The Deceived (25 page)

Quinn started to get up, but Albina reached out and put a hand on Quinn’s wrist.

“Don’t get confused here,” Albina said. “I believe my client was trying to do the right thing. He told me the dead should be with friends, not lost overboard somewhere.”

“This is just bullshit. Who the fuck is he?”

The café went quiet. Several people turned to look in their direction.

“Relax,” Albina said. “Don’t get so worked up.”

Quinn settled back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Who sent you the container?”

Albina paused for a moment, then shook his head. “No. But there’s a reason why.”

“I don’t care why.” Quinn leaned further back.

“Yes, you do. You think whoever sent the container to me is the one who killed Markoff. But I happen to know that’s not the truth. But here’s the problem. Only two people know who that container came from. The person who sent it and me. If word got out, it could get ugly

for him. Know what I mean?”

“Who?” Quinn asked.

“Were you not just listening to me?”

“I was. I just don’t care,” Quinn said.

“That’s up to you. I can only tell you what I know.”

“You can tell me the truth.”

Albina raised his hands off the table, palms out to Quinn. “You don’t want to believe me, you won’t believe me.” He paused. “Look, there
is
something I can tell you. The container, it didn’t come in on a ship. It was flown in.”

“Flown in?”

“From my understanding, that particular container hadn’t been on a ship in at least three weeks.”

Quinn processed this new information quickly, realizing almost instantly what it meant. Markoff ’s body hadn’t become bloated and discolored by a week at sea, but rather it had happened on land while the container just sat there, waiting. Someplace hot, where the warmth of the sun would have turned the metal tomb into an oven, slowly cooking him to death. Quinn was sure his friend had been alive when he’d been put inside the box; the message on the wall was proof of that. Sure, it could have been written by someone else, but Quinn’s instincts told him it was Markoff.

And ultimately what Albina’s revelation meant was that the whole time while Markoff lay dying, he was likely less than a mile from people who could have rescued him.

“Why take it to the port?”

“You would have asked a lot of questions if it had been anywhere else.”

“I’m asking the questions now.”

“Sure, but you’ve also already been on the job for a few days, haven’t you?”

The implication of Albina’s words surprised Quinn. “Your client wanted me to investigate Markoff ’s death?”

“I don’t know about want, but he was giving you the option.”

“So the fact that the
Riegle 3
’s last port of call was Singapore means nothing?”

“I never said that.”

Quinn tried to read Albina’s face. “You tell me that your client had nothing to do with Markoff ’s death. That the container was flown in. That Singapore is actually still in play. But you won’t tell me who your client is?”

Albina finished a sip of his coffee, then set his cup down on the table. “Now you’re catching on.”

“We need to get out of town tonight,” Quinn said.

He and Nate had just arrived back at Aunt Jay’s house. Orlando was hunched over the computer in the same position she’d been in when they’d left.

“I’m way ahead of you,” she said. “You’ve already got the tickets?” “Done,” she said. “But I haven’t told you where.” “I’m not that stupid.” “How many?” Orlando looked at Nate, then back at Quinn. “Three,” she said as if

it was obvious. “You don’t have to come with us.” “Shut up.” “I’m serious,” he said. “So am I.” She looked back down at the computer, discussion

closed. Quinn poured himself a glass of cold water and took a drink. “We

shouldn’t leave from San Francisco,” he said. “We’re not.” “Or Oakland.” “We’re not.” “Okay, then,” he said. He looked over at Nate, who was standing

near the kitchen entrance. “Let’s get packed.” “So,” Nate said, his brow furrowed, “where exactly are we going?”

CHAPTER

IT WAS RAINING WHEN THEY ARRIVED IN SINGAPORE,

the remnants of a storm whose main thrust had struck Indonesia to the south. Outside the window of the airplane, the tarmac was soaked and the day was gray, but Quinn knew in no time the clouds would move on, giving way to a blue tropical sky.

Orlando had made the decision to break up the trip into legs, making it harder for them to be followed. It was a good strategy in principle but was hell in practice.

They had flown out of Sacramento, taking Air Alaska to Vancouver, B.C., via Seattle. From there, it was Cathay Pacific to Hong Kong, Thai Air to Bangkok, and finally AirAsia to Singapore.

The only good thing was Quinn was able to sleep through most of it. Flying first-class was a definite advantage for international travel.

Singapore’s Changi Airport was one of Quinn’s favorite in the entire world. Clean, efficient, fast in, fast out. In no time, he, Orlando, and Nate had passed through passport control and customs.

Bags in hand, Quinn led them through the green X—nothing to declare—exit, and over to the doors leading outside.

The system for getting a cab at Changi was efficient to say the least.

Just prior to the door leading outside, there was a series of ropes herding people into a line like they were waiting to get a ride at an amusement park. Even if there weren’t a lot of people trying to get a cab, skipping the ropes was not allowed. It was the system, and everyone was expected to follow it.

They joined a line of several others.

Outside was a row of parking spaces numbered one to ten. A man standing next to the door stopped everyone, then said something into a walkie-talkie.

Almost instantly, ten taxis came zooming up the road, each parking in one of the numbered spots. Most were the sky blue Toyota Crowns operated by Comfort Cab, the sides of their cars turned into rolling billboards that pushed, among other things, cell phones and Tiger beer and Milo chocolate-milk mix.

Once the cabs were all parked, the man with the walkie-talkie gave the go-ahead for the line of people to start moving. As each group passed, he counted them off.

“One...two...three... four...five...six...seven... eight... nine... ten.”

The numbers corresponded to which cab would be theirs.

