The Silenced (25 page)

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 paid 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.

Petra frowned.

According to his registration form, Mr. Shelby had reserved the room for an entire week. So then, where was his luggage?

She moved into the bathroom. Towels folded and ready for use, fresh bottles of shampoo and conditioner, but no personal items whatsoever.

She touched the sink near the drain. Bone dry. The same went for the shower.

Back in the bedroom, she located the wastebasket. Also empty.

The room wasn’t being used at all, but why? The only reason she could come up with was that he was using it as a safe location, in case it was needed later.

The question now was, would Mr. Shelby come back?

“I DON’T THINK SHE’S GOING TO SHOW,” QUINN
said.

Orlando touched him on his thigh. “Let’s give it another hour. If we don’t see her by then, we’ll come back in the morning.”

Quinn grimaced, but didn’t get up. He knew she was right. It was just that he was having a hard time reining in his impatience. Something that seldom happened.

They were sitting by the front window of the Queen Anne Pub. From there, they had a direct view of the office building across the street where Wright Bains Securities was located. It was six stories of glass, steel, and stone, surrounded on three sides by similar generic, soul-sucking structures. The kind of place a secret division of MI6 would choose. There were two ways in: a glass door main entrance at the center of the building, and a less-flashy steel door off to the left. From Quinn and Orlando’s position, they could see both.

With Wills dead, Taplin was Quinn’s best chance at getting information. His biggest fear had been that she was still in New York. But Orlando was able to learn that a U.K. citizen named Annabel Taplin had returned to London the night before. Which meant there was a very good chance she had returned to work that morning.

When they got there, it was already lunchtime. Quinn had hoped they might spot her going out to eat with some of her colleagues, but no luck. And, as the afternoon turned to evening with no sign of Annabel among those heading home for the day, he began to wonder if she had come in at all.

Orlando picked up the cup of coffee she’d been drinking and took another sip. Quinn, who had been nursing the same beer for over an hour, reached for his glass, but then decided against it. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Toilet,” he said, walking away.

“Thanks for the information,” Orlando called after him.

He headed across the pub and down a small hallway to the public toilets. He didn’t really need to use them; he just couldn’t stand sitting around any longer.

The men’s room was a single stall and one urinal. Tucked in behind the door was a sink with a mirror above it. It had obviously become a tradition to put stickers on the walls and mirror, most touting bands.

Quinn turned on the cold water, then wiped some of it across his face. He felt the need to do something. Anything. This waiting was killing him. Usually he could be on a stakeout for days before he’d feel the need to get things moving. But never before had it been his own family who was being threatened.

He stared at himself in an open spot on the mirror between a sticker for the Arctic Monkeys and a throwback for Stiff Little Fingers, but didn’t like what was looking back. There was something in his eyes that he had never seen.

Fear.

He couldn’t deny it. It was staring right back at him.

Fear that he wasn’t in control of what was going on. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to make the problem go away. And most of all, fear that because he’d put his family in the line of fire, something would happen to them.

He had to make this right. And once he did, he could never again assume that Liz and his mother were safe. For so long he’d been able to keep their existence a secret, but that secret was gone now, gone forever.

Quinn grabbed a towel and dried his face. What all this meant about his future was something he was going to have to deal with once he’d taken care of his current nightmare. He was nowhere near in the right frame of mind to think about it now.

His phone began to vibrate. It was Nate.

Finally
.

He hit Accept, then headed back into the pub.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“We’re safe,” Nate said. “We found a room near—”

“Hold on,” Quinn said, cutting him off.

Orlando was no longer sitting down. She was standing near the door, waving him to hurry over. He took the phone from this ear, then pushed his way through the growing crowd.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The woman on the sidewalk across the street. About thirty feet left of the main entrance. Is that her?”

Quinn followed her gaze. Though the sun had gone down, the streetlamps provided more than enough light to see.

“It’s her,” he said. “Go.”

Orlando headed out of the pub.

“Sorry,” he said into the phone. “
Where
are you?”

“A small hotel near Sacré Coeur.”

