The Cleaner

CHAPTER 13

There were two new e-mail messages waiting for Quinn when he arrived back at his hotel room. The first was from Duke.

The second was from Peter.

Before calling Peter, Quinn navigated through cyberspace until he arrived at the location where he’d instructed Duke to upload the information. It took less than thirty seconds to retrieve the file. As the download proceeded, the computer automatically ran the file through a series of virus protection programs. Once Quinn was satisfied nothing nasty was waiting for him, he disconnected the link.

As he expected, the document was a job brief. According to the information, Duke needed Quinn’s help in monitoring some unusual activities going on in Berlin. What those unusual activities were, Duke didn’t specify. Though the brief did say a combination of audio, video, and direct observation methods would probably be needed at several locations throughout the city.

Duke still wasn’t sure who was behind the activities, but his best guess was JLK, a big player in the German underworld. If that was true, it could also mean the involvement of English, Spanish, or Russian undesirables.

How JLK fit into Peter’s problems was even less clear. Had the Office done something to piss the Germans off? If they had, Quinn hadn’t heard about it. Of course, as Peter was fond of pointing out, Office business was not Quinn’s business.

Quinn reached for his phone.

“Problems?” Peter asked.

Quinn stood at the window of his hotel room looking down on the square below, his phone pressed against his ear. “Other than the fact that I had to kill someone in my own living room and make an unscheduled trip out of town? No. Everything’s fine.”

“I didn’t realize killing people was something you were interested in.”

“It’s not,” Quinn said.

“Might open some new opportunities for you.”

“I’m not looking for new opportunities.” Quinn paused. “Duke contacted me.”

“Good. When are you leaving?”

“Who said I was going anywhere?”

Peter was silent for a moment. “I need you to do this for me.”

“I thought you were the one who told me to disappear,” Quinn said.

“Duke has evidence that the activity he’s seeing could be tied into the disruption. Into the attempt on your life.”

“Could be, Peter. Not is.”

Again silence. “It’s the best lead we’ve had.”

“Okay. Then send someone else.”

“I don’t have anyone else. You’re it.”

“And if I say no?” Quinn asked.

“Then Duke does it on his own. Which we both know means he’ll screw it up.”

“I guess you do have a problem.”

“Jesus, Quinn. If he’s right, this might be the only chance we get to find out who’s behind the attack. I need you to do this. I’m asking you as a favor to me.”

“I don’t do favors.”

“When you were first on your own, I hired you when no one else would even give you a chance,” Peter said, a layer of anger underlying his words. “I’ve made you a wealthy man. You owe me this much.”

Quinn closed his eyes. He could argue that Peter had continued to hire him because Quinn was the best at what he did, and that any wealth was a result of his talents. But Peter was right about giving Quinn his start, albeit at Durrie’s prodding. It just pissed Quinn off that he was playing that card.

“If I do go, you’re going to pay me for this,” Quinn finally said.

“I thought you might be interested in doing this gratis,” Peter said.

“That just cost you double.”

“Fine,” Peter said, as if he had expected it.

“I’m going to need a team, too.”

“Just get your resources together and get your ass to Berlin.”

The line went dead.

Quinn stared out the window for several minutes before he returned to his computer and woke it up. He opened the last e-mail from Duke, then hit Reply and wrote:

Quinn blind-copied Peter and Orlando on the message.

“You didn’t want to check with me first?” Orlando asked, irritated.

Quinn was still in his hotel room. Orlando had called him not ten minutes after he sent the e-mail to Duke.

“Hold on,” he said into his phone. “I’m not asking you to come. I don’t want you to come. I just need somebody else to know what’s going on.”

“Sometimes you’re a real asshole, Quinn.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You can’t do this alone,” she said.

“No kidding.” He was the irritated one now. “I’ve got Nate. I just need one more person.”

“Yeah. A tech.”

“So I’ll find a tech. There’s plenty of them around.”

The line was silent for a moment.

“I’m only going because Peter has no one else,” Quinn said.

“Right.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means maybe that’s one reason,” she said.

She was more right than he was willing to admit, so he changed the subject. “Have you got anything new for me?”

She paused. “Not yet.”

“Then let’s meet later tonight.”

“I won’t have anything for you until the morning.”

“Okay. We’ll meet for breakfast,” he said. “Your place? Seven-thirty?”

“Can we make it nine?” she asked.

“Nate and I are going to have to fly out sometime tomorrow. So earlier is better.”

