He decided to give it a try anyway, and hit SEND.
Voice mail. Not even a message, just a beep.
“Where are you?” he said, and hung up.
__________
DAENG HAD LEARNED from his dealings back in Thailand and Burma that when an opportunity presented itself, a person should grab it.
About a half hour after Nate had left, two of the guards had begun a wide swing into the hills where he was hiding. Instead of panicking, he had simply circled around to the vineyard on the other side of the buildings. If the men had returned to the farmhouse right then, he would have stayed where he was, but they were taking their time. More importantly, they’d left only a single guard standing near the farmhouse to watch over everything.
This was the opportunity.
Leaving the cover of the vines, Daeng crept over to the windowless building. A glance around the front corner confirmed that the guard near the farmhouse porch hadn’t moved.
Now or never.
Taking slow silent steps, he approached the door, wrapped his fingers around the knob, and tested it. Still unlocked. He turned the knob until he felt the latch slip free, quickly opened it enough so he could slip inside, and closed it again.
He found himself in what amounted to a short empty hallway that T-boned into a wider corridor going left and right. He took a step forward and leaned out just enough so he could look in both directions. No one, just a hallway with two doors to the left, and two to the right, all along the opposite wall. At the end of the corridor to the right was a metal staircase leading up to the second floor and down to a basement level.
He stopped in front of each door, listened, then tried the handles. All four were unlocked. Inside each he found what could only be called a cell. The two middle ones were about the size of the small bedroom he’d had in Hollywood when he lived with his aunt. Maybe seven feet square, perhaps eight. The two on either end were much smaller—same length, but the width was no more than four feet at best.
He moved over to the stairwell, and detected a faint, almost rhythmic sound coming up from below. If the guard was down there, no way Daeng could descend the stairs without being noticed. So instead, he lay on the floor and inched forward until his head stuck out into the empty space above the receding staircase. He tilted it down as slowly as he could.
There was little to see at first, just the start of another corridor that looked to be a twin of the one on the ground floor. The further his head moved, the more hallway he saw. When he caught sight of the guard, he froze. The man was sitting in a chair at the far end, holding a book in his lap. Only he wasn’t reading. He was sleeping.
Whatever prisoner he was watching over had to be in one of the nearby cells, probably the one at the end.
Daeng pulled back.
There was a fine line between opportunity and stupidity—one he would surely cross if he ventured downstairs.
As he stood up, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had pretty much confirmed that there was, indeed, someone in one of the cells. It was time to head back. When Nate showed up again, he’d tell him what he’d found, and they could figure out what to do next.
He walked to the front door, slowly opened it, and looked out.
Immediately, he pulled his head back in, and used every ounce of restraint he had to ease the door shut.
The others had returned, and were huddled together in front of the main house, talking. He might have been able to sneak away, but that would have been even riskier than if he’d made a try for the basement.
He’d just have to wait a few minutes until they finished whatever they were doing. Hopefully most of them would go into the house. It would still be a risk, but—
He heard feet outside heading his way.
Panic was not part of Daeng’s nature, so he calmly stepped back into the larger corridor and turned in the opposite direction from the stairs. As he reached the tiny cell on the end, he heard someone opening the main door.
Daeng opened the door, and slipped into the darkened cell. It wasn’t until the door shut that he realized it had no interior handle. So while the cell doors were technically unlocked, that only applied if one was on the other side.
Which he wasn’t.
Not quite what I had in mind.
He sat down on the mattress that filled most of the cell’s floor, and started going through the contents of his pockets, identifying everything by feel. Euro bills and change, the passport that matched the ID he was traveling under, the envelope Nate had asked him to hold, his comm, and his phone.
He checked the reception on his cell. One bar. The walls of the building were thick, and apparently not cell-phone friendly. Still, one bar was better than none. Hopefully it would be enough to at least get a text message out.
He tried, but it failed. He tried again. And again. And again.
After pushing the mattress against the door to block any sound from seeping into the corridor, he tried calling Nate several times, but apparently one bar wasn’t enough for either option.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there when his phone vibrated. An hour? Two? He snatched it up and looked at the display.
Nate.
He punched ACCEPT, but the call failed to connect.
He tried calling Nate back, then texting him, but again, the signal wasn’t strong enough.
Maybe he’s close.
He picked up his comm gear and turned it on.
“Nate? Can you hear me? It’s Daeng. Are you back?”
__________
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Quinn asked as Nate reappeared on the hill just above them.
“I don’t know. Daeng’s not there.”
“You’re sure we’re in the right place?” Orlando asked.
“Positive.”
“Show me the farmhouse,” Quinn said.
“Okay. Down a little bit, though. Not here.”
Staying at their current elevation, they moved parallel to the summit until they were a good fifty yards to the left, then snuck up the slope, dropping to their stomachs just before they reached the top.