Outside the pub, Quinn could see Orlando cross the street and fall in about a half block behind Annabel. The MI6 woman had no idea who Orlando was, so the plan they had worked out was for Orlando to follow her, and Quinn to follow Orlando a couple of blocks back, using the GPS tracker in his phone. That way there would be no chance Taplin would spot him.

“Did they check your ID?”

“Of course not,” Nate said, his tone a little pissed off. “We wouldn’t be here if they did.”

Quinn grimaced. That was basic training stuff. A dumb question to ask, but his objectivity was a little blurred at the moment. “How’s Liz?”

There was a pause, then when Nate spoke again his voice was lower. “She’s a little freaked out. But that’s understandable. I’m actually surprised she’s still functioning at all.… She
has
been asking a lot of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About you. About what you do … what I do.”

“What have you told her?”

“I said that she needs to ask you.”

That was something else he was going to have to deal with, Quinn realized. Liz was going to want to know what was going on. His mother, too, for that matter. “You did the right thing,” he said as he started for the door.

“What if she keeps pushing?”

“Tell her what you already told her.”

“I’m not sure if that’s going to be enough.”

Quinn stepped outside. Orlando was no longer in sight. He started down the sidewalk in the direction he had seen her go. “Is she giving you trouble?”

“Not yet,” Nate said. “But I can see it coming. Don’t forget, she
is
your sister. She’s not stupid.”

No, she wasn’t stupid. “Then use your best judgment. Tell her what you need to tell her, but nothing more.”

“I’m not going to lie to her. I need her to cooperate with me, and she won’t if she thinks I’m just handing her another line.”

“Okay. No lies,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Quinn stopped as he neared the end of the block. There was no way to know which direction Orlando and Annabel had gone. He was going to have to use the tracker on his phone. “I want you to get her out of Paris,” Quinn said.

“I thought you might. Where do you want us to go?”

Good question
. What Quinn really wanted was for her to be close, but London might be just as dangerous for her as Paris. Still …

“Bring her to England. Don’t take the Chunnel. Get a car and drive to Belgium. You can get a ferry in Ostend. We’ll get some rush docs for her. I think Orlando knows someone there who can probably do them for you tonight. I’ll have her let you know where and when to pick them up. Then I want you out of Paris by morning.”

“I’ll make sure we’re up early and moving.”

“And Nate …”

“I know. Take care of Liz.”

Quinn hesitated. “Yes. But also yourself.”

•   •   •

After almost losing them in the Underground, Quinn caught up to Orlando not far from Russell Square Station.

“She went in there,” Orlando said, nodding down the street at a tan, three-story brick structure that had been designed to look like a series of row houses.

“Apartments?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. The index next to the front door lists twenty-four residents.”

“Must go back a little ways. Doesn’t look like that many from here.”

“Unfortunately, yes. I was hoping I’d see a light go on in one of the rooms when she went in.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“What about her name? Isn’t she listed?”

“There’s no Taplin.”

“Do you think she might have spotted you, and used this place to throw you off?”

“I wondered about that,” Orlando said. “But I don’t think so. She was exhausted, even fell asleep for a few minutes on the train. I don’t think she noticed much of anything.”

“Could have been faking it,” Quinn suggested.

“She wasn’t.”

Quinn looked back down the street. “Well, we can’t go door-to-door.”

“Yeah. Bad idea.”

“And if she was that tired, she’s probably in for the evening.”

“I’d agree with that, too.”

Quinn turned to her, his eyes narrowed. “Then, what do
you
think we should do?”

She took another look at the building, then said, “Nothing’s going to happen tonight. Let’s come back early tomorrow and pick her up when she leaves for work.”

Quinn frowned.

“You could use some sleep yourself,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.”

He stared at the building a moment longer, knowing she was right but wishing there was more he could do. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. The weight of it all seemed to be increasing every second.

“You’re not alone,” Orlando said softly as she put an arm around him. “This is our family in trouble, not just yours. And if we want to help them, we need to be sharp.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, saying nothing.

“Okay?” she asked.

He said nothing for a moment, then he nodded once. “Okay.”