The Cleaner

CHAPTER 12

Quinn and Nate met in the lobby again at noon.

“You look like shit,” Quinn said as soon as Nate arrived. “Didn’t you sleep?”

Dark bags hung under Nate’s eyes. And while he had shaved, there were definitely a couple of spots he’d missed.

“I did what you told me,” Nate said. “Stayed awake as long as I could. But by eight I was done. Then at midnight, my eyes popped open and I couldn’t get back to sleep until seven this morning. Of course, that only lasted until you called me.” He eyed Quinn. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Neither said anything for several seconds.

“I thought you said something about getting lunch,” Nate said.

“I did.”

“Is someone going to bring it to us here?” Nate grinned.

Quinn rolled his eyes, then turned his attention to the front entrance. He watched as people came and went from the hotel. Vietnamese, Europeans, Americans, men, women, even a few children. When Orlando entered, Quinn looked at Nate.

“Time to go,” he said. He started walking toward the exit.

Nate, who had also been watching the door, seemed caught off guard by Quinn’s sudden movement. He was still two steps behind when Quinn stopped next to Orlando.

“So this is the albatross,” Orlando said, looking at Nate.

“This is him,” Quinn confirmed.

“What the hell does that mean?” Nate asked.

Orlando held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Al.”

“It’s Nate, actually,” Nate said as they shook.

“Whatever,” she said.

Nate looked at Quinn, then back to Orlando. “And you are….?”

“This is Orlando,” Quinn said. “She’s an old friend.”

He started walking toward the door, Orlando in step beside him.

“Wait.” Nate rushed to catch up, then, smiling, he added, “I didn’t know you had any friends.”

Quinn led them through the front entrance to the sidewalk outside, ignoring Nate’s comment.

“So,” Orlando said. “Where to?”

“Thought we’d find someplace close by,” Quinn replied.

“Um…I know a place,” Nate said.

Quinn shot him a look.

“Really?” Orlando said. “Where?”

The taxi ride to Mai 99 only took a few minutes.

The same woman who had greeted Quinn and Nate the previous evening was there again. She smiled broadly, obviously recognizing them, then showed all three to a table. She set menus in front of them before returning to her place near the door.

“So, you come here often, do you?” Orlando asked.

Nate smiled.

A few minutes later, Anh approached their table.

“Welcome back,” she said to Quinn, then to Nate, “Hello, Raymond.”

“Hi, Anh,” Nate said.

Her smile grew after he said her name. “Do you need some more time, or would you like to order now?” she asked.

“I think we’re ready,” Quinn said, his voice flat.

They gave her their orders.

“It’s good to see you again,” Anh said, smiling. “I will be back with your drinks in a moment.”

As she walked away, Orlando said, “Pretty. Is she why we’re here?”

“Something you want to tell me?” Quinn said to Nate.

“You told me to stay awake, so I came back here for dinner,” Nate said. “What? At least I didn’t use my real name.”

Quinn started to open his mouth, then closed it, saying nothing. A few moments later, Anh brought them their drinks, beers for the men and a bottle of water for Orlando.

After taking a sip, Quinn looked over at Orlando. “Update?”

“It’s not much,” she said. “The Office is shut tight. Deleon, Collins, Markewicz, Costello, Holton, Dyke. As far as I can tell, they’re all dead.”

“Damn,” Nate muttered.

Quinn couldn’t help sharing Nate’s surprise. Orlando had just named the six top ops agents at the Office.

“Those were the only names I could confirm, but they weren’t the only ones.”

“Durrie once said that no matter how you got into the business,” Quinn said, “there are only a couple ways out. Death is just the most likely.”

He frowned. It was worse than he’d thought.

“What about the disruption?” he finally asked. “Any claims of responsibility?”

“Not yet.” Orlando looked at him, then added, “Maybe you should just let it go. You can stay here for a couple of weeks. By then it should be okay to go home.”

“Someone wants me dead,” he said. He took in a deep breath, then blew it out. “I need to find out who.”

Orlando nodded slightly. He knew it was the same thing she would have done.

No one said anything for several seconds.

“What exactly does that mean?” Nate asked quietly.

“The truth?” Quinn said as he raised his bottle again.

“Yes.”

