The jonathan quinn enrag.., p.9
The Jonathan Quinn Enraged Box Set, page 9
part #5 of Jonathan Quinn Series
She sat back down and checked the burrower. Not only was it done, it had found what she was hoping for. The number was indeed another case file. Its prefix, though, was apparently only used for a special set of cases that could be accessed solely by the very top level of the force’s administration. The files for these cases were kept behind an additional password-protected firewall. The people who set up the system were good, just not as good as Orlando. Using another of her self-written programs, she was soon through the wall.
The file was interesting. The majority of it was written in Swahili, but there was a name listed that was most definitely not Tanzanian: Martin Langenberg. Was it the name of the dead man on the sidewalk? She looked for other information that might be useful, and turned up two additional names that sounded Tanzanian—perhaps witnesses or the officers who had worked the case—and one phone number in Dar es Salaam.
She checked the time. It was after midnight. Doing a quick calculation, she determined it would be late afternoon in Dar es Salaam. She picked up her phone and dialed the number.
The person who answered did not speak in Swahili, or even in English, but in Dutch. “Martin Langenberg’s office. May I help you?”
While Dutch was one of the languages Orlando knew, speaking it was not one of her favorite things in the world. It was full of hard sounds that made her feel like she was doing permanent damage to her mouth and throat. Which was the main reason she couldn’t speak it with a native flair like she could French or Vietnamese or Korean.
“May I speak to Mr. Langenberg, please?” she said.
“He is in a meeting. May I ask who’s calling?”
“I’ll just call back.”
She hung up before the woman could say anything more.
A Dutch-speaking office in Dar es Salaam. Interesting. The obvious guess was something oil-related.
She pulled up one of her favorite search engines and typed the phone number into it.
No listing.
There were a couple other legitimate places she could try, but she decided to go right to the source. She found a proven hack posted on one of the specialized message boards she belonged to, and used it to enter the Dar es Salaam phone company’s database. The number was listed to a Karas Holdings.
That didn’t tell her anything.
With an annoyed grunt, she dove in further.
An hour and a half later, she stood up and stretched. She’d found what she was looking for, only it was more than she expected, in a very troubling way.
Karas Holdings was a front for an organization known as REJ, who, in turn, worked almost exclusively for the CIA. She had dealt with REJ before—both she and Quinn had done jobs for them. Martin Langenberg, according to her sources, was the REJ agent overseeing operations in Africa.
Using this info, she did a surgical hack into the REJ server, looking only for anything dealing with the dead man in front of the Majestic Hotel.
She found a single document for the transfer of a body. According to the description, the body had fallen from a great height, and it was recommended that the casket remain closed.
There was a name, too.
Lawrence Rosen.
It didn’t take much work after that to compile a partial bio for Rosen, more than enough to know there was absolutely no way he had jumped. Rosen was a security operative. Freelance now, though a few years earlier he’d been a civilian employee within military intelligence. He was a connected man living in Dubai who undoubtedly had many enemies.
In Orlando’s line of work, believing in coincidences was a quick way to an early death. Rosen and Mila had both worked in the intelligence world. The fact that he died and she’d been the first to his side could not be put down to chance. There was a connection.
What, Orlando didn’t know.
Chapter Twelve
BANGKOK
THAILAND WAS NOT where they needed to be. There was no question in Quinn’s mind that by the end of the day they’d be on a plane heading out of the country. The only thing holding up their departure was that he had no idea where they should go. Hopefully, whatever Orlando found out would point the way. While they waited to hear back from her, there was something he needed to do, a thank you that was best delivered in person.
The first time he met with Christina had been in her large apartment in the center of the city. This time, though, Daeng took them via the SkyTrain to a restaurant just off of Sukhumvit.
Christina was sitting at a table in the far back corner of the patio. A tall, blonde, Caucasian woman, she had been in Bangkok since near the end of the Vietnam War. Why and how she had come to Thailand as a young adult, Quinn didn’t know, and never asked. It wasn’t his business. He was also unsure how old she was now—late fifties, early sixties. Someone who didn’t know anything about her background might guess her age to be anywhere between fifty and seventy.
Two Thai men were standing a few feet behind her on either side, while two others were stationed at a table a dozen feet in front of hers.
As Daeng, Quinn, and Nate walked toward her, Daeng said something to the closest bodyguards. They both nodded a greeting and let the trio pass without incident.
“Mr. Quinn,” Christina said, a subtle smile on her lips. She then looked at Nate. “And you must be Nate.” She motioned at the empty chairs around her table. “Would you gentlemen like to have a seat?”
Quinn and Nate took the two chairs across from her, while Daeng selected the seat nearest her.
Christina touched Daeng’s arm. No words passed her lips, but the look she gave him was like one a mother might give to her adult child. When she looked back at Quinn, she said, “Have you enjoyed the countryside?”
