The Cleaner (40 page)

As he neared, the front door opened and out stepped Leo Tucker. Quinn's eyes narrowed. He should have expected him to be here, but seeing him in the flesh made Quinn flush with anger. The Aussie opened the back door for Durrie. As Quinn's mentor got in, the Volvo driver put another two boxes in the trunk.

Six,
Quinn thought. 'You guys take the rest,' Durrie yelled toward Borko.

A moment later the BMW was speeding away. As Borko tracked the car, Quinn quickly moved his arm a few inches so that the triggering switch was now under his palm.

As Borko turned back to him, Quinn worked the switch into his hand, but kept his palm pointed at the ground. He knew he wasn't going to be able to set it off in time to get the BMW. Some of the virus was going to get away.

'Okay. Now we have a little fun,' Borko said. He removed a pistol from a holster under his jacket. It was a SIG P226, just like Quinn's.

'Why didn't Gibson have a card?' Quinn asked. He was trying to buy time as he turned the switch in his hand so his thumbprint would be properly aligned.

Borko's brow creased for a moment, then he smiled. 'You mean at your house? You want to know the truth?' He leaned forward slightly, as if he were passing on a great secret. 'He was supposed to carve Dahl's name in your chest.'

Yeah. That would explain it,
Quinn thought as he made sure the safety was off.

'Your plan isn't going to work, you know,' Quinn said. He moved his thumb to the A/B switch. Had he already put it in the B position?

'I don't care what you think. It will work fine.' Borko pulled back on the slide release on his pistol, checking to make sure a bullet was in the chamber.

'I don't mean the fact that your scientists screwed up and your attempt at ethnic genocide would have a wider audience.'
Right side A, left side B. Right? Right side A . . . No. Left side A, right side B.

'Not genocide,' Borko said, raising his gun. 'Pest removal.'

The switch was on the right side. 'Whatever,' Quinn said. He risked a quick glance past Borko at the van, wondering if he was far enough away.

They were almost thirty yards away, and he was lying on the ground. Hopefully it would do some damage to Borko. At the very least it would be enough to knock the Serb to the ground, Quinn thought, give himself a chance to get away. 'That's not why it's not going to work.'

'Really?' Borko said. 'Why isn't it going to work?' 'Unfortunately, you'll probably never know.' Quinn pressed his thumb against the pad, but

nothing happened. 'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' Quinn pressed again, still nothing. The switch

was broken. 'You know what?' Borko asked. 'It doesn't matter. What does matter is –' Whatever he thought mattered was lost in the explosion that ripped him apart.

Chapter 40

Quinn didn't remember the explosion at first. He did remember hands on his body, pulling things off him, then helping him to stand. He remembered looking for the van, but not finding it. It wasn't anywhere. But he had trouble remembering why any of it should matter.

Then someone slipped an arm under his shoulder.

'Come on,' a voice said, urging him forward.

Why was he having such a hard time walking? His left leg acted like it didn't want to hold him up without the help of his new companion. He looked down and saw a scarf tied around his leg. It was checkered, black and red, and seemed familiar. Where did that come from?

Soon he was surrounded by trees, but his companion kept urging him on deeper into the woods. Quinn could barely keep his eyes open. The journey seemed to take days, weeks even. Finally there was the sound of automobiles, dozens of them. And from somewhere beyond the direction they'd just come from, dozens of sirens screaming out of sync. His companion stopped then, helping Quinn to lean against a tree. Pain began to creep into Quinn's consciousness, and with it returned the awareness of his situation and the realization of what still needed to be done.

Quinn looked over at his companion, at Orlando. All five-feet-nothing of her. She'd been the one to get him to his feet. She'd tied her scarf around his leg. She was the one who led him away from the chaotic debris that had once been the van.

'How long?' he asked.

'Since the explosion?'

Quinn nodded.

She looked at her watch. 'Nine minutes.'

'My switch wasn't working,' Quinn said.

'Mine was.' Orlando pulled a phone out of her pocket. It wasn't the same model she or Quinn had been carrying. She saw him eyeing it. 'Got it off one of the guys who followed me into the woods.'

'Did you take care of them?'

'I wouldn't be here if I didn't.'

He tried to smile, but failed.

Orlando punched a number into the phone, then held it up to her ear. 'Where are you?' she said, then paused. 'You're almost here. A quarter mile at most. Hold on.'

