wall. At the left end of the wall was a gate. In front of it stood two Vietnamese men. They eyed the cab suspiciously as it came to a halt. From the way they stood, Quinn knew they were armed.
Tucker handed the cabby some cash. 'We're here,' he said to Quinn.
Quinn opened the door and got out. One of the men at the gate took a step toward him, his face taut and expressionless. But as soon as Tucker emerged, the man relaxed.
'What now?' Quinn asked.
'We go in for a chat.' Tucker nodded toward the gate. 'You first.'
Before they passed through, one of the two men searched Quinn, patting him down. The guard came up with a roll of Vietnamese dong and Quinn's folded-up map of the city. He handed the items to Tucker. Quinn was grateful he'd given himself the night off and left the tools of his trade in his room. But the map was a problem. On one side was written the address of Orlando's office. He needed to get it back.
Once the search was complete, the other man pulled the gate open just enough to allow Quinn and Tucker to walk through. Behind the wall was a large, white, two-story house surrounded by a well-tended garden. Lights were on in several of the windows. From one drifted the sounds of music
– Ennio Morricone's soundtrack to
As they neared the house the front door opened. A large, muscular man stood in the threshold. Like Tucker, he was Caucasian, although not quite as pasty as the Australian. Maybe a little Latin blood, Quinn decided. Or maybe just more time in the sun.
'This is Perry,' Tucker said to Quinn. 'Perry's in charge of making sure nothing gets broken around here.'
'Does that include me?' Quinn asked.
Tucker laughed.
Perry, unsmiling, moved out of the way so they could enter. Once inside, Quinn felt like he had stepped out ofVietnam and directly into an English country manor. Beyond the entryway was a large living room filled with dark antique furniture. On closer inspection it actually seemed more French than English. It was the paintings on the walls that gave it the English feel - paintings of hunting dogs, game birds, and horses, but none of people.
'Your place?' Quinn asked Tucker. 'It's a little nineteenth century, isn't it?'
'That way.' Tucker pointed to a hallway at the far end of the living room.
Quinn shrugged. As he walked in the direction Tucker had indicated, he carefully noted everything he could use to aid him if needed. There were several objects in the living room that would make for good blunt instruments: a vase, a fist-sized brass sculpture of a sleeping dog, a glass ashtray. But none were in his direct path.
Once in the hallway, Tucker directed Quinn to open the first door on the left. Inside was a bookcase-lined den. A large desk faced the door, dominating the space. Behind the desk sat a man, another Caucasian. He wore a dark blue dress shirt and looked to be in his early sixties – mainly due to his silver, close-cropped hair. He stood as Quinn and Tucker came in.
'Please,' the man said, gesturing to two chairs in front of the desk. 'Have a seat.'
Quinn took the chair to the right, and Tucker took the one to the left. The man behind the desk waited until they were settled before he sat back down.
'Can I get you something?' the man asked Quinn. His accent had a Mid-Atlantic cast to it. 'Water, perhaps? Or a soft drink? I'm afraid we've no alcohol here.'
'I'm fine,' Quinn said.
There was a pitcher of water and four glasses on one side of the desk. The man reached over and filled three of the glasses. He set one in front of Quinn and one in front of Tucker, taking the third for himself. 'Just in case you get thirsty.'
'Thanks,' Quinn said, leaving the glass untouched.
'Well then. I guess we should get started.' The man paused for a moment. 'Leo,' he said to Tucker. 'Where's Art? Wasn't he with you?'
'Seeking medical attention, I'd guess.' Tucker looked over at Quinn. 'Our boy here did a number on him outside Apocalypse Now.'
The older man frowned. 'Dreadful place. Too loud, too many undesirables. I suppose I should find out if he'll be all right.'
'He'll be fine,'Tucker said. 'Looked like a broken arm.'
'Wrist,' Quinn corrected.
'That'll take a while to heal,' the older man said.
'Who are you?' Quinn asked.
The man laughed. 'I should have introduced myself sooner. I apologize. My name's Piper.' 'As in Pied?' Quinn asked. 'As in Mister,' Piper responded. The name tickled something in the back of
Quinn's mind. He was sure Piper wasn't someone he'd worked with before – Quinn would have remembered him instantly if that were the case. But the name was familiar.
'Now why don't you tell us who
Quinn shrugged. 'Sure. The name's Tony Johnson.'
Piper laughed again. 'You don't look like a Johnson to me. Do you think he looks like a Johnson, Leo?'
'Not to me, he doesn't.'
'Leo was the one who spotted you,' Piper said, returning his attention to Quinn. 'He's pretty good at faces. He
