The Silenced

“That’s it?”

“So far.”

He then asked the question he’d avoided with Palavin. “What about Nate?”

She sobbed. “They shot him. They—”

There was the sound of movement. “I think you’ve talked enough,” Palavin said. “We’ll call later with the location.”

Palavin hung up.

Quinn grabbed Orlando by the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, pushing her toward the exit back into the station.

“What happened?” Orlando asked.

“Nate,” he said, then started sprinting for the entrance to the Underground.

* * *

There were half a dozen police cars parked on Charlotte Street. A large area in front of the apartment building had been cordoned off. As with all crime scenes, a small crowd had gathered around the outside of the police zone.

Quinn and Orlando approached a couple standing just off to the side.

“What happened?” Quinn asked, trying to sound curious but unconcerned.

The woman glanced over. “We heard a man was shot,” she said.

“Really?” Orlando said. “In this neighborhood? Was he badly hurt?”

The woman shook her head. “Don’t know. We’ve only been here a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Quinn said.

They walked over to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. There was a waiter standing next to an empty outside table in front of an Indian restaurant. He was looking toward a group of police gathered beyond the police line. The restaurant itself was empty.

“Someone got shot? Did I hear that right?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. Apparently.”

“Did you hear it happen?”

“No,” he said. “But I saw people running out of the building. Then one of the neighbors came out yelling about gunfire.”

“Just the one person hit?”

“As far as I know,” the man said. “An ambulance took him away ten minutes ago.”

“Unbelievable,” Orlando said. “I wonder what happened.”

The man shrugged. “Drugs probably. Isn’t that what it always is?” He turned and walked back into the restaurant.

Orlando pulled out her phone and began typing. While she did, Quinn guided them toward Tottenham Court Road.

“The closest medical facility is University College Hospital,” Orlando said.

“Is that where they took him?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t know yet.” She pressed a button on the phone, then held it up to her ear. “Yes, hello,” she said, using a remarkably good British accent. “This is Chief Inspector Owens. I’m checking on the status of a man who would have been brought there within the last thirty minutes.… Yes, I’ll hold.”

They had reached Tottenham Court Road.

“Taxi or foot?” Quinn asked.

“Foot for now,” she said, then pointed toward the north. “That way.”

They darted through traffic to the other side of the street.

“I’m here,” Orlando said as they reached the sidewalk. “Yes, I’m involved with the investigation on Charlotte Street. It was my understanding that the victim was brought to your hospital. Is that not right? … Oh, good. He is there.… And his condition? … No, I understand. Thank you.”

She disconnected the call.

“He’s there, but she had no information on his status.”

“How the hell did Palavin know?” Quinn asked.

“A spotter at the train station?” she suggested.

“I would have seen them.”

“Did Liz still have her phone?” They both knew if she did, it would have been a simple matter for someone with the right resources to track it.

“Nate got rid of it in Paris,” he told her.

“A homing device in her clothes?”

“The only one who could have put one there was Julien. And there’s no way he did.”

“So how?” she asked. “They were spotted somewhere? That seems pretty random. Palavin wouldn’t have known where they were headed after Paris, and I doubt he had the resources to—”

“The passport,” Quinn said.

“What?”

“The passport you arranged for them to pick up in Paris before they left. Did you have your contact install a GPS clip?”

“Of course. In case we needed to track them.”

Quinn looked at her without saying anything, the suggestion that the GPS IDs might have been compromised clear on his face.

“Not possible,” she said. “I’ve used Michael Loge many times. He wouldn’t give that information away.”

“For the right amount of cash, some people will give anything away.”

Orlando drifted off for a second, then brought her phone up and made a call. It was soon apparent the person on the other end wasn’t answering. She frowned, accessed another number, and called it.

“Christophe, it’s Orlando,” she said. “I’m trying to get ahold of Michael, but he’s not answering. Have you heard—” She paused, listening. “When? … How did it — No, no. It’s okay. Merci.” She hung up.

“What?” Quinn asked.

“Loge is dead. Shot, two hours ago.”

* * *

They found a small area off the main lobby of University College Hospital’s Accident and Emergency Department. There were gray plastic chairs along one wall, all empty at the moment. Orlando sat down and pulled her laptop out of her backpack. Once she was up and running, it took her less than a minute to hack into the hospital’s computer system.

“Can you get us inside?” Quinn asked.

Orlando shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter. He’s in surgery.”

Quinn felt a sudden rush of relief. “Then he’s still alive. Does it say where he was hit?”

She studied the screen. “The chest,” she said. “Upper left side.”

Not his heart, though, Quinn thought. If that had been where he’d been hit, Nate would have been in the morgue, not surgery.

Orlando looked at her laptop a moment longer, then closed it and stuffed it back in her bag. “I’ll make a few calls. Make sure he gets the help he needs. The only other thing we can do is wait.”

Quinn stood up. “No. No waiting.”

“Stick to the plan?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have to modify it,” she said.

“Not much.”

She stood up and slipped her hand into his. “Then, we’d better get to work.”

Chapter 44