She was a Jane Doe, obtained from a financially strapped morgue employee in San Bernardino, California. Julien had met the man halfway at a rest area along I-15, east of Barstow. For a thousand dollars, the body and all the associated paperwork were theirs. No one would ever ask about her.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter what she looked like. If all went according to plan, Quinn and Julien would be the only ones to have seen her.
He zipped up the inner bag, rearranged the dry ice, and zipped up the outer.
According to his watch, it was 6:32 p.m. In less than forty-five minutes, the flight carrying Mila was scheduled to land. At that point, if she followed directions, she would proceed to the Planet Hollywood Hotel, perhaps hang out in the casino for a few minutes, then, at precisely 8:00 p.m., would knock on the door of room 739.
And if she walked into that room, she would never walk out again.
Quinn’s plan was to have her die before she even made it to the hotel, at least as far as anyone else was concerned.
He climbed out of the van and back into his car, made his way over to Planet Hollywood. That’s where he was supposed to be stationed, so that’s where he needed to make an appearance. When he arrived at his assigned room, he checked in with Jergins using the room phone, then turned on the TV so that it would sound like someone was there.
Seconds later he was out the door again. Instead of using the elevator, he took the stairs, exited the building, and made his way quickly to where a black town car with tinted windows was parked. On its rear bumper was a white number that indicated it was a car for hire.
Once behind the wheel, he opened the bag sitting on the passenger seat. From inside he retrieved a wig, hat, dark glasses, and a facial appliance that would cover from his chin all the way up to his ears, giving him a changed jawline and scruffy beard. If he’d been planning on doing any close-up work, he would have taken the time to put the appliance on just right, attaching it with the appropriate adhesive and using makeup to blend it into his face. But he was only concerned about what he looked like from a distance, so the appliance was held on merely by bands that went over his ears and around the back of his head, under the wig.
His appearance changed, he pulled onto the road, and called Julien.
“Update?”
“Her plane landed five minutes ago. Just waiting for her to come out.”
“And the spotter?”
“Same place as before.”
“Has he shown any interest in you?”
“No.”
Per their plan, neither man hung up. From this point forward, they would stay on the phone.
When Quinn was within four minutes of the airport, Julien whispered, “I see her.” There was a bit of surprise in his voice, even longing.
“Go. Now,” Quinn said.
He could hear Julien moving through the airport crowd. Thirty-five seconds later, there was a faint grunt, and the Frenchman said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to bump into you. Are you all right?”
A pause, then a whisper. “Julien?”
“Did I hurt you?”
Recovering, Mila said in a normal voice, “Uh, no. No, I’m fine.”
“I do apologize,” Julien told her, then his voice dropped. “Black town car. Driver with black hat, sunglasses, and a beard. It’s Quinn.”
“Quinn?”
“Just get in the car.” In a louder voice, he said, “If you will excuse me, then. Have a good day.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You, too.”
Perhaps if Quinn had been standing there, the scene would have looked normal, but from the audio alone, it sounded like Mila could have already blown it.
“What’s she doing?” he asked.
“Heading for the door,” Julien replied.
“And the spotter?”
“He sees her.”
“Still not paying attention to you?”
“No.”
“All right. You know what to do.”
Arriving at the terminal, Quinn pulled to an empty stop near the curb, hopped out, and moved around to the other side of the car. Mila, who was standing on the sidewalk just outside the door, caught sight of him and walked over.
“Ms. Reese?” Quinn asked as she neared, using the name she was traveling under for this assignment.
“Yes.”
“Any bags?”
“No, just this,” Mila said, touching her carry-on.
“Very good.”
He opened the back door, and she climbed inside. As he walked around the car to the driver’s side, his gaze swung toward the terminal. Even if Julien hadn’t given him a description of the spotter, he would have easily picked out Kovacs’s man. The guy was trying hard not to stare at the town car, but only half succeeding.
That’s because the car was not part of Jergins’s plan. Mila had been instructed to take a taxi to the hotel to prevent drawing undue attention.
But here she was, being picked up by a town car that had obviously been arranged ahead of time. Once the spotter checked in—something that would undoubtedly happen in the next sixty seconds—Jergins would try to figure out which company the car had come from, and when Mila could have arranged it. If he made it far enough down the list, he would call a company named W. White Town Cars & Limos, and be informed that, “Yes, we do have a car picking up a Ms. Reese at the airport, arranged by a Mr. Peters.”
Quinn knew the chance of Jergins calling W. White was slim, but if he did, the name Peters would throw him another curve, making the team leader wonder if Peter was the one who’d made the arrangements. This would buy even more time.
As Quinn climbed in, he caught a glimpse of Julien farther back, watching the spotter. He put the car in drive and pulled from the curb.
“Excuse me,” Mila said. “I was wondering how long the drive is.”
“You can relax,” Quinn said. “The car’s not bugged.”
