The Cleaner
Page 8
There was a reception desk at the far end of the lobby. A young woman, Vietnamese but dressed in Western clothing, was sitting behind it, looking in his direction. Quinn put on a smile and walked over. 'Do you speak English?' he asked.
'Of course,' she said. 'How may I help you?'
'I'm not sure if I'm in the right place,' he said.
'Who are you looking for?'
'The Tri-Continent Relief Agency.'
She smiled. 'You are in the right place. Second floor, on your left. Room 214. Would you like me to show you?'
Quinn shook his head. 'Thanks. I should be able to find it.'
'You are welcome.'
Quinn took the stairs to the right of the desk. When he reached the second floor, he turned left and walked down the hall until he came to room
214.
The door was solid wood. Mounted in its center was a brass plaque engraved with the words in English: Tri-Continent Relief Agency, Ho Chi Minh City Branch. Below it, in smaller type, was a Vietnamese translation.
Quinn paused before knocking. He was standing at the edge of the proverbial point of no return. Until his hand actually made contact with the door, he could still just turn around and go back to the hotel. Call the whole thing off.
He took a deep breath, then raised his hand and knocked.
A moment later the door opened revealing a short, middle-aged Vietnamese man. He looked at Quinn expectantly.
'Tri-Continent Relief Agency?' Quinn asked.
The man smiled. 'Please, come in.'
He moved out of the way so Quinn could enter. The room was not large. In fact, Quinn realized, it was about the same size as his hotel room at the Rex. An old wooden desk sat against one wall, piled high with folders and papers. More piles, of books and magazines, lined most of the remaining wall space. Opposite the entrance, several windows looked out onto the now gloomy day.
A door on the right, apparently leading to an adjacent room, was partially closed. Quinn thought he could hear music playing from just beyond it. It sounded like Edith Piaf.
'My name is Mr. Vo,' the man said. 'How may I help you?'
'Is Director Zhang in?'
'She is. May I give her your name?'
'Tell her it's Quinn.'
The man waited for more, but when it became obvious that Quinn had nothing else to add, the man turned and walked into the other room.
Quinn stepped over to a large bulletin board hanging on one of the walls. It was covered with dozens of notices and advisories. He quickly scanned several of the notes.They were all communications about localized disasters throughout Southeast Asia.
He was reading about an upcoming meeting to discuss regional health issues when he paused. He didn't hear her come into the room, but he felt her presence nonetheless. Slowly, he turned around. Standing in the doorway to the adjacent room was a petite Asian woman.
They looked at each other for several moments, neither seeming able to move. Finally, Quinn smiled.
'Hello, Orlando,' he said.
She shook her head, then began walking toward the main door. 'Not here,' she said.
Orlando, known in Vietnam as Director Keira Zhang, led Quinn back outside. The rain had all but stopped as she led him down several blocks to a small park, saying nothing the entire time. On the walk over and without trying to be too obvious, Quinn took in every inch of her.
She had changed little since the last time he'd seen her, four years earlier. The usual red highlights in her shoulder-length dark hair were gone. And she was wearing a pair of narrow glasses framed by translucent blue plastic; that was new. But otherwise, she was the same. Skin the color of bleached pine, and smooth except for a small worry line just above the bridge of her nose when she frowned. She was small, barely five feet tall, and could pass for anything from Japanese to Chinese to Filipino or even Vietnamese or Malaysian. In truth her mother had been Korean and her father half Thai, half Irish American. Quinn was one of the few people who knew this.
She had been his friend, his confidant, his colleague as they both started from nothing, then gained experience in the business. She had been there for him when times were rough, and he had tried to be there for her in return. But he wasn't as good at it as she was, hence the reason they hadn't talked in four years.
There was another reason, too. One of self-preservation. Being near her made him want something he could never have. He didn't need that kind of mental torture. Orlando was off-limits. Always was. And, he knew deep down, always would be.
By the time they finally found a quiet spot in the park, the sky was once again clearing.
