[Quinn 04] - The Silenced

“Associated?”

“From what I’ve learned, it’s a front for MI6. A business called Wright Bains Securities.”

MI6? Those were the last people she wanted to deal with.

“Do you have a name there?” she asked.

“No name yet.”

“See what you can dig up,” she said. “We’ll work on the others from this end.”

As she hung up, she felt a little better. They had a potential lead again. They just needed to figure out which of the three might be the connection to the Ghost.

“Finish it.” That’s what Dombrovski had said the last time Petra had talked to him.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re the smartest one of all of us.”

“No, I’m—”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been training for this moment for years. Your instincts are good. You’ve learned everything you need to carry this out. The names, the photograph. It’s the best lead we’ve ever had. Finish it, Petra. Finish it.”

Names, yes, but not the name. If she had that, finish it was exactly what she’d do. But she needed that damn name, the name the Ghost called himself now. Only so far all she had was a trail of useless bodies.

Petra looked at the picture again. Fourteen people, but only two who meant anything, the two young men standing at opposite ends of the bar. They almost looked like twins, but they weren’t. The one on the right was the one she was looking for, but it was the one on the left who was the key. Learn his name and everything would fall into place. But his identity had been so thoroughly erased that only a small group of people had known who he was. A small group that had become a handful, then that handful had been reduced to …? How many? Three? Two?

They had been so close with Moody. But in the end he, too, had given them nothing.

Petra lay down on the bed and pulled the thin blanket that had been left with the mattress over her shoulders. Tomorrow she had to be sharp. She needed to turn off her mind and sleep.

But so many things were still swirling inside. The Ghost. Dombrovski. Stepka.

And, of course, Andrei.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much.”

LIZ OLIVER’S APARTMENT WAS LOCATED NEAR the heart of the Latin Quarter, within walking distance of the Sorbonne. It was in one of the thousands of stone apartment buildings that lined Parisian streets. Solid, tasteful, and very European. It had been two years since Quinn had last been in the building.

The apartment had come as a free perk of Liz’s scholarship. It was a far better place than what most students lived in. The letter from the foundation had explained the only requirement that came with the use of the apartment was that she could take on no roommates, the thinking being this would help her concentrate on her studies. Quinn had written the requirement himself, because, unknown to Liz, he was the foundation.

The ground level of the building housed a variety of shops: a shoe store, a used-book store, a small greengrocer, the prerequisite patisserie, and a cafe at the corner that even in the cool of fall had customers sitting at tables on the sidewalk. Above the businesses were five floors of apartments.

It being midmorning on a weekday, Quinn was all but certain his sister would not be home. He couldn’t recall her exact schedule, but he knew that she was usually out of the building by 9 a.m. and, more often than not, didn’t return until well after dark.

The residential entrance was a set of double wooden doors located between the shoe store and the greengrocer. Windows in the upper halves of each door looked in on an empty lobby. Mounted next to the door were a list of residents and an intercom. Liz’s name was in the middle of the second column.

Quinn thought about pushing the one for her place, but decided against it. If she was home, it would be better if he knocked on her door than if he rang her on the intercom. Harder to turn me away if we’re face-to- face. At least that’s what he told himself.

“Someone’s coming,” Nate whispered.

Quinn heard it, too. Footsteps, somewhere on the other side of the door. He peeked through the window, but saw no one, then motioned Nate to take a few steps back. Once they were far enough away, they began talking like two friends passing the time.

A few seconds later, the door swung open and an older woman stepped out. The moment she passed, Nate eased over and caught the door before it closed, then he and Quinn casually walked inside.

The lobby was fifteen feet wide by another twenty-five deep. It was clean, bright, and recently painted. There was a carpeted staircase to the right, an elevator just beyond it, and an opening near the back of the lobby that led to a rear hallway.

“Stairs or elevator?” Nate said.

“Stairs,” Quinn said. They started to climb.

“How far up?”

“One shy of the top.”