“And what I said about her friends being able to get her out, that was the truth, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t know for sure, but my guess would be yes.”
“Who are they?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Quinn nodded. This was no longer his fight. Markoff ’s killer was dead. That’s all that mattered for the moment.
“My boss isn’t going to be happy,” Tasha said as they trudged through the brush. “But he’ll understand. I’m ...uh...I’m going to tell him she was killed during a pursuit.”
Quinn shrugged. “Whatever works.”
As he neared the chain-link fence, Lian jumped down from the top of the container on the other side.
“Let me,” Lian said, motioning to Jenny’s lifeless body.
“I’ll do it,” Quinn said.
Lian nodded, then by a silent agreement Ne Win’s man led Quinn and Tasha around the outside of the compound. When they reached the opening in the fence, Lian held it open while Quinn carried the body through.
Ne Win was waiting for him on the other side. “The congressman and my friend?” Quinn asked. “In the car,” Ne Win said. “They are fine.” “What about the man I knocked out?” Ne Win shrugged. “What man?” “Thanks,” Quinn said. He turned to Tasha. “I assume you don’t
need the body.” “No.” Without another word, he turned and started walking silently be
tween the stacks of containers. This time only Ne Win and Lian followed. It took Quinn nearly ten minutes before he found what he wanted. The container was dark blue, and on the side in large white letters were
the words baron & baron ltd. He looked at Lian, then pointed at it. “That one,” he said. After Lian opened the container door, Quinn carried the body in
side, then dropped it on the floor. He didn’t pause or even look back as
he exited. Once Quinn was back outside, Lian closed the doors. “It would be good if that one went out to sea soon,” Quinn said to
Ne Win. “And it’ll be a shame when it falls off the deck in the middle of nowhere.” “Yes,” Ne Win said. “A shame.”
“Exactly when did you tell me there was a chance I might be
killed?” Murray demanded as Quinn opened the door of Ne Win’s car. “Not now, Kenneth,” Quinn said. Quinn and Tasha climbed into the back with Murray and the con
gressman. It was a tight squeeze, but they made it work. Murray was obviously agitated, but the congressman was quiet, staring down at the floor, not looking at anyone.
In front, Lian switched places with Ne Win’s other man in the driver’s seat, while Ne Win climbed into his customary spot. There wasn’t room for everyone, so the other man had to wait for someone to come back and pick him up.
As they started to drive away, Guerrero finally looked up. “She worked for me for a year,” he said like he couldn’t believe his own words. “I had her to my house for parties and meetings. I saw her at the office almost every day.” He turned to Tasha. “When you told me she was there to kill me, I...I couldn’t believe it. Why? Why would she do that?”
Quinn looked out the side window. “Because that was what she was told to do.”
The congressman sat quietly for a moment, his breaths deep and even. Finally he looked from Tasha to Quinn. “Perhaps you should tell me everything. And Mr. Drake, you can start by giving me your real name.”
Quinn thought for a moment. There was no way they were going to tell the congressman everything, but they could tell him enough.
“I’m Jonathan Quinn,” he said, starting off with a lie.
Like Richard Drake, Jonathan Quinn wasn’t his real name, either.
Nate was in surgery until almost midnight. He was in a small private hospital west of downtown. Dr. Han—not a surgeon himself— had seen to it that Nate got the best help possible. And Quinn, through Ne Win, had promised substantial reimbursement for every-one’s silence.
Quinn and Orlando waited in a small windowless room. Ne Win was there, too. But he kept getting phone calls, so he’d excuse himself and walk outside to take them.
“Lots of stuff on news tonight,” Ne Win said during one of his lulls between interruptions. “Everyone talking about gunfight at Maxwell. Think there are some dangerous people in town.”
“There were,” Quinn said.
“Congressman go on CNN International, too. He say he in wrong place at wrong time. He say some helpful locals get him to safety. No one mentioned assassination attempt.”
Quinn grunted. That was good. But in truth, he didn’t really care what happened at this point. He didn’t care much about anything except Nate and Orlando.
He had left Los Angeles because he was worried his dead friend’s girlfriend was in trouble. Now she was dead, and he was the one who had pulled the trigger. He tried not to think about it, but he was doing a lousy job of it.
Orlando seemed to sense what he was going through. She put a hand on his back and slowly rubbed the base of his neck. She said nothing, which was just another testament to how well she knew him. If he needed to talk, she’d be there. He knew that.
