Quinn didn’t move.
Blackmoore took a few steps back. “Get the hell out of my house.”
“You said of course they’re connected. What did you mean?”
The old man’s eyes bored into Quinn again, but Quinn didn’t budge. Finally Blackmoore said, “Fuck.” He returned to his chair but didn’t sit down. “If they were able to kill Markoff, do you really think they’ll let you live once they know you’re looking for them?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“Don’t be so blind,” Blackmoore said. “Drop it.”
“Look,” Quinn said, unable to contain his anger any longer. “I have to do this. I have no choice. I owe him.”
“Owe him? You mean Markoff?” The old man nearly laughed. “Markoff ’s dead. You don’t owe him shit.”
Quinn tried to keep his voice calm and even. “What did you mean when you said they were connected?”
“Jesus. You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“What did you mean?” Quinn repeated.
“I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, cleaner. Do you always get this wrapped up?”
Quinn started to repeat his question, but Blackmoore held up a hand to stop him.
“I know it’s connected because the reason he was out of the country was due to her.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do you think? He told me.” He sighed, then sat back down. “They were having problems, okay? Don’t ask me details. What the fuck do I know about relationships? I’ve been alone for over forty years. Just problems.” Blackmoore frowned. “She had some kind of emergency. Left town without even telling Markoff where she was go
ing. When he located her, he went to see if he could help.” “Where was she?” “I have no idea.” “None?” Blackmoore looked down for a moment, then sighed. “Goddamn it,” he said. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER
BLACKMOORE TOOK QUINN INTO ONE OF THE ROOMS
at the back of the house. Though it had been designed to be a bedroom, it was now part office, part technical workspace.
There were no windows in the room. If they had been there once, they were now covered by a wall. There was also no closet. Either it, too, had been boarded over, or there never had been one in the first place.
Lining three of the walls was a two-foot-wide workbench covered with tools and bits and pieces of electronic gear. And against the wall next to the door was a desk, complete with computer monitor and keyboard. Above the desk and mounted just below the ceiling were five television monitors. Each displayed a view of Blackmoore’s property. Live shots from cameras placed strategically so that no one would get near the house without being seen.
On one of the monitors was a shot of the empty driveway. The same monitor Blackmoore must have been watching when Quinn approached the house.
The former spy sat down in front of one of the computer terminals and began typing on the keyboard. Quinn watched as Blackmoore navigated through a website to the groups section. The old man signed in, then selected one of the groups from his list of
member areas. Sandy Side Yacht Club.
“There,” Blackmoore said. “It’s the best I can do.”
“There what?” Quinn asked.
Blackmoore turned, then looked at him like he was an idiot. “What do you think?”
Quinn looked at the computer again and realized what Blackmoore meant. “This is your backup, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you’re not so dumb,” Blackmoore said.
In the field, there were always emergency contact systems. You’d never know when the primary route to your handler might not be available. There were fewer options in the pre–Internet days, but now an agent could have dozens of different backups if he really wanted them.
Blackmoore clicked on one of the links and accessed a message board. “We’d post here. Use a simple location code.”
“Key letters?” Quinn asked.
“No. Place, number. Easier to sniff out, but also easier to use on the fly.”
Blackmoore accessed the archives, pulling up the messages from two weeks previous. He clicked on one from somebody called SailorXsuper9393.
“This is the last message Markoff posted to me.”
Quinn leaned in. It had been posted to the message board sixteen days previously. He then glanced at the message itself.
