The Deceived

by Brett Battles

  All of a sudden, he felt very weary. Markoff dead. Jenny missing. The responsibility he was beginning to feel for Tasha. And now this, his best friend losing the aunt she had loved so much.

  He sat down on the stoop. There was nothing he could do now but wait.

  And if there was one thing he was good at, it was waiting.

  “Let’s see. The first time you broke the law,” Orlando whispered.

  Quinn thought about it for a moment. “I was twelve. Shoplifted a candy bar on a dare from a friend.” His voice also low.

  “Get caught?”

  “Sort of.”

  She cocked her head, wanting more.

  Quinn moved his legs a few inches to the left, trying to get comfortable. It was tough to do in the utility closet they were crammed in. Most of the space was taken up by a switching system for the company computer network.

  Orlando was sitting closest to the door, while Quinn was shoved back in the corner, giving her as much room as possible.

  “I actually took two,” he said. “It was the local grocery store. One of the managers stopped me on the way out and made me give one back.”

  “Not both of them?”

  “He didn’t know about the other one. But he did let me go. I think he thought he’d scared me enough.”

  Again the questioning look.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said. “He did. I didn’t shoplift again until...well, until I started working for Durrie. How about you?”

  “Stole fifty bucks from the principal’s office in sixth grade.”

  “Holy shit,” Quinn said. “What’d he do when he found out?”

  “Expelled a kid in another class.”

  “He didn’t know it was you?”

  “They found the other kid’s fingerprints on everything,” she said. “And it helped that he’d dropped his lunch card under the desk.”

  Quinn smirked. He wanted to believe her, but he didn’t know her well enough to trust her yet. Besides, maybe she was just trying to impress him. Though they were both still apprentices—he with Durrie, and she with Durrie’s occasional partner Abraham Delger—Quinn was the veteran. He’d been at it almost four years, while Orlando had only begun her training nine months earlier.

  “I think I hear someone,” she said, looking toward the door.

  Quinn moved his head so that his ear was facing the door, then focused all his attention on the hallway beyond the door. A half-second later, he heard the steps. They were light but rhythmic and unhurried. No sense of urgency, no panic that might suggest knowledge of any security breech at the Net/Gyro facility. Though for the last thirty minutes, that had been exactly the case.

  Quinn and Orlando listened as the steps drew nearer, walked past the door, then receded in the opposite direction. Not once was there a pause in the person’s gait.

  “Your turn,” Orlando said once it was quiet.

  “Why’d you decide to get into this?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Work’s off-limits. As is anything too personal.”

  “Breaking the law’s not personal?”

  She tilted her head, looking at him with dark smiling eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I got in because nothing else seemed as exciting.”

  “That’s a job-interview answer.”

  “Really? So tell me a better one.”

  He smiled. “How about, I got in because if I’d said no, they would have killed me.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

  “You just asked for a better answer, not a true one,” Quinn said, though his answer was essentially correct.

  “I took Abraham’s offer because if I didn’t, I’d have ended up sitting in a cubicle in Silicon Valley, programming crap so some idiot could spell-check his document a little faster. Bullshit work. At least this way, I get out sometimes.”

  She moved a finger to her mouth and touched it to her lips, letting him know she’d heard something else. This time he didn’t turn his head, but instead looked toward the door. Which, of course, meant he had to look directly at her, too.

  He’d met Orlando several times over the previous nine months, but before, Durrie and Delger were always around. This was the first time they had spent any time alone together.

  For some reason, their bosses decided today’s mission would be best conducted by the two rookies. The task wasn’t that difficult. No cleanup involved. It was an info-gathering job. Get in, plant some bugs, then get out. It was a mission more aimed at Orlando’s specialties than Quinn’s, but Durrie had deemed it a good exercise for his apprentice.

  The building was the research facility for Net/Gyro Inc., one of those overnight technology wonders that seem to have sucked in a lot of cash but had yet to turn a real profit. Someplace Orlando might have ended up working at if she had taken the safer path.

  Quinn’s function on this mission was guide and bodyguard, while Orlando was tasked with inserting the bugs into the phone system so that specific lines could be monitored. Who would be making those calls, and what they would be concerning, neither of them had any idea. It was just another one of those “you don’t need to know” situations.

  They’d gotten into the facility fine. They’d even planted the bugs without any trouble. It was the getting out that had been a problem. Their exit route, one planned by Durrie, had proved to be unusable. Building construction had sealed off an entire wing of the structure, removing it from play.

  Exiting the same way they’d come in also wouldn’t work. The automated video loops of empty corridors that covered their arrival would have stopped working at least fifteen minutes earlier.

  So Quinn had contacted Durrie, who told them to find someplace to hole up while he tried to figure out an alternate exit.

  It should have been annoying, but Quinn didn’t mind. In fact, for the moment, he didn’t care how long they had to wait.

  As Orlando glanced over at him, he raised a questioning eyebrow, hoping to hide the fact he had been staring at her. She pointed to the right, indicating the noise was coming from that direction of the hallway. Quinn had already heard it, but he pretended to listen, then gave her a nod as the footsteps grew nearer.

