The fractured, p.24
The Fractured, page 24
part #12 of Jonathan Quinn Series
Once everyone was on the sidewalk and the doors were shut, the driver moved the SUV forward to the end of the coned-off section and climbed out. As this was happening, the others entered the restaurant.
“Cameras,” Nate said.
Before he’d even finished saying the word, the feed from the lower hallway was playing on her phone. Soon, the men moved into view. The camera had an excellent angle on each man as he passed.
When the man in the scarf walked through, she said, “There’s a bit of ear showing.”
“Mark it.”
“Already done.”
She switched to the upper hall feed. This camera saw only the backs of the men’s heads, though it did catch more of the semi-exposed ear. She marked this also.
The men entered the room at the far end, but the door stayed open until the brute joined them.
“Audio?” he asked.
She turned up the sound, but the camera was too far away, especially with the door closed, to pick up anything. After a few seconds, she turned it down again.
“Too bad you couldn’t have placed it closer,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “And if I had, I would have never made it to the front door, and you would have never seen me, and—”
Nate held up a hand. “I know. It wasn’t a criticism. Just a wish.”
“Wishes are wasted energy.”
“Jar…”
When he didn’t go on, she said, “What?”
“Nothing.” He looked back at the street.
For a few moments there, the old Nate had peeked through, but he’d turned maudlin again. He’d been up and down since making his unannounced appearance. She wanted to help him but had no idea how. People were…hard.
“Daeng for Jar.”
Jar clicked on her mic. “Go for Jar.”
“I have you on a roof. Is that right?”
“Correct.” She explained how to reach their position, and turned to Nate again.
His eyes were glassy, as if he was looking at something entirely different than what was in front of him. She moved her hand over his shoulder, letting it hover, uncertain if giving him a reassuring touch was the right thing or not. Her fingers opened and closed in indecision. She decided to go for it, touching him lightly at first, then letting the full weight of her hand rest on his shoulder.
He blinked and glanced at her, and for a moment it looked as if he might cry.
“I-I might not be the best person to help you,” she said. “But I want you to know that I am here if you need me.”
A tear rolled down his cheek as he smiled. “Thanks.”
“You are my friend, Nate. You do not need to thank me.”
For some reason, this drew a chuckle out of him. It did not feel mean spirited, however.
“And you’re my friend, Jar. And I’m glad for it.”
He held her gaze. She didn’t know if she should look away, or smile, or what, so she simply stared back until he wiped his eyes.
“Don’t tell the others,” he said. “I have a reputation to keep.”
“I would not think of telling—oh, that was a joke.”
“Yeah. But, also, don’t tell them.”
“I will not.”
“Thanks.” He nodded at her phone. “Let’s take a look at that exposed ear, shall we?”
*
It was surprising to Nate how easy it was to fall back into his old self. As he and Jar watched the men, he’d switch to full operations mode.
He studied each man’s face as they passed the ground-floor camera, and was once more struck by the older guy with the high cheekbones. It was something in the eyes. Nate was sure he’d seen them before. As for the scarfed man, the partially exposed ear was interesting, though Nate couldn’t remember noting much about St. Amand’s ear back in Marrakesh.
He’d been honest when he told Jar his comment about getting the camera closer was not a criticism but a wish. And when she’d replied that wishes were a waste of energy, he’d almost joked, “Jar, so is being too serious.”
But it had stuck in his throat, and made him realize he was acting like his old self. Then it dawned on him he hadn’t thought about Liz since he hopped onto the back of Jar’s scooter.
He couldn’t help but feel like he’d almost forgotten Liz. Like he’d been on the verge of purging her from his mind. Of course, he could never do that, but the idea of it was enough to shake him to his core.
I’m sorry. I’ll never do that again.
You will, and it will be okay, Liz replied.
Don’t say that! Please, never say that!
A hush.
I’m sorry, he thought.
I know.
When Jar’s hand touched his shoulder, it was almost as if Liz herself was doing it. He knew how hard it must have been for Jar to do what she did. And despite himself, his heart lifted.
They watched the ear footage again, Nate having her loop it over and over again, but no matter how much she replayed it, nothing about the scarfed man’s ear stood out for Nate.
They had just switched back to the live feed from the restaurant’s upstairs hallway when they both heard a thump on the roof behind them, signaling the arrival of Daeng. But then three more thumps followed.
Nate looked back.
Daeng was there, and so were Quinn and Orlando and Steve Howard.
Quinn crawled up next to him. “What’s the situation?”
Fighting dryness in his throat, Nate said, “They’re upstairs in a room above the restaurant. Jar’s got a camera in the hallway outside it.”