“Okay, that was just weird,” Nate said once they were seated in the back of their cab. They had been number eight.

“Not weird,” Orlando said. “Practical.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. “All right. Weirdly practical, then. Better?”

She rolled her eyes but said nothing.

The cab took them along the tree-lined East Coast Parkway toward the city. The rain had let up, and, in the distance, Quinn could see blue sky peeking through the layer of gray. The island nation usually felt like an open-air sauna as far as Quinn was concerned. But the storm had temporarily cooled the otherwise constant hyper-humid 85-degree temperature to a more bearable level.

Through the trees to the left, he caught glimpses of the Singapore Strait. At its narrowest, it was ten miles across to Indonesia. And yet, it was one of the most crowded waterways in the world. An unending fleet of cargo ships passed through it every day, heading west toward India or the distant Suez Canal and all ports European, or northeast to Japan or China or the Americas.

It all made Singapore one of the busiest ports in the world, where cargo was loaded and unloaded at a breathtaking speed, much of the merchandise just passing through on its way to somewhere else. The island was a vital piece of the world economic machine, but seldom the destination in and of itself.

As they neared Marina Bay, the Singapore skyline came into view. Though a constant work in progress, the high-rises lining the west side of the bay were still an impressive sight. Not just typical skyscrapers, either. The architecture in Singapore was more daring than you saw in most big cities. Asymmetrical designs Quinn had noticed in few other places, and curves and lines that made several of the buildings look more like art pieces than places of business—every building a monument, a showpiece, letting the world know Singapore was important.

The cab continued around the bay and into the city proper. It wasn’t long before the driver turned off the highway, weaved through the traffic, and pulled up in front of the Pan Pacific Hotel.

A doorman opened Quinn’s door the minute the cab came to a stop.

“Welcome to the Pan Pacific Hotel,” the man said. “Checking in?”

“Yes,” Quinn said.

Orlando had arranged for them to stay in three adjacent rooms, but unlike the Marriott in San Francisco, there were no doors between each connecting them. Nate had a single room, while Quinn and Orlando had one-bedroom suites.

“Thirty minutes,” Quinn told them. “Then meet back in my room.”

Quinn took a quick shower and pulled on his clothes, finishing ten minutes early. Taking advantage of the time, he removed his computer from his bag, carried it to the desk in the living room, and turned it on.

While it was booting up, he pulled out his cell phone. Though he never turned it off while he was flying, the phone did have a sleep mode that made it look to anyone checking like it had been shut down. He activated the display screen and was immediately greeted with a signal that he had a message.

He accessed his voice mail and found there were actually three messages. An automated voice told him the first had come in ten hours earlier.

“Jonathan, I made it to the house.” It was Tasha. “I thought I should let you know. Please don’t forget to call me...I mean...if you find her. I have to know she’s okay. Please.”

He pushed 7 to erase the call, then went to the next message. It had come in six hours before.

“I really would like to talk to you.” Tasha again. “I really think maybe I should come back. I know I can help you. I’m going to go crazy just sitting here. Can you call me?”

He erased it. The last call had come through only two hours earlier.

He was not surprised to find it was from Tasha again. “Why aren’t you calling me back? I need to talk to you. I know I can help you. Please, call me. Please.”

After he erased the final message, he set the phone on the table, intending to turn his attention to his computer. But he paused, his hand hovering a few inches above the phone. He was going to have to call her back, if nothing else than to at least calm her down.

Wait? Or call?

“Dammit,” he said, then picked up the phone and dialed Tasha’s number.

With the international dateline, it was still the previous night back in California. The phone rang four times, then mercifully went to voice mail.

“Hi.” The voice was Tasha’s. “You’ve reached my cell. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“It’s Jonathan,” Quinn said, relieved he didn’t actually have to talk to her. “Nothing new on this end. But I’m still working on it. I’m glad you made it to the house. You’ll be safe there. I’ll call again within three days. But don’t worry. Just lay low.”

He hung up and turned his attention back to the computer. Within thirty seconds, he was connected to the Internet.

Before they left, Orlando had set the tracking software she was using to keep tabs on Jenny’s phone to run on automatic. It would then send periodic e-mails to both her and Quinn’s accounts detailing any activity. The first two messages were the same:

Data check complete. No activity.

The third, though, was different:

Data check complete.
Signal active: Kuala Lumpur, Sector 7.
Signal Acquired: 23:59:49. Local.
Signal Loss: 00:01:14. Local.

Interesting,
he thought. Jenny had turned her phone on the previous evening right at midnight. That corresponded to the same window of time she had had Quinn call her the night before.

He used a bookmark in his web browser to bring up the Sandy Side Yacht Club message board.

He perused the list of recent messages, concentrating on anything sent in the last thirty hours. The group was an active one, so even in that short span there were several hundred posts.

Quinn paid attention only to the ID of each message. Forty-two messages in, he stopped. There was a message from Jenny.

Just got back from Mexico. The Yucatán.

We’d spend all day on the water. At night, one club after another. The music plus the girls—very cool. I’d call it one helluva vacation.

As he started to work out the message, there was a knock at his door. “It’s Orlando,” a muffled voice called from the other side.

Quinn got up and let her in. “Jenny went active again,” he said as he crossed back to his com

puter. Orlando followed him. “Yeah. I got the e-mail, too.” Quinn sat, then turned his computer so she could see the screen.

“You didn’t get this, though.” “What?” Orlando asked. “She sent a message on the group board.” Quinn sat back down in the chair, and Orlando leaned in. Mexico was the key word. Six letters, meaning only every sixth