The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) (22 page)

“Uh, not sure that’s right,” Nate said.

“Stow it,” Quinn told him.

While the image was no longer rows of what appeared to be randomly placed black squares, it was not a readable document, either. The decrypting had produced a few places where words could be teased out—“play,” “window,” and “might” were the easiest—but most were still indecipherable blobs.

There must have been a wrong setting, or—

Protocol is base seven
.

“I’m an idiot,” Quinn whispered to himself.

“Well, if we’re taking a poll…” Nate said.

“One more word and I’ll put you back in that hospital bed permanently.”

Quinn opened the program’s options, searching for a place to input the correct protocol, but nothing looked right.

“You want me to try?” Nate asked.

“You think you could do better?”

“I was thinking maybe a fresh pair of eyes? You know.”

Quinn scooted the laptop in front of Nate. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

Nate had just begun to hunt around when Quinn’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out, thinking maybe Orlando had woken up. But the caller ID read:

UNKNOWN

What the hell?
UNKNOWN
was not something that usually appeared. Thanks to some software additions Orlando had installed, Quinn’s, Nate’s, and Daeng’s phones were able to read every number that came in, even if it was blocked by more than the standard phone company setup.

“Who is it?” Nate asked.

Quinn showed him the screen.

“I didn’t think that was possible,” Nate said.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“You going to answer?”

Quinn shook his head, and pushed the button sending the call to voice mail, sure that the person on the other end wouldn’t leave a message. After a few seconds, the phone began vibrating again with another call.

UNKNOWN

This time, he sent it to voice mail right away.

“Same again?” Nate asked.

Quinn nodded. Ten seconds later,
UNKNOWN
called for the third time. He considered sending the call away again, but he was curious now.

“Who is this?” he said, his voice low and emotionless.

“I did not…want…to call you, but…I…have no choice.”

Though it had been a few years since he’d heard the voice, Quinn immediately recognized the halting pattern and electronic monotone. It was one of Orlando’s sources. A guy, or maybe a girl, who went by the name the Mole. The last time Quinn had talked to him was when Orlando went missing in Berlin and Durrie reappeared.

“What do you mean, you have no choice?”

“I tried to call…Orlando…but she…has not answered and…I don’t…have a lot of…time. I need to talk…to…her.”

“Well, you can’t right now,” Quinn said.

“Where is she?”

“Unavailable.”

Silence for several seconds. “Is she…dead?”

Though the Mole’s monotone made the question sound detached, Quinn sensed concern.

“No, but she’s not exactly doing great right now, either.”

Another pause. “I need…to talk…to her.”

“I told you, you can’t. If you need to talk, you can talk to me.”

“I need…to talk…to her.” Before Quinn could repeat his response, the Mole added, “This is very…important…deadly important. I need to talk…to Orlando.” Desperate, almost pleading now.

“I don’t even know if she’s awake.”

“Please…please can you check?”

Against his better judgment, Quinn said, “Call me back in five minutes,” and hung up without waiting for an answer.

CHAPTER
24

WASHINGTON, DC

G
RIFFIN WAS READING
through a digital file full of information about Steve Howard when Dima called.

“Metropolitan Police found the woman’s car,” Dima reported.

“Where?”

“Parking garage near the Mall. A manager called it in because it had been parked there overnight.”

“Empty?”

“Yes.

Of course they had dumped the vehicle. After studying Howard for the last twenty minutes, Griffin knew the man was smart. He had to be, to last as long as he had as a freelance operative.

“Were there any reports of stolen vehicles from either the Mall or the surrounding area yesterday?” he said.

“I knew you’d ask that so I checked, and there were two. One on the street three blocks away somewhere between three and four pm.”

“And the other?”

“At 2:46 p.m. From inside that very garage.”

Well, well, well. “What kind of car was it?”

“A Volvo S60 sedan. Blue.”

Griffin stared out the window, his mind processing the new information.

