The Deceived (29 page)

As he started to run the possibilities through his mind, there was a muffled
ding
from his left, around the bend in the hallway. The sound of an elevator car arriving.

He looked to his right. The hallway continued on for another forty feet, then turned again. Perhaps there was another staircase around the corner. There was no way he could make it back to the one he’d used without being seen.

He could hear the elevator door open, then steps as someone exited into the tiled hallway. Whether it was the security guard or not, the last thing Quinn wanted was for someone to see him.

He moved to the right down the corridor as quickly and quietly as he could. When he turned the corner, he saw a doorless opening near the end of the hall.

He reached it in seconds. The room beyond the threshold was unlit, but not totally dark. He could make out a trash chute and a couple of vending machines. With no time to make a more thorough evaluation, he squeezed between one of the machines and the wall. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was the best he could do.

For several minutes, there was nothing, then the footsteps on tile returned as the security guard neared the utility room. Quinn tensed, preparing himself for action.

Closer and closer, until they were right outside the door. There the steps stopped.

Keep walking, buddy,
Quinn thought.

The beam of a flashlight darted into the room. It swept left, right, then left again. Just as quickly, it went out, and the steps began moving back down the hallway again.

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn and Nate met up on the path along the river. On his way out, Quinn had removed the petal he’d stuck over the camera lens in the sconce, leaving no trace that he’d been in the building.

“So what did you find?” Nate asked. “Trouble, I think,” Quinn said. “What kind?” It was a good question. Unfortunately, Quinn didn’t have an an

swer.

CHAPTER

THE NIGHT WAS A SHORT ONE. QUINN FELL INTO BED

just after 5 a.m. Three hours later, his eyes snapped open and his body tensed as someone shook him awake.

“It’s just me,” Orlando said. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, a somber look on her face.

“What is it?” he asked as he pushed himself up.

“I have something you’ll want to see,” she said.

“What?”

She stood up. “I’ve got it up on the computer.”

Quinn watched her walk out of the room, then sighed and pushed himself out of bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then walked barefoot into the other room.

Orlando was sitting at the desk, her computer open in front of her. She was alone. Nate was undoubtedly still asleep in his room.

Quinn walked over to her. “Okay,” he said. “Show me.”

She turned the laptop and tilted the screen so he could see it. She had the browser open to a newspaper article from the
Washington Post.

FORMER CIA OFFICIAL IN CRITICAL CONDITION

Fredericksburg, Virginia—Derek Blackmoore was found unconscious in the entryway of his home outside Fredericksburg, Virginia, yesterday afternoon. Mr. Blackmoore, a former employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, had suffered multiple bruises and fractures when a neighbor discovered him.

“He was beaten severely,” Detective Scott Geist said. “It appears that he was probably left to die. Mr. Blackmoore was lucky someone found him when they did. He’s in bad shape, but he’s alive.”

When asked what might have motivated the attack, Geist said, “We’re operating under the theory that it was a robbery at this point, but we’re not ruling anything out.”

The article went on to describe the scene in a little more detail. There

were no witnesses, and no one heard anything.

“Is this the latest?” Quinn said.

“It’s the latest online,” Orlando told him. “But I made a few calls. He’s still alive, but that’s it. No one’s willing to make a guess if he’ll survive or not. I also found out it wasn’t a robbery. Nothing was taken from the house.”

“Robbers wouldn’t have beat him like that anyway,” Quinn said. “Killed him, or knocked him out. This was torture.”

She looked up at him. “Do you think it was the same people who are after Jenny?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said.

There was another question she didn’t ask, but Quinn knew all too well. Had he been the one to lead them to Blackmoore?

Orlando was obviously reading his thoughts. “They could have come at him from all sorts of different ways. You weren’t the only one who knew Blackmoore’s connection to Markoff. He’d be a logical place for anyone to go.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that.

“Something else,” she said. “What?” “LP.” “You know what it is?” “I know it has a few people scared. Nobody on our level knew

what I was talking about. But a few higher up did. They didn’t come

out and say it, but I could tell.” “Did they give you anything?” She shook her head. “No. But I was thinking. If these people

know, maybe Peter does, too.” Quinn thought for a moment. “He might not tell me anything either.” “Could be worth a try, though,” she said. “He’s probably still at work.”

Quinn looked at his watch: 8:35 a.m. The twelve-hour difference meant it was 8:35 p.m. the previous evening back in New York. From Quinn’s experience, Peter seldom went home before 10.

“I’m not renegotiating our deal,” Peter said, once he knew it was Quinn on the line. “I’m not calling to renegotiate,” Quinn told him. “I have a ques

tion.” “Okay, so ask.” “Peter, have you ever heard the initials
LP
?” Silence. “Do you know what LP might mean?” Quinn asked. “Where did you hear that?” Peter’s words were measured and low. “In a message. But I don’t know what it means.” “You don’t need to know—” “I do,” Quinn said. “If you can—” “No,” Peter barked. “Let it go.” “I can’t. It’s important.” “I’ll call you back.” “Peter, I need—”

“Five minutes.” The phone went dead. “What’s wrong?” Orlando asked. “He knows something, but he didn’t want to tell me.” “So he hung up?” Quinn frowned. “Said he would call me back in five minutes.” They looked at each other, neither voicing what they both knew

that meant. Instead, they remained silent, waiting as the seconds

ticked slowly off the clock. It was almost five minutes exactly when the phone rang again. Quinn answered immediately. “Yes?” “Where did you hear that?” Peter asked. The sound over the phone line had changed. Not Peter’s voice so

much as the ambient sound around him. Before it was hushed, like he was in a box. But now Quinn could hear other sounds in the distance. It confirmed what he and Orlando already knew. Peter had left his office and was probably using his personal secured cell phone for the call.