Orlando took the spot next to Quinn, while Daeng and Howard stretched out on the other side of Jar.
“Did you get a good look at them?”
“Decent enough.”
“And?”
“I have no idea if the guy in the scarf is St. Amand or not. No way to tell unless we get him out of that garb.”
Quinn looked at the building. “Anyone have any idea what they’re doing here?”
“It has to be a meeting that has something to do with those cases they brought in,” Daeng said.
“Sure, but what’s in those cases?”
Nate shrugged. “This guy’s an arms dealer. So, weapons, right?”
Quinn glanced over at Jar and Daeng. “You guys saw them carry them in. Did the cases look heavy?”
“Not particularly. Most of the guys carried two at once.”
“Maybe it’s samples,” Orlando said. “One or two of each item, probably in fancy protection to keep them looking pristine.”
“Yes,” Jar said. “I agree with Orlando. That is the most logical answer.”
“If that’s true,” Quinn said, “and they brought them to the back room of a restaurant—”
“Upstairs room,” Jar corrected him.
“Right, upstairs room. That must mean they’re meeting with a customer, right?”
“Or a supplier,” Howard offered. “The samples could be to show him what they’re interested in.”
Quinn said to Jar, “You’re sure the only people in that room right now are St. Amand’s?”
“Unless someone else has been in there all day and not left, I am positive.”
“Which means the person or persons they’re meeting with aren’t here yet.” Quinn said nothing for a moment. “Is the restaurant open right now? I mean, to anyone?”
“Yes,” Jar said.
“What I’m wondering is if there’s any way for us to still get a microphone close enough to that room to listen in.”
“I would not try going up the stairs again,” Nate said.
“What’s below it? Can we get a mic on the ceiling and listen in through the floorboards?”
Jar shook her head. “The room is directly above the kitchen. Any one of you who goes in there will be questioned.”
“Also, kitchens are noisy,” Daeng said. “Doubt the mic would pick up much of anything other than that.”
“Hold on,” Orlando said. “What we really need is something inside the room, right?”
“Right,” Quinn said.
“Then why don’t we have someone who has access carry a bug inside for us?”
“A waiter?” Howard asked.
“I’m not talking about a waiter. I’m talking about the client.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “What would be the plan?”
“Has anyone noticed people coming in any other way than the front door?”
“No,” Jar said.
Nate and Daeng shook their heads.
“Good, then that’s most likely the way the client will enter. We plant someone in the restaurant. Whoever it is waits until we tell him the client has arrived. Then, as the client walks through, our inside man gets up to go the bathroom, bumps into him, and sticks him with a bug. I mean, you know, unless someone has a better idea.”
“I like it,” Quinn said. “Who’s got the bugs?”
“I do,” Jar said.
“Okay, good.” Quinn looked around at everyone. “We can’t send Jar because she’s been inside already.”
“Same problem for me,” Nate said.
“What are you talking about?”
“There was a little…misunderstanding with St. Amand’s men this afternoon. I had to go in and smooth things over.”
“Are you serious?”
“It was my fault,” Jar said. “They thought I was trying to spy on them.”
“What happened?”
“Like I said, I smoothed it over,” Nate replied. “By the time we left they weren’t worried about her anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
Quinn frowned. “Are we looking at any residual fallout?”
“I’d be shocked if there was,” Nate said. He could feel someone staring at the back of his head and figured it was Jar, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned the electronics sweep. But there was no sense in making Quinn more uncomfortable.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Then you’re out, too.”
“And me,” Daeng said. “I had an exchange with one of them last night. A few of the others might recognize me, too.”
Quinn stared at him, then Jar, and finally Nate. “So, what you’re saying is that we haven’t even been on this job for twenty-four hours and yet all three of you have already been exposed. That’s fantastic.”
“You probably shouldn’t go, either,” Orlando said.
“And why is that?”
“It’s possible some of them were in Marrakesh nine years ago. St. Amand definitely was.”
“And the big guy,” Nate said. “The driver.”
“Even more reason,” Orlando said to Quinn. “I know it’s not likely any of them saw you, and even if they did, they probably wouldn’t remember you, but we can’t know that for sure.”
Quinn took a breath. “Okay, I’m out, too. I guess that just leaves you and—”
“I wouldn’t send Orlando,” Daeng said.
“Dear God, why not?”
“Well, they ran into me and Jar last night, and Jar today. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there aren’t a lot of other Asians walking around this neighborhood. A third one, a second in the restaurant today, might come off as suspicious.”
“That sounds…”
“Racist? Yeah, I know. Welcome to our world.”
“Fine. I guess there’s only one choice.”
They all turned toward Steve Howard.
“Please tell me you’ve never had any contact with these people,” Quinn said.
