The Silenced

“But where would we look? If he wants to stay lost, he sounds like the kind of man who can do it. Today might have been our only chance.” He paused. “You had him, Petra.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Mikhail took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. I should have done more.”

“No. You did what you could. I couldn’t have done any better. But the question is still, what do we do now?”

Neither of them said anything for several seconds.

“What about Stepka?” Mikhail said. “We have a name now. Maybe he can help.”

“I’ve already given him Quinn’s name and description,” she said. “I guess the only thing we can do is wait. Let’s meet back at the apartment.”

“Okay.” The defeat in Mikhail’s voice was palpable.

“We’re almost there,” she reassured him. “We know Quinn has information that will help. We’ll be able to see this through to the end.”

“Perhaps.” Mikhail didn’t sound as optimistic.

“We’re going to find the Ghost, Mikhail. We’re going make him pay for what he did.”

* * *

Petra kept scanning the crowds the entire way back to Bayswater. She knew she was hoping for the impossible, but if there was even the smallest of chances that she’d spot Quinn, she couldn’t afford to relax.

But he wasn’t on any of the trains, nor the platforms, nor the streets. The only thing she could hold on to was the fact that he was in the city.

Mikhail had not yet arrived when she got back to the apartment. So she checked in with Stepka.

“In the right circles, your new friend is something of a legend,” Stepka told her.

“How so?”

“First, we should make sure we’re talking about the same person. Do you have your computer?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing at the bag that held her laptop.

“I’ve sent you a picture.”

Petra switched her phone to speaker mode, retrieved her computer, and booted it up. She then opened the browser and logged on to her email. Stepka’s message was in her inbox. She opened the attached picture. It wasn’t a photograph, but a drawing. It looked very much, but not exactly, like Quinn.

“What is this?” she asked.

“A police sketch from New York City. The man in the drawing was wanted for a murder earlier this year.”

“They were looking for Quinn?”

“They stopped searching for him when another suspect turned up. The question is, is he the same man you’re looking for?”

She looked at the picture again. “It’s not quite right, but yes, this is him.”

“Okay, then this is what I’ve got,” he said.

She heard a key slip into the lock on the front door. “Hold on.” She waited for Mikhail to enter, then said, “Stepka dug up information about Quinn.” She pointed at the computer screen where the drawing was still up. While Mikhail took a look, she told Stepka to go on.

“The man’s name is Jonathan Quinn. He’s a freelance cleaner, not associated with a specific organization. His reputation is stellar. He gets the job done. My contacts could not recommend him higher. Says he has a bit of an ethical streak, so if he doesn’t think you’re on the up-and-up, he’ll refuse the job.”

“Then, why would he be working on the jobs in Los Angeles and Maine?”

“Every job has many angles. What’s ethical to one may not be ethical to another.”

“Or maybe he’s been lied to.”

“Also a possibility. But you should know my contact did say that Quinn is not one to mess with. He’s not above leaving a body for someone else to clean up.”

Petra let it all sink in for a moment. “Anything else?”

“That’s not enough?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.

“We can print out copies of the sketch,” Mikhail said. “Then we can make the rounds and see if any of our people have seen him.”

“Good idea,” she said, nodding.

She felt like they were clinging to their last bit of hope. But at least it was hope.

Chapter 28

Charlotte Street was in one of those quaint London neighborhoods that made tourists wish they lived in the city. Its centerpiece was the Charlotte Street Hotel. Combining an older London facade with a contemporary, warm interior, the hotel was an upscale place that didn’t make you feel like you had to be wearing a tuxedo just to use the elevator. Quinn had been inside once before. Not as a guest. On a job. And though he had had little time to look around, what he saw of the place as he removed a body from an upstairs suite had impressed him.

Quinn spent thirty minutes walking the rest of the street, checking alternative routes in and out, and reacquainting himself with the neighborhood. Besides the hotel, Charlotte Street was lined with four- and five-story buildings with offices and flats on the upper floors, restaurants and shops on the ground level.

Cars were parked in most of the available spots, but actual traffic was light due to the way this part of Soho was laid out. Charlotte Street was a one-way road ending at Percy Street, where traffic that needed to continue south would have to go west first, then turn left on Rathbone Place. To make things even more confusing, the northern section of Rathbone took a jog to the west before heading north again and paralleling Charlotte. Quinn considered the complicated layout an asset; in his business, the more escape options, the better.

Once he was satisfied, he sat at a table outside a coffee shop a half block away. He’d ordered a cup of the house blend, black, but he had yet to take a sip when the cab carrying Orlando arrived.

As she got out, she subtly scanned the neighborhood, then pulled her bag out of the back seat and tipped the cabbie. The moment he drove off, she retrieved her cell phone. Quinn’s own phone was sitting on the table. He picked it up just as it started to ring.

“You here?” she asked.

“Just having a coffee down the street.”

“Caffe Nero?” As always, she had researched where she was going. Quinn guessed she probably knew the names of all the businesses in the area.

“Like you didn’t know that already.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She picked up her bag with her free hand. “Bring me a latte.”

* * *

The flat was on the second floor. The door was open a crack, so Quinn nudged it with his hip and stepped across the threshold. Orlando stood just inside, looking fresh despite the transatlantic flight. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a pair of glasses, rectangular in shape and framed in blood-red plastic.

She looked at him for a moment, then reached up and touched his face.

The warmth of her skin temporarily pushed away all thoughts of Wills’s death, of the Russian woman, of the danger facing both his sister and his mother. He leaned forward and kissed her with more love and tenderness than he’d ever felt for anyone else in his life.

She moved into him, her body pressing against his, letting him know she was there, that she loved him, too.

“Come inside,” she whispered. “Unless you want to give the neighbors a show.”

He smiled again, then stepped into the apartment, Orlando closing the door behind him.