The Silenced (13 page)

FALL IN PARIS MEANT TWO THINGS: COOLER
weather and fewer tourists. It wasn’t that there were no tourists, it was just that their number was a fraction of what it was during the summer months. In August, the streets and monuments were overwhelmed by what seemed to be a torrent of refugees from the Tower of Babel. In October, it was more of a trickle.

When Quinn and Nate had gotten into the taxi, Quinn had asked the driver to turn up the heat. It was hovering around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit, several degrees colder than it had been in New York, and more than two dozen less than it was back in Los Angeles. To Quinn it was now officially too cold. The cabbie had fiddled with a few knobs, but from what Quinn could tell the temperature hadn’t changed. He pulled his collar tight to his neck and looked out at the gray morning.

During the flight over he kept his eyes shut, hoping sleep would overtake him, but his mind only let him catch a moment here and there. By the time they landed, the only thing the attempt had been able to accomplish was to keep Nate from asking him questions. All his apprentice knew was that their destination had changed. Quinn had told him nothing else.

In the taxi, Nate tried again to find out what was going on. But Quinn cut him off with “Not yet.” Yes, he was going to have to tell Nate something, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. The thing he was most focused on was that he was going to have to see his sister. And no matter which scenario he played out in his mind, none ended with Liz happy to see him.

He had toyed with the idea of not letting her know he was there at all. He and Nate could set up a perimeter surveillance that might work well enough. They could shadow her, bug her apartment when she was away, plant a GPS chip in her purse or shoes to keep track of her no matter where she went. It would be tricky, but not impossible. Still, relying on a blip on a screen was not a comforting idea.

He knew he was going to have to bite the bullet and approach her directly. That still didn’t guarantee success. She might give him two minutes, or an hour. She might give him nothing, and then where would he be?

He would have to be careful in his approach, telling her just enough of the truth to get her cooperation. She already thought he was in international banking, so he could use that. Maybe he could tell her he was being targeted by a criminal organization that had a grudge with his bank. Maybe their problems were with Quinn specifically, and he feared the trouble might spread to her since she was in Europe.

Quinn frowned, then shook his head. The idea was ludicrous and convoluted. If it were true, why wouldn’t the police be involved? That would be the first question out of Liz’s mouth. She would poke holes in Quinn’s story he wouldn’t be able to plug fast enough.

He played a few more scenarios through his mind, but none proved any better. He needed something different, something believable. But what?

The cab stopped at the curb.

“Le Sorbonne,” the driver said.

On the other side of the intersection was the tan, stone, block-long Sorbonne, the world-renowned Paris university.

“Merci,”
Quinn said as he handed the driver enough euros to cover the trip.

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” Nate asked once they were on the sidewalk.

Quinn stared at the Sorbonne for several seconds, knowing it was time. But how much to tell?
Everything
, a voice in his head said. Orlando’s voice. “Come on.”

They turned right at Rue des Écoles, walking on the opposite side of the street from the main entrance to the school. He eyed the people going in and out the front doors on the off chance Liz would be among them. No such luck. A short block down and to the right was a small park. Quinn led Nate inside.

The park was enclosed by an iron fence lined with bushes and trees that made it almost impossible for anyone on the outside to see in. Much of the vegetation was showing its fall colors. Scattered around the park were granite statues and a few benches.

In addition to Nate and Quinn, there were only three other people present. Two were reading books, while the third, an older gentleman, seemed interested in some birds on the path. None were threats.

Quinn motioned to a bench in a deserted corner. They sat. It was over a minute, though, before he finally spoke. “What I’m going to tell you goes no further than between you and me.”

“How’s that different from anything else?”

“This isn’t anything else. This isn’t about a job.”

“Orlando?” Nate asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

“No. She’s fine.”

“Okay. Then, what is it?”

Quinn stared at Nate, his face hard. “I have your word, your blood oath, that you will never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

“Of course you have my word. You shouldn’t even have to ask that,” Nate said. “What the hell is going on?”