'How did you know where to find me?' she asked. There was still no smile, no how-are-you-doing, not even a simple hello. Of course, the last time they had talked, they had agreed never to see each other again. That had been about the only thing they had agreed on that day.
'Do you really need to ask that question?' he asked. 'The relief agency is a nice cover.'
'It's not a cover,' she said quickly.
He arched an eyebrow. 'Not completely, anyway,' he said. Aiding others in need was something hardwired into who Orlando was. He'd learned as much within a day of first meeting her. So it wasn't surprising that even after she had dropped out of contact and moved to a place where she could keep a low profile, she still found a way to help where she could.
'Why are you here?' she asked.
'I thought I'd surprise you.'
She stared at him.
'I take it, it worked,' he said.
She remained silent.
Quinn glanced at the ground, then looked at her. 'I need your help.' 'Fuck you.' 'Someone's trying to have me killed,' he said.
'I don't care.' Her face remained blank. No trace of sympathy anywhere.
'Maybe not. But I do.'
'Then get someone else to help you, and leave me alone. You promised you wouldn't come looking for me. But I see now you're a liar.'
'I wouldn't be here unless I had nowhere else to go.'
She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. 'Not my problem.'
'I need your help,' Quinn said.
'Too bad. You're not getting it. End of discussion.' She turned and started walking away. She was nearly out of the park when he called
out, 'If I could bring him back, I would.'
She slowed momentarily. Quinn thought for a second she might turn back, but instead, she picked up her pace and continued walking away.
When Orlando left her office a few minutes after five that afternoon on an old black Vespa scooter, Quinn was ready for her. He had hired a young guy with a beat-up motorcycle to drive him wherever he wanted to go. The guy spoke enough English for Quinn to get across the idea there was someone he wanted to follow. As Quinn had hoped, his driver
– he said his name was Dat – assumed Quinn's interest in Orlando was romantic or at least sexual, so he was happy to comply.
Dat almost seemed like a pro. He never got very close, but he never lost sight of Orlando, either. It helped that her pace was unhurried, driving neither too fast nor too slow. They followed her through Cholon, then north for a while before turning east.
But soon Quinn began to feel anxious. It was too easy. So it was almost a relief when, ten minutes later, Orlando took a quick right turn. The move was sudden, unexpected. The move of someone who knew she was being followed.
Dat may have been good, but he was mismatched. Nonetheless, Quinn urged his driver on even as Orlando rapidly worked her way through the city.
Finally, Orlando turned right at yet another street. As soon as Quinn and Dat had followed her around the corner, they realized the Vespa was no longer in front of them. For half a second, Quinn thought they'd lost her. But then he spotted her. She was parked at the curb, her foot on the ground holding her scooter in position.
'Stop,' Quinn said.
Dat had obviously seen her, too. He quickly slowed, then pulled up behind the Vespa. Quinn dismounted the bike and handed Dat a
ten-dollar bill. The boy grinned broadly.
'You want me wait?' Dat asked.
Quinn shook his head. 'Thanks for your help.'
'Sure, no problem. You need more, you call me.'
Dat pulled several scraps of paper out of his pocket and handed one to Quinn. There was a phone number on it. Quinn smiled and put it in his own pocket.
As Dat drove away, Quinn walked over to the Vespa, stopping when he was a few feet away. Orlando's face was as expressionless as it had been in the park. She stared at him for a moment, then
glanced past him, at the building they were in front of. Quinn followed her gaze. The Rex Hotel. She'd figured out where he'd
been staying. 'You've been busy since we talked,' Quinn said. 'Why did Gibson try to kill you?' she asked. 'Whoa. You've been very busy.' 'Answer my question.' 'I don't know.' 'What happened to the Office?' 'Same answer,' he said. 'You can do better.' 'Disruption.' She gave a short, derisive laugh. 'No such thing.' 'That's what I used to think.' They were silent for several seconds. Around them
the world continued to move on: taxis picking up and dropping off passengers at the hotel, street vendors trying to attract the attention of the passing pedestrians, people heading either to work or to home or out for a night on the town. But for the moment, Quinn and Orlando were in their own little capsule, aware of the world but momentarily not part of it. 'Why did you come to me?' she finally asked.
