The jonathan quinn enrag.., p.74
The Jonathan Quinn Enraged Box Set, page 74
part #5 of Jonathan Quinn Series
“Shoot.”
“Motor vehicle databases…do you have?”
Pistol was a collector, only he didn’t collect baseball cards or Star Wars action figures. He was interested in digital information, illegally obtained by hacking into databases and downloading them onto his own server farm. One never really knew what might capture Pistol’s fancy. Some things the Mole was sure Pistol would have? Turned out to be of no interest to him. While other things, esoteric crap no one would ever need, took up large chunks of space on Pistol’s drives.
“Depends,” Pistol said. “Are we talking in or out of the States?”
“In.”
“Hmm. Hit or miss. I got some, not all, though. Now, if you were interested in India, I got you covered. Of course, not everyone there registers their car.” He laughed.
“My interest is specific…to…Washington, DC.”
“DC, huh? Hold on.”
He was gone for less than a minute.
“You’re in luck,” Pistol said. “I do have it, but it’s about a year out of date.”
The car in the picture was considerably older than that.
“I…need you to…run a plate…for…me.” He gave Pistol the number.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m just sitting around, you know.”
“I will pay…you.”
“It’s a grand per request.”
“Understood,” the Mole said. Last time it had been only five hundred bucks, but a check of the clock told him he only had ten minutes left before Griffin’s deadline, so quibbling over fees was not a luxury he could afford. If he at least had the name of the woman, that might mollify Griffin.
He could hear Pistol enter the number on his keyboard. After a pause, the man said, “Here we go. You got a pen?”
The Mole had already opened a blank document on his computer screen. “Go…ahead.”
“The license plate belongs to a 1994 Toyota Camry. Color dark gray, no reports of accidents.”
“The owner,” the Mole said, impatient.
“Let’s see. It’s registered to Misty Blake.” He read off an address that was located in the Dupont Circle area of DC. “Anything else?”
“Hold…please.”
The Mole brought up the national auto database again, changed the search parameters from vehicles to licensed drivers, and entered the woman’s name.
Three seconds.
NO MATCH
Surprise, surprise.
“Is your…information…limited to vehicles…or do you have…driver…data also?”
“I got both,” Pistol said.
“Please…retrieve Misty…Blake’s information.”
“That’s another grand.”
“I am…aware.”
Pistol’s illegal database copy came through again. Instead of writing down the information, the Mole requested that Pistol make screen grabs of the data, and e-mail it all to him.
“That’s not covered under the retrieval cost,” Pistol argued.
“Two thousand…you are getting…I…believe…it is covered.”
Pistol grumbled for a few more seconds before saying, “Fine.”
The e-mail containing the screen grabs arrived four minutes before the hour was up. The Mole quickly opened them and confirmed that the woman in Griffin’s picture was the same one on the driver’s license for Misty Blake. He still had no idea what this woman did or why she would be important, but he did have a name and address.
When the final minute ticked off, he expected ringing to blare from his computer speakers, but they remained silent. He waited a full sixty seconds before deciding he should use his time to see if he could find out anything more. He thought about starting in on the second man, but now that he had the woman’s license picture and name, he could check several other databases.
Since she lived in DC, he thought there was a decent chance she was a government employee. So that’s where he went first, typing her name into a system that would tell him if the US government paid her salary.
He found three Misty Blakes in public service. Two were on the West Coast—one in the forest service in Washington State, and the other an FDA inspector in Bakersfield, California. The third had switched jobs within the last year, moving into a support role at the Labor Board in DC. But her new position wasn’t the most interesting detail. It was the fact that the title of her previous role and the division she’d worked for had been redacted.
The Mole glanced down at the phone icon on his screen to make sure he hadn’t accidently turned off the ringer and missed Griffin’s call, but it was on.
He looked at Misty Blake’s picture again. So what exactly were you doing before?
He ran her name through a couple of the other databases he had access to, but came up with nothing new, so he decided to use his photo recognition software. It would search criminal, military, and intelligence databases for likely matches. To cut down on the search time, he limited it to Caucasian females between twenty-eight and thirty-six, living in the DC area.
After he started the search, he got up to take a leak.
He’d just flushed the toilet when his computer rang. He ran his hands under some water, and grabbed the towel to dry them as he sprinted back into the living room. Plopping down into his seat, he pulled on his headset.
“Hello?”
“Turn that crap off,” Griffin told him.
“What are you talking about?”
“That voice crap. Turn it off.”
The Mole realized he was still plugged into the vocal modulator. “Just a second.”
As he was shoving the jack into the direct connection at the bottom of his computer screen, his monitor dinged. He looked up. His face recognition software was designed to notify him whenever there was a hit, even if the search was ongoing. Apparently, a potential match had been found.
“Okay, I’m back,” he said as he clicked on the link to see what the program had come up with.
