Shadow of Betrayal

CHAPTER 23

It took Quinn just over ten minutes to get to the private hospital facility from the old Helms Bakery lot where he’d left Hardwick. It was in Westwood, only a few blocks from the UCLA campus and the famed UCLA Medical Center.

The building itself looked like any of half a dozen other typical medical office buildings in the area. Five stories and bland. Brick on the first floor and concrete the rest of the way up, the whole structure in need of a new coat of paint. There were silver letters across the front. THE LUNDGREN MEDICAL BUILDING.

Quinn circled the block and entered the parking garage behind the building. A sign with an arrow pointing toward a gate at the base of the up ramp read Public Parking, but Quinn bypassed it, instead heading for a different gate at the top of the down ramp. Unlike the public gate that was made of wood and pivoted upward when open, this one was a wire fence that closed off the entire entrance like a see-through curtain. The sign above it read Employees Only.

To the side was a box mounted on a pole at driver’s eye level, which housed a keypad and a speaker. Quinn punched in an access code he kept stored in his phone.

“Yes?” a voice said. Male, businesslike.

“Dr. Paul to see Dr. Yamata,” Quinn said, using the code phrase.

“What time is your appointment?”

“My patient’s already here.”

“Hold one moment, please.”

The delay lasted fifteen seconds while they no doubt compared his security camera image to the one they had on file, then the gate began to open.

“Please park in spot number seventy-two,” the voice said.

Spot 72 was on lower level three, the same level as the entrance to the facility. As Quinn got out of the stolen car, he saw his BMW parked nearby in spot number 67.

The door to the facility was not marked. Most who saw it wouldn’t have given it a second glance. It was painted the same off-white as the rest of the garage.

As Quinn approached it, he felt his cell phone vibrate twice, then stop. A message. He then remembered the call that he had ignored when he’d been with Hardwick. He pulled out his phone and listened to his message.

“Jake, it’s Liz. I thought you were going to visit Mom and Dad. I talked to Mom a few minutes ago, and she said you hadn’t been there yet. I’m not sure what’s keeping you so busy, but could you at least do me a favor and not tell Mom you’ll be coming then don’t show up?”

Quinn stood in the parking lot for a moment, his eyes closed and his hand rubbing his brow. He had never told his mother when he’d be coming, just that he would be coming soon. The events of the last couple of days had obviously delayed the trip. He should have called her. He made a promise to himself to do it as soon as he had a moment. Liz he wouldn’t bother with. She’d never understand anyway.

As he neared the door, he heard a faint click. He turned the knob and stepped into a long hallway that stretched from the garage to the lower level of the Lundgren Building.

A similar door and a similar click greeted him at the other end. Again, he wasted no time passing through it.

Not a hallway this time. A twelve-foot-square room. The off-white was gone, too, replaced by light green walls. If there had been chairs, it would have looked like a waiting room.

A man stood in front of a second door across the room. Broad shouldered, but about Quinn’s height. He was wearing a gray suit, jacket unbuttoned. Medical facility or not, the bulge under the man’s jacket was not a stethoscope.

“Mr. Quinn,” the man said.

“Yes.”

“You’re here about your team member.”

“Yes.”

The man turned and opened the door behind him. “This way please.”

The facility occupied the three basement levels of the Lundgren Building. It billed itself as a high-end plastic surgery operation. Very private, very discreet. All of which was true. They made plenty of money that way, for sure. But there was another side of the business, a secret side that very few of their employees knew about.

The facility was a medical sanctuary for those whose injuries were best not reported to the local authorities. No unnecessary questions asked, no damaging information given. There were only two conditions for using the facility: one, patients had to come with a recommendation from someone the facility had previously cleared, and two, because their services were anything but cheap, they had to have the ability to pay.

Quinn had long ago been cleared after a recommendation from Peter. In turn, he had later secured access for both Orlando and Nate just in case.

Quinn’s guide led him to an open elevator, then pressed the button marked B2.

“How is she?” Quinn asked.

“You’ll have to ask the doctor,” the man said.