  When she looked away again, he couldn’t help but let his gaze return to her—the curve of her neck, her pale brown skin, the ponytail of dark hair that reached just below her shoulders. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to be interested. But he didn’t know how not to be. She’d captured him, and she didn’t even know it.

  Outside, the footsteps began to slow. They were close now, almost to the door. Quinn could feel Orlando tense. He cursed himself for not letting her enter the closet first so he would have been between her and the door.

  One step.

  A second.

  Then a hand on the door.

  Quinn pulled out the only weapon he’d been allowed to bring along. It was a handheld Taser. He leaned forward, across Orlando’s lap, ready to strike the moment the door opened.

  He could hear the knob turn, then the latch release. He expected the door to ease away from the jamb slowly, but it didn’t.

  With a jerk, it flew wide.

  Quinn lunged forward, the Taser aimed straight in front of him. But the man on the other side seemed to expect the move. He was standing several feet away from the threshold, well out of Quinn’s initial range. Quinn started to push himself up for a second attempt, but the man’s words stopped him.

  “Nice try,” Durrie said, a knowing glint in his eyes. He was wearing the uniform of a Net/Gyro security officer. “Get to know each other better in there, did you? Well, teatime’s over. Let’s go.”

  It had been a test. Durrie had known all along the way out he had given them wouldn’t work. What he wanted to see was if they’d keep calm when things went wrong. It was an exam they both passed.

  And though Durrie couldn’t have cared less, he had been right. Quinn and Orlando had gotten to know each other better, enough to establish a friendship that continued to grow str
onger over the years. Only never in the direction Quinn had hoped. Instead, somehow that honor had fallen to Durrie. Orlando had been too good for Quinn’s old mentor, but there was no way he could tell her that. She had loved Durrie and taken care of him.

  Quinn would have considered it a waste if not for Garrett—the son Durrie would never even acknowledge as his own.

  CHAPTER

  AN OLDER COUPLE WALKED UP THE STEPS TO

  Orlando’s aunt’s house at three-thirty. They were dressed in black, and they appeared to be Korean, like the mother Orlando had lost when she was just a child and like her recently deceased aunt Jeong. The woman stared at Quinn as she walked by, careful to keep as much distance between them as possible. The man gave Quinn a nod, then paid him no more attention.

  The couple had a key to the front door and soon disappeared inside, not bothering to see if Quinn wanted to come in also.

  A few minutes later, more people started arriving, all Koreans. Some looked at Quinn as if they were asking, “Should I know you?” But most just ignored him.

  At three forty-five, a black limo pulled up to the curb. An elderly couple emerged from the back. Quinn guessed the woman was at least eighty, and the man a few years older. Once they were on the sidewalk, a third person climbed from the car. A woman, much younger.

  She was wearing a black calf-length dress, conservative but stylish. Her hair was pinned back from her face, and she had on a pair of simple, wire-framed glasses. Despite the fact that she was also wearing heels, she stood no more than five foot two. But unlike the other arrivals, she was only half Korean. Her father was a mix of Thai and American Irish, making his daughter Orlando a true American blend.

  As she stepped up onto the sidewalk to join the couple, she glanced toward the front door of the house. When she caught sight of Quinn, she stopped, her eyes locking on him. Then, perhaps only noticeable to him, she seemed to relax, her shoulders lowering, her mouth easing open in what could almost be a smile.

  Quinn pushed himself off the stoop and walked over to her. There were tears in Orlando’s eyes as she closed the gap and fell into his embrace. The older couple she had arrived with walked toward the house, their eyes straight ahead, pretending not to notice the sudden public display.

  Quinn placed one hand in the middle of Orlando’s back, then rubbed the other across her shoulder.

  “You came,” she said, not looking up.

  “Always the queen of the obvious,” he said.

  He could feel her smile against his chest, then her left hand moved away and punched him in the arm.

  When she finally pulled away, he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t make the service.”

  “It’s okay. I got your messages. I was just... too busy.”

  She looked toward the door of her aunt’s home. A woman was there, the one who’d arrived first, looking down at Orlando. She motioned for her to come inside.

  “Come on,” Orlando said to Quinn.

  The woman said something to Orlando in Korean as they entered. After Orlando answered her, the woman looked at Quinn, then turned and walked away.

  “Aunt Jay’s sister-in-law,” Orlando said. Jay was Aunt Jeong’s nickname. “She seems to think she owns all this now.”

  “Does she?”

  “No,” Orlando said. “I do.”

  “You could always give it to her.”

  “Not a chance.”

  As was the nature of a shotgun-style house, Aunt Jeong’s place was much longer than it was wide, with room after room from front to back. Just beyond the entrance was a small living room overcrowded with old furniture. The walls were covered with pictures: a painting of Christ, some landscapes, and several photos. Several guests had already staked out positions on the tan couch and the two ratty-looking recliners.

  Orlando led him into a hallway that ran along the left side of the house. They passed the stairs to the second floor, a small bathroom, a guest bedroom, and a formal dining area before coming to the end of the hall and entering the kitchen.

  This was where most of the crowd was. Over a dozen people were crammed into the room. Quinn had heard them talking in Korean as he and Orlando approached, but as soon as he entered the kitchen all conversation stopped.

