Still, if the picture hadn't been faked, there was always the possibility someone could narrow down the location. The chances were slim, but it was worth checking. Quinn opened a new message, attached the picture, then wrote:
yes, this is another request Need location in photo.
JQ
He sent it to the Mole, then downloaded each picture to his memory stick.
He caught an 8:00 a.m. flight to Brussels. That was the easy part. Getting to Burroughs was still the challenge. What Quinn needed was a conduit. Someone Burroughs could trust, or if not trust, at least not suspect of doing something out of the ordinary. Quinn knew just the man to help him out.
Finding Kenneth Murray's flat was not difficult. A simple hack job using a computer at an Internet cafe to break into the NATO personnel records and obtain Murray's home address was all it took.
Quinn located the flat, then found a quiet cafe and enjoyed a leisurely lunch. Having left his gun in Berlin, he spent an hour in the afternoon securing a firearm from one of his local contacts. Once he was rearmed, there was nothing else to do. So he took a cab to Murray's apartment and let himself in.
It appeared as though Murray were living alone again. His second wife, a Flemish woman named Ingeborg, had left him several years before. Soon after, a Turkish secretary who worked at NATO had moved in. But there was no sign of her presence now.
The flat had a definite male feel.The living room was dominated by a large television. Murray liked sports, that much Quinn remembered. American sports, football and baseball mainly. Along the other walls were shelves and bookcases. Souvenirs of Murray's many postings shared space with rows of books, few of which Murray had probably read. The great philosophers section. The historical section. The sensitive man section. Each designed to impress, whether it be a coworker, a boss, or a date.
Quinn moved into the kitchen. It was neat and organized. Not surprisingly, the refrigerator was all but empty. A bottle of chardonnay, cream for coffee. No food. Murray was one of those types who ate every meal out.
Down the hallway, on the other side of the living room, were two bedrooms. The larger contained a double bed, a black lacquer dresser, and an elaborate stereo cabinet that housed a top-of-the-line audio system.
The other room was a home office complete with desk, computer, printer, and scanner. Murray's private lair and, apparently, a room he never shared with anyone. Neatness here was no longer necessary. Stacks of papers, files, and books everywhere.
Quinn thought about switching on the computer and getting onto the net so he could make another attempt at the FTP site, but there was a good chance someone somewhere monitored Murray's surfing activities. Murray wasn't the most important man at NATO, but he was important enough to draw interest from several different directions.
Quinn returned to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine, then carried it into the living room. He found the remote and switched on the TV.
Kenneth Murray returned home at ten minutes past eight that evening. His hairline had receded a bit since Quinn had seen him last, but otherwise he was the same old Murray, blessed with one of those faces that blended easily into crowds. Not too tall, not too short. He was the perfect go-between man.
Half an hour earlier, Quinn had turned off the TV. He was sitting in the darkened living room, finishing off a second glass of wine, when the door opened. At first, Murray didn't notice Quinn as he entered the flat and turned on the light. Humming softly to himself, he placed his keys in a ceramic bowl on a stand next to the door, then turned toward his living room.
'Working late?' Quinn asked.
Murray slammed back against the door in surprise. He sucked in air, trying to catch his breath. 'Who the hell are you?'
'It hasn't been that long, has it, Ken?'
Murray's eyes grew wide. 'Quinn.'
'How are you doing?'
On two prior jobs, Murray had served as a secondary contact for Quinn. On each occasion they had met only once: the first time during a soccer game in Ostend, the second time over dinner in a cafe near Murray's previous apartment. Murray had struck Quinn as the nervous type. All talk when it came to impressing the women, but little substance when it came to any real action.
Somehow he had gotten it into his mind that Quinn killed people for a living. Quinn had decided not to set him straight. Both times they met, Murray had seemed to want to get it over with as quickly as possible.
'What are you doing here?' Murray asked.
'I thought maybe we could have a chat.'
Murray's eyes darted toward the kitchen, then toward the back hall. 'Are you alone?' 'For the moment.' The reply did little to ease the tension in Murray's
face. 'What do you want to talk about?'
Quinn casually stood up. As he did so, Murray backed away a few feet along the wall. 'Please, Ken. What do you think's going on here?' Quinn asked. 'Do you think I want to hurt you?'
'I don't know what you want to do,' Murray said. 'But I'm pretty familiar with what you can do.'
'We're on the same side, buddy. I just came to talk.' Quinn nodded toward the couch. 'Have a seat. I'll get you a glass of wine. Okay?'