The car stopped one level up, but the doors didn’t open.

The man looked up at a security camera mounted in the corner of the car. Quinn did the same. A second later there was a ding followed by the door sliding open.

“Welcome to Lundgren,” the man said as he let Quinn pass through first.

He led Quinn down several more corridors before stopping in front of a door marked 403.

“She’s inside,” the man said, then walked away.

What Quinn found beyond the door was better than he hoped.

Nate was sitting in a chair near the bed, his eyes glued to the TV mounted on the opposite wall. On the screen was an overhead image of LACMA and the La Brea Tar Pits.

“We made it on TV again,” Nate said when he noticed Quinn. “And by ‘us,’ I mean you.”

“You really know how to keep a low profile,” Orlando said. She was propped up in the bed. A large bandage covered her neck and shoulder, but she was smiling, so that was a good sign. “This isn’t going to do us much good at getting future work.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t let yourself get shot, things would have gone smoother,” Quinn said as he stepped over to the bed.

“Now it’s my fault?”

Quinn shrugged. “You set the tone.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then Orlando started to laugh, but stopped suddenly, wincing in pain.

“So humor’s not exactly a good idea?” Quinn asked.

“Not at the moment,” she said, her voice tight with pain. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” he asked. “I’m fine. You’re the one in the bed.”

“I mean the meeting, with Primus. Nate said you were with him when he called.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said.

He glanced at the TV. Orlando followed his gaze.

“What are they saying happened?” Quinn asked Nate.

“Some lunatic with a gun,” Nate said. “Two people injured.”

“Two?”

“A woman on the street, and a guard inside one of the buildings.”

Quinn nodded. The security officer probably got in the way of the assassin’s route to the roof.

“The woman’s doing okay, but the guard’s in critical.”

“They catch the gunman?” Quinn asked.

“Nope, unless they’re not saying.”

Quinn turned back to Orlando. “How you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

Quinn turned to Nate. “What did the doctor say?”

Nate tore his gaze from the TV. “That she was lucky it didn’t shatter her spine.”

“So what got hit?” Quinn asked.

“Muscle mainly.”

“You said the doctor wants to keep her overnight?”

“Hold on,” Orlando said. “I’m not staying. You’re taking me to your place.”

“She said the same thing to the doctor,” Nate said.

“I mean it. I’m not staying.”

“I think it might be better,” Quinn said.

“I know how to take care of myself,” she said. “I’ve gotten hurt a lot worse and not seen anyone. Get me some pain pills and antibiotics and I’ll be fine.”

Quinn looked down at the floor. Sleeping here or sleeping at his place wasn’t going to make that much difference. If there were any problems, he could get her back here fast enough.

He was about to say as much, when she said, “Quinn, goddammit, I’m not staying here.”

“Okay,” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. I said okay.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay you’re going to get me out? Or okay you’re listening but you’re not going to do anything?”

“Okay I’ll take you home.”

She stared at him a moment longer like she wasn’t sure she should believe him or not. After several seconds she said, “Tell us about the meeting.”

Quinn hesitated. It was possible there was no bug in the room; in fact, Quinn thought that very likely. The facility was supposed to be neutral ground, a safe house where no one asked what your business was. If word ever got out that that trust was compromised, then business would disappear. Worse, really. Someone would eventually show up to deal with the double-cross. Still, Quinn wasn’t interested in taking the chance.

“Not here,” he said.

“Then get me the hell out.”

Before leaving the medical center, they made arrangements with the head of security to dump the stolen car someplace it wouldn’t be found for a few days. By the time they headed back to Quinn’s place in his BMW, the sun was starting to set.

On the drive, Quinn told Orlando and Nate about his meeting with Hardwick. There was one thing he did leave out, though. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, his thinking that given Orlando’s current condition, she didn’t need any more stress. She could learn about Leo Tucker’s involvement later.

“Yellowhammer?” Orlando said. Her voice was low and sleepy.

“That’s what he said.”

“He didn’t tell you where it was?”

“Here in California somewhere. Said we should be able to find it easy enough.”