From this angle, the farmhouse hid a portion of the outbuilding. Nate pulled night-vision binoculars out of his pack and handed them to Quinn.
The buildings were just as Nate had described them. Though they looked old, they had probably only been constructed in the last ten or fifteen years. Quinn had seen others like them, residences specifically designed to be used as mission headquarters and safe houses. The structure without the windows was particularly telling. He’d seen a similar type of building three or four times in the past, and knew without even walking through the front door that there would be holding cells and interrogation rooms inside.
He picked out the guards, then swept the binoculars around, scanning for other signs of life. The three men seemed to be it. He was about to ask Nate if there was a backup spot where Daeng might have repositioned himself, when Nate suddenly cocked his head, his eyes losing focus.
“Daeng?” he said.
He fell silent again.
“Is that him?” Quinn asked, realizing Nate was listening to the comm line.
“I’m not sure. The signal’s not strong.”
“Do you have another set?”
“The spares are in my backpack,” Nate told him, then said, “Daeng, is that you?”
Quinn moved around Nate and zipped open the pack. He found the pouch by feel, pulled out two comm sets, tossed one to Orlando, then donned the other.
“…ate…can…me?” The words were weak and broken by digital noise, but Quinn was sure it was Daeng’s voice.
“Daeng, it’s Quinn.”
“…uinn…how are…”
“Where are you?” Nate asked.
This time the words came back completely garbled.
“We’re not going to hear him until we get closer to wherever he is,” Orlando said.
Nate nodded. “You two go that way, and I’ll go the other
. We can meet up in the vineyard on the other side.”
__________
NATE STAYED UNDER the cover of the trees as he worked his way west along the hill. Every ten seconds or so, either he or Quinn would say, “Daeng, are you reading me?”
Most of the time Daeng answered, but his responses were still impossible to decipher. When Nate reached a point where Daeng didn’t answer at all, he knew he’d gone too far, so he cut to the north, staying low to the ground as he crossed an open field to the vineyard about a hundred fifty yards away. From there he began working his way back toward the house.
Since the grapes were planted just a stone’s throw from the back of the buildings, he was able to get quite close to them while staying under cover.
“Daeng?” he whispered.
“Nate? I can…ou.”
“Where are you?”
“You…ot…eve it.”
“You’re still breaking up. Start counting. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“…ne, two,…ee, f…ix, seven, eight…”
Nate came parallel with the farmhouse.
“Nine, ten, elev…twe…irteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.”
“Stop,” Nate said. He paused in the middle of a row. “I think I’ve got you now. Where exactly are you?”
“I’m in the outbuilding.”
Nate turned toward it, as if he might be able to see Daeng. “You’re inside?”
“Yes. In one of the cells.”
“They captured you?”
“No. They don’t know I’m here.”
Nate paused, confused. “Back up. How did this—” He fell silent as he heard something coming down the row. Dropping his voice to the quietest of whispers, he said, “Quinn?”
“Yes.” An equally quiet response.
A few seconds later, Quinn and Orlando emerged from the darkness.
“Daeng, still there?” Nate asked.
“Don’t really have anywhere else to go.”
“So how did you end up in one of the cells?”
“Opportunity.”
“Opportunity?”
Daeng explained how he’d taken advantage of the guards moving onto the hills, described what he’d found, including the guard in the basement, and his belief that whoever they were holding was in a cell near him.
“And which cell are you in?” Quinn asked.
“First floor. End of the hall, opposite the stairs.”
Nate took a moment to think, then said, “We’ll position ourselves so we can keep eyes on all sides of the building. When it’s clear, we’ll let you know and you can get out.”
“That’s actually not as easy as you might think.”
“Why not?”
“I seem to have locked myself in.”
CHAPTER 27
FRIDAY, MAY 12th, 2006
5:43 PM
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
SOME JOBS HAD pre-event meetings, some didn’t. Jergins was a believer in them, so two and a half hours prior to the eight p.m. operation time, he had the team gather once more to go over everything.
In Quinn’s mind, meetings like these were a complete waste. If someone on the team didn’t know what they were supposed to do by now, then he or she shouldn’t be in the business.
On this particular occasion, though, he had no intentions of raising any objections. He needed to be perceived as his usual, professional, totally cooperative self. If that meant sitting around and nodding as Jergins once more went over the emergency escape route for scenario 47f, so be it.
The hardest part was not pushing Jergins to talk faster and wrap things up. Quinn had a schedule to keep if his plan was going to work.
When Jergins traced the presumed route Mila would be taking to the room on a map of the hotel, Quinn stole a glance at his watch.
Five minutes. He had to be out of there in five minutes or he was screwed.
No, he corrected himself. Mila will be screwed, permanently.
“…and Kovacs, as soon as you’re done, you’ll give Quinn the signal,” Jergins was saying. He glanced at Quinn. “Then it’s all yours.”
Quinn nodded his understanding.
