The Cleaner (29 page)

Feeling like he was trespassing, he set the pictures on the floor.

To get his mind on something else, he pulled the remote viewing monitor from his backpack, setting it on his lap. The device wasn't much bigger than a typical hardback book, and only a half-inch thick. On the upper portion of the flat front surface was a color screen that provided sharp detail. Below the screen was a keypad, not unlike that of an accountant's calculator. The pad allowed its user to switch rapidly from one camera position to another. It also had an internal hard drive that would allow for several hours of multi-camera recording. There were two data ports for external devices to be connected, a built-in speaker, and a place to plug in a set of headphones.

Since his current position was well within the one-mile signal radius of the cameras, he expected to have no problem receiving an image. He turned the monitor on, then removed the set of Sennheiser earphones that went with it from his backpack. He plugged them into the audio slot and fit the earpieces into his ears.

Outside it was dark. The winter sun was still hours away from rising. Quinn shuffled through the views coming from the six cameras. Everything looked quiet. Exactly what he expected at this early hour. He turned the monitor off and set it on the ground.

His eyes grew heavy, and as he was falling asleep a thought grew in his mind, one that would shape his dreams over the next few hours.

What if I can't keep my promise?

By 10 a.m., Quinn was awake again, studying the monitor. Orlando, still asleep, had slumped onto her side. There was activity in the water plant now. Two men were moving through the sphere into the bio-containment room. They were wearing biohazard suits. Each was carrying a hard plastic case, about the size of a typical carry-on suitcase. Quinn recognized them as the cases he had seen sitting open in the basement room containing the refrigerator.

Once the men were in the center room, they set the cases on the stainless-steel counter. The taller of the two men went over and opened the door of the refrigerator nearest the room's entrance, while the other opened his case. The first man then returned to the counter and opened his own case. They began removing small cardboard boxes from inside and setting them on the table. It didn't take long. There were only a total of eight boxes.

They then took turns carrying the boxes one by one from the table to the refrigerator. It was all done very slowly, and very methodically.

On the second-to-last trip, one of the men stumbled. It wasn't much. There was no danger of spilling the contents of the box. Still, the other man rushed over and took the box from his companion's grasp. He quickly carried it back to the table and opened it. Leaning down for a closer look, he appeared to be checking that everything inside was all right.

After a moment, the man seemed to relax. Apparently everything was as it should be. As he was closing the box again, Quinn caught a glimpse of something inside. Balls or pellets or something similar. They were white.

The men put the two remaining boxes in the refrigerator, then closed the plastic cases they'd arrived with and stowed them under the counter. Their job seemingly finished, they departed.

Quinn waited another hour to see if anything else was going to happen. But the room remained empty.

'Coffee?' Quinn asked when Orlando finally stirred and sat up.

There was a market a couple of blocks away. Quinn had chanced leaving Orlando alone and had gone to get a few supplies. He'd also purchased two large cups of coffee to go from a kiosk inside the store.

'Sure,' she said, without much enthusiasm. He handed her a cup. Once she'd taken a drink, he asked, 'How do you feel?' 'How do you think I feel?' She noticed the monitor sitting on the floor. 'You see anything?' 'Yeah,' he said, then told her about the two men and their activities in the containment room.

She was quiet for several seconds. 'What could this possibly have to do with Garrett? They don't really need him as insurance against us. That's what Nate's for, right?'

She was right, Quinn knew. Nate was all the insurance they should have needed. Taking Garrett had been overkill. More than overkill, it didn't make sense. Too much work would be involved in pulling it off.

'How did they know?' she asked.
Because I went to Vietnam,
Quinn thought, unable to actually say the words. But Orlando wasn't an idiot – she'd already made

the connection. 'Piper tipped him off, didn't he? Somehow he knew I was there and he tipped Dahl off.'

Quinn nodded. It was the same conclusion he'd come to. Piper wasn't as clean as he made himself out to be. Maybe he was working for Dahl directly. Maybe he and his team had followed Quinn to Vietnam. There was no telling what Piper had lied about. Except for Borko. But even that revelation hadn't made a difference in the end. If anything, it had lent credibility to Duke's job offer, sweetening the trap.