“I told you, it was in a message,” Quinn said. “What message?” “Is that really important?” “Jesus, Quinn. Just tell me how the hell you heard about LP.” Quinn hesitated, then said, “Markoff.” “Markoff?” Peter paused. “CIA Markoff?” “Yes.” “Why the hell would he mention LP?” Peter asked. “He’s out of

the game, isn’t he?” “He’s dead.” That stopped Peter. “I think this LP, whatever it is, had something to do with it,”

Quinn said. “So what if they did?” “It’s important to me.” Peter said nothing for a moment, then, “Why?” “Because Markoff was a friend of mine. Because I think they may have been the ones who killed him. Because if they are, then they’re the ones trying to kill his girlfriend right now. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“You don’t want to go up against these guys.”

“Who are they?”

Again silence.

“The straight answer is I don’t know exactly,” Peter finally said. “Let’s just say they want things to run their way. And the way they try to do it is from within.”

“What do you mean? Try to run what?”

“Ultimately? Everything.”

“So they’re some kind of organization?” Quinn asked.

“I guess you could call them that.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“That’s what no one knows. There’s no working list of probable members. They could be anybody.”

“What does it mean? LP?”

“All we know is they go by LP,” Peter said. “What it means...who knows? It probably isn’t important anyway.”

Quinn thought for a moment. “Why did you leave your office to call me back? You think you’ve been infiltrated?”

He could sense Peter’s hesitation. “I don’t think so,” the head of the Office said. “But no reason to take a chance. Look, Quinn. I’ve told you more than I probably should have. All I’ll say is, if you think LP is involved, it’s best if you leave it alone. Trust me on this.”

Quinn started to ask another question, but Peter was no longer there.

Orlando was looking at him as he set the phone down. “What did he say?” she asked.

“He’s almost as scared as Blackmoore,” he said. He then repeated what Peter had told him.

“He could have been a little more helpful,” Orlando said.

“No kidding,” Quinn agreed. “It’s not much. In fact, he was basically telling me to just let it go.”

“Do you want to let it go?”

Quinn frowned at her. “Since when do I let anything Peter tells me scare me off?”

Though Singapore was a place in a constant state of renewal, it had changed little in the eighteen months since Quinn’s previous visit. That time, the job he had been hired for had turned into nothing, a situation that occurred about thirty percent of the time. He’d be moved into place before a particular action was to occur, then, if things went wrong, he jumped in to clean up the mess. Sometimes, though, things went right, and he’d get an all-expenses-paid trip plus his fee deposited into his account for what amounted to hanging around.

On his last trip to the island, he’d spent more time at the Kinokuniya Bookstore on Orchard Road than he had discussing the job with his client. And in the end, he was told, “Thank you very much. We’ll call you when we have something else.” Though there was something to be said about making money for doing nothing, Quinn preferred to be in action. It’s what he’d been trained for, after all. He hated getting mentally prepped to do something that didn’t materialize.

Of course, everything was an opportunity, and while he might have spent a lot of time perusing the shelves at Kinokuniya, he’d also spent time deepening his knowledge of the island and strengthening his relationships with some of the local talent he had gotten to know over the years. You never knew when something like that would pay off.

Like that morning.

Quinn and Nate took a cab from the hotel to the west end of Orchard Road, getting out in front of the OG Orchard Point department store.

Orchard Road was the Champs-Élysées of Singapore. On this street, shopping was the main religion. Department stores, malls, small shops, fancy restaurants, fast food. It all blended together on Orchard. You could find places that catered to the Rodeo Drive mindset across the street from tiny bargain shops that appeased the thriftier customer.

“That way,” Quinn said to Nate, pointing to his right across a small side street at the Orchard Point shopping complex.

It was a multilevel shopping center, with many stores advertising discounts and bargains. At street level, small shops opened directly onto the sidewalk. There were tailors and luggage stores and camera shops and shoe stores. And while prices might not always be negotiable, they weren’t out of sight, either. Often the owner or one of the employees stood outside the shop, beckoning potential customers to come in.

Quinn led Nate to a wide set of stairs near the center of the mall, then headed up to the second level. By American standards, the hallways were narrow for a shopping center, maybe five or six people wide. Both sides were lined with stores similar to those outside.

Near where the hall reached the end of the building and made a ninety-degree turn to the right, Quinn found a dress shop. A sign above the entrance identified it as “Ne Win’s Fine Dresses.”

The shop itself was only about twenty feet deep and about the same wide. Racks had been mounted to the walls on both the right and left, double high like clothing bunk beds. There was also a mannequin near the front entrance wearing a beautiful red silk gown.

Before entering, Quinn told Nate, “Wait here.”

“You looking for something to wear?” Nate said.

Quinn didn’t even honor the comment with a dirty look. Instead, he stepped into the store.

Two well-dressed women in their early twenties were talking to an older man, the owner of the shop. One of the girls looked full Chinese, while the other was definitely a blend. Quinn moved over to the side, pretending to look at some of the clothes on the racks.

“And it will be ready by Thursday?” the second girl asked, her accent a mix of British, Australian, and Chinese.

“Of course. No problem,” the man said. His own accent was more pronounced. English was not the language he’d grown up learning.

“And you won’t charge her any extra, right?” the second girl said. “Not like last time.”

The old man smiled, but Quinn could tell he was holding back. “Of course not. No reason.”