The Silenced (34 page)

“The passport,” Quinn said.

“What?”

“The passport you arranged for them to pick up in Paris before they left. Did you have your contact install a GPS clip?”

“Of course. In case we needed to track them.”

Quinn looked at her without saying anything, the suggestion that the GPS IDs might have been compromised clear on his face.

“Not possible,” she said. “I’ve used Michael Loge many times. He wouldn’t give that information away.”

“For the right amount of cash, some people will give anything away.”

Orlando drifted off for a second, then brought her phone up and made a call. It was soon apparent the person on the other end wasn’t answering. She frowned, accessed another number, and called it.

“Christophe, it’s Orlando,” she said. “I’m trying to get ahold of Michael, but he’s not answering. Have you heard—” She paused, listening. “When? … How did it—No, no. It’s okay.
Merci.
” She hung up.

“What?” Quinn asked.

“Loge is dead. Shot, two hours ago.”

They found a small area off the main lobby of University College Hospital’s Accident and Emergency Department. There were gray plastic chairs along one wall, all empty at the moment. Orlando sat down and pulled her laptop out of her backpack. Once she was up and running, it took her less than a minute to hack into the hospital’s computer system.

“Can you get us inside?” Quinn asked.

Orlando shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter. He’s in surgery.”

Quinn felt a sudden rush of relief. “Then he’s still alive. Does it say where he was hit?”

She studied the screen. “The chest,” she said. “Upper left side.”

Not his heart, though
, Quinn thought. If that had been where he’d been hit, Nate would have been in the morgue, not surgery.

Orlando looked at her laptop a moment longer, then closed it and stuffed it back in her bag. “I’ll make a few calls. Make sure he gets the help he needs. The only other thing we can do is wait.”

Quinn stood up. “No. No waiting.”

“Stick to the plan?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have to modify it,” she said.

“Not much.”

She stood up and slipped her hand into his. “Then, we’d better get to work.”

AT 9:15 P.M. THE NIGHT GUARD APPEARED FROM
around the corner of the Alexander Grant Building on his exterior rounds.

“East side. Street’s clear,” Mikhail said over the receiver in Quinn’s ear.

“West side. Same.” Petra this time.

Quinn and Orlando were standing in the same alcove Quinn had hidden in on his initial stakeout two nights prior. They were decked out in gray janitorial uniforms, matching light utility jackets, and black caps. Each had a backpack slung over their shoulder.

Once the guard had passed their position, Quinn gave Orlando a nod.

Silently she crossed the street and moved in behind the guard. The first indication he gave that he knew anyone was there was when Orlando’s hand slapped down a chloroform-soaked washcloth over his mouth and nose. He started to struggle, but that lasted only a few seconds before he lost consciousness.

Quinn crossed the street as Orlando eased the man to the ground.

“Target down,” he said.

Quinn reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of the syringes Petra had procured from her contact, a man named Nova. He knelt down beside the guard and stuck the needle into the man’s arm. He gave the rent-a-cop only half a dose. There was no need to keep the guy knocked out all night.

Orlando had already appropriated the guard’s security badge and ring of keys, so together they pulled him into the narrow gap at the end of the building.

“Target secured,” Quinn said. “Proceeding to stage two.”

Based on his previous visit, there were, at most, only two more guards inside. Odds were pretty good any remaining personnel would be in whatever room served as their office, watching TV or taking a nap.

Quinn took the lead as they approached the lobby door. Though there were no lights on inside, the residual illumination from the streetlamps was enough to confirm that the lobby was empty.

Orlando checked the lock, then looked at the guard’s key ring and selected one of the keys. It went in a little rough, but turned when she twisted it. She pulled the door open, and let Quinn in first, then followed.

“Inside,” Quinn said. “Street check.”

“Clear,” Petra said.

“Clear,” Mikhail said.

Only they all knew the street wasn’t completely clear. They had spotted Palavin’s watcher in a car two blocks away when they first arrived, and soon after discovered a new camera trained on the Alexander Grant Building. Palavin’s, of course.

Quinn walked to the middle of the lobby, then looked left and right down the hallways that ran off in each direction. There were a few lights on in each, like someone had disconnected all but the absolute minimum needed to see. From Quinn’s experience, security offices were usually set up close to the front entrance. But he got no sense of anyone nearby.

Orlando raised an eyebrow, silently asking him,
Which way?

Before he could answer, the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing cut through the silence. It was to their left, muffled and distant, like it might be all the way at the other end.

Staying in the lobby, Quinn and Orlando moved to opposite sides of the hallway entrance, shielding themselves against the wall.

Water running now, then off. Silence for a few seconds, then the sound of a door opening.

Orlando peeked around the edge. When she looked back, she held up one finger, then used her hands to indicate a wide man of average height.

There was the
thud-thud-thud
of the man’s footsteps as he drew closer.

Quinn watched Orlando pull the chloroformed rag from her pocket. He hoped it was still potent enough to work on the new guard if they needed it. He tensed, ready to grab the man, but the steps stopped fifteen feet shy of the lobby.

A door opened for a few seconds, then closed again. After, silence descended on the hallway.

Quinn and Orlando shared a look, but they both knew to give it a few seconds before checking. When they finally did, as expected, the hallway was empty.

As they stepped out of the lobby and into the corridor, Quinn pointed at a door on the side nearest him. “That one,” he whispered.

Orlando nodded her agreement.

Together, they approached the door, then stopped to listen. From inside came the sound of a TV. Someone was flipping through the channels and finally settled on a station. Quinn tried to tune the TV out and listen for anything else. But the only voices were those filtered through the television’s speakers.

