Quinn tensed. The only person he had ever told the story to was Orlando, and they hadn’t talked about it since. “Finland,” he said. “Markoff was undercover and he saved my life.”
“How, exactly?”
“By cutting the ropes that suspended me from the trees,” Quinn said, his teeth clenched. “By walking me out of the forest. By driving me all the way to Turku, and taking me on the ferry to Stockholm. Is that enough? Or do you want more?”
Blackmoore said nothing for several seconds, then, “You’re armed.”
“I am.”
“Put it on the ground.”
Quinn held both hands out in front of him, then slowly moved his right hand around to the small of his back. He pulled out the gun, then set it on the porch, and slid it gently toward the door before standing back up.
For several seconds, nothing happened. Then the door opened. Standing there was a small gray-haired man. His face was lined with creases and wrinkles. Liver spots dotted his receding hairline. Over his eyes, he wore a pair of metal-framed glasses with thick lenses. He was dressed in a gray Baltimore Orioles sweatshirt and dark blue sweatpants. But the most important part of his outfit was the Smith and Wesson pistol in his right hand.
“So you’re the cleaner,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong for his body.
“And you’re the spy runner,” Quinn said.
“Past life. What do you want?”
Quinn said, “Markoff ’s dead.”
Silence hung between them for several seconds. With a sigh of resignation, Blackmoore stepped across the threshold and picked up Quinn’s gun, then motioned for the cleaner to follow him back inside.
“Tell me,” he said.
They sat in Blackmoore’s living room, Quinn on the worn couch and Blackmoore on a cloth-covered recliner. The SIG sat on the side table within easy reach of Markoff ’s old boss.
The room was an interior decorator’s nightmare. A mess of converging styles, none done particularly well. Bad seventies-era furniture, next to worse eighties-era lamps. And everywhere stacks of magazines and papers and books. On the coffee table were plates that hadn’t been washed for days, maybe weeks.
Quinn made no judgments as he recounted a condensed version of the events from the past few days. He left out Tasha, wanting to limit her liability as much as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Blackmoore. Markoff trusted him, so that was good enough for Quinn. It just didn’t seem necessary.
“Son of a bitch,” Blackmoore said when Quinn finished. “You’re sure it was him?”
“I’m sure,” Quinn said.
“Did you check the DNA?”
“I didn’t need to check the DNA. I made a positive ID.”
“These things can be faked, you know. The fuckers have ways of doing it. You said the body was in bad shape. That would make it easy.”
“It was him, all right,” Quinn said. “He’s dead. He’s not coming back.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“What I’m worried about now is Jenny. I don’t have any physical proof, but my gut tells me his death is connected to what’s happened to her.”
“Of course it’s connected.”
Quinn paused. “You say that like you know something.”
“Forget it. Doesn’t matter, he’s dead.”
“What about Jenny? She’s not dead yet.”
“She might be.”
“I’d rather assume she isn’t,” Quinn said.
“Doesn’t matter. She’s not important.”
Quinn decided to try a different tack. “What about finding out who killed Markoff?”
Blackmoore let out a single derisive laugh. “You really think you can do that?”
“I’m going to try.”
“You’re just a cleaner.”
“And you’re just a paranoid old man.”
Blackmoore stared at Quinn. After a moment, he pushed himself out of his chair.
“Whoever killed Markoff,” he said, “they’ll get theirs eventually. They always do.” He started walking toward the foyer. “I’m tired. It’s time for you to go.”
Quinn remained seated. When the old man realized he wasn’t being followed, he stopped and turned back.
“It’s late and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