She immediately leaned forward so that her head was almost poking over the back of his seat. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I said not bugged. I didn’t say no one was watching.”
She scooted back a little, but not all the way. “Quinn, what is it? What happened?”
He took a quick look at her in the rearview mirror, checked for tails, then returned his gaze to the road. Before he could speak, his phone buzzed.
He looked at the display. Jergins. “Julien?” he said. The call to the Frenchman was still active.
“Oui?”
“Putting you on hold.”
“D’accord.”
Quinn glanced at Mila again. “Absolute quiet.” As soon as she nodded, he switched the calls. “This is Quinn.”
“It’s Jergins. There’s been a complication.”
“What complication?”
“There was a town car waiting for her.”
“So no taxi?”
“No.”
“When did she arrange that?” Quinn asked.
“No idea, but I don’t like it. The plan’s still in effect, but be aware we might have to improvise.”
“Any chance of an abort?”
“Unless the president himself calls with a pardon, I’m mission go.”
“All right.”
“Just sit tight,” Jergins said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Quinn disconnected the call and switched back to Julien. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” Julien said. Tense.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s got you.”
Quinn’s eyes immediately shot to the rearview. “Which one?”
There were almost two dozen cars behind him, nearly half of them taxis. Most of the rest were no doubt rentals full of people planning to hit it big in the casinos.
“Silver Audi A3,” Julien said. “About forty meters behind you.”
Quinn adjusted his gaze. Though the sun was just dipping below the horizon, he found the car, and made out the spotter behind the wheel.
“Behind him, another thirty.”
“Don’t let him see you.”
“I think his attention is more on what’s in front of him than behind.”
“Just be careful, all right? And let me know if something changes.”
Quinn fell silent, concentrating on the road.
After several seconds, Mila said, “Can you talk now?”
Might be easier if I don’t, Quinn thought, but said, “They’re planning to kill you.”
“Who’s planning to kill me?” she asked, her tone instantly leery.
“There’s no package. No courier run. This was a termination from the beginning. Seconds after you enter the room at Planet Hollywood, you’d be dead.”
“And how the hell do you know this?”
“Because I was the one hired to get rid of your body.”
CHAPTER 28
WASHINGTON, DC
“DEPARTMENT OF THE Interior, San Francisco office. How may I direct your call?” The female voice was efficiently disinterested.
“Helen Cho, please,” Peter said.
“I’m sorry. Everyone has left for the evening. This is the after-hours service.”
“Put her on the line.”
“Sir, perhaps you should just try calling back—”
“Eight, twenty-seven, nineteen, D.”
A pause, then the woman said, “One moment. I’ll connect you.”
Neither she nor anyone else at that phone number actually worked for the Department of the Interior or any after-hours service. While Congress had approved the budget of the organization they did work for, the group was hidden under so many layers, only a dozen or so people knew of its existence. DES was, in effect, the successor to the Office. Officially, their name was an acronym for Division of Environmental Solutions. Privately, those within the organization referred to themselves as the Division of Essential Solutions.
Helen Cho was the person in charge. She had once worked for Peter before moving on to bigger things within the National Security Council, then the CIA. A rising star with a bulldog attitude, she’d been a natural to take over the new, ultra-secret division.
“May I help you?” Another woman’s voice, but still not the one he wanted.
“Helen Cho, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“An old friend.”
“Even old friends have names.”
“Tell her it’s Peter.”
The woman said nothing, waiting for more.
“She’ll know who it is.”
Another moment of dead air, then, “One moment, sir.”
The moment turned out to be almost a minute. Finally, the call was put through.
“I was just about to start my second glass of wine,” Helen Cho said. As always, her voice was relaxed and had the hint of a smoker’s scratch. As far as Peter knew, though, Helen had never smoked.
“Sorry to call out of the blue, but I need your help with something…sensitive.”
“Didn’t I hear they had you riding a desk? I didn’t realize you were actually back in the game.”
“Temporarily.”
“Interesting. Hold on a moment.”
The line went dead again, this time lasting only half a minute as she undoubtedly relocated to someplace easier to talk.
“Okay. So what’s going on?”
“I’ve been roped into doing a little mop-up work. For what, exactly, isn’t important.”
“Who are the players?”
“William Green and Christopher Mygatt.”
“Senator Mygatt? Last I checked, he was no longer part of the government.”
“True. Maybe not today, but who knows about tomorrow?”
“Green’s always been his lackey,” she said, not hiding her distaste. “Why don’t you tell me what you want? I’m not sure how I could help you, or even if I should.”
“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
“I guess so. What’s going on?”
“This mop-up—there’s an aspect to it that I’m responsible for.”
“So that’s why you’ve been pulled in.”
“Yes,” he said. “The thing is, as I’ve been diving into this, I’ve been forced to take a look at the larger picture. What I’ve started to uncover is making me feel a little uncomfortable.”