Quinn took a drink, then set the beer back down. He turned so he was looking directly at Nate. “It means you have a choice to make. One, you stay here. Hide out like Orlando said. In two or three weeks, you go home. I’ll give you whatever cash you need. But when you get there, you’re going to have to find a new job. This life you started by working for me will be done.”

“And my other choice is to stay with you,” Nate said.

Quinn shook his head. “It’s more than that. It’s doing everything I say. It’s not questioning anything. Even then you might be dead before the end of the week.”

A tense silence descended over the table. Orlando looked as if she were about to say something, but Quinn shook his head.

“So?” Quinn asked, once he sensed he’d given Nate enough time.

“I’ll stay with you,” Nate replied.

Quinn waited for more, but none was forthcoming. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Impressive,” Orlando said after Nate had excused himself to use the bathroom.

“He probably made the wrong choice,” Quinn said.

“I’ll bet he’s throwing up in the toilet right now.”

Quinn chuckled, but quickly grew somber. “Peter contacted me,” he told her.

“Really?” There was a look of both surprise and caution on her face.

“Not directly.” He told her about the e-mail from Duke. “But I haven’t been able to get through to Peter to confirm.”

“What do you think?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

She poked at her food for a moment, then said, “Did Duke say what the job is?”

“No.”

“Did he at least say where?”

Quinn shook his head. “Since I couldn’t get ahold of Peter, I e-mailed Duke for more information. No replies yet.”

Orlando’s face scrunched, the worry line above the bridge of her nose in full display. “Does he still work out of Berlin?”

“As far as I know.” Even as he answered her, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand on end. “Germany,” he said. “The symbols on the bracelet.”

“Probably means nothing. You said you didn’t tell Peter about it.”

“Right. Makes it a little more interesting, though.” He hesitated for a moment, almost deciding to say nothing, but instead he went ahead and threw it out. “Are you up to doing a little more research for me?”

The air grew heavy between them. Several seconds passed without a word. When Quinn did finally speak, his voice was low, almost like a whisper. “There was a point right before Durrie and I left the hotel for the op when I could have told him to stay. Ortega and I could have done it without him.”

Orlando stared at the table, immobile, like she wasn’t even listening.

“I remember thinking at the time,” Quinn said, “for maybe a split second, that he wasn’t ready. But I didn’t say anything. He was my mentor. He was Durrie.”

“He wouldn’t have listened to you even if you had said something.” Orlando’s voice was a barely audible whisper.

Quinn remained silent, waiting.

“He just couldn’t keep it together anymore. There would be weeks when everything was fine. He was the old Durrie. The one I’d fallen in love with. Then suddenly he’d pull back, a depression overtaking him. He’d lock himself in his office for days. Sometimes he’d disappear completely. For a week, maybe two. You remember that job in Mexico City, right?”

Of course he did. He and Orlando had gone down together. Durrie had said he was unavailable. Because of the need to keep a low profile, Quinn and Orlando had shared a room. When Durrie found out, he didn’t yell or demand that they take separate rooms; he simply withdrew.

“When I got home, he accused you and me of sleeping together,” she said. “It took me a week to convince him that nothing happened. Eventually he even apologized, saying he knew I would never do that to him.”

“Why did you stay with him?” Quinn asked, the words escaping his mouth before he even realized it.

She looked at him. Her eyes were drawn and tired, the memories pulling at her. “I’d been with him almost five years at that point. I wasn’t going to just leave him. He needed me.”

“Sorry,” Quinn said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

There was quiet for several moments.

When Orlando finally looked up at him, she said, “I wanted to blame you. I wanted to hate you. For a while I did. When you came to see me in San Francisco, you were lucky I didn’t kill you.”

“What changed?”

She eyed him for a moment. “Time.” She paused. “I knew what he was like there at the end. I just didn’t want to believe it. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m still pissed off. At you. But also at me. And most of all at him. I wonder sometimes if he’d lived long enough to know about Garrett, if that might have changed him. You know, given him something to hold on to.”

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said.

“So am I.”

“So you’ll help me then?”

She let out a short, derisive laugh, but when she looked at him, there was just the hint of a playful smirk on her face. “You paying me for this?”

Quinn laughed. “No.”

The smirk grew wider, then quickly disappeared. “What do you need?”