“If there’s nothing else…” Dima said, his voice tentative.

“Of course there’s something else. You’re going to help me find that car.”

“How are you expecting me to do that?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have access to traffic cameras. You know the car now, you know what they look like, and you know the approximate time they must have left that garage. Find their trail. Tell me where they went. You have forty-five minutes.”

“But—”

Griffin hung up.

CHAPTER
25

ISLA DE CERVANTES

L
IZ WAS ASLEEP
in the chair when Quinn and Nate reentered Orlando’s room. Orlando, though, was awake. So much for relying on his sister.

Quinn walked quietly up to the bed and whispered, “How are you feeling?”

“You don’t want to ask that.”

“Are you in pain? I could get the nurse.”

With effort, she reached out and put her hand on his. “No. It’s okay.”

He looked her over, concerned. “Is there something I can do?”

“Relax, maybe. You’re stressing me out.”

He forced himself to smile. “Sure. Sorry.”

“Ugh. That’s even worse,” she said.

As he moved his other hand onto the bed, he realized he was still holding his phone.

The Mole.

He thought for a moment. If his offering to get the nurse had stressed Orlando out, he couldn’t imagine what talking to the Mole would do to her, so he slipped the phone into his pocket.

Nate moved in behind him. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“I hear that I’m better than I was,” Orlando said.

“Well, yeah. That wouldn’t take much, though.”

“I see you came to cheer me up.”

“My official capacity today is Quinn’s Sherpa.” He raised the laptop.

Orlando looked confused. “That’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Um, I guess,” Nate said.

“It is,” Quinn told her. “Hope you don’t mind I was using it.”

“No, it’s fine. Have something to do with why you went to see Misty?”

“Yeah, partly.”

She watched him for a moment. “Are you going to share?”

“It’s not important.”

“Actually, maybe you can help,” Nate said.

Quinn glared at him. “It’s
fine.
Not important.”

Orlando looked back and forth between them. “Tell me, for God’s sake.”

Nate opened his mouth to speak, but Quinn said, “Stop. I’ll tell.”

“Sure,” Nate said. “No problem. Just trying to help.”

“Thanks,” Quinn told him, the sarcasm thick and heavy. As concisely as he could, he explained about the files and trying to decrypt them using her computer.

“What program did you use?” she asked.

“I looked through almost all of the ones in your encryption file. One called Juniper Lemon 23 came closest to working, but I couldn’t figure out how to input—”

With a groan, she rolled her eyes, a look of utter disgust on her face. When she looked at him again, it was as if she were wondering whether he was worthy of her attention. “Two problems. A) I don’t have a specific encryption file, and b) you’re not even using the right program.” She looked at Nate. “Give that to me.”

She tried to lift her hands toward him, but had to settle for turning them palms up.

Quinn stayed Nate’s arm with his own hand. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“Do you want it done or not?” she asked.

“Just tell us how. You don’t have to do it yourself.”

“It’ll be faster if I do it.”

“I said no.”

“I don’t care what you said. I’m not a child.”

Quinn’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
The Mole
.
Dammit.
He reached in and sent the call to voice mail as he said, “You’re not in any condition to help. Just rest. That’s your job right now, remember?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Oh, really.” He let his gaze trace some of the wires and tubes that connected her to the devices surrounding her bed. “When you can sit up on your own, maybe we’ll talk.”

Her mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, her eyes narrowing to match it. “Okay. If that’s how you want it, good luck figuring it out.”

“Oh, so
now
it’s all right to act like a child?”

His phone vibrated again.

“If you’re going to treat me like a child, I might as well act like one.” In the pause that followed, the cell vibrated again. “Are you going to answer that?”

Quinn pulled out the phone.
UNKNOWN
again. “I’ll deal with it later,” he said as he sent the Mole once more to voicemail.

Before Quinn could even put the phone away, the Mole called back.

