“I think we’re clean so far,” Nate told him. He’d been keeping tabs to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Stay on the street or take the subway?”
“Subway,” Quinn said. If they had picked up a tail, whomever it was would be easier to spot below ground than above.
Once inside they made their way through the labyrinth of Grand Central Terminal to the subway, then chose the uptown 4 train. As they stepped onto the platform, a train was just pulling in.
Nate raised an eyebrow, asking whether they should take it or wait for the next.
“This one,” Quinn said. “We’ll go two stops and get off.”
They spent the next forty minutes hopping trains, changing lines, and checking their back trail to make sure they were alone. When Quinn was satisfied, they resurfaced at 110th Street and began walking west.
At Columbus they turned south, walked on for a block, then stopped. Quinn scanned the neighborhood.
He pulled out his phone and called the Grand Hyatt first.
“Grand Hyatt Hotel, how may I direct your call?”
“I’m in 2465, and there’s a terrible smell coming from next door, room 2467. Can you send someone up to check it out?”
“Absolutely, sir. We’ll get someone up there right away.”
Quinn clicked off, then called Wills. “There’s a restaurant on Columbus,” he said, randomly choosing a place on the opposite side of the street. “It’s called Crepes on Columbus, just south of 109th. Be there in thirty minutes.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
As Quinn and Nate entered the restaurant, a tall man with dark hair lightly sprinkled with gray greeted them with a warm welcome and a large smile.
“Just the two of you?” he asked.
“Three,” Quinn said. “A friend will be here in a bit.”
The man started to lead them toward a table near the front, but Quinn stopped him.
“How about that one,” he said, pointing at one near the rear wall.
“Sure,” the man said. “Wherever you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
The man showed Quinn and Nate to the table, then handed them menus. “Can I bring you anything to drink?”
“Water,” Quinn said.
“Me too,” Nate said.
“You got it,” the man said. “My name’s Steve. If you need anything, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said.
Twenty minutes later, as Quinn was working his way through a tiger shrimp and spinach crepe, the restaurant door opened.
“Is it him?” Nate asked, his eyes on his own plate.
“Yes,” Quinn said.
Quinn had met David Wills in person twice in the past, once in London for a meet-and-greet five months earlier, and a second time in Chicago on a brief for another project. The Englishman was almost six feet tall and thin. His hair was a short but shaggy, fifty-fifty mix of gray and dark blond. Like on the two previous occasions, Wills was wearing his uniform — a dark suit, colored shirt, and expensive tie.
The Englishman scanned the dining area, then raised his hand a few inches when he saw Quinn.
“Welcome,” Steve said from behind the counter. “I’ll be right with you.”
“He’s with us,” Quinn said.
“Great,” Steve said. “I’ll bring over a menu in a moment.”
Wills walked over and sat down across from Quinn, in the chair next to Nate.
“Nothing like a little excitement to get the day going, is there?” he said.
“I prefer dull,” Quinn said.
Wills looked at Nate.
“My colleague,” Quinn said.
“I assumed as much. Does he have a name?”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
When Quinn offered no more, Wills frowned, but said, “The number you gave me went straight to voicemail. A beep and that was it.”
“Could you trace it?”
“Still working on that,” Wills said. “But I was able to confirm that a woman by the name of Annabel Taplin, fitting the description you gave me, does indeed work for Wright Bains.”
“And therefore MI6,” Quinn said.
“That would be the assumption.”
Quinn reached for the folder he’d taken from Annabel so he could show Wills the picture of the third man, but stopped as Steve approached the table and started to put a menu in front of Quinn’s client.
Wills waved him off and pointed at Nate’s plate. “I’ll just have what he’s having.”
“You got it.”
After they were alone again, Quinn pulled the picture out. “Do you know who this is?”
“No. Should I?” the Englishman asked. The look on his face seemed to back up his words.
“It was in Ms. Taplin’s briefcase along with pictures of you and me. She was told he might be joining us for our meeting.”
Wills’s brow furrowed. “Joining us? I have no idea who he is. Do you?”
“No.”
“Give it to me. I’ll check it out.”
Quinn handed him the printed photo. “Do you at least know why MI6 would be interested in our meeting?”
Wills hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m dealing with that. Don’t concern yourself.”
“I wouldn’t be concerning myself if I hadn’t had to get involved,” Quinn said.
“It was a miscommunication. They won’t be bothering us anymore.”
“A miscommunication?”
Wills frowned. “I won’t go into it more than that.”
“All right. Fine,” Quinn said, sitting back.
“Tell me again about Maine,” Wills said.
Quinn gave him the same story he had on the phone. He paused for a moment when he was done, then said, “Anything new about the shooter from your end?”
“Nothing.”
A possibility had been floating around Quinn’s mind since the drive to New York. “Any chance it might have been a member of the ops team?”
“The team was cleared personally by me.”
“I did see Mercer there toward the end, though. He was out of position.”
Wills looked uncomfortable, but said, “Mercer’s clean, too. He’s working for me directly.”
“Directly?”
“My eyes on the ground. He did the same in Los Angeles.”
“I never saw him there,” Quinn said. Of course, he hadn’t seen anyone on the L.A. ops team.
“The Russian woman,” Wills said, changing the subject, “you’re sure she was in both L.A. and Maine?”
“One hundred percent.”
The look in Wills’s eyes became guarded.
Quinn asked, “She’s been seen before, hasn’t she?”
Wills reluctantly nodded. “In the vicinity of liquidations in Hong Kong and Bangkok.”