'I'm sorry.' Quinn wanted to say more, but couldn't find the words.

'Don't,' she said as she closed her eyes. 'I made a choice to come here. I should have stayed home. I should have protected him.'

If he wanted to, he could have continued the argument. Saying it was his fault Piper had found her in the first place. Then she would have found some other excuse for blaming herself, and they would go around once more.

Quinn took a step back. 'I need to check a few things out,' he said. 'Will you be all right here?'

'I can't just do nothing.'

'I'm not asking you to do nothing.' He picked the monitor up off the floor and handed it to her. He then motioned to the corner where he'd put the bag containing the items he'd bought at the store. 'If the power is getting low, there's some stuff in that bag you can use to rig a line down from the light socket. Otherwise, I need you to watch.'

* * *

302

Quinn was able to buy some computer time at the Berlin Hotel, then logged on to the e-mail account he'd created the day before. As he had hoped, there was a message from the Mole.

36.241.10

Keeping himself on the move, he took a cab to KaDeWe. It was Berlin's largest department store, and, with the exception of Harrods in London, the largest in all of Europe. It was located near the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. He took a table in the cafe, then used the code the Mole had sent him to adjust the previous phone number to a new one.

'It's Quinn,' he said once the connection was made. 'What have you got?'

'Taggert,' the Mole said.

'You know who he is?' Quinn asked.

'There's still a question of payment.'

Quinn scowled. 'How much?'

'My standard fee . . . is five K per request. . . you've . . . made two requests . . . that's ten thousand . . . U.S.'

'I'm good for it.'

'Not if you're dead,' the Mole said.

'I'll wire you the money. E-mail me your information.' 'When?' 'As soon as I get your info.' There was a brief silence from the other end of

the line. 'A viral biologist by the name of. . . Henry Jansen has been MIA for months . . . he fits the description . . . of your . . . victim in Colorado.'

'Maybe,' Quinn said. 'But that fire was only two weeks ago.'

'I can't help you with . . . your time line . . . but the . . . maiden name of his paternal grandmother . . . was Roberts . . . you want . . . to guess the maiden name of his . . . maternal grandmother?'

'Taggert?'

'Well done.'

'Any way you can get me a picture?'

'Sending the e-mail now.'

'And the other matter?' Quinn asked.

'The International Organization . . . of Medical Professionals.' 'IOMP,' Quinn said, impressed. 'They are . . . about to hold their annual . . . convention.'

'Where?'

'Berlin,' said the Mole.

Of course,
Quinn thought.
Where else would it be?

'I have another request for you,' Quinn said. 'And before you say anything, I'll include the additional payment in the wire transfer.'

'Go on.'

Quinn told him about the abduction of Garrett. 'See if you can find any signs of Orlando's son. He may have been taken out of Vietnam. If so, somebody must have seen something. Hell, maybe you can figure out why Dahl would want him in the first place.'

'I will . . . try.' The Mole paused. 'The inscription.'

'You figured it out?'

'Most . . . it is an FTP address . . .' A file transfer protocol site. 'The inscription . . . includes the user . . . name . . . but the password has . . . been destroyed.'

'Have you tried to hack in?'

'Of course . . . but the security is . . . unusually tight.' 'Text message me the information,' Quinn said. 'Hold.' A few seconds later, Quinn's phone beeped. Message received.

'Got it,' Quinn said. 'What about the slide? Is it a tissue sample?' 'Yes . . . damaged.' 'By the fire?' 'Not the . . . fire . . . by something from . . . the inside.'

Quinn sucked in a breath.

'There is . . . still uncertainty about the actual. . . identity of what . . . caused it to happen . . . it is complicated . . . we should . . . have that maybe by . . . tomorrow . . . but I can . . . tell you one thing.'

'What?'

'It is a virus.'

Chapter 28

Quinn found Internet access at a small coffee shop a couple of blocks from KaDeWe. The Mole's promised picture of Henry Jansen was waiting for him. Quinn recognized the face in the picture immediately. Taggert and Jansen were indeed the same man. He spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get into the FTP site. He attempted variations on 'Taggert' and 'Jansen' and 'virus.' He typed in the birthday that had been listed on his driver's license, and '215 Yancy Lane' – the address of the house Taggert had stayed at in Colorado before it had burned down with him inside. He even tried 'Campobello,' thinking for a moment that had to be it. But nothing worked.