“Looking into things you shouldn’t? Peter, I’m surprised,” she said, not sounding it.
“I can only get so far. There are pieces I can’t reach, not without bulldozing a path that will lead straight back to me, and keep me from doing anything that I might need to do.”
“Like what?”
“All options are open.”
She fell silent for several seconds, then said, “Could this damage the good senator?”
“That depends on what you tell me.”
Again, the line went quiet. “All right,” she finally said. “Lay it out for me. If I can’t do anything, this discussion is pointless.”
“Two things. First I need the details of a specific flight that occurred in April of 2006.”
“I assume this isn’t a commercial flight.”
“No. Governmental. As best I can figure out, it was arranged by DIA.” The Defense Intelligence Agency. “I need to know the purpose of the flight and who was on it and why.”
“Okay. What’s the second thing?”
“The DIA may have arranged the flight, but I’m positive they weren’t behind it.”
“And you want me to find out who?”
“Yes.”
“And how does this tie into our friends?”
“You’ll be the one to tell me that.”
He could hear her sigh, and then she said, “I might be able to dig something up, but I can’t promise anything.”
“I have every confidence in your abilities. And Helen, I need it right away.”
“Of course you do. Give me the details.”
CHAPTER 29
LAZIO REGION, ITALY
SOUTHEAST OF ROME
THE THROBBING PAIN in Quinn’s neck was constant, but bearable. The biggest problem it gave him was that anytime he had to look left or right, he had to twist his entire torso, keeping the position of his head and neck steady.
“The number three guard is on the move,” Orlando whispered over the comm.
After reconnecting with Daeng, they’d decided to spread out to keep a better watch over things. Quinn had remained in the vineyard, directly behind the building containing the holding cells, while Nate had moved to a spot nearer the main house, and Orlando had worked her way around until she was back on the hill in a position almost opposite Quinn’s.
“Looks like he’s going in,” she said.
About time, Quinn thought. Now there would be only two guards patrolling the outside, more than enough for most nights at two in the morning.
“Let’s give it ten minutes,” Nate said.
“Copy,” Orlando and Quinn said.
Once the ten minutes passed and no reinforcements had appeared, they reconvened at Quinn’s position.
“Here’s what I’m thinking. Orlando and I go in,” Nate said, looking directly at his mentor. “You watch our back.”
“The hell I will,” Quinn said. “I’m going, too.”
Orlando reached out and flicked Quinn’s neck with her finger, right at the edge of the bandage. He jerked back.
“Why’d you do that?” he said.
“You’re standing watch,” she told him. “If one of us were hurt, you’d make a similar decision. Someone has to keep an eye on things. You’re the logical choice. So don’t be an asshole. I mean, a bigger one than the one you already are.”
He glared at her for a second, but then gave her a terse nod. She was right, of course, but he didn’t have to like it.
“Head back over to the hill,” Nate said. “You’ll be able to see things better there. We’ll wait until you’re in position.”
“I know where
I should go,” Quinn snapped.
Orlando stifled a laugh.
“What?” he asked, his eyes boring into her again.
She smiled and shook her head. “You don’t do injured very well, you know that, right?” She glanced at Nate. “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”
Nate nodded. “Maybe we should shoot him more often.”
“Oh, there have been times I’ve wanted to,” she told him.
Quinn looked from one to the other. “Everyone happy now? Got any more you want to hit me with?”
Nate considered the question for a moment, then said, “I’m good.”
Orlando leaned forward and kissed Quinn on the cheek. “You’re actually kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”
Quinn didn’t wait around to hear any more. He headed left, paralleling the row of grapevines, then cut across the far field and moved into the copse of trees that had a front view of the farm’s two buildings. He settled in and scanned the property.
“I’m in position,” he whispered into his collar mic. “Still just the two guards. One by the front door of the house. The other’s in the parking area, leaning against one of the cars. Looks like he’s having a smoke.”
“Copy,” Nate said. “We’re moving.”
Quinn shifted his gaze back and forth from where the guards were to the detention building. It was nearly a minute and a half before he spotted Nate at the front corner.
“I’ve got a visual on you,” he said, and checked the guards again. “You’re clear to the door. But do it slow and easy.”
“I know how to do it,” Nate whispered in a perfect imitation of Quinn’s earlier response.
Quinn rolled his eyes, knowing but not wanting to admit he deserved that.
He watched as his girlfriend and his former apprentice crept up to the door, opened it, and slipped inside. As soon as they disappeared, he switched back to the guards.
Neither man had moved.
__________
DAENG SAT QUIETLY on the floor of his cell, his mind drifting on a river of nothing. Scattered images passed by: the jungle, Wat Doi Thong, a girl in Bangkok named Om he’d been seeing, the street in Rome outside Julien’s apartment. There were no meanings, no messages, just things that were.
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