“Does the name mean anything to you?”

Quinn shook his head. “You?”

“No.” She paused.

There was a momentary lull.

“I’ll check it out when we get to your place,” Orlando said.

Quinn gave her a quick sideways glance. She was leaning against the passenger door, her eyes half-closed.

“Nate can do it,” Quinn said. “You’re going to bed.”

“That’s sweet, Quinn. But I don’t think I’m going to be in the mood.” Even in her near-semiconscious state, she was able to crack a smile.

“Oh, God,” Nate said. “My ears. I didn’t really need to hear that.”

Quinn’s house was built against one of the many slopes of the Hollywood Hills. The top floor was at street level and contained the living room, dining room, and kitchen in an open format that made it feel almost like one room. The floor below, following the incline of the hill, contained the bedrooms and a gym.

As soon as he got Orlando settled in the master bedroom, he returned upstairs. Nate sat at the kitchen table using Quinn’s laptop to try and get a line on Yellowhammer. Quinn didn’t want to disturb his progress, so he grabbed his phone and walked to the other end of the living room.

He stood in front of the plate glass window that made up the whole rear wall of this level, and looked out on the city. The L.A. basin glowed white with millions of individual lights, some moving, some stationary, but all adding to the visual mix of the city.

He took a deep breath, then looked down at his phone and called Peter.

“I expected to hear from you hours ago,” Peter said, irritated.

“I had a man down.”

“Jesus,” Peter said. “I saw the news. The shooting at the museum. Who?”

“Orlando.”

Silence. “Is … is she okay?”

“She’ll be sore for a while, but she’ll live.”

“What happened?”

Quinn gave him the rundown of the fun at the museum. “I’m willing to bet it was the same people who hired the assassin in Ireland.”

“I think you’re right,” Peter said. “Tell me about the meeting.”

“You mean the meeting with the guy from the LP?” Quinn said with no attempt to hide his anger. “The goddamn LP, Peter. I thought you were working against them, not using them as an information asset.”

More dead air.

“How long have you known?” Quinn asked.

Still no response.

“Peter, how the hell long have you known?”

A chair in the kitchen screeched against the floor. Quinn glanced over and caught Nate looking at him before his apprentice could look away. Nate grabbed an apple off the counter and returned to the laptop.

“Not long,” Peter said.

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

“After Ireland, all right?”

Quinn stared out into the night. “The assassin,” he said.

“Yes,” Peter said. “Once we ID’d him we realized he was on an LP watch list. We didn’t know if he worked for them for sure, but we knew it was a possibility.”

“What happened? He break when you questioned him?”

“He didn’t break.”

“Losing your touch?”

“He didn’t break because someone got to him before he gave anything up.”

“Someone got to him?” Quinn couldn’t believe it.

“He wasn’t under our control. We handed him over to the DDNI as soon as the plane landed. One of my men worked up the ID kit on the plane. Fingerprints, hair and saliva samples, photos. But by the time we were able to figure out who he was, he was already dead. The Agency stuck him in a supposedly secure safe house, but he didn’t even last that first night. A suicide pill slipped to him by one of the agents in the facility. The agent left before anyone knew what happened and hasn’t been seen since. The DDNI was furious, but there was nothing he could do. When I confronted him with what I’d found out, he was reluctant at first, but I think he realized he had to close ranks and use only his most trusted assets. Apparently I was one of those.”

“Help me out, Peter,” Quinn said. “The DDNI was getting information from someone in the LP, and the LP was also trying to kill his messenger and yours? How does that make sense?”

A pause.

“The contact was anonymous. He used some back channels to reach DDNI Jackson directly. Based on who you say Primus is, he could have just walked into the Deputy Director’s office and left a package on his desk.”

“Is that how it was done?”

“No. Emails, and a letter to Jackson’s home. Primus provided information on some small things at first. A planned kidnapping of a Russian official’s daughter by the Chechens in Odessa. DDNI Jackson passed that information on to his counterpart in Moscow. The kidnappers were caught, and the plan was exposed. And you remember what happened to Anton Likharev?”