She walked to the edge of the woods and stepped out. She was too far away for Quinn to hear her conversation, but only a few seconds later a car pulled to the side of the road. It was a maroon BMW sedan.
Nate.

They helped Quinn into the back seat, then climbed into the front – Nate in the driver's seat, Orlando on the passenger side. Quinn's apprentice pulled the car back onto the road, heading south into the city.

'Just lie down,' Orlando said, looking back. 'We'll get you to a doctor.'

'No,' Quinn said.

Orlando looked back. 'You've probably got a concussion. You need help.' 'No time for a doctor,' Quinn said. 'The St. Martin Hotel. That's where we need to go.'

'Why?' Orlando asked.

'I promised you we'd get Garrett,' Quinn said.

Outside, two police cars rushed past them heading the other way, their emergency lights flashing.

'He's at the St. Martin?' she asked quickly.

'No,' he said. 'That's not what I mean. We have to follow the trail.'When he realized they didn't understand what he meant, he added, 'We didn't get it all.'

'The mints?' she said. 'I blew them all up. Hell, you're lucky I didn't blow you up, too. Some guy must have been standing pretty close to you, because you were wearing parts of him when I found you.'

'Borko,' Quinn said.

'No shit?' Nate said.

Quinn nodded, though Nate couldn't see him. 'But we didn't get all the mints.' He told them about the transferred boxes. 'Six boxes,' he said when he was done. 'More

than enough to get the genocide started. He's got two choices. Dump the boxes, or deliver what he has and still get paid.'

'But why the hotel?' Nate asked. 'You said the

tins were supposed to be part of the welcome packets.' 'Yeah, well, it's too late to get them in the packets now, don't you think?'

'So what? We try to steal the remaining boxes, and still go for the trade-off?' Orlando asked. 'That's pretty weak, don't you think?'

Quinn chose his next words carefully. 'Dahl's the one with the boxes. And Tucker's with him.'

Orlando stared at him. 'Are you sure?'

Quinn nodded. 'They'll know where Garrett is.'

Silence filled the car. Outside, the city once again surrounded them. Nate had to slow the car as traffic began to increase. He shot a quick look at Orlando.

'The St. Martin or Dr. Garber?' he asked.

She didn't even hesitate. 'The hotel.'

Nate pulled up in front of a convenience store, and Orlando ran in. While she was gone, Quinn used the small first-aid kit to dress his wound. After he had the disinfectant and gauze in place, he wrapped an elastic bandage tightly around his thigh several times. He wasn't going to be able to walk perfectly, but the support of the bandage would help a little.

It was only a few minutes before Orlando returned. Once back in the car, she handed a bag to Quinn. Inside was a box of paper napkins and several bottles of water.

'Thanks,' Quinn said.

As Nate got them back on the road, Quinn poured water on several of the napkins, then used them to wipe the blood – Borko's blood, he realized – off his hands and face.

'Your clothes are going to be a problem,' Orlando said.

Quinn looked down. The jacket he was wearing was stained and ripped. Even the shirt underneath hadn't escaped damage. As for his pants, the left leg was soaked with blood from his wound.

'There's a sweater in the duffel bag,' Nate said.

Quinn had already noted the bag on the floor behind the driver's seat. He picked it up and put it on the seat beside him.

'What about pants?' he asked.

Nate shook his head. 'Sorry.'

Quinn removed his jacket and dumped it on the floor. He had to peel the shirt off slowly, as blood had begun to dry on his skin, creating a series of reddish brown lines and circles.

He used more napkins and water to clean off his torso, then opened the duffel bag. The sweater was on top. He removed it and pulled it over his head.

A few minutes later, Nate said, 'There it is.'

Quinn looked out the front window. Two blocks ahead was the St. Martin Hotel. There were police everywhere, and traffic was starting to slow to a crawl.

'Turn here,' Quinn said. 'See if we can get around back.'

'How are we supposed to get in?' Nate asked. 'There's too much security.'

'Just turn,' Quinn said.

Nate turned and drove for a few blocks before turning left again. The traffic was still slow, but it was moving.

'You really think Dahl brought the boxes here?' Nate asked.

'It's his only option,' Quinn said. 'Otherwise the plan is dead.' 'They could take them directly to Bosnia,' Nate countered. 'Maximum effect that way.'