“Not as far as I know.”
“How are your sleight-of-hand skills?” Orlando asked.
“Haven’t done anything like this in a while, but shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Then congratulations, you’re the lucky winner. Hurry up and get over there before this person shows up.” Quinn pulled a fifty-euro note out of his pocket and held it up. “Dinner’s on me.”
Howard pushed himself up, grabbed the bill, and said to Jar, “Bugs?”
She pointed back across the roof. “In my bag on the other side of the jump, front pocket.”
He headed for the gap.
Three minutes later Nate and the others watched Howard cross the street and enter the restaurant.
Nate began scooting back from the roofline.
“Where are you going?” Quinn asked.
“Someone should be down there, in case something goes wrong.” Nate climbed to his feet.
“I’ll go with you,” Daeng said.
Quinn said, “No. I’ll go.”
Oh, yay, Nate thought.
*
Quinn followed Nate across the roof, over the gap, and down to street level.
“There’s a market up at the corner,” Nate said. “We can hang out just around from it.”
“Okay.”
Nate led him down the street and stopped short of the intersection with the street the restaurant was on.
“Should be good here,” Nate said as he leaned against the wall.
Quinn nodded.
An awkward silence fell over them. Quinn tried a million times to say something and failed just as many. On the millionth and first attempt, he eked out, “Thank you.”
Nate made no indication he’d heard.
“For coming, I mean,” Quinn went on. “I didn’t…”
Silence again. Finally Nate said, “Don’t worry about it.”
Quinn couldn’t tell if what he said was meant to open conversation or cut it off. He decided to bull forward. “I just wanted you to know I appreciate it.”
“I said, don’t worry about it.”
Meant to cut it off, Quinn realized, but it was too late to stop now.
“I do worry about it. I worry about it because you are an important member of our team.”
Nate frowned, but said nothing.
“I worry about it because…because you are one of my…friends.”
“Yeah, well—”
“I mean, one of my best friends.”
That stopped Nate.
“We’re both grieving, Nate. But we shouldn’t be using that to push each other away.” Quinn hesitated. “Liz wouldn’t want us to do that.”
Nate stared at Quinn, his eyes turning glassy.
Quinn worried he’d gone too far, that his friend was going to pull back into his shell and disappear.
But Nate nodded, once, and looked back out at the street.
Though Nate didn’t see him, Quinn nodded, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Gulfstream G650ER private jet landed at Fiumicino International Airport at 4:52 p.m. The plane, owned by American billionaire Stewart Morrison, had ferried several members of Morrison’s company—Moste International—to Rome for a surprise visit to one of its European affiliates.
That was the story, anyway.
While the site visit would indeed take place, the trip had actually been put together so that William Sandstrom could enter the country quietly and under an assumed identity. Everyone on the plane had been told that Sandstrom—traveling under the name Harvey Dennison—and the two people accompanying him were from the West Coast office and in Italy on business unrelated to theirs. Only Morrison and a couple of his most trusted associates knew the truth. Though no one would have guessed it from Morrison’s public face, he was one of Sandstrom’s biggest financial backers.
With Morrison’s substantial resources, and that of a few others, Sandstrom had worked tirelessly to create a network of militia organizations across the US who thought as he did, and had begun the process of equipping those organizations with the tools they would need in the coming uprising.
The raid of Jackson Reed’s compound in Oklahoma had been a big blow, but so far not a fatal one. Sandstrom had done everything in his power to make sure the FBI’s discoveries did not lead them to any of the other associated organizations. His one miscalculation had been choosing to not inform Christophe St. Amand of the incident. He had hoped to have everything contained long before St. Amand learned anything. He would never make that mistake again.
His hope now was that he hadn’t completely scuttled the relationship with his largest supplier by far. If that were to happen, it would set his plan back at least a year, if not more. But he wasn’t coming unprepared. He had a plan he was confident St. Amand would jump at.
The other passengers were in a giddy mood as they exited the plane and entered the terminal dedicated to small-jet service. Sandstrom and his associates, Marlon Johnson and Dean Holt, inserted themselves into the mix as everyone lined up to get their passports checked. Johnson was Sandstrom’s top advisor, while Holt was his good-for-little son-in-law, brought along mainly to carry the large briefcase Sandstrom hoped would help turn the coming meeting in his favor. As promised, their documents were scanned and stamped and returned without incident, and the briefcase went unchecked.
They were met by a trio of men holding signs outside Immigration, two reading MOSTE INTERNATIONAL and the other DENNISON. The latter sign holder led Sandstrom and his people to a dark passenger van with tinted windows.
As soon as they were on their way, Johnson said to the driver, “How long?”