“I have.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I can see it has already done much for you.”
“It has.”
“So, what brings you back to Bangkok?”
Quinn hesitated, then said, “I unexpectedly find myself with something I must do. Unfortunately, this means I have to leave. I plan on coming back, but I’m unsure how soon that will be. Not long, I hope.” He paused. “The reason I wanted to see you today was to thank you. The temple was exactly what I needed. You couldn’t have made a better choice.”
“It was my pleasure. I’m glad it worked out.”
“If you’re ever in need of me for anything, call,” he said.
Her smile grew as she reached over and took hold of his hands. “And I thank you for that.” When she let go, she looked at him and Nate. “Something to drink? Or to eat? They make a wonderful curry here. One of my favorites in the city.”
“Thank you, but no,” Quinn said, standing. “Some other time.”
“Of course.”
He hesitated. “There is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“I would appreciate it if someone could keep an eye on the temple renovations. I’ve made sure they have enough money to do what needs to be done, but I worry the work might slow in my absence. The monks are very forgiving, so might not always push when they need to.”
“It won’t be a problem. Daeng can keep an eye on things.”
Quinn and Daeng exchanged a look, then Daeng said, “I’ll be going with him.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
Quinn knew that Daeng didn’t work for Christina, just occasionally with, but from the beginning Quinn had sensed Christina’s protectiveness of the former monk.
“I’ll check on the temple myself, then,” she said.
“You don’t need to do that,” Quinn told her. “One of your people could make the trip.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
AS THEY WALKED back to the SkyTrain station, Nate whispered to Quinn, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to bring him with us?”
“We could use his help.”
“Sure, but how well do you know him?”
“Well enough.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
Quinn glanced at him. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I trust Daeng. So that means you can trust him, too.”
Quinn made it clear that was the end of the conversation. It didn’t help Nate, though. Daeng was still an enigma to him. There was the Daeng who fought with him at the temple, the Daeng who showed him Quinn working in the fields, the Daeng who owned a large home in the middle of Bangkok where he played host to Burmese refugees, and finally the Daeng who was obviously connected to the mysterious powerbroker Christina.
He couldn’t make all the pieces fit. Not the best position to be in, he thought, especially if they found themselves in serious situations that required Nate to trust Daeng completely.
He also wasn’t happy with the way Quinn had shut him down. It was almost as if he was an apprentice again, and he most certainly was not anymore.
For the last six months, he had been a full-fledged cleaner, running Quinn’s business on his own. Well, with the occasional assist from Orlando, but the point was the same. He’d been operating successfully outside Quinn’s authority for half a year. So just because Quinn was reverting to old habits didn’t mean Nate had to.
He reached out and grabbed his mentor by the shoulder, turning him around. “I need more than just your word.”
Anger flared in Quinn’s eyes, but Nate didn’t back down.
“You’ve been gone since last year,” Nate said. “I’ve seen what you’ve been doing with your time, and that’s all well and good, but I’ve been working since the moment you left. My instincts and skills are sharp. Can you say the same about yours?”
Quinn stared at him for a second, then said, “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”
“And don’t treat me like a kid. I’m here. I will help you. But I’m not your damn lackey. You want me to treat you with respect? Then treat me with the same.”
“You guys coming?” Daeng called out. He had stopped a couple dozen feet down the sidewalk.
Nate held up a hand, indicating for him to wait a moment.
“So?” he said to Quinn.
The fire in Quinn’s eyes waned. He took a breath. “Daeng’s a good man who has seen a lot of other good men die and decided he wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. I’ve seen the things he’s done, the help he’s given his people—”
“Those Burmese kids? I thought he was Thai.”
“His mother was Burmese, his father Thai. For a long time he’s been involved behind the scenes in the struggle between the Burmese people and their government. You can trust him, Nate, and we could use his help. I could use his help.” He paused. “Just like I could use yours.”
Nate snorted softly and looked away for a moment. When he turned back, he said, “All right. And for the record, my help is never a question.”
As they began walking again, Nate sensed that Quinn wanted to say something more. He looked over, but his mentor shifted his gaze away and remained silent.
THE CALL CAME only seconds after they’d hopped on the SkyTrain. Nate handed Quinn the phone. The display read: ORLANDO.
“Hey,” Quinn said.
“I have something for you. Well, more than one thing,” she told him. Though he’d been hoping otherwise, the tone of her voice was basically the same as on their previous call.
“The dead man in Tanzania?”
“His name was Lawrence Rosen. Does that ring a bell?”
“Rosen? Yeah, I’ve worked with him before. Military intelligence guy, right?”
“Was. Went freelance a few years back,” she said. “Is there any reason Mila would have something to do with his death?”
“None I can think of, but I guess it’s possible.” The scene in front of the Majestic Hotel flashed in his mind. “In the video. When she was looking at him, she seemed—”
“Surprised when she saw who it was?” Orlando said.