Quinn sighed inwardly. For a second there it was almost like the old Orlando was back. Just give it a little time, he thought.

“I need to know what Gibson’s been up to,” he said. “Who he’s been working for. What jobs he’s done lately. See if there is anything that can tie him to Taggert somehow.”

“Okay, but he was probably just a one-time hire,” Orlando said. “That’s the kind of thing Gibson loves to do.” She paused, then corrected herself. “Loved to do.”

“Check anyway. All right?”

She looked away for a moment before answering. “I can do that,” she finally said.

As they were getting up to leave, Nate said, “Anh’s offered to give me a tour of the city.”

“Is that right?” Quinn said, not sounding surprised. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“Eh…now, if you think it’s okay.”

“Do you think it’s okay?”

“Quinn, let him go,” Orlando said.

Quinn chose to ignore her. “You remember the rule of attachments,” Quinn said to his apprentice.

“Don’t have any,” Nate said.

“Close enough.”

“I won’t forget.”

Quinn gave him a single, terse nod.

“Thanks,” Nate said. He gave them both a smile, then headed over to the bar, where Anh was waiting.

“He’ll be fine,” Orlando said as she and Quinn left the restaurant. “Quit acting like his dad.”

“He’s my responsibility right now.”

“You know who you’re starting to sound like?” she asked.

He knew exactly who she meant. Durrie.

“Go to hell.”

As they climbed into a taxi for the ride back to the Rex, Orlando said, “Do you mind if we make a stop first?”

“No problem,” Quinn said.

She gave directions to the taxi driver and soon they were on their way. After ten minutes, they pulled up to the curb in front of a large pagoda. Orlando paid the driver, and they got out.

“A temple?” Quinn asked.

Orlando simply nodded, then led the way up the steps and inside.

The central room was vast, lit mainly by sunlight entering through the large, open doors that surrounded most of the building. But once inside, the light was quickly diffused by a layer of smoke that hung in the air. Quinn couldn’t immediately see the source, but he could smell it. Incense. Spicy and sweet. The aroma inviting him in, relaxing him, soothing him.

Orlando led him toward the altar in the center of the room. It was at least twenty feet across, and nearly the same high. In the middle was a life-size statue of the Buddha.

But instead of stopping in front, Orlando walked around and behind the altar. Quinn followed. In the back, there were over a dozen people praying before a second, smaller altar. Again, there was the Buddha, this one the size of a small child. Lining the front of the altar were several round pots of sand, each stuffed with dozens of incense sticks. Many were withered and used, while others glowed as thin spirals of smoke rose from their tips toward the ceiling like ethereal tails pointed at heaven, only to dissipate and become just another part of the perpetual haze.

Surrounding the Buddha statue were shelves lined with photographs of the recently and not-so-recently departed. Orlando found a spot to the far left, then kneeled and began to pray. Instead of bowing her head, her eyes were glued to one of the pictures on the shelves. Quinn, careful not to disturb her, moved around until he had a better view of what she was looking at.

It was a picture of a man. But unlike the other photos, the man was Caucasian. The glass covering the image was so dirty with smoke residue from the constantly burning incense, most people probably didn’t even notice.

As Quinn stared at the picture, a surge of conflicting emotions churned inside him. The picture was of Durrie. It was probably taken only a few years before his death. Durrie’s hair was almost as gray as it had been on the job that had gotten him killed, but he was smiling and he seemed relaxed.

Quinn tore his eyes away and went back outside before Orlando finished praying. He bought a soda from an old man who’d set up shop at the bottom of the steps, then found a bit of shade near the base of the stairs.

He tried not to think about how the picture of Durrie had affected him. But there was no ignoring it. Guilt. Sadness. Hatred. Hatred for a man who had deserted a son he never knew. Hatred for a man who had taught Quinn how to survive and thrive, and yet was unable to follow his own lessons. But most of all, hatred for a man who had left Orlando heartbroken, damaged, and alone.

A short time later, his soda still unopened, Orlando rejoined him.

“Thank you,” she said.

“How often do you come?” he asked.

She looked up at him. “Every day.”

Quinn wanted to say, He doesn’t deserve it, or even better, He doesn’t deserve you. Instead, he handed her the soda, then walked to the curb and hailed a taxi.