It was another thirty minutes before Dr. Han came into the waiting room.
“He’s in his room now,” the doctor said. “He’s a tough one. That was a lot of blood he lost, but he never stopped fighting to stay alive. He’ll be okay. Well... considering...”
The doctor led them to Nate’s room.
“He won’t stir until the morning,” Dr. Han said.
“We won’t stay long,” Quinn said.
The doctor looked at Quinn, then at Orlando, and finally at Ne Win. “I think you could all use some sleep also,” he said, then left.
Quinn stood next to his apprentice’s bed. There were wires and tubes everywhere, making Nate look like an unused marionette waiting for his puppet master to wake him up.
His face looked serene and unscathed. Quinn could almost believe that Nate was fine, that all would be back to normal soon. But then he allowed his gaze to move away from Nate’s face, first to the shoulder that was covered in bandages, then toward the end of the bed.
There was a little bump jutting up from the sheets where Nate’s left foot was. But where his right should have been, there was nothing. The amputation was from just above where the break had occurred near the midpoint of his shin.
The foot could have stayed, but it would have never been useful. Nate would have been forever crippled. Of course, he was forever crippled now, Quinn knew, but at least he had the chance at the appearance of normality.
Prosthetics had come a long way. At least that’s what Orlando had said when Quinn had been forced to make the decision of whether to keep Nate’s foot or not.
Quinn saw Tasha one more time. They met at one of the shop-house restaurants along Clarke Quay. Tasha had gotten there first and was sitting at an outside table next to the river.
“We found the patsy,” she said, once the waitress had taken their drink order. “His name was Ahmad Kamarudin. We found him tied up and unconscious in a government flat east of downtown. Well, we didn’t find him. Your friend did.”
She was talking about Ne Win. By mutual consent, he had continued his search for Jenny’s red herring.
“The hair at the Quayside apartment was his. Just like you said.”
Quinn nodded. There was nothing for him to say.
“We’ve also been able to backtrack Jenny’s movements. There might be some stuff there we can use to find out more about...the people she worked for.”
“You may want to check the wife,” Quinn said.
“Guerrero’s wife? Do you think she’s one of them?”
“No,” he said. “But I’m just wondering if maybe she’s been targeted for recruitment, perhaps with the intention of bringing her in after her husband was killed. They could have been planning to use her just the way Jenny said they would. My guess is if that was the case, she’s probably already had some casual contact with the LP and
doesn’t even know it. Perhaps even someone in the policy think tank she belongs to.”
Tasha thought a moment. “It’s possible. I’ll try to check it out. Thanks.”
Quinn’s eyes were drawn to a river taxi passing slowly by. When he looked back at Tasha, he asked, “Why are you being so open with me about this?”
“Because—” Tasha stopped herself as the waitress appeared and set their drinks on the table—a Tiger beer for Quinn and a gin and tonic for Tasha.
Once she was gone, Tasha started again. “Because I want you to come work for me. You know at least a little about what’s going on, and there are only a few people I can trust.”
Quinn took a drink of his beer, then set the glass back down. “I don’t do exclusives.”
“You’re an excellent tracker. You found Jenny when we couldn’t. You’re smart, and you adapt quickly.”
Quinn took another drink, then stood up. “I’m not a tracker. I’m a cleaner. Sorry.”
She looked him in the eyes. “I need you. This is more important than any rules you think you might have.”
Quinn said nothing for several seconds. Finally, “If I’m available, we can talk.”
As he started to walk away, she said, “So that’s not a no?”
He didn’t turn back.
Orlando stayed for nearly a week, going with Quinn to the clinic during the day, making love with him at night. In many ways, they were the best few days of Quinn’s life, and in many ways, when it came to Nate, they were the worst.
One night at dinner, Orlando said, “I have to go.”
Quinn knew it was coming. Her son needed her. “I understand,” he said.
“Do you?” she asked. “Do you know how hard it is for me to leave you now?”
Just as hard as it will be for me to see you go, he thought. But he only nodded.
“Maybe... maybe I can bring Garrett to L.A.,” she said.
“No. Don’t. I’ll come to you. I just...I need to get a few things settled first.”
She leaned across the table and touched his face with her hand. “We’ll be waiting.”
It was another two weeks before Quinn and Nate were able to leave the island.
“I’ve lined up some appointments for you back home,” Quinn said to Nate as they flew back to Los Angeles.
