He put the phone on the bed next to Orlando, and pressed speaker. “Okay. You can talk to her now. But don’t forget what I said.”
“Who is this?” Orlando asked.
“It’s me,” the Mole said. “I understand you aren’t well.” While his distinctive monotone was still there, his usual lethargic pacing had disappeared.
“It’s been a rough week,” she said. She was still obviously perplexed that the Mole had called her.
“Better now?”
“Getting there.”
“Good.” The Mole paused. “There’s something I think you need to know.”
“What?”
“Does the name Misty Blake mean anything to you?”
Quinn looked at the phone, his eyes widening. “Misty? What about Misty?”
“I was not talking to you.”
“It’s okay,” Orlando said. “We both know Misty. You can answer him.”
“There was a car accident in Washington, DC yesterday. Misty and two other men were involved.”
“How did you know about them?” Quinn asked.
“I was asked to identify them from photographs.”
Photographs? “Who asked you to identify them?”
The Mole said nothing.
“Who?” Quinn asked again.
“Someone who wants to find them.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“For now it’s my answer.”
“You’ve got to give us more than that.”
“All right. An individual.”
“An individual who works for a security and retrieval firm in the DC area, I’ll bet.”
“DC, yes. But he does not work for any kind of security and retrieval firm.”
That was not the answer Quinn had been expecting. The only photos this “individual” could possess were the ones taken by the men who’d been outside Peter’s place when Daeng, Misty, and Howard had been there. It hadn’t been a stretch to assume the photographer worked for the same place as Witten and his team. Was this the unnamed client Witten had mentioned?
“Why does this person want to find our friends?” Orlando asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me, but he deals in dirty work, so I’m guessing what he wants can’t be good.”
“Lovely client you have there,” Quinn said.
“He is not my client!” The software controlling the Mole’s voice could not contain his anger.
“Then why are you helping him?”
Several seconds passed before the Mole finally answered. “Sometimes we have no choice.”
“So you’ve given him this information already?”
Another flash of annoyance. “No! I’ve put him off for now.” The Mole took a breath. “When I figured out who the woman was, I knew you might know her, Orlando, so I thought it best to talk to you first.”
“But at some point you’re going to have to tell him,” Orlando said.
“I will have to tell him something. But I’m open to suggestions.”
Orlando looked at Quinn, perplexed. Quinn, too, wasn’t sure what the right answer was.
“When are you supposed to let him know?” Quinn asked.
“He gave me four hours. That was seventeen minutes ago.”
Good, Quinn thought. There was still more than three and a half hours left until the deadline. “We need to think this through. Can we call you back?”
“Don’t wait too long.”
CHAPTER 26
WASHINGTON, DC
“WELL?” GRIFFIN SAID.
Dima was on the other end of the phone, his call coming twelve minutes ahead of the forty-five-minute deadline. “They left the city right after they stole the car.”
“You’re sure it was them.”
“Have them on a traffic camera. The Asian guy was driving. The woman was in the backseat, but I couldn’t see the other man.”
“Where were they headed?” he asked.
“Toward Arlington.”
“That opens a lot of possibilities. Tell me you were able to narrow it down more than that.”
“I was. I used our access to the Virginia Department of Transportation’s traffic-cam system, and tracked them east on I-66. When they reached I-81, they went south for a few miles before exiting. I followed them to a block away from the off-ramp, but there were no more cameras after that.”
“Where did they exit?”
“A place called Trevor Hollow.”
CHAPTER 27
ISLA DE CERVANTES
AS SOON AS the Mole hung up, Quinn called Daeng.
“We just received a call from a source,” he said. “Someone’s trying to track you down.”
“I assume the same people as before, right?”
“I’m not so sure about that. Apparently this is a single operative. I think he could be the client Witten mentioned. I’m going to do some digging and see what I can find out. The thing to worry about right now is that he might be able to figure out where you all are.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Okay. Let me know if anything happens.”
“Wait,” Daeng said before Quinn hung up. “I called you because I found something.”
“You called? I called you.”
“And I called you a few minutes ago.”
It took Quinn a second before he realized it must have been Daeng calling the first time his phone vibrated. It hadn’t been the Mole.
“What is it?”
“I was looking inside the box the microfilm was in. Under the packing foam I found several photographs.”
“Of what?” Quinn asked.
“Not what, who. Miranda, Peter’s wife. Misty says these were the ones in that other file he kept.”
“Miranda?”
“It seemed odd to me that he would keep them with the microfilm.”
It seemed odd to Quinn also.
“I asked Misty what she thought,” Daeng went on. “And, well, maybe I should let her tell you.” There was a click, then a more distant Daeng said, “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, hold on. I’m putting you on speaker here, too.”