He paused before answering. 'Two reasons,' he said. 'This is the last place anyone would ever look for me. And I needed to find someone I could trust, someone who could help me.'
'What about your friends?' Again he took a moment before answering. 'I don't exactly have a long list to choose from.' 'You didn't come alone,' she said. Not a question, but a statement.
'Nate,' Quinn said. 'My apprentice. If I'd left him, he'd probably be dead by now.'
She took a deep breath, and, for the first time, her face softened, if only just a little. 'Same old Quinn, then.'
Quinn shrugged.
She looked at him, then shook her head. 'Son of a bitch,' she said under her breath. 'Get on before I change my mind.'
Quinn wanted to smile, but he kept his face neutral and climbed onto the back of the Vespa.
She took him to her apartment. It was a large, Western-style place in an area occupied by many foreign workers. She didn't offer him a tour. Quinn knew he was still on probation, so the living room was all he had to judge things by. It was a comfortable space, with a long, overstuffed couch and two matching brown chairs. Nearly every inch of wall space was lined with bookcases crammed full of texts. On one shelf he recognized a brushed-metal container. It was the only thing in the room he'd seen before, but he made no mention of it.
She told him to take a seat on the couch, then disappeared into another room for a moment before returning with two bottles of water.
'Tell me,' Orlando said as she handed him a bottle, then sat in one of the chairs. 'Everything.'
So Quinn did. He left nothing out; there was no reason to. If he was going to get her help, she'd need to know it all anyway.
It took almost an hour. When he was through, she said, 'Sounds like you've been having fun.'
'Yeah. A real joyride,' he said.
'And you think it's all connected? Colorado, the Office, Gibson, the disruption?' 'Absolutely.' 'Do you have the bracelet with you?' she asked. Quinn reached into his pocket and gently pulled
out a small plastic bag that had been secured with a couple of rubber bands.
He started to hand it to her, but she told him to wait. She got up and walked into the hallway that led to the rest of the apartment. When she returned, she was carrying two sets of rubber gloves. She offered one set to Quinn.
'I think it's safe,' he said, but he took the gloves anyway.
Once Orlando had hers on, she reached out and took the plastic bag from Quinn. Slowly she removed the rubber band and opened the package. From inside, she carefully removed the bracelet.
'Not real silver,' she said.
'No,' Quinn agreed.
'These designs are interesting.'
'They looked familiar to me. Not like I'd seen these exact designs before, but something similar.'
'They're German,' Orlando said. 'Old heraldry from three, maybe four hundred years ago.'
'You sure?'
She glanced at him for a moment, then looked back at the bracelet. 'Yes. I'm sure.' She examined the designs on the bracelet for a few more seconds, stopping on a square that had been partially damaged by the fire.
'Is this some sort of inscription?' she asked.
'What?'
She held the bracelet out to him, pointing at a spot on the half-burnt surface of the square. At first he didn't see anything, but then she turned it slightly so that the light caught the spot she was talking about. There was a thin line toward the bottom of the square, running along the edge. It was blackened by soot that had lodged in the grooves, helping it to blend in with the rest of the tarnished metal. Quinn couldn't remember seeing it before, but if he had, he'd probably thought it was just a scratch. Now that he looked closer, though, he knew Orlando's instincts were correct. It wasn't a scratch, but writing of some sort. Only it was so small, they'd need a magnifying glass or possibly even a microscope to read it.
'Maybe it's just the artist's mark,' Quinn suggested.
'Could be,' Orlando said, clearly not buying that explanation. She took the bracelet back from him, then turned her attention to the square near the hasp. Quinn had used another rubber band to keep the two pieces together. 'I assume this is the container?'
