it.

501587331861xc2

All right,
Quinn thought.

He went to a park nearby. The sun was shining, and the temperatures had risen a bit. But it was still cold, so there were few other people about.

Quinn pulled his phone out of his pocket. He used the code Orlando had given him to extract a phone number from the Mole's message, then punched the number into his phone. The other end rang once before someone picked up. There was no greeting, just silence broken by the faint sound of breathing.

'This is Quinn.'

'How do I . . . know?' The voice was flat, electronic, and seemed to pause unnaturally at odd moments. Quinn guessed that it was being run through some sort of digital filter to disguise the speaker's identity.

'You don't,' Quinn answered truthfully. 'How do I know you are who I think you are?'

'You don't.'

Quinn said, 'Have you figured out what was on the slide in the bracelet?' There was a long silence. 'Like I said before, how do . . . I know you are . . . really Quinn?' 'You don't, dammit. You're going to have to trust me.'

'Trust,' the voice said, 'is not something . . . I do.'

'You trust Orlando, and she trusted me enough to tell me how to get in touch with you.'

'Perhaps you got it out of. . . her through . . . other means.' 'Oh for God's sake,' Quinn said. 'Either you believe me or you don't.'

'Where is she?'

'Safe.'

'You've . . . seen her recently?'

'About an hour ago.'

More silence. 'There was word she . . . was dead.'

'There was word I was dead, too.'

'So you've heard.'

'Can we get on to why I called?'

There was movement on the other side of the phone. The Mole undoubtedly shifting position.

'The slide was . . . very damaged . . . it . . . is taking us some . . . time . . . maybe in a . . . few days . . . I'll e-mail you . . . when to call me.'

'Wait,' Quinn said, sensing the Mole was about to hang up. 'What about the inscription on the bracelet?'

'It also . . . is providing a challenge.'

'So you don't have anything yet?'

'Not. . . yet.'

Quinn had been hoping for a little news, something that would at least put them on the right track. 'Okay,' Quinn said. 'I have another request.'

'What,' the voice said, 'do you want?'

Quinn told him.

Chapter 26

Somewhere an alarm was ringing, not a bedside alarm, but something more robust. More urgent. Quinn opened his eyes. It took him a moment to reorient himself. The bed he was lying on was harder and narrower than he was used to. And he was on his side; that wasn't normal. Then he remembered. He wasn't on a bed at all. He was sleeping on the couch in the suite at the Mandola.

He lifted his head and glanced at the digital clock sitting on the end table: 3:43 a.m.

'What's that noise?'

Quinn looked toward the voice. Orlando was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, an oversized T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants serving as her pajamas.

Quinn sat up, focusing his attention on the alarm. It wasn't coming from inside the hotel room, but rather from the hallway beyond.

'Fire alarm,' he said, suddenly alert.

He pushed himself off the couch and walked quickly toward the front door. As he did so, he sniffed the air, trying to detect any smoke. The air seemed as fresh as it had been when he'd gone to sleep. He placed a hand on the door.

'It's still cool,' he said.

In the hallway beyond, Quinn could hear people running and calling to each other over the drone of the alarm. It was the panicked sound of people who had been ripped from their sleep into a dangerous situation.

'This doesn't feel right,' Orlando said. 'Get dressed,' Quinn said. He'd had the same thought as she did. 'And grab your stuff.'

His own clothes were draped over a chair near the couch. He pulled them on in record time. He then stuffed his new purchases into his backpack, pulled on his coat, and threw his bag over his shoulders, cinching it tight.

Moments later Orlando, now dressed, rejoined him in the living room. Quinn crossed back to the door and listened again. The alarm was still clanging loudly, but the sounds of movement and voices in the hallway were gone. He hesitated. There were only two possibilities. Either the fire was real or it wasn't. And if it wasn't, that meant this was a flush. Quinn wouldn't even consider the possibility that it was just a false alarm. That would be too much of a coincidence. And believing in coincidences, like indulging in curiosity, was just one more thing on a long list of items that could get you killed.

So if this was a flush, that meant Borko suspected Quinn and Orlando were in the building but didn't know where. Fire or flush, it didn't matter. The solution was the same. Get out.

Quinn undid the deadbolt, then eased the door open. Only a crack at first, just enough to peer outside.

'It's empty,' he said.

He pulled off his backpack, unzipped the flap, and retrieved the Glock he'd taken off of Duke. 'Here,' he said, handing the gun to Orlando. She released the magazine and checked to see if it was loaded.

'I'm down a round,' she said.

Quinn pulled one of the spare mags for the SIG from his bag, and released one of the 9mm rounds. 'Catch,' he said as he tossed it to her. He returned the mag to his bag, then slipped

the bag over his shoulders. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out his own weapon.

Gun in hand, he gave Orlando a quick nod, then opened the door all the way and stepped into the hall. No smoke, no smell of smoke, no sign of fire at all. Only the two of them in the otherwise empty corridor.