“Okay. Fine,” she said, obviously not happy about it. Quinn was about to say goodbye when Orlando added, “I’ll also check around. See who’s available.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Yeah. I know.”

When Nate finally checked in, Quinn tasked him with picking up some supplies they would need for the next leg of their journey. Quinn then set himself in front of his computer with two goals in mind. First, he hoped to find someone to help him in Berlin, and second, he wanted to see if he could discover something that might help him figure out who wanted him dead. Unfortunately, he had no luck on either account.

When he finally gave up, night had fallen over Saigon. His legs ached and his eyes were strained from staring at the computer screen. Not surprisingly, he felt the need to get out of his room and clear his head.

He called Nate to see if he wanted to get a drink, but there was no answer. Probably off with his temporary girlfriend, Quinn thought.

If Orlando hadn’t stopped him, Quinn probably would have clamped down a little harder on Nate. No matter what, they were going to have to have another chat about relationships when this was all over.

But for the time being, it looked like he was on his own, so he headed out. In front of the hotel, he flagged down a taxi, then had to stop two more before finding a driver who spoke English. “Where to, mister?” the cabby asked as Quinn climbed in.

“A bar,” Quinn said.

“You look for girls? I know place.”

“No. Just somewhere to relax.”

“Okay, okay. No problem.”

The cab took off.

The first place the cabby took him looked like such a dump from the outside, Quinn didn’t even get out of the car. The next place wasn’t much better. Still, Quinn didn’t want to waste the whole night in the back of a cab.

The driver must have registered Quinn’s hesitation. “No, no. Not here,” the driver said. “I know better. Close to hotel. You like.”

They drove for fifteen minutes, then pulled up in front of another building. This one was on a darkened street a couple of blocks from the Saigon River. There were a dozen people standing outside, clustered around the front door. A mix of Vietnamese and foreigners. All were well dressed.

“Apocalypse Now,” the driver said. “Very popular.”

As Quinn got out, he noticed two more cabs pull up. Out of the first climbed a young Vietnamese couple. Out of the other came three boisterous Caucasian men. By their accents, Quinn identified them as Australians. At least the cabby appeared to be right about one thing: Apocalypse Now was a popular place.

There was a bouncer at the door, but he let Quinn in without a word. Being a foreigner meant money.

Inside, the place was packed, seventy percent Vietnamese, the rest a mix of other nationalities, but mostly Caucasian men. Music blared from somewhere, a song by the Gorillaz from a few years back, “Clint Eastwood.” There were tables and an open area for dancing. Quinn began working his way through the crowd toward the bar.

He was halfway there when someone placed a hand on his shoulder. Quinn turned.

“You speak English?” It was a young guy, white. Judging by his accent, either German or Dutch. The guy’s eyelids were heavy. Quinn guessed he’d been drinking for a while.

“Yeah?” Quinn answered.

“American, huh?”

Quinn said nothing.

“You need anything, man?”

Quinn shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Hash? Opium? I think I got some X left, too.” The guy began digging into a pocket.

“I’m fine,” Quinn repeated. He headed toward the bar.

“All right,” the drug dealer called out. “You need something, you know where I am.”

Quinn ordered a rum and Coke. Drink in hand, he turned back to study the room, unsatisfied. This wasn’t the scene he needed. What he wanted, he realized, was to be doing exactly what Nate was probably doing — sitting at the Mai 99 restaurant, drinking a Tiger beer and talking to the waitresses. That was Quinn’s comfort zone. A less intense atmosphere. Casual flirtation with women he didn’t know well. Relationships that would go nowhere. Nights spent alone back in his room. With a book. With the TV. With his computer. But with no warmth beside him. It was easier that way.

To his left, another foreigner, maybe six foot two and solidly built, was talking to a tiny Vietnamese woman. Girl, really. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. Quinn couldn’t hear what they were saying over the loud music, but he got the idea that a business deal was being discussed.

A moment later the woman kissed the man on the cheek, then walked off. The man straightened, a smirk on his face, then noticed Quinn looking his way.

“How’s it going, mate?” the man said. Australian. Quinn recognized him as one of the guys who’d arrived just after he had.

“Fine,” Quinn said.

“Didya get a load of her?”

Quinn nodded but said nothing.

“A real pro, that,” the man said. “Wanted a hundred fifty U.S. Hell, I could go to Phnom Penh and find a real looker who’d stay with me