“Exactly.”
“Have you ever heard of someone named John Evans?”
“Evans?” He ran the name through his mind. “There was someone involved in the Las Vegas job named Evans, if I remember correctly. Don’t know his first name, but he was the one Mila picked up the package from before flying out, I believe. Why?”
“Twelve hours ago there was a report out of London about the murder of a man named Bernard Johnston. Mr. Johnston was the owner of Johnston’s Rare Books Finding Service. He was also a retired American agent whose real name was John Evans. Witnesses say they saw a beautiful dark-haired woman go into his offices a few hours before his body was found.”
“Any security footage of her?”
“Nothing that I’ve been able to uncover.”
“You think it was her?”
“When I read the report, I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t aware of the connection you just told me about. So there’s a chance.”
“Did anyone see her leaving the building?”
“No one,” she said. “There’s something more.”
“What?”
“I can’t give you an exact number, but just from an initial check, Evans and Rosen had worked together several times in the past.”
Quinn fell silent. Though he didn’t want to believe it, all his instincts were saying that the dark-haired woman was Mila. But why kill this Evans guy? That didn’t sound like her, even if she was desperate.
“Where did this happen?”
“In his shop in a small town northeast of London. I assume you want to go there. If you want, I can arrange your flight.”
A memory played through his mind.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” Julien had said four years earlier. “But someday things may change, and I need to make sure it will still be there if they do.”
“No,” Quinn told Orlando. “Rome.”
“Any particular reason?”
“London will put us behind her.”
“And Rome will put you in front?”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said.
“All right. Rome. How soon do you want to leave?”
“As soon as we can get out. We’ll head to the airport now,” he said, then added, “Three tickets.”
“Three?”
Quinn got Daeng’s pertinent information and gave it to Orlando. “Thank you,” he told her after he finished, then, “I’m sorry.”
“You said sorry already. What’s this one for?”
“Falling off the face of the earth.”
A quick, spontaneous laugh escaped her lips. Not derisive, just surprised. “You idiot. Don’t you know if you did that, I’d be right behind you?”
It felt like the first time in forever he could breathe again. The weight of her perceived condemnation had been pressing down more heavily on him than he’d realized.
“I’ll text you your flight info,” she said, and hung up.
Chapter Thirteen
WASHINGTON, DC
“YOU’RE SURE?” PETER asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Lee told him. “The breach originated from Mats Hagen’s townhouse in Stockholm.”
“No chance it was just routed through there to throw us off and incriminate him?”
“If it was, I haven’t been able to pick up any trace beyond there. If you ask me, that’s where it started.”
“Doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense,” Peter said. “Check it again.”
“I’ve already checked it three—”
“Check it again.”
Peter walked out of the room that had been set up for Lee to use in the Georgetown apartment. Lee was the best computer expert available on short notice. Peter had hired the kid before, and knew Lee was more than competent. Still, the person he wished he had sitting in that room was Orlando. If she told him the breach had originated with Hagen, he would have believed it from the first. But she hadn’t even answered his call.
That Hagen might have been the one who hacked into the highly secure military intelligence system wouldn’t have been particularly earth-shattering news. There could have been a dozen or more explanations for it—all, no doubt, tied to a client’s request. Leaving his digital fingerprint was surprising, though, and so was the file he’d looked into. Peter could think of only one person who would have any interest in them.
Mila Voss.
The Georgetown building the townhouse was located in was a throwback to an older time. While larger structures with fifty or more units had sprung up around it, it had survived with only eleven apartments, two on each floor. What the other residents didn’t realize was that the two at the top had been joined together to form a single flat.
There was one highlight of the place that only Peter and Misty knew about. The two top-floor apartments had originally come with trap doors in the hallway ceilings that led up to storage areas. Peter had removed the trap doors, and converted the space into a two-room safe house, complete with an insulated floor to cut out any sound, and a secret entrance that even the best in the business would have a hard time finding. With enough supplies, someone could stay days or even weeks in the room without detection by anyone who might enter the main apartment.
The room had been used four times in the past, but it had been more than three years since its last long-term occupant. There were times when Peter would use it for a few hours to work in peace. It was a great place to think things through and work out strategies. Exactly the kind of place he could very much use at that moment. Unfortunately, that option was not currently open to him.
Right on schedule, Scott Olsen had shown up the evening after Peter’s conversation with Mygatt and Green. Peter had welcomed the saccharine-smiling son of a bitch into the townhouse, and shown him to the office the two of them would be sharing. The safe rooms upstairs, he did not mention.
For two hours he’d had to endure the man’s questions before Olsen left for the night. In the days that followed, there was no telling when Olsen would drop in or how long he might stay. Sometimes it was only an hour in the afternoon, other times it was all day.