Quinn switched over and placed his phone back on the bed as he shared with the others in the room what Daeng had found.
“Okay, Misty,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“Well, I was thinking the thing Peter said he’d been poking around in might have something to do with a project his wife could have been working on.”
“She was in the business, too?” Quinn asked.
“No. She worked for the State Department.”
“In what capacity?”
“Her specialty was eastern Europe, but she was rising fast and becoming one of the go-to people for difficult negotiations, no matter who was involved. You’ve probably heard of her.”
“I told you, Peter never mentioned her.”
“Not through Peter,” Misty said. “On the news when she died. Miranda Keyes. Does that help?”
It took Quinn only a second or two to remember why the name sounded so familiar. “She was Peter’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“I had no idea.”
“Few did. They kept their marriage quiet for obvious reasons.”
Quinn nodded to himself. Peter was in the intelligence business, often spying on the very nations his wife was negotiating with. Best to keep their union private. In the end it didn’t matter. An accident had ripped them apart.
The crash had been all over the news. It had occurred in Turkey, and because it involved Miranda and three other “rising stars” of the American diplomatic corps, at first it had been speculated that it wasn’t an accident at all, but an act of terror. The news ran with that for several days, making Miranda Keyes, the lead negotiator in the group, a household name. But it was soon revealed the crash had been caused by an unexpected mechanical issue—a tire blowout, failed brakes, something like that. He couldn’t remember the exact details. Whatever the cause, the result had been the deaths of e
veryone in the car.
“Nate,” Orlando said. “Give me the laptop.”
Nate shot a look at Quinn, who frowned but nodded his consent.
“Do you know what she might have worked on that Peter would be looking into?”
He could almost hear Misty shaking her head across the line. “No, I’m sorry. And I might be completely wrong. It was just the first thought that came to mind.”
“All right. Thanks, Misty. We’ll touch base with you guys later.” Once the call was disconnected, he said to Orlando, “Did you find the image files?”
“You didn’t exactly hide them,” she said.
“Will you be able to decrypt them?”
“We’ll know in…”—she looked at the screen—“a tad under seven minutes.”
“Now you’re just showing off,” he said.
Though she looked tired, her eyes sparkled as she grinned at him. If it weren’t for the hospital bed and the monitoring equipment, she almost looked like her old self again.
Thirty seconds short of the seven-minute mark, she said, “Here we go.”
They crowded around the side of her bed so they could all see the laptop’s screen. Centered on it was a document, and to the side a vertical column of the other files.
“That’s not English,” Nate said.
“I believe it’s Turkish,” Quinn said. Though he didn’t speak the language, he’d seen enough of it in his travels to recognize it.
“There’s a date in the upper right,” Orlando said.
It was written European-style—day first, month second, year last—and was over a decade old.
“Miranda Keyes,” Liz said, pointing at the screen.
Typed on a line that ran the width of the paper was not only Miranda’s name but three other names—Morris Tate, Gerald Yamada, and Brenda Samson.
“It’s the accident report,” Quinn said. “Those are the people who died with Miranda. I remember the names.”
“So Peter was looking into his wife’s death?” Liz asked.
“Let’s see what else is here first.” He nodded to Orlando. “Next page.”
Documents two and three were the rest of the report, while four and five were condensed English translations. According to these last two, the four passengers had been on a break from the international conference they were attending in Bursa, and had taken a drive into the national park toward Mount Uludag. While there, on a windy mountain road, the driver—Morris Tate—lost control of their car, drove off the side, and their vehicle tumbled down a slope approximately one hundred fifteen meters long. No other cars had been involved, and the cause was determined to be a combination of high speed and brake malfunction. Pretty much like Quinn remembered.
When Orlando moved on to file six, they were all surprised to see that it looked to be a copy of the very first file—page one of the Turkish report.
Orlando flicked back and forth between the two. Same dates, same names, same ink marks in the margins. She moved on to document seven. A copy of the second page of the Turkish report. Only…
“The last two paragraphs,” Nate said. “Look.”
As Orlando toggled between documents seven and two, it became clear that while most of the information in each document was identical, the last two typed paragraphs were completely different.
Moving on to document eight, they could see that the five signatures at the bottom were the exact size and in the exact same position as those on doc three. The paragraphs above them, however, did not match.
Files nine and ten were the English version again, but they looked nothing like the previous translations. Just from the format, it was obvious they’d been prepared by someone else entirely.
The new version did not tell the story of a driver who’d lost control of his car, but rather of a driver who’d been shot in the head and died before the car even reached the edge of the pavement, leaving the passengers unable to prevent the crash. An investigator found the bullet lodged in the backseat of the car. Given the angle it would have had to travel from the man’s head into the cushion, the investigator was able to determine the likely spot the gunman had fired from. A search of the area revealed only ground that had been brushed clean.