“What kind of appointments?” his apprentice asked.
“With a doctor, and a prosthetic clinic.”
“Oh.” Nate turned back to the magazine he was looking at. Five minutes later, he said, “This doesn’t change anything. I can still do this job.”
It was still too early to have this conversation, and it was definitely the wrong place. “Let’s see what they say,” Quinn said.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nate said. “But I’ll prove it to you.”
“Okay.”
“Is that an ‘okay shut up’? Or an ‘okay you’ll give me a fair chance’?”
“It’s an ‘okay we’ll see.’ ”
The answer didn’t seem to satisfy his apprentice, but he let it drop.
Early October was already cold in southern Wisconsin. Not midwinter cold; there was no snow on the ground. But at night, water would freeze, and in the morning, grass would crunch underfoot.
Quinn usually hated the cold. But for this trip, it seemed appropriate.
The graveyard was a small one just on the outskirts of Madison. The plot Quinn had purchased was in the back, near a stand of trees. Out of the way. Inconspicuous. Perfect.
The hole was already dug, and the casket was suspended above it when Quinn arrived. He asked the two cemetery workers standing nearby if they wouldn’t mind giving him a few minutes alone. They nodded in understanding and walked toward the small chapel at the front of the facility.
Two days after Quinn and Nate arrived in Los Angeles, Quinn had taken another drive out into the desert. Finding Markoff ’s temporary resting place had not been difficult. Neither had digging up the remains.
Now he was in Markoff ’s home state, giving his friend the burial he should have had from the very beginning. Nate had offered to come, but Quinn had left him in Los Angeles. When Quinn had called Derek Blackmoore, the old spy runner had also wanted to attend, but his recovery from the severe beating he’d had was slow and painful. So Quinn was alone. Somehow, though, that felt right.
Quinn closed his eyes and recited the Lord’s Prayer. He didn’t know if it was even the right prayer to say, but it was all he knew, and even then, he didn’t know it well.
When he was through, he looked at the box again, then took a step back. “I guess this’ll have to make us even,” he said. He turned and began walking back to his car.
As he drove toward the Dane County Regional Airport, he pulled out his cell phone.
“Are you asleep?” he asked when she answered.
“No,” she said.
Though it was the middle of the night in Vietnam, Orlando had known what he was doing today, and had insisted he call her when he was through.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said. “Quiet. It’s a beautiful area, not like where he was.”
“How are you?”
Quinn thought for a moment before answering. “I’m okay. Better now, I guess.”
“Good,” she said.
The air between Middle America and Southeast Asia went silent for several seconds. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. It was as if each knew the other was there and that was enough.
“When do you go back to L.A.?” she asked.
“Tonight. Nate’s got an appointment with a doctor tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tell him I’m thinking about him.”
“I will.”
“Quinn?”
“Yes?”
A pause.
“When are you coming to me?”
A CKNOWLEDGMENT S
FIRST AND FOREMOST, A SPECIAL THANK-YOU TO MY
editor Danielle Perez for her insights and dedication; to Nita Taublib for her enthusiasm and support; to Irwyn Applebaum for everything he does for writers and publishing; and to Chris Artis, Sharon Swados, and the rest of the Bantam Dell team for their tireless efforts. In addition, thank you to my wonderful agent Anne Hawkins, who has always been there for me.
I’d also like to acknowledge a group of people who have helped me in various ways—from research to reading drafts to just being there as I threw out ideas. They include, but are not limited to: Bruce, Suzie, Brooke and Jessica Lambert, Darren Battles, Richard Weideman, Catherine White, Rick Von Feldt, Tammy Sparks, Kathy Karner, Theresa Imbach, Jon Rivera, Dawn Butler, James and Barbara Battles, Derek Rogers, Brian Perry, Donna Kuyper, Stephen Blackmoore, Spike Koplansky, Alison Perkins, James Vandersea, Bobby McCue, Linda Brown, Phil Hawley Jr., Bill Cameron, Sean Chercover, Tasha Alexander, John Ramsey Miller, John Gilstrap, and Robert Gregory Browne.
As always, any errors can be attributable to only one person. When I find out who that is, I’ll let you know.
ABOUT THE A UTHOR
BRETT BATTLES lives in Los Angeles, where he is currently at work on the third book in the Jonathan Quinn series. His website is www.brettbattles.com.
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