There were two stairways, one at each end of the floor. Quinn had examined each soon after they'd arrived. The one to his left, the west stairwell, went from the top floor to ground level. The one to his right went all the way up to the roof.

Quinn motioned toward his right, then headed down the hallway; Orlando trailed right behind him, watching their back. Once inside the stairwell, they paused and listened for a moment. Someone else was on the stairs, maybe two people. They were several floors below, but Quinn couldn't tell whether they were going up or down.

Quinn and Orlando went up.

The entrance to the roof was located three floors above their room. It took them only forty-five seconds to get there. Again, they paused, listening.

Steps. Perhaps four floors below, definitely heading in their direction.

'Hotel security?' Orlando whispered.

'Maybe,' Quinn said. But they both knew they couldn't take that chance.

A sign on the door to the roof warned that an alarm would sound if it was opened. Quinn guessed it couldn't be any worse than the alarm that was still ringing throughout the hotel. He pushed the door open, and, as promised, a second alarm went off. But it was merely an electronic bleep that could barely be heard above the din of the fire alarm.

Once outside, Quinn pushed the door shut behind them and looked around. The roof was a large flat space with vents and pipes sticking up here and there.

To their right was Leipziger Strasse. Quinn hurried over to the edge of the roof and peered down. Three fire trucks were parked in front of the hotel. Not far away, dozens of people were huddled together, trying to stay warm. A moment later Orlando was at his side.

'Who are they?' she asked, pointing to a group of three men standing off to one side.

Unlike most of the guests, the men were fully dressed in warm, dark clothing. Two of them seemed to be watching the building. The third was talking on a cell phone. They could have been with the fire department or hotel security. But where were their uniforms?

'Whoever they are, I don't think they're looking for a fire,' Quinn said. 'Come on.'

He stuffed his gun into the pocket of his jacket, then headed to the east end of the roof. Unfortunately, the Mandola was a stand-alone building and didn't butt up against any other structure. But the top floor of the hotel did boast luxury suites with open-air patios only ten feet below the roof. It was something.

'You first,' Quinn said.

Without a word, Orlando slipped over the edge and dropped to the patio below. As soon as she had scrambled out of the way, Quinn climbed up onto the elevated lip that surrounded the edge of the roof. He was just beginning to lower himself over the side when a voice called out,
'Stop!'

Quinn let go.

His feet landed on the tiled deck of one of the patios, barely missing a chaise lounge. His pursuer was seconds behind him and knew exactly where he'd come down.

'He saw me,' Quinn whispered.

But it was unnecessary. Orlando was already on the move. She quickly climbed over the dividing wall onto the patio of the suite to Quinn's left.

Quinn was closer to the one on the right. So he climbed onto the wall at the edge of the patio, then tight-roped his way onto the next deck. He got down and ducked out of sight just as a dark form appeared over the edge of the roof.

Quinn watched the form from his hiding place against the wall that separated the patios of the suites. The man was speaking into a phone.

'I don't know,' the man was saying in German. 'He went over the side, but I don't see him.'

Quinn's pursuer removed the phone from his ear and slipped it into a pocket. He leaned over the edge, peering intently at the patio beneath him. As he did so, a faint light from the street illuminated his features. Quinn placed him almost immediately. He was one of the two men in the photograph Orlando had taken, the photo of the men who'd put the information from Duke under Quinn's door at the Dorint.

Above Quinn, Borko's man swung his legs over the edge of the roof. He dropped down onto nearly the same spot where Quinn had landed. The wall that separated the patios ran diagonally from the retaining wall at the edge of the building up to the roof. Good for cover, but it also now blocked Quinn's view of the man.

Quinn checked to be sure the suppressor was firmly attached to his gun.

There was a patio chair only a few feet away. Quinn reached over and gave it a push, then pressed himself tightly against the dividing wall as the chair scraped loudly across the tile.

Almost instantly he heard the man's steps rushing toward the dividing wall. A moment later the man's head popped over the top. He was looking deep into the recesses of the patio. Quinn crouched directly below him, unseen, gun in hand.

The man jumped up on the retaining wall, his left hand grabbing the diagonal wall between the suites to keep his balance. To his right was a drop of nine stories.

'You can stop now,' Quinn said in German.

His pursuer started to whip around, a gun in his free hand. 'I'll kill you before you have a chance,' Quinn said.

The man stopped, still gripping the dividing wall with his left hand.

'Drop your gun,' Quinn ordered.

The man remained motionless.

'Do it,' Orlando said.

The man jerked his head in her direction, nearly losing his balance in the process. She was standing only a few feet away from him on the patio they had all jumped down on.

'Careful,' she said. 'It's a long way down.'

The man looked from her back to Quinn, a rueful smile on his face. 'So you found each other,' he said.