'Yes.'
Again, she carefully unwound the rubber band. Once it was off, she removed the top of the square, revealing the glass beneath. She looked at it for almost five minutes before she finally said something.
'You're right. I think it's a slide for a microscope.' 'Do you know anyone who could check it?' Quinn asked. 'Someone you can trust?'
'The damage to the slide might make things difficult. If the sample itself has been compromised, they may not be able to get a fix on it.'
'So you do have someone.'
She didn't answer him right away. Instead she stared down at the slide. 'I have someone. But I have to send it out. They're not local.'
'It won't do me any good just sitting in my pocket,' Quinn said.
Orlando rewrapped the square, then put the bracelet back in the bag and rewound the rubber band around it. 'I'll get it out first thing in the morning.'
'Thanks,' he said. 'See if they can check that inscription, too.'
Orlando said nothing, but the look she gave him said, Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course I'll have them check.
Quinn suddenly had the urge to yawn. He tried to stifle it, but was only half successful. It was just a little after 7:30 p.m., but his body wasn't going to let him stay awake much longer. He was beginning to feel a second yawn coming on when he heard a noise from deeper in the apartment. 'What was that?' he asked, sitting up, alert.
Orlando turned and called out, 'Trinh?'
A moment later a young Vietnamese woman appeared in the doorway leading toward the rest of the apartment. Orlando said something to her in Vietnamese. The girl responded, then disappeared the way she had come.
'Housekeeper?' Quinn asked.
'Of a sort.' Orlando stood up, then looked down at Quinn for a moment, apparently contemplating something. 'Come on,' she finally said.
She led him into the hallway, stopping at a door halfway down. It was partially closed, so she pushed it open. The room was dimly lit. Trinh was there, sitting in a chair, mending a shirt. She looked up and bowed slightly as Orlando and Quinn entered, then returned to her work.
It took Quinn's eyes a moment longer to fully adjust to the low light. When they did, he noticed something he should have realized was there from the beginning. To the girl's left, on a small bed, low to the floor, was a sleeping child.
Orlando walked across the room
and knelt down next to the bed. She kissed the child lightly on the forehead, then stood and led Quinn back into the hallway.
'What's he doing here?' Quinn asked.
'He's my son,' Orlando said.
'Yeah, I know. But I thought he was with your aunt in San Francisco.' 'My aunt is getting too old to care for him. Her
health isn't what it should be.'
'Is it safe, though? To have him with you?'
She was silent for a moment. Then said, 'He's all I have left.'
Chapter 11
Quinn awoke before the sun. Reaching over to the nightstand, he felt around until he found his watch. Four-thirty a.m.
Sighing, he rolled onto his back. After several minutes of staring into the darkness, he tried closing his eyes again, hoping that maybe he could eke out a little more sleep. But the rest of his body wasn't cooperating. His day had begun, whether he liked it or not.
He reached back over to the nightstand, flipped on the lamp, then got out of bed. The tile floor was cool but not uncomfortable. On the dresser opposite the foot of his bed was a television. He grabbed the remote control off the nightstand next to the lamp and turned the TV on. The business report was running on CNN International. Though Tuesday morning was imminent here in Vietnam, the New York Stock Exchange had just rung its closing bell on Monday afternoon. A financial reporter was running through a list of numbers, but Quinn paid little attention. He didn't play the market. Too risky.
He retrieved his computer, his text pager, and the flash memory stick from his bag on the floor. The stick was attached to an otherwise empty key ring. His everyday keys were in his BMW back in L.A., stowed in a safe compartment few would ever be able to find.
He sat down at a table next to the bed. He opened his computer and turned it on.
The previous evening, before he'd fallen asleep, he'd spent twenty minutes reading Native Speaker by Chang-rae Lee. As he read, the lights in his room had dimmed three times. It made him leery of the electrical system in the building, so he'd decided to run his computer off battery power for now. It wasn't a problem. The laptop had a full charge and could run for several hours.