The Silenced

“Or we kill you,” Quinn said.

Mikhail glared in defiance, but said nothing more.

“We don’t work for him,” Petra spat. “We are trying to find him.”

“Why?” Quinn asked.

“He must answer for what’s he’s done.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re here to kill him.”

“No,” she said. “We will take him home and put him on trial.”

“I was told you are terrorists. Are you telling me you work for the Russian government?”

“I said nothing about our government.”

“So you are terrorists?”

“No!” she yelled. “The only one who caused any terror is Palavin.”

The room was silent for a moment, then Orlando said, “A private trial, then.”

Petra bowed her head a fraction of an inch, but said nothing.

“And after you’ll kill him,” Quinn said.

“Why not?” Mikhail said. “He is responsible for so much—” He stopped himself.

“He’s responsible for so much what?” Quinn asked. “Why do you want him?”

“Why don’t you tell us why you are working for Palavin?” Petra said, looking directly at Quinn.

“Who said I was?”

“It appeared that way to me in Los Angeles. Apparently you were in Maine, too, though I was a little too busy to see you. You were working for Palavin both those times.”

“I was working for David Wills. Emphasis on was. Once he was dead, I was out.”

“Semantics,” Petra said. “Wills was obviously hired by Palavin. So in effect you were working for him.”

“Why obvious?”

“Because the Ghost knew we were trying to track him down, and hired Wills to systematically kill all the people who would have led us to him. Ironic that Wills would also become the last victim.”

“The Ghost. That’s your pet name for Palavin, isn’t it?”

She said nothing.

“You know for a fact Wills was killed by Palavin?”

She hesitated. “I told you, it’s obvious.”

Quinn said nothing. He suspected she was right, but wasn’t going to accept it only on her word.

“Show him the picture,” Mikhail urged her.

Petra nodded, then started to lift one side of her jacket.

“Careful,” Orlando told her.

“I’m only taking a photograph out of my pocket,” Petra explained.

She pulled the picture out of her pocket. It was large, maybe eight by ten, and folded in half. She opened it and set it on the bed.

“Sit back,” Quinn told her once she was done.

As soon as she was leaning back, he picked up the photo.

It was a color picture faded in a way that made it seem several decades old. By the hair and clothing styles of the fourteen people captured in the image, Quinn guessed it had probably been taken in the late 1950s or early 1960s.

Those photographed were scattered around what looked like a small restaurant, either sitting at one of the two tables, or standing along the bar at the back. With the exception of a middle-aged man off to the side, the rest appeared to be in their late teens or early twenties.

“What is this?” he asked.

“May I show you?” Petra started to push herself up out of the chair.

“Stay,” Quinn told her. He held his gun out to Orlando. As soon as she took it, he knelt by Petra’s chair and held the photo out so they both could see it.

“In Los Angeles, what was the name of the man whose body you took out of the warehouse?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Ryan Winters, correct?” She pointed at the photo. “There. Ryan Winters.”

Though the Winters Quinn had seen was much older, there was definitely a resemblance. He shot Orlando a look.

“At the other table. The one sitting in back. You know him, too. Kenneth Moody.”

The skin at the back of Quinn’s neck began to tingle.

“The man sitting with him is David Thomas,” she said. “Missing and most likely dead.” She paused. “Behind Thomas, Freddy Chang. Dead. The woman next to Winters, Stacy McKitrick. Dead. The two women at the bar, Alicia Anderson and Sara Hirschy. Both dead.” She looked at Quinn. “All of them murdered or presumed murdered. Most within the last six weeks. The only exceptions are the two men at either end of the bar, and the older man near the door.”

Quinn took a closer look at the two men at the bar. They look like brothers, he thought. If one’s hair hadn’t been darker and wavier than the other’s, Quinn would have thought they could almost be twins.

“The photo was taken in 1964 in Hong Kong. A youth meeting.”

“Youth meeting?” Quinn said. That was a term he hadn’t heard used since his days back in Warroad. “You mean like church?”

“A political youth meeting,” Petra said. “The kind you wouldn’t advertise in a British colony in the mid-sixties. Or anywhere in the West for that matter.”

“A Communist Party meeting.”

She nodded. “Exactly. There were hundreds of these kinds of groups all around the world at that time. I think the Soviets thought these would be the catalysts for revolutions, and since the groups were Russian backed, the USSR would be able to control the eventual outcome. But most weren’t more than opportunities to complain and argue.” She looked back at the photo. “This group called itself the Young Leninists.”

Quinn shrugged. “The Cold War is ancient history.”

“In this case, not so ancient.” Petra paused. “The older man at the door was named Yuri Kabulov. KGB.”

Quinn took a look at the man. “If he’s alive, he must be over one hundred now.”

“Kabulov died of a state-sanctioned heart attack in 1973. It is the dark-haired one at the bar we are really looking for.”

Quinn took a good look at the wavy-haired boy. It wasn’t hard to imagine the man he would become. Quinn had actually seen him as an adult. The third photo in the folder from Annabel Taplin’s briefcase. “Palavin,” he said. “Your Ghost.”

Petra smiled without humor. “A name of convenience.”

“How did he get involved with a youth group in Hong Kong?”

“The first question is really, how did Kabulov get involved with them?” she said. “He generally didn’t deal with these groups. His specialty was coordinating agent infiltration into enemy governments. At the height of his career, it was said he had dozens placed throughout Western Europe.”

“Okay. So why was he there?”

She pointed first at the Ghost, then at the straight-haired boy who looked like him.

“Are they brothers?” Quinn asked.

Petra shook her head. “Not brothers. Not even related. Palavin was born in Moscow, and was actually twenty-three when this was taken. All we know about the other one is that he was born in London, but lived most of his life in Hong Kong. If we knew his name, we wouldn’t have been looking for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because in 1988, the Ghost,” she said, her finger hovering over the wavy-haired youth on the right, “became this man.” She moved her finger to his doppelganger.