The Cleaner (10 page)

underground that no matter how hard anyone looked, no one would ever be able to find them. They could just keep out of sight until the whole thing blew over.

He glanced down at the bracelet again.

If the whole thing blows over.

The bill for lunch was surprisingly small: 150,000 dong, about five dollars each for the food and beers. Quinn left double the total on the table, then got up to leave. Nate did the same.

Anh rushed across the room to open the door

for them. 'Are you here long?' she asked. 'I'm not sure,' Nate said. He glanced at Quinn. 'Not too long, I imagine,' Quinn said. Another smile. 'We hope you come back before

you leave.' 'Not to worry,' Nate said. 'We'll be back.'

Chapter 10

Upon returning to the Rex Hotel, Quinn picked up a map of the city, then told Nate he was on his own for a while.

'But don't sleep,' Quinn said.

'I won't.'

'I mean it.'

'I said I won't.'

The map wasn't as detailed as Quinn would have liked, but it did show him the street he was looking for. He had initially thought about putting this trip off until the next morning. Get some sleep, be more alert. He had even contemplated putting it off altogether. His instincts told him it was a mistake, but he had come to Vietnam not only because they needed someplace to lie low, but also because they needed help. And after discovering the secret compartment in the bracelet, he knew they needed that help as soon as they could get it.

On the sidewalk outside the Rex, he started for the line of taxis at the curb, but he changed his mind at the last moment and decided to take a cyclo. Just because he had to make the trip didn't mean he had to get there in a hurry.

The driver, a man in his late twenties, didn't speak English, so Quinn pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote the address of where he wanted to go on the back of the map. The driver looked at it, then smiled and nodded.

Saigon – Quinn couldn't bring himself to keep calling it Ho Chi Minh City – was a madhouse. An honest-to-God, overcrowded, disorganized madhouse. And he loved it. The city radiated with a vibrancy and excitement he'd found in few other places.

The streets were crowded with motorcycles, bicycles – both standard and cyclos – scooters, even the occasional car or truck. While he'd seen similar vehicular menageries elsewhere in Asia, this was the first place he'd seen a family of five riding on a single 50cc motorcycle.

That wasn't the only sight that caught his attention. There were also the large three-wheeled bikes that had been converted into what amounted to small trucks. A large flat surface was built onto the front halves of the bikes. This allowed drivers to carry anything from cages of chickens, to stacks of old tires, to boxes and tins of God knew what. The merchandise was piled high and wide, seemingly obscuring the driver's view.

Another thing he noticed, something more typical of many third-world countries, was that traffic signs were more like suggestions than actual law. There were cops around, but as long as the traffic kept moving, they seemed content to let things be.

The cyclo driver took him through a particularly crowded section of town. Vendors lined the streets, selling everything from live animals to firecrackers to pots and pans. It was an assault on Quinn's senses. The odor, in particular, was overwhelming. Fish and sweat and trash mixed with the sweetness of flowers and fruit and baking bread.

The cyclo driver leaned forward and said, 'Cholon.' Quinn recognized the name from one of the brochures in his hotel room. It was essentially the Chinatown of Saigon.

After they had been traveling for twenty minutes, the driver turned the cyclo onto a less trafficked side street and pulled up in the middle of the block next to a long, two-story building.

'Is this it?' Quinn asked, forgetting momentarily that the driver wouldn't understand him. Realizing his mistake, he pointed at the address on the map.

The driver smiled widely and nodded at the building.
'Ici ,
'
he said.

'Parlez-vous francais?'
Quinn asked.

'Un peu, monsieur.'

Quinn reached into his pocket.
'Combien?'
he asked.

'Two dollar,' the driver said in English.

The moment Quinn climbed off the cyclo, it began to rain. He ran down the cracked sidewalk and found cover in the recess of the building's doorway just as the initial sprinkles turned into a downpour. He opened the door and went inside.

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.'