Quinn took a moment, knowing he was about to break his most important taboo. “My personal life may have been … compromised.”

It took a second, then Nate said, “Oh, God. How far back?”

“All the way,” Quinn said.

Nate digested the information, then asked, “Is that why we’re in Paris and not London?”

Again, Quinn hesitated. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex he’d honed over many years. Finally, he nodded. “You remember a couple of weeks ago, when I was out of town?”

“Sure.”

“I was attending my father’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I had no idea.”

“How could you? I didn’t tell you.”

“I really am sorry.”

“We weren’t close,” Quinn said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So the funeral has something to do with us being
here
?”

“Only in the sense that you need to know about it.”

Again, Nate looked confused.

“You’re going to meet someone who was there, and if she mentions it I don’t want you to be surprised.”

“All right. That makes sense. Who is it?”

“Her name is Liz,” Quinn said. “She’s … my sister.”

Nate stared at Quinn, surprised.

“She’s studying at the Sorbonne,” Quinn explained. “We’re here because she might be in danger. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He paused. “But to do that, I need your help.”

Nate didn’t even hesitate. “Whatever you need, I’m there.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anyone else you’re worried about?”

Quinn hesitated. Again, this was sacred ground. But he had no choice. “My mother. Orlando’s with her right now.”

“Whoa,” Nate said, shaking his head. It was a lot to take in. But like the professional he’d become, he seemed to quickly adjust and move on. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet. Liz and I, we aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”

“I sense a pattern. Does your mother hate you, too?”

Quinn shot him a withering look.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s complicated,” Quinn said. “And no, my mother doesn’t hate me.”

“Well, that’ll save you some therapy at least.… Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that either.”

In the distance, the old man who had been watching the birds started walking down the path toward their bench. His gait was slow, almost a shuffle.

“Does your sister know what you do?” Nate asked.

“Of course not,” Quinn said. “Wait. Does anyone in your past know what
you
do?”

“No.”

“I’m serious, Nate. Have you told
anyone
what you do? Have you even hinted about it?”

“No. No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. And how did this suddenly become about me?”

Quinn leaned back, duly chastened. Nate was right. He’d momentarily channeled his anxiety into the possibility that his apprentice had screwed up.

“Liz thinks I’m in the international banking business. My mother thinks so, too.”

Nate had heard Quinn use the cover with other civilians in the past. “At least you can use that to explain why you’re in town.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said.

After a moment, Nate asked, “What’s Orlando setting up for your mom?”

Quinn explained the plan he and Orlando had worked out.

“When did you call your mom?”

“When we were waiting for the plane in Newark.”

“She go for it?” Nate asked.

“She didn’t say no. Secretly, I think she’s probably happy to have company. It’s been less than a month since she lost her husband.”

The old man had advanced down the path, but was still out of earshot. Quinn gave him a glance, then turned back to Nate.

“So what’s the plan?” Nate asked. “Are we just going to keep an eye on her?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Do you know what Liz’s living situation is?” Nate asked.

Quinn nodded.

“Does she have any roommates?”

“No.”

“So only a one-bedroom apartment.”

“Yes.”

“I assume she has a couch,” Nate said.

“Of course she has a couch.”

“Then why can’t we do a variation on what Orlando’s doing with your mom? You introduce me as a friend who needs a place to stay for a little while. I can crash on her couch and watch the inside. You can get someone to help you watch the perimeter. Done and done.”

The old man moved into hearing range, so Quinn and Nate fell silent.

Quinn used the quiet to think Nate’s idea through. Would it work? It would depend on whether Liz would even talk to him or not. Their less-than-quality time at their father’s funeral tended to make him think the odds were against it. He tried to come up with another option, some other way of getting someone close to her for protection. But nothing came.

In front of them, the old man stopped on the path and stared in their direction.

“C’est mon banc,”
the old man said.

“Pardon?”
Nate asked.