“The arms dealer?” Quinn said. “Sure.”

Likharev, known in many places as the Merchant of Death, was a former Soviet officer turned gunrunner. Only he was distributing weapons on a scale no one had ever done before. He’d been captured in Southeast Asia, then deported back to the States to go on trial. A trial, as far as Quinn knew, that still hadn’t happened.

“Primus told the DDNI about a meeting Likharev was attending in Bangkok. Jackson gave it to the station chief at the embassy, and the next day Thai police had Likharev in custody.”

“Wait a minute,” Quinn said. “How long has he been passing on this kind of stuff? That was almost a year and a half ago.”

“It started just before that.”

“So when did the Deputy Director find out that Primus was LP?”

“Only two months ago.”

“And he didn’t break off contact immediately?” Quinn said.

“The information Primus passed on had all been good. Very reliable.”

“So fucking what?” Quinn said. “These are the same people who have been trying to dictate the way the country is run, to hell with what the rest of us think. At least that’s what you’ve told me. Didn’t any of you think maybe he was trying to get you to do the LP’s dirty work for them? Maybe they benefited from having Likharev out of the picture. Maybe everything Primus passed along helped their situation. Maybe he was using the Deputy Director. For God’s sake, Peter, didn’t anyone think of that?”

“Calm down,” Peter said, his own tone becoming angry. “First, I didn’t find out about it until just a week ago. Second, I had the same reaction as you. I confronted the DDNI with the ID of the assassin. I told him I thought the LP might be trying to stop Primus from passing along information. That’s when he told me Primus was LP. Jackson told me everything then. He said Primus had become disillusioned with the movement. But he also knew he couldn’t just get out. That’s not the way the LP works. So instead he started passing information he came across. Doing what he could to balance his personal scales, I guess.”

“When I met with him, he sounded like he was still very much part of the organization.”

“But he did tell you he was working on his own. You told me that.”

“It all sounds like bullshit to me.”

“Jackson didn’t believe him at first, either,” Peter said. “But Primus gained his trust with more good information.”

“Why did he tell Jackson at all?”

Peter took a breath. “He told Jackson pretty much the same thing he told you. That a group had approached the LP with a potential project, but that the LP had declined. But the project troubled him enough to keep tabs on it. Primus realized that something needed to be done, but that LP wasn’t going to make a move. He had already established a relationship with the DDNI, so decided to give him the info. But to convince the DDNI that what he was going to pass on was credible, he knew he had to come clean about who he worked for. He also knew the risk of exposure to his own people would increase, so he took steps to cover his tracks.”

If Ireland and what had happened at LACMA that afternoon were any indication, he hadn’t done a very good job.

“A turncoat in the LP,” Quinn said under his breath. It didn’t seem possible. These were the same people who had killed a friend of his. Hell, the same people who had destroyed Nate’s leg and forced him to use a prosthetic the rest of his life. “You believe he’s not just using us?”

“I’m not one hundred percent. I know caution is in order. But goddammit, Quinn, something’s going on. Something that people are trying to stop us from finding out. And if it has anything to do with the G8 meetings … they start the day after tomorrow, for Christ’s sake. We can’t just sit around and see if something happens.”

Quinn frowned. “Hold on,” he said.

He moved the phone away from his ear and tried to let his mind go blank for a second. He needed to clear away all the conflicting thoughts that were ramming against one another. Only then would he be able to truly assess the situation.

In the distance he could see a police helicopter circling above the Beverly Center. It wasn’t much more than a point of light, but he watched it go round and round several times before he brought the phone back up to his ear.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You will tell me everything you know,” Quinn said. “You will send me copies of any information you have. And you’ll do it right now.”

“So you’ll stay on it?” Peter asked.

“That was our deal, wasn’t it?” Quinn said. “But you need to know moving forward, whether my team and I continue is going to be a minute-to-minute decision.”

“Okay … okay. I can live with that. I … appreciate it.”

In the distance, the helicopter had moved off in search of trouble elsewhere.

“Talk,” Quinn said.