The Destroyed (11 page)

She had watched the video Peter had uploaded more times than she probably needed to. The raw, stark security footage was devoid of emotion, and, because of that, oddly riveting. Empty concrete one moment, distorted bag of guts and bones the next. Even seeing the man in the baseball hat check the body—knowing it was actually Mila—was fascinating.

The whole thing was a mix of the surreal and the hyper-real.

When she finally forced herself to quit watching, she turned her attention to identifying the dead man. The news reports were useless. In the initial articles she found, the police were quoted as saying the name of the victim was as yet unknown. Follow-up reports yielded the same. The only things the police would say were that the man was Caucasian, had no ID, and had jumped.

The first part, yes. The second, perhaps. The last, she didn’t believe at all.

After three days, there were no additional reports. The world had moved on to other, more pressing news. A foreigner committing suicide off a new high-rise hotel might be bad for business, but it didn’t hold the public’s attention for long.

The killer would know his name, of course, but she was willing to bet that someone in official authority knew who he was, too.

To see if she was right, she hacked into the Dar es Salaam police network, and scrounged around for any information concerning the incident. The problem was, Swahili was not one of the languages she knew, so she had to rely on the date and the phrase “Majestic Hotel” to guide her.

Still, it didn’t take long to uncover the report. Scanning through it, she looked for any names that she could use as touch points for further searches. None stood out. The only thing she could find were three references to another number that had a similar pattern to the incident’s case number. Some other event that might be tied to this one?

She dug deeper into the system, looking for a case that matched this new number. At first, she came up with nothing. Not willing to give up so easily, she opened a program she’d written herself. She called it the burrower. It was a worm that could dig its way through an entire system, looking for whatever specific word or phrase or pattern she instructed. While it was fast, because of the size of the police network, it could take several minutes to complete its task.

Orlando input the number she’d found, started the program, then got up to refresh her cup of tea.

The water on the stove was still warm enough that she didn’t need to heat it again. As she poured it into her cup, she wondered about the assignment to eliminate Mila. Had Quinn known she was the target? Why was she still alive? Surely the gunman hired for the job had been more than a match for an unsuspecting courier.

Unless she was more than a simple courier.

Orlando realized she didn’t know much about Mila. She hadn’t lied when she told Quinn she’d met her before, and she
had
liked her, but after that she had only heard the girl’s name in passing and had never seen her again. As far as she could remember, Quinn had never once mentioned Mila Voss.

She was carrying her cup back to her computer when she suddenly stopped mid-stride. What if Quinn and Mila had been more than just coworkers? Mila had certainly been a beautiful woman, and probably could have attracted any man she wanted.

Orlando shook her head.
No, not possible. He would have said something.

But, as she returned to her desk, she wondered if he really would have said anything. He
was
the master of walling things off, and any relationship with Mila would have occurred in those years Orlando and Quinn hadn’t been talking to each other.

It certainly would explain why he might have covered up her death. Of course, that opened up a whole other mess of problems. What about the shooter? Wouldn’t he have known that the woman he’d been sent to kill was still breathing? Was he in on it, too? And if Quinn were having a relationship with Mila, why would he have even been included on the job to take her out?

Orlando decided she needed to find out more about the events surrounding the not-so-well-executed death of Mila Voss.

She sat back down and checked the burrower. Not only was it done, it had found what she was hoping for. The number was indeed another case file. Its prefix, though, was apparently only used for a special set of cases that could be accessed solely by the very top level of the force’s administration. The files for these cases were kept behind an additional password-protected firewall. The people who set up the system were good, just not as good as Orlando. Using another of her self-written programs, she was soon through the wall.

The file was interesting. The majority of it was written in Swahili, but there was a name listed that was most definitely not Tanzanian: Martin Langenberg. Was it the name of the dead man on the sidewalk? She looked for other information that might be useful, and turned up two additional names that sounded Tanzanian—perhaps witnesses or the officers who had worked the case—and one phone number in Dar es Salaam.

She checked the time. It was after midnight. Doing a quick calculation, she determined it would be late afternoon in Dar es Salaam. She picked up her phone and dialed the number.

The person who answered did not speak in Swahili, or even in English, but in Dutch. “Martin Langenberg’s office. May I help you?”

While Dutch
was
one of the languages Orlando knew, speaking it was not one of her favorite things in the world. It was full of hard sounds that made her feel like she was doing permanent damage to her mouth and throat. Which was the main reason she couldn’t speak it with a native flair like she could French or Vietnamese or Korean.

“May I speak to Mr. Langenberg, please?” she said.

“He is in a meeting. May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’ll just call back.”

She hung up before the woman could say anything more.

A Dutch-speaking office in Dar es Salaam.
Interesting
. The obvious guess was something oil-related.

She pulled up one of her favorite search engines and typed the phone number into it.

No listing.

There were a couple other legitimate places she could try, but she decided to go right to the source. She found a proven hack posted on one of the specialized message boards she belonged to, and used it to enter the Dar es Salaam phone company’s database. The number was listed to a Karas Holdings.

That didn’t tell her anything.

With an annoyed grunt, she dove in further.

An hour and a half later, she stood up and stretched. She’d found what she was looking for, only it was more than she expected, in a very troubling way.

Karas Holdings was a front for an organization known as REJ, who, in turn, worked almost exclusively for the CIA. She had dealt with REJ before—both she and Quinn had done jobs for them. Martin Langenberg, according to her sources, was the REJ agent overseeing operations in Africa.

Using this info, she did a surgical hack into the REJ server, looking only for anything dealing with the dead man in front of the Majestic Hotel.