“Your hour’s up,” Griffin said.
“I realize that. These aren’t exactly…” He paused. How about that? The search had found her. He started to read the information under her name.
“Something wrong?” Griffin asked.
“What? Oh, no,” the Mole said. “I was just saying these aren’t easy searches.”
“Tell me you at least found something.”
The Mole opened his mouth to say he had, but the words died in his throat.
“Hey! Are you listening?” Griffin said, growing angry.
“Yes, sorry. I’ve been concentrating mainly on the woman, but, well, there’s a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I ran the car through the DMV database, but it appears that it has been completely removed from the records. Even the backups.”
“There’s got to be something there. The files can’t be completely written over, can they?”
“Whoever did the removal was pretty thorough.” So far everything the Mole had said had been true. The next part, though, wasn’t. Which was why he hesitated before he spoke. “I’m optimistic that I’ll be able to dig something up, but it might take me a little while.”
A pause. “And nothing on the men.”
It took all of the Mole’s will to keep his voice from cracking. “The men, no. The BMW, though, is registered to a—”
“I know about the BMW. I need to know who the people are.”
“I understand that. I was just thinking—”
“How much more time do you need?”
“Uh, well, a day would be good.”
“A day?”
“Like I said, these aren’t easy searches.”
“You have four hours,” Griffin said, then hung up.
What the hell am I doing? the Mole thought.
He knew he should have told Griffin what he had learned, but his gaze strayed back to the facial match result on his monitor. Misty Blake had indeed worked for the government several years before transferring to the Labor Board. The agency she had worked for, however, had been a semiautonomous one. It was this agency’s demise that had undoubtedly necessitated her moving to a new job.
The Office.
The Mole knew it well. While he had never worked directly for them, he’d done enough tangential jobs through third parties—mainly Orlando, and once for her partner Quinn—that a fair amount of the Office’s cash had passed through his accounts. He had talked once to Orlando about the sudden dismantling of the organization, and she’d been very sympathetic toward those who worked there, telling him they’d been given a raw deal.
Hey, maybe one of the men in the other pictures is the guy who used to run the place. What was his name? Paul? Peter? One of those apostle names.
He tried to concentrate on what he should do next. He had never met or talked to Misty Blake. He’d never had any contact with the guy who had run the Office, either. So, technically, he had no reason at all to protect either of them.
But they were Orlando’s colleagues, maybe even her friends. And Orlando was definitely his.
The Mole didn’t have a huge conscience, but he did have one. And before he sold anyone out to Griffin, he knew he had to talk to Orlando first.
He adjusted his headset and opened Skype again.
WASHINGTON, DC
GRIFFIN SAT WAITING in his Lexus sedan, his demeanor darkening with each passing minute. He had hoped to have some good leads by now, and while he did have the photos of the intruders, they didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere.
The Mole had so far proven useless. Griffin had given him a deadline that had been completely ignored, and he knew if he let that go unchecked, it would likely happen again. Which meant once this project was over, he would have to make a trip out there. But the more pressing matter at the moment was, what if the asshole didn’t even come through in four hours? That would be a huge problem. Not only for the dumbass techie, but also for Griffin. What Griffin needed to do was branch out and get some others working on this.
Several names came to mind. He finally settled on three, and sent them all identical e-mails with the images attached. He’d barely set his phone down when it rang. The name on the display was one of the people he’d just contacted.
“This is Griffin.”
“It’s Keenan. I got your e-mail. I’m happy to do what I can.”
Griffin sensed a “but” coming, as in “but I don’t have time right now,” so he said nothing.
“It’s…um, I don’t know who the woman or the guy in the car with her are, but the other one, I know him.”
“You do?”
“I worked with him once, maybe eighteen months ago. Also seen him a couple times since. Parallel projects.”
“So he’s in the business?” Like Griffin thought.
“Yeah. Been in longer than I have, I think. His name’s Howard.”
“Howard what?”
“No, no. That’s his last name. First is…uh, crap, um…” Keenan went silent for a moment. “Steve,” he said, blurting out the name. “Steve Howard. That’s it.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
ISLA DE CERVANTES
NOT LONG AFTER Orlando had fallen back asleep, Liz had come into the room and offered to stay for a while so Quinn could freshen up and get something to eat. Once she promised to call him if Orlando woke again, Quinn allowed himself to leave.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, he went to the small cafeteria and took a table in the corner, where he could work on Orlando’s laptop without anyone looking over his shoulder.
The problem was, Orlando had dozens of different decrypting programs. He’d gone through as many as he could the night before, looking for any that mentioned a code called Hansell IV, but had struck out.
For the first thirty minutes he sat in the cafeteria, he was having more of the same lousy luck. Then he opened a program called Juniper Lemon 23. What the title meant, he had no idea, but under the selection menu was the option: HANSELL IV.