“Dear God,” Liz said. “Is this the correct report? Or is it the other one?”
“Depends on what you mean by correct,” Quinn said. “Official? That would be the first one.” He left the rest unsaid and told Orlando to keep going.
Files eleven and twelve were typed notes—addresses, names, thoughts—ending with a list:
N. Lionel
Kablukov
BJD
Mossad
Jude Eisner
Lon/Tec
Darvot
SVGX
Klaus Pounder
Herman Raver
P12
Most of the names were familiar to Quinn. Many referred to intelligence agencies, some associated with a specific country and some not, while the individuals he recognized also played in their world. So what was this? Peter’s suspect list? That was the first thing that came to Quinn’s mind.
They could come back to it later, though, so he nodded to Orlando that he was ready to move on.
File thirteen was the beginning of the pictures. The first five had an embossed stamp in the lower right corner that Quinn guessed meant they were official. Each was a different shot of the crash, victims and all. Miranda had apparently been sitting in the backseat on the passenger side, which was probably the only reason she remained recognizable. In contrast, the face of the woman who had been sitting in front of her was a bloody and unrecognizable pulp, most likely because it had been bashed repeatedly against the dash and windshield.
Not surprisingly, the picture featuring the driver avoided any angles that would reveal his fatal wound, and instead concentrated on his crumpled form.
File eighteen was another crime scene photo, only this one was missing the official seal. It showed the center section of the backseat cushion, complete with bullet hole. To either side of the picture, you could see a portion of Miranda and the woman who’d been sitting beside her, leaving no doubt the picture was from their accident. The next two photos were of the driver, each showing the entry wound above his right eye, and confirming what Quinn had already suspected—the second report was the accurate one.
Next came a map with a circle around the area where the accident had occurred, while the final two files were pictures again. The first was a wide shot of the crash scene, also without a seal. Several people were looking through the car, while more huddled in smaller groups, talking. The last image was a close-up of the group that had been farthest from the camera. It wasn’t a new shot, but a blowup of the previous one, which, because of the magnification, meant the subjects were blurry. The main focus seemed to be on the man in the center. He had short brown hair and appeared to be more Caucasian than Turkish, but that was pretty much all Quinn could make out.
“Go back,” he said.
Orlando clicked back to the group image. Though the area blown up in the final image was considerably smaller now, it was actually easier to make out some details. No, the man was definitely not Turkish. He was talking to an official-looking man in a suit. Perhaps the lead investigator?
“Anybody recognize him?” he asked.
“I don’t,” Orlando said.
Nate shook his head. “Me, neither.”
“Who do you think he is?” Liz asked.
“Someone Peter was interested in, I guess,” Quinn replied. “But other than that, I don’t know.”
“Maybe he was from the US delegation, there to ID the bodies,” his sister suggested.
“That would be done in a morgue, not while the bodies were still in the car. Besides, I doubt they would leave the bodies there very long anyway, so the pictures had to have been taken shortly after the police arrived on scene.”
“Maybe he’s with the police,” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Because he’s white? I’m sure there’s some fair-skinned Turks.”
“I’m sure there are. But look at his haircut. Look at what he’s wearing.” The man was dressed in khaki pants and a black polo golf shirt. “If he’s not American, then he’s pretending to be one.”
“Then he could be from the delegation,” Liz argued.
Quinn shook his head. “If he were, Peter would have known, and wouldn’t have blown this picture up. Whoever this guy is, I’d bet he’s tied to what happened to Miranda and her friends.”
“I might be able to clean the picture up some,” Orlando said. “Then maybe…send it around. See if anyone recognizes…him.”
“Yeah, maybe after you take a twelve-hour nap,” Quinn said.
“I’m okay. Just need to rest for a minute.”
“I’ll help her,” Liz said. “She can tell me what to do.”
Quinn disliked that idea only slightly less than having Orlando do it on her own, but the truth was, getting that picture would help. He nodded. “E-mail me copies of all the decrypted files first, then see what you can do.”
He motioned for Nate to follow him, and left.
In the corridor, he said, “Peter said it in the video I saw. Whoever’s responsible for killing him killed Miranda, too.”
“It would be a hell of a coincidence otherwise.”
“Exactly. You saw the list in Peter’s notes, right?”
Nate nodded.
“I’d bet everything that the person or group we’re looking for is on there. We need to pull the pieces together, and figure out which one it is.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
To answer, Quinn pulled out his phone and called Daeng.
“News?” Daeng said.
“Nothing yet,” Quinn replied. “I need to talk to Misty.”
The Enraged (A Jonathan Quinn Novel) Page 18