“Any questions?” Jergins looked around the room, but no one said anything. Of course, why would they? They’d been over this a dozen times too many already. “Okay, good. Setup team, you’re dismissed. Get the hell out of town. In three days call the contact number for debrief. After that you’ll receive your final payment.”
Those involved in getting everything organized said their goodbyes, and within moments Jergins, Kovacs, and Quinn were the only ones left.
“You two are clear, right?” Jergins said.
“Of course,” Kovacs replied.
“Completely,” Quinn said.
“I’ll be monitoring everything from a van just off the Strip, but if things go south you’re on your own.”
“Not going to be a problem,” Kovacs said.
“You’re sure you’re all set?”
Kovacs sneered. “I’ve done this once or twice before, so what do you think?”
Assassins, as a group, tended to be a bit more prima donna than some other operatives in the espionage world. And why not? They were the takers of lives, the ones who could swing the balance of power with a single bullet. But up until then, Kovacs had kept his sense of superiority in check.
Jergins seemed to realize that Kovacs’s stoic veneer was starting to crack. He leaned back and stretched. “OK. Unless you guys have anything else, I think we’re done.”
Kovacs stood and glanced at Quinn. “The signal will come on time.”
“I’m sure it will,” Quinn said, also rising.
“Oh, Quinn,” Jergins said. “Could you wait just a second?”
On the inside, Quinn groaned, but he said, “No problem.”
Kovacs shook Quinn’s hand, and, after a slight hesitation, Jergins’s. He crossed to the door and left.
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine,” Jergins said.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have been hired otherwise.” Quinn wasn’t worried about Kovacs.
Jergins nodded. “Been on a couple assignments with him in the past. Never been a problem.”
“So,” Quinn said, “what was it you wanted me to hang back for?”
“Right. You mentioned you were going to hire someone to help you, but you haven’t given me the person’s name yet. I need that for my report.”
“Totally forgot.” He hadn’t. He’d just been hoping Jergins would overlook it. Fortunately, he was prepared. The morning before, he’d received an email from a guy he occasionally used who was looking for a gig. “Jered Myers,” he said.
“I’ve heard that name before.”
“He’s a good guy. Quiet, does the work.”
Jergins pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket and wrote the name down. When he was done, he said, “Great. Thanks. That’s it.”
Quinn took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Oh, a quick question for you. Do you know how many people Kovacs has working with him? I wasn’t quite clear if it was two or three or…?”
“One, actually. A spotter who’ll be trailing the target.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks.”
Quinn had assumed there’d be a spotter, but had worried that the man had other assistants.
He shook hands with Jergins and made his way out of the hotel. The first thing he did when he reached his car was to pull out his phone.
“Hello?” a male voice answered.
“Jered?”
“Could be. Who’s this?”
“It’s Quinn.”
“Hey, Quinn. How are you?”
“Good, thanks. Got your email. Are you still free?”
“I am. Don’t have anything booked for another two weeks.”
“I can give you three days of work starting yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Um, all right. Where do you need me?”
“I need you to stay right where you
are.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want you to stay home and lie low. If anyone asks, you were in Vegas working with me.”
“Cover,” Myers said.
“Yeah.”
A pause. “Is this going to cause me any problems later?”
“None,” Quinn said, hoping he was right.
Myers took another moment, then said, “Sure, why not? I could always use a few days playing my bass.”
“Thanks, Jered.”
“Hey, you’re the one paying me to do nothing. Thank you.”
As Quinn pulled his car out of the parking garage, he called Julien. “Are you in position?”
“Oui.”
“Have you ID’d the spotter?”
“Of course. Don’t know his name, but I have seen him before.” Julien rattled off a quick description: five foot eight, average build, brown hair cut just above the ears, wearing jeans and a Green Day T-shirt.
“And the package?”
“It’s waiting for you.”
“Good. I guess we’re on.”
“Quinn.”
“Yes?”
“Merci, from me and from Mila. Merci beaucoup.”
__________
THE VAN WAS waiting in the self-parking garage behind the Manhattan Hotel. As they’d discussed, Julien had attached the key to the inside of the front bumper using sticky tape.
Quinn entered through the driver’s door, and climbed into the back cargo area to check on the package. It was lying against the left side, a long black bag with a zipper on top. He unzipped it and found, as expected, a second zipped-up bag inside. The space between them was stuffed with several dozen broken chunks of dry ice—a necessity due to the heat of the desert, even in May.
He donned one of the gloves Julien had left on the floor, pushed a few of the chunks to the side, and unzipped the inner bag just enough so he could take a quick look inside.
The dead woman was not a perfect match for Mila. She was at least twenty years older. Nor did she have the distinctive Eastern European facial features Mila had inherited from her immigrant parents. The woman’s cheeks showed signs of busted capillaries that spoke of the love of alcohol that had probably been responsible for her death.
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