'And the maximum chance HFA would be blamed for the attack. Release the bug here and they can expect a few ancillary outbreaks would occur in Bosniak populations outside of the Balkans. Even if bioterrorism is suspected, the finger would point at a much wider group of potential suspects.'

'But Jansen said the virus won't just infect the Bosniaks,' Nate said.
' We
know that,' Orlando said. 'But they still think they've created the perfect weapon.' 'Dahl must be getting paid a hell of a lot of money to make this happen,' Nate said.

'I'm sure he is,' Orlando said.

Quinn pulled back slightly. There was more to it than just the money, he knew. He realized he'd been avoiding the subject since Nate had picked them up. But he couldn't avoid it any longer. Only as he started to speak, he couldn't find words to make it sound real. Finally he looked at Orlando. 'Do you still have your pictures of Garrett?'

She looked surprised, one hand unconsciously moving toward the pocket of her coat. 'Yes. Why?'

'Can I see them?'

Still perplexed, she reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out the small plastic wallet insert. She started to pull one of the pictures out.

'No,' Quinn said. 'Give me the whole thing.'

Reluctantly, she handed it over.

In total, there were three pictures of Garrett: two recent, the third from when he was a baby. But it was the fourth picture in the miniature album that interested Quinn.

He removed the picture and held it over the seat toward Nate.

'Look at this,' he said.

'Eh . . . I'm driving,' Nate said.

'What are you doing?' Orlando asked.

'Just glance at it,' Quinn said to Nate.

Nate took the picture in his right hand, then held it up near his face, his eyes still on the road. After a moment, he glanced down. But instead of taking a quick look, his eyes remained riveted on the photo.

'That's enough,' Quinn said, tapping him on the shoulder. 'Son of a bitch,' Nate said as he handed the photo back.

'What?' Orlando asked.

'That's him,' Nate said.

'That's who?' Orlando was beginning to sound angry.

'The guy I saw when they had me locked up in that hotel room. The older guy.' Nate looked quickly back at Orlando, then shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror so he could look at Quinn. 'Is that Dahl?'

Quinn held the photo out to Orlando, but she didn't take it. He knew she was well aware who was in the picture.

'I saw him, too,' Quinn said. 'He was in the BMW.' 'That's not possible,' she said, disbelief on her face.

Quinn locked his eyes on Orlando's. 'He's not dead.'

'Bullshit. You saw him die. You gave me his ashes.'

'I know.' Quinn turned to Nate. 'You're sure this is the man you saw?' 'Yeah,' Nate said. 'Maybe a little older now, but that's definitely him. Who is he?'

'Nate's never seen his picture before,' Quinn said to Orlando. 'Maybe you don't believe me, but Nate's got no reason to lie.'

'It can't be,' she said. Only now her voice conveyed more stunned disbelief than defiant anger. 'Think about it,' Quinn said. 'Why would anyone else take Garrett?'

'But Piper's Dahl,' Orlando said, looking for a flaw. 'He's the one who had Garrett kidnapped. He's the one who has been trying to kill you. You saw Piper, not Durrie. Right? That has to be it. You made a mistake. The explosion messed up your head.'

'Durrie?' Nate said, confused.

Quinn shook his head. 'Piper's not Dahl. Durrie's Dahl. I don't think Piper has anything to do with this,' he said. 'Leo Tucker was Durrie's connection in Vietnam. Not Piper. He probably made you when he was following Nate and me. But he never told his old boss. Only Durrie, because he knew Durrie would be extremely interested.'

Orlando fell silent.

'Turn here,' Quinn said to Nate.

A moment later they were nearing the hotel again, only this time on the other side of the building from the main entrance.

The hotel took up an entire city block. While the architecture of the building led Quinn to believe it had been built recently, great pains had obviously been taken to have the building's design complement those of the older stone buildings around it.

'Look for a delivery area,' Quinn said.

'We'll still have a problem with security,' Nate said.

'Maybe.'

Nate steered the sedan past another public entrance, less ostentatious than the front, but no less busy. Apparently all the hotel's non-conference guests were being directed to it. An army of bellhops stood outside the door, a different one peeling off each time a taxi pulled up. And while there were several police officers around, they seemed to only be observing the crowds, not stopping anyone.