She found a single document for the transfer of a body. According to the description, the body had fallen from a great height, and it was recommended that the casket remain closed.

There was a name, too.

Lawrence Rosen.

It didn’t take much work after that to compile a partial bio for Rosen, more than enough to know there was absolutely no way he had jumped. Rosen was a security operative. Freelance now, though a few years earlier he’d been a civilian employee within military intelligence. He was a connected man living in Dubai who undoubtedly had many enemies.

In Orlando’s line of work, believing in coincidences was a quick way to an early death. Rosen and Mila had both worked in the intelligence world. The fact that he died and she’d been the first to his side could not be put down to chance. There was a connection.

What, Orlando didn’t know.

CHAPTER 12

BANGKOK, THAILAND

T
HAILAND WAS NOT
where they needed to be. There was no question in Quinn’s mind that by the end of the day they’d be on a plane heading out of the country. The only thing holding up their departure was that he had no idea where they should go. Hopefully, whatever Orlando found out would point the way. While they waited to hear back from her, there
was
something he needed to do, a thank you that was best delivered in person.

The first time he met with Christina had been in her large apartment in the center of the city. This time, though, Daeng took them via the SkyTrain to a restaurant just off of Sukhumvit.

Christina was sitting at a table in the far back corner of the patio. A tall, blonde, Caucasian woman, she had been in Bangkok since near the end of the Vietnam War. Why and how she had come to Thailand as a young adult, Quinn didn’t know, and never asked. It wasn’t his business. He was also unsure hold old she was now—late fifties, early sixties. Someone who didn’t know anything about her background might guess her age to be anywhere between fifty and seventy.

Two Thai men were standing a few feet behind her on either side, while two others were stationed at a table a dozen feet in front of hers.

As Daeng, Quinn, and Nate walked toward her, Daeng said something to the closest bodyguards. They both nodded a greeting and let the trio pass without incident.

“Mr. Quinn,” Christina said, a subtle smile on her lips. She then looked at Nate. “And you must be Nate.” She motioned at the empty chairs around her table. “Would you gentlemen like to have a seat?”

Quinn and Nate took the two chairs across from her, while Daeng selected the seat nearest her.

Christina touched Daeng’s arm. No words passed her lips, but the look she gave him was like one a mother might give to her adult child. When she looked back at Quinn, she said, “Have you enjoyed the countryside?”

“I have.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I can see it has already done much for you.”

“It has.”

“So, what brings you back to Bangkok?”

Quinn hesitated, then said, “I unexpectedly find myself with something I must do. Unfortunately, this means I have to leave. I plan on coming back, but I’m unsure how soon that will be. Not long, I hope.” He paused. “The reason I wanted to see you today was to thank you. The temple was exactly what I needed. You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

“It was my pleasure. I’m glad it worked out.”

“If you’re ever in need of me for anything, call,” he said.

Her smile grew as she reached over and took hold of his hands. “And I thank
you
for that.” When she let go, she looked at him and Nate. “Something to drink? Or to eat? They make a wonderful curry here. One of my favorites in the city.”

“Thank you, but no,” Quinn said, standing. “Some other time.”

“Of course.”

He hesitated. “There is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“I would appreciate it if someone could keep an eye on the temple renovations. I’ve made sure they have enough money to do what needs to be done, but I worry the work might slow in my absence. The monks are very forgiving, so might not always push when they need to.”

“It won’t be a problem. Daeng can keep an eye on things.”

Quinn and Daeng exchanged a look, then Daeng said, “I’ll be going with him.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

Quinn knew that Daeng didn’t work
for
Christina, just occasionally
with
, but from the beginning Quinn had sensed Christina’s protectiveness of the former monk.

“I’ll check on the temple myself, then,” she said.

“You don’t need to do that,” Quinn told her. “One of your people could make the trip.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

__________

A
S THEY WALKED
back to the SkyTrain station, Nate whispered to Quinn, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring him with us?”

“We could use his help.”

“Sure, but how well do you know him?”

“Well enough.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

Quinn glanced at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. I trust Daeng. So that means you can trust him, too.”

Quinn made it clear that was the end of the conversation. It didn’t help Nate, though. Daeng was still an enigma to him. There was the Daeng who fought with him at the temple, the Daeng who showed him Quinn working in the fields, the Daeng who owned a large home in the middle of Bangkok where he played host to Burmese refugees, and finally the Daeng who was obviously connected to the mysterious powerbroker Christina.

He couldn’t make all the pieces fit. Not the best position to be in, he thought, especially if they found themselves in serious situations that required Nate to trust Daeng completely.

He also wasn’t happy with the way Quinn had shut him down. It was almost as if he was an apprentice again, and he most certainly was
not
anymore.

For the last six months, he had been a full-fledged cleaner, running Quinn’s business on his own. Well, with the occasional assist from Orlando, but the point was the same. He’d been operating successfully outside Quinn’s authority for half a year. So just because Quinn was reverting to old habits didn’t mean Nate had to.

He reached out and grabbed his mentor by the shoulder, turning him around. “I need more than just your word.”

Anger flared in Quinn’s eyes, but Nate didn’t back down.

“You’ve been gone since last year,” Nate said. “I’ve seen what you’ve been doing with your time, and that’s all well and good, but I’ve been
working
since the moment you left. My instincts and skills are sharp. Can you say the same about yours?”

Quinn stared at him for a second, then said, “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

“And don’t treat me like a kid. I’m here. I
will
help you. But I’m not your damn lackey. You want me to treat you with respect? Then treat me with the same.”