The Destroyed (12 page)

“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.

__________

T
HE 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 13

WASHINGTON, DC

“Y
OU’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.

When Peter arrived that morning, he’d been hoping that Olsen wouldn’t show up until at least one p.m. That way, he could get a little time upstairs, and try to get a handle on what was quickly becoming a shitstorm. But when he walked in the front door, Misty, who was always the first one in, nodded toward the back and mouthed, “He’s here.”

Peter sat through another hour of questions and ideas. Finally, Olsen’s cell phone rang, giving Peter the break he desperately needed. He got himself a cup of coffee, then checked in with Lee and found out the origin of the computer breach Green had discovered the day before. He then stopped by Misty’s desk, briefed her on what Lee had said, and asked her to find out what was going on with the team that was being pulled together in Europe.

Unable to delay his return any longer, he steeled himself and headed back to the office.

Olsen was still on the phone. “No, no. Of course we wouldn’t do that.”

Peter sat down, and signed back on to his computer. Instantly, a message popped up from Misty.

Michaels says he’s all set. He and his team are on standby in Brussels. Orders?

At the other desk, Olsen said, “Listen, he’s here now. Why don’t I call you back in a bit?...Okay.”

Peter began typing a response.

Tell them we’re a go. Need to get to—

Olsen hung up his phone and fixed his gaze on Peter. “Have you figured out where it came from yet?”

Peter continued typing.

Hagen’s place immediately.

“Well?” Olsen asked.

Peter hit
SEND
and looked up. “The breach appears to have originated in Stockholm.”

Olsen frowned. “Stockholm’s a big city. I assume you’ve narrowed it down a bit.”

Patience
, Peter told himself. “We believe a computer belonging to a man named Mats Hagen was used.”

“Who’s he?”

“A freelance tech and hacker.”

On Peter’s computer, another message from Misty appeared.

Ok. Calling him now.

“You don’t seem convinced,” Olsen said.

“It strikes me as strange that someone with his skills would be sloppy enough to leave clues behind that allowed us to trace the intrusion back to him. I think the last thing we want to do is jump to conclusions.”

“But you said that’s where the breach came from. Did it or didn’t it?”

Peter fought to keep a frown from his face. “I believe it did.”

“Okay, then. I assume you have a plan.”

“Of course,” Peter said.

After the silence stretched out for several seconds, Olsen said, “The idea here is that you keep me in the loop. Remember?”

“I remember. I have a team on the way to Stockholm right now.” A bit of a lie, but they’d be on the way soon enough.

“When will they get there?”

“We should know something in a few hours.”

“You don’t have anyone closer?”

Peter took a breath and stood up. Heat began to radiate from his bald scalp, and he knew from past experience that he was probably turning red. “I’m sure there are people closer we could hire, but I only work with those I know I can count on. It was
my
understanding from the senator that he expected this situation to be handled with extreme sensitivity. So being able to trust whoever we put in the field would seem to be an important thing, don’t you think?”

Instead of waiting for an answer, he walked out of the room.

__________

M
ICHAELS AND HIS
men took the first flight they could from Brussels to Stockholm, arriving just a little over an hour and a half after taking off. They picked up their rental car and headed straight for the Södermalm neighborhood where Mats Hagen lived.

Upon arrival, Michaels and his second-in-command, Alder, took a walk around the block, and used a portable heat-sensing device to determine if anyone was in the target apartment. It turned out there were two people present. Though the device couldn’t determine identities, odds were one of those present would be the man they’d come to see.

Since it was still relatively early, Michaels placed Alder and the other two men on his team—Janick and Sterns—strategically along the street. He then climbed back into the rental to give Hagen and his neighbors time to settle in for the night.

Over the next two hours, the street went from mostly quiet to dead still.

Michaels touched the earpiece he was wearing, activating its microphone. “Janick, let’s see what our friends are doing.”

“Copy,” Janick said.

Janick had been given possession of the heat sensor, and charged with the task of periodically checking Hagen’s flat.

There was a delay of about twenty seconds before Janick said, “They’re in bed.”

Finally
, Michaels thought. “Okay. Everyone hold tight. Won’t be long now.”

He turned off his mic and called Peter.

“They’re finally asleep,” he reported. “We’re going to wait forty-five minutes, then go in.”

“Excellent,” Peter said. “Let me know—” A voice in the background cut him off. “Hold on.”

It sounded like Peter put his hand over the phone. Michaels could hear voices but nothing distinctive.

When Peter came back on, he didn’t sound pleased. “Can you go in sooner?”

Michaels was surprised by the question. “Only if we don’t care if they’re in a deep sleep or not.”

Another muffled conversation, then, “Do you feel that’s important?”

“Peter, what’s going on?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“All right. Yes, it’s important. You want the guy alive. There’s a lot better chance of that happening if he’s struggling to wake up, as opposed to jumping right out of bed because he hasn’t fallen asleep yet. There, does that work for you?”