Orlando’s eyebrows rose, her anger partially replaced by curiosity. “What’s going on?”

He looked at her, and then at the phone. “Hold on,” he told her.

Turning for the exit, he pressed
ACCEPT
. “Yes?”

“Orlando…can I talk…to her?”

“Not right now. She’s—”

“Who is that?” Orlando said.

Two things happened at the same moment. Liz’s eyelids cracked open. She sat up and said, “What’s going on?”

And on the phone, the Mole said, “I heard…her voice…this is important…please…I need…to…talk to…her.”

Quinn stood unmoving in the doorway for a moment before stepping back into the room. With extreme reluctance, he said to Orlando, “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?”

“A friend of yours.” Walking back to her bed, he said into the phone, “Do
not
upset her.”

“That is not my…intention,” the Mole said.

“Fine. I’m going to put you on speaker, and I
will
hang up if I think there’s even a chance of that happening.”

Liz looked at him, clearly confused. For half a second, Quinn considered asking her to leave the room, but she would probably find out from Nate what was discussed anyway.

He put the phone on the bed next to Orlando, and pressed speaker. “Okay. You can talk to her now. But don’t forget what I said.”

“Who is this?” Orlando asked.

“It’s me,” the Mole said. “I understand you aren’t well.” While his distinctive monotone was still there, his usual lethargic pacing had disappeared.

“It’s been a rough week,” she said. She was still obviously perplexed that the Mole had called her.

“Better now?”

“Getting there.”

“Good.” The Mole paused. “There’s something I think you need to know.”

“What?”

“Does the name Misty Blake mean anything to you?”

Quinn looked at the phone, his eyes widening. “Misty? What about Misty?”

“I was not talking to you.”

“It’s okay,” Orlando said. “We both know Misty. You can answer him.”

“There was a car accident in Washington, DC yesterday. Misty and two other men were involved.”

“How did you know about them?” Quinn asked.

“I was asked to identify them from photographs.”

Photographs? “Who asked you to identify them?”

The Mole said nothing.

“
Who
?” Quinn asked again.

“Someone who wants to find them.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“For now it’s my answer.”

“You’ve got to give us more than that.”

“All right. An individual.”

“An
individual
who works for a security and retrieval firm in the DC area, I’ll bet.”

“DC, yes. But he does not work for any kind of security and retrieval firm.”

That was not the answer Quinn had been expecting. The only photos this “individual” could possess were the ones taken by the men who’d been outside Peter’s place when Daeng, Misty, and Howard had been there. It hadn’t been a stretch to assume the photographer worked for the same place as Witten and his team. Was this the unnamed client Witten had mentioned?

“Why does this person want to find our friends?” Orlando asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me, but he deals in dirty work, so I’m guessing what he wants can’t be good.”

“Lovely client you have there,” Quinn said.

“He is
not
my client!” The software controlling the Mole’s voice could not contain his anger.

“Then why are you helping him?”

Several seconds passed before the Mole finally answered. “Sometimes we have no choice.”

“So you’ve given him this information already?”

Another flash of annoyance. “No! I’ve put him off for now.” The Mole took a breath. “When I figured out who the woman was, I knew you might know her, Orlando, so I thought it best to talk to you first.”

“But at some point you’re going to have to tell him,” Orlando said.

“I will have to tell him something. But I’m open to suggestions.”

Orlando looked at Quinn, perplexed. Quinn, too, wasn’t sure what the right answer was.

“When are you supposed to let him know?” Quinn asked.

“He gave me four hours. That was seventeen minutes ago.”

Good
, Quinn thought. There was still more than three and a half hours left until the deadline. “We need to think this through. Can we call you back?”

“Don’t wait too long.”

CHAPTER
26

WASHINGTON, DC

“W
ELL?” GRIFFIN SAID
.

Dima was on the other end of the phone, his call coming twelve minutes ahead of the forty-five-minute deadline. “They left the city right after they stole the car.”