  Orlando said something to them. The only word Quinn could pick out was “Jonathan.” He got a couple nods from the men, but no more than blank stares from the women.

  Orlando turned to him. “More of my aunt’s in-laws.” She whispered, “They think maybe you’re my white boyfriend.”

  “What if I were Korean?”

  “They’d be pulling out chairs for you and stuffing food in your face.”

  Quinn smiled. The truth was, he had relatives who would have treated Orlando pretty much the same way if their roles had been reversed.

  Orlando grabbed two plastic cups off the kitchen table and handed one to Quinn. “Here,” she said. “Lemonade.”

  They stood in the kitchen for a while, Orlando talking first with one guest, then another, and Quinn just trying to be the caring friend.

  After about forty-five minutes, Orlando held up her empty cup and said, “I think I need something a little stronger than this. Coming?”

  “Whatever you want,” Quinn said.

  Orlando’s definition of something stronger turned out to be a double espresso at the Starbucks stand in the Safeway grocery store on Market Street. Once they had their drinks, she led him back outside.

  “Walk?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  They headed north along Market, their pace slow.

  “How are you doing?” Quinn said. It was a stupid question, but he didn’t know what else to ask.

  “Okay, I guess,” she said. She sighed, then tried to smile. “I knew my aunt was sick. That’s why I came out to visit. I just didn’t realize how close she was to the end.” She raised her espresso to her lips and took a drink. “If I’d known, I would have brought Garrett with me. She really wanted to see him.”

  “You left Garrett at home?” The boy was only six years old.

  She nodded. “Mr. Vo and his wife are watching him. He’s fine.”

  Mr. Vo worked for Orlando at the Tri-Continent Relief Agency she ran in Ho Chi Minh City. He was a good man, and was devoted to helping Orlando.

  “You did the best you could for your aunt. You know that, right?” he said.

  Her half smile turned to one of regret. “I don’t want to talk about it. That’s all I’ve done for the last three days.”

  “Sure.” Silence for a couple of moments, then he said, “We can talk about football.”

  She almost laughed. “Why were you in D.C.?” she said.

  “Nate tell you that?”

  She said nothing, skilled at protecting her sources.

  “Just work. Not important,” he told her.

  “Sounded like it was more than just work.”

  Quinn paused as he was about to take a drink. “What did he tell you?”

  “Relax,” she said. “He didn’t tell me anything. Just that you were away on business, but I could tell there was something more. I did ask him. But he didn’t give you up.”

  Quinn took a sip of his coffee, then said, “Markoff ’s dead.”

  Orlando stopped walking, surprised. “When?”

  “Sometime in the last week or two.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Other than Markoff himself, and apparently Derek Blackmoore, Orlando was the only one who knew about Quinn’s connection to his old friend, about Finland, and about the debt Quinn had felt since then. “How did it happen?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Quinn said.

  As they started walking again, Quinn told her what had been happening. He told her how he’d had to dispose of his friend’s body, about his search for Jenny, about Houston and D.C., and the congressman and Tasha and Blackmoore.

  “Do the initials ‘LP’ mean anything to you?” he asked, once he’d finished his story.

&
nbsp; She concentrated for a moment, her eyes staring off into the distance. “I don’t know. Doesn’t immediately ring any bells.”

  “Yeah. Means nothing to me, either. But it sure seemed to scare the hell out of Blackmoore.”

  Neither said anything for a moment. Then Orlando asked, “What about Jenny? You have no idea where she is?”

  Quinn shook his head. “I can tell you where she’s not. That’s wherever Markoff had left her. I think she’s gone in search of him.”

  “But where would that be?”

  “Nate said the ship he came in on had sailed out of Shanghai.”

  Orlando looked unconvinced. “Give me your phone,” she said.

  He handed it to her, activating it first so she could use it. He then watched as she accessed the Internet and navigated through the web until she arrived at some sort of database.

  “Name of the ship?”

  “The Riegle 3,” he said.

  She punched in the name, then stared at the screen for several seconds. “It’s out of Shanghai, but that’s not the last port it visited before coming to L.A.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t go getting all mad at Nate,” she said. “Do you know what databases he used?”

  “He didn’t say. Probably DSIT. I’ve shown him that one before.”

  DSIT was the Daily Shipping Information and Tracking. One of a bundled package of databases available for a very expensive yearly fee.

  “That explains it.” She found her way to the DSIT site, using her own password to get on. After a moment, she held the screen out to Quinn. “There. See?”

  He looked at the displayed information. It was for the Riegle 3. The date was the date Quinn had been hired to bury Markoff.

  “Origin: Shanghai,” he said. “Dammit.”

  It was an easy mistake. Origin did not mean what port the ship had last sailed from, but what port the ship called home. In this case, Shanghai. He tried to remember if he’d explained that part clearly to Nate, but he didn’t know.

  Orlando scrolled over, then stopped. There, in a column labeled PP for Previous Port, was the location the Riegle 3 had stopped in just prior to sailing to Los Angeles.

  Quinn could feel a tingling at the back of his neck. Singapore.