Outside again, he called Peter.

'You either help now, or we're done,' Quinn said.

'Is that a threat?' Peter asked.

'Absolutely.'

Peter didn't say anything for a moment. 'Do you remember four years ago?' he asked. 'Montevideo.'

'Ramos,' Quinn said.

Ramos was a local politician who'd run afoul of a drug cartel. It was apparently in someone's interests to help him out, so the Office was hired to assassinate the head of the cartel. Quinn made a few bodies disappear when things didn't go as planned. 'What about it?' Quinn asked.

'Your contact on the operation.'

Quinn thought for a moment. 'Burroughs. Some kind of Agency or NSA guy, wasn't he?'

'Something like that.'

'So?'

'He'll have some answers for you,' Peter said.

'Where do I find him?'

'He's working out of NATO headquarters.'

That gave Quinn pause. 'In Brussels?'

'Yes,' said Peter.

'Maybe you're just trying to set me up again,'

Quinn said. 'Couldn't get me in Berlin, you're taking another shot.' 'That's up to you to decide.'

'Will you still be here when I get back?' Quinn asked.

He had returned to the abandoned store in Neukolln, stopping on the way to purchase a couple of sleeping bags, blow-up mattresses, and two lightweight folding chairs. Orlando was in the room where they'd spent the night, sitting on the floor and staring intently at the portable monitor. He told her about what the Mole had learned. He then wrote down the FTP site address and the user name on a piece of paper, in case she had the chance – or more accurately the inclination – to try her hand at getting in. Finally, he recounted his conversation with Peter.

'Will you?' he repeated.

'You're kidding, right?' she said. 'If I learn something that will help me get Garrett back, I'm not staying.'

'Even if it made more sense for us to act together?'

Her eyes turned steely. 'We're talking about my son,' she said. 'Don't you understand that? The moment there's even a hint of where he is, I'm gone.'

Quinn crouched down and put a hand on her knee. 'I do understand. I'm just saying he has a better chance if we go after him together.'

She stood up and started to walk out of the room.

'Orlando,' he said.

She stopped, but didn't turn to look at him.

'Just wait here for me.'

Her breathing became deep and angry, but she didn't say no.

He rented a car and drove southwest out of Berlin into the German countryside. The recent snowstorm had created a landscape of white, but the roads were clear and traffic was moving quickly.

As he drove, he worked out his plan for Brussels. No way Quinn could approach Burroughs directly. Though they'd worked on the same team in South America, Burroughs had made his contempt for freelancers clear. He was an arrogant asshole who seemed to think his position with the government made him somehow better than the 'barely necessary scum' he was forced to associate with.

Then there was the whole Peter issue. If he'd gone bad, Quinn could be walking into another trap. So simply calling Burroughs ahead to set up a meeting was out.

But that was fine. There were ways around the problem.

After midnight, Quinn left the car in a parking garage in downtown Frankfurt. He hailed a taxi and had it take him to a hotel near the airport. Prior to going to his room, he used the twenty-four-hour business center on the hotel's first floor to check his e-mail.

Quinn accessed his primary e-mail account. There was only one message in the in-box. There were two files attached, both jpegs. He clicked to open the first one.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tensed.

It was a picture of Nate. He was sitting in a metal chair, tied in place. His face was battered, his eyes half open. Propped up on his lap was a copy of the
International Herald
.
It was that morning's edition. An old technique, but still effective. It was proof of life, conveying that, as of that morning, Nate was still alive.

Afraid of what the second file might reveal, but knowing he had to look, he opened it. It was a picture of Garrett. But unlike Nate, the boy appeared unharmed. The image was a profile shot of Garrett sitting on a carpeted floor, eyes glued to a cartoon playing on a large TV. The room he was in was not familiar to Quinn. It was definitely not taken in one of the rooms at Orlando's apartment. In fact, it didn't look like Vietnam at all.