“C’est mon banc. Vous devez bouger,”
he said, waving his hands at them to get off the bench.

“Je suis désolé. Nous ne savions pas,”
Nate apologized.

He and Quinn got up. Even before they started to walk away, the old man pushed past them and sat down.

“C’est mon banc,”
he repeated.

“I guess he really likes that bench,” Nate said as he and Quinn walked toward the gate.

“He just wants to control his world,” Quinn said, painfully aware he was attempting to do the same thing.

“So what are we going to do?” Nate asked.

“Your idea is good. We’ll work with that.”

“Okay,” Nate said. “Then I guess there’s one more thing I need to know.”

“What’s that?” Quinn asked.

“What’s your real name?”

Quinn tensed. It was the final box that he’d left closed. The one he had thought he would never have to open.

“It’s Jake,” he said. “Jake Oliver.”

PETRA AND MIKHAIL ARRIVED IN LONDON AT
9:15 p.m. Once in the terminal, Mikhail located a pay phone and made a quick call.

“It’s all arranged,” he told Petra. “An apartment in Bayswater.”

“Good,” was all Petra could manage to say. She didn’t think she’d ever been as exhausted as she was at that moment.

They took the Underground into the city, and before they had even gone two stops, she was slumped in her seat, asleep. At Earl’s Court, Mikhail woke her so they could switch trains, and woke her again when they reached Bayswater.

“Let me take your bag,” he said.

She yanked it away from his hand. “I’m fine.”

Being Russian in London had its advantages. The city was teeming with their former countrymen. The Russian community was large, and very connected. The use of the apartment was courtesy of one of Mikhail’s distant cousins. It was in a tired-looking building on the second floor. A fine layer of dust covered the floors and the windowsills. With the exception of two thin mattresses, a couple of plastic chairs, and a folding table, the place was empty.

Sleep was what Petra wanted, but she knew she needed to check in with Stepka first. So while Mikhail ran out to pick up some food, she called Moscow.

“Anything?” she asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to three groups,” he said. “All in London. But I think that’s as far as I can get from here.”

“Who are they?” she asked.

“A group called CM8 run by a guy named Leon Currie. And another headed by an ops runner named David Wills.”

“And the third one?”

“That’s kind of tricky.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears to be associated with British intelligence.”

“Associated?”

“From what I’ve learned, it’s a front for MI6. A business called Wright Bains Securities.”

MI6?
Those were the last people she wanted to deal with.

“Do you have a name there?” she asked.

“No name yet.”

“See what you can dig up,” she said. “We’ll work on the others from this end.”

As she hung up, she felt a little better. They had a potential lead again. They just needed to figure out which of the three might be the connection to the Ghost.

“Finish it.” That’s what Dombrovski had said the last time Petra had talked to him.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re the smartest one of all of us.”

“No, I’m—”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been training for this moment for years. Your instincts are good. You’ve learned everything you need to carry this out. The names, the photograph. It’s the best lead we’ve ever had. Finish it, Petra. Finish it.”

Names, yes, but not
the
name. If she had that, finish it was exactly what she’d do. But she needed that damn name, the name the Ghost called himself now. Only so far all she had was a trail of useless bodies.

Petra looked at the picture again. Fourteen people, but only two who meant anything, the two young men standing at opposite ends of the bar. They almost looked like twins, but they weren’t. The one on the right was the one she was looking for, but it was the one on the left who was the key. Learn his name and everything would fall into place. But his identity had been so thoroughly erased that only a small group of people had known who he was. A small group that had become a handful, then that handful had been reduced to …?
How many? Three? Two?

They had been so close with Moody. But in the end he, too, had given them nothing.

Petra lay down on the bed and pulled the thin blanket that had been left with the mattress over her shoulders. Tomorrow she had to be sharp. She needed to turn off her mind and
sleep
.

But so many things were still swirling inside. The Ghost. Dombrovski. Stepka.

And, of course, Andrei.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.”