When a nurse at a nearby table looked over, he realized he must have grunted in triumph, so he smiled his apologies. She returned a disapproving scowl, but turned back to her meal and seemed to forget he was there.
He imported the first image he’d taken of the microfilm into the program and clicked the START button. As the computer was doing its thing, Nate entered the cafeteria and joined him.
“Still at it, huh?” Nate said as he sat down.
“Think I might have it this time,” Quinn told him.
“Really?”
Though the program was still processing, Quinn turned it so Nate could see the screen, too. A status bar lay across the center of a white page, the progress marked as the bar filled with red. The bar disappeared when the red hit the end, and a finished image took its place.
“Uh, not sure that’s right,” Nate said.
“Stow it,” Quinn told him.
While the image was no longer rows of what appeared to be randomly placed black squares, it was not a readable document, either. The decrypting had produced a few places where words could be teased out—“play,” “window,” and “might” were the easiest—but most were still indecipherable blobs.
There must have been a wrong setting, or—
Protocol is base seven.
“I’m an idiot,” Quinn whispered to himself.
“Well, if we’re taking a poll…” Nate said.
“One more word and I’ll put you back in that hospital bed permanently.”
Quinn opened the program’s options, searching for a place to input the correct protocol, but nothing looked right.
“You want me to try?” Nate asked.
“You think you could do better?”
“I was thinking maybe a fresh pair of eyes? You know.”
Quinn scooted the laptop in front of Nate. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”
Nate had just begun to hunt around when Quinn’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out, thinking maybe Orlando had woken up. But the caller ID read:
UNKNOWN
What the hell? UNKNOWN was not something that usually appeared. Thanks to some software additions Orlando had installed, Quinn’s, Nate’s, and Daeng’s phones were able to read every number that came in, even if it was blocked by more than the standard phone company setup.
“Who is it?” Nate asked.
Quinn showed him the screen.
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Nate said.
“It’s not supposed to be.”
“You going to answer?”
Quinn shook his head, and pushed the button sending the call to voice mail, sure that the person on the other end wouldn’t leave a message. After a few seconds, the phone began vibrating again with another call.
UNKNOWN
This time, he sent it to voice mail right away.
“Same again?” Nate asked.
Quinn nodded. Ten seconds later, UNKNOWN called for the third time. He considered sending the call away again, but he was curious now.
“Who is this?” he said, his voice low and emotionless.
“I did not…want…to call you, but…I…have no choice.”
Though it had been a few years since he’d heard the voice, Quinn immediately recognized the halting pattern and electronic monotone. It was one of Orlando’s sources. A guy, or maybe a girl, who went by the name the Mole. The last time Quinn had talked to him was when Orlando went missing in Berlin and Durrie reappeared.
“What do you mean, you have no choice?”
“I tried to call…Orlando…but she…has not answered and…I don’t…have a lot of…time. I need to talk…to…her.”
“Well, you can’t right now,” Quinn said.
“Where is she?”
“Unavailable.”
Silence for several seconds. “Is she…dead?”
Though the Mole’s monotone made the question sound detached, Quinn sensed concern.
“No, but she’s not exactly doing great right now, either.”
Another pause. “I need…to talk…to her.”
“I told you, you can’t. If you need to talk, you can talk to me.”
“I need…to talk…to her.” Before Quinn could repeat his response, the Mole added, “This is very…important…deadly important. I need to talk…to Orlando.” Desperate, almost pleading now.
“I don’t even know if she’s awake.”
“Please…please can you check?”
Against his better judgment, Quinn said, “Call me back in five minutes,” and hung up without waiting for an answer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WASHINGTON, DC
GRIFFIN WAS READING through a digital file full of information about Steve Howard when Dima called.
“Metropolitan Police found the woman’s car,” Dima reported.
“Where?”
“Parking garage near the Mall. A manager called it in because it had been parked there overnight.”
“Empty?”
“Yes.
Of course they had dumped the vehicle. After studying Howard for the last twenty minutes, Griffin knew the man was smart. He had to be, to last as long as he had as a freelance operative.
“Were there any reports of stolen vehicles from either the Mall or the surrounding area yesterday?” he said.
“I knew you’d ask that so I checked, and there were two. One on the street three blocks away somewhere between three and four pm.”
“And the other?”
“At 2:46 p.m. From inside that very garage.”
Well, well, well. “What kind of car was it?”
“A Volvo S60 sedan. Blue.”
Griffin stared out the window, his mind processing the new information.
“If there’s nothing else…” Dima said, his voice tentative.
“Of course there’s something else. You’re going to help me find that car.”
“How are you expecting me to do that?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t have access to traffic cameras. You know the car now, you know what they look like, and you know the approximate time they must have left that garage. Find their trail. Tell me where they went. You have forty-five minutes.”