He looked at Orlando and held up one finger, then pointed at himself. He would take care of the guard. He didn’t have to tell her that her job was to make sure there wasn’t anyone else.

Once Orlando handed him the chloroformed cloth, he took a few steps away, then whispered into the radio mic on his collar, “Going for target two.”

He placed his hand on the knob and gave it a slight turn. Unlocked.

He glanced at Orlando, and she nodded, indicating she was ready. He took a deep breath, turned the handle all the way, and pushed the door open.

The guard was alone, sitting on an old cloth couch. By the time he looked up, Quinn was already halfway across the room.

“Who the hell—?”

Quinn raced the rest of the way and knocked the rising guard back onto the couch. He then dove forward, shoving the cloth over the man’s face. Unfortunately, the chloroform didn’t work as quickly on the larger man as it had on his partner outside.

The guard tried to grab at Quinn’s arm and move the cloth away, but Quinn held tight. The man then changed tactics and shoved at Quinn’s torso while turning his own body.

“What … are you … trying …? Who …?”

The guard attempted to push himself up and away, but slipped, the chloroform finally beginning to take effect.

Quinn jumped off the couch, then removed another one of the syringes from his pocket. As the guard rolled onto his side, Quinn plunged the needle into the largest target available, giving the man a full dose.

The guard tried to swing his arm at Quinn, but missed miserably and rolled completely off the couch onto the floor. He made a feeble attempt to get up, then collapsed, slipping into dreamland.

Panting, Quinn looked over at Orlando. She was leaning against the wall, not too far from the door, a playful smile on her face.

“Thanks for the help,” he said.

She snorted. “Hey, you’re the one who said you had him.”

He stared blankly at her, then said into his mic, “Target two secured.”

For the next five minutes Quinn searched the rest of the building in case there was more security, while Orlando headed down to the basement to assess the situation there. After he confirmed there were no more than the two men they’d already dealt with, Quinn headed back downstairs.

When he hit the lobby, he told his new Russian friends, “Give us thirty minutes, then bring the van into position.”

“Roger,” Mikhail replied.

The basement level was a mess. The long central hallway was littered with boxes and damaged office furniture. Off the corridor were doors every twenty feet. Most were open, revealing equally trashed rooms.

“Where are you?” he called out.

“Down here.” Orlando’s voice came from the far end of the hall.

Quinn worked his way around the scattered debris until he reached the room she was in. It was a fair guess that in the eighties the basement rooms had all been used as offices, but they had sometime since been turned into storage areas. The room that had once been rented by the Ghost was full of near-empty wooden shelving units.

Orlando was standing off to the right, in front of a unit against the wall. She’d already cleared a lot of debris out of the way.

“This should be it,” she said.

Quinn immediately saw what Palavin had done, or rather, what MI6 had redone. The room was in the corner of the building. The wall on the right seemed to be about a meter further into the room than it needed to be. Plenty of space for a walled-off closet.

“Looks right to me.”

She grabbed the wooden shelf. “Help me with this?”

Together they started to pull the bookshelf away from the wall. The rusty screws that had been holding it in place easily gave way. Once the area was clear, Quinn set his backpack on the floor and removed a two-foot-long wrecking bar that was strapped to the outside. Though it was unlikely that Palavin’s watcher would check inside the building after they left, they couldn’t take any chances. They needed to make it look authentic.

Quinn began swinging at the wall, and five minutes later he had a hole wide enough for the job he was supposed to be doing. As expected, there was nothing inside.

While he took a moment to catch his breath, Orlando staged the scene by propping some of the debris against the wall and making it look like something had been removed from inside. Once she was done, Quinn helped her push the shelving unit back in place. That was part of the show, too. Since the building wasn’t long for life, there would have been no need for Quinn to repatch the wall like the one MI6 had done. Covering it up with the shelves so that it wouldn’t draw the attention of security was all that was required.

That done, Orlando pulled two heavy-duty plastic-fiber bags out of her backpack, while Quinn scanned the room for the last things they needed to complete the illusion. He found some old chairs in the corner and used the wrecking bar to create several chunks of wood about the same size as human bones.

“What do you think?” he asked Orlando.

She glanced at his handiwork. “Perfect.”

“Pulling up now,” Petra announced.

Quinn and Orlando, each carrying one of the plastic bags that now ostensibly contained the remains of Trevor Robb, stepped from the hallway into the front lobby. Through the glass doors, they could see the van stop at the curb. Painted on the side was the business name
Halvorsen Cleaning Services
.

“Street?” Quinn asked.

“Clear,” Petra said.

Orlando went first, with Quinn right behind her. As soon as they cleared the building, the side door on the van swung open. Mikhail was standing several feet inside so that he wouldn’t be seen. They wanted Palavin’s surveillance to think there were only three people on the job.

“Here,” Orlando said, setting her bag just inside so Mikhail could grab it.

As soon as he did, she ran over to where they’d left the first guard to return his keys and badge. Quinn waited until she came back, then they both climbed inside, and he slammed the door closed.

“Go,” Quinn said.

Petra took her foot off the brake, and they were off. Mikhail, sitting in the back with Quinn and Orlando, was talking to someone in Russian on his phone. After a moment he moved it away from his face.

“Is he moving?” Quinn asked.

“Yes,” Mikhail said.

“Following us or checking out the building?”

“Following us.”

Quinn nodded. “Good.”

So their work in the basement had been unnecessary. That was fine. The energy he’d expended had worked off any rough edges he felt. What was left now was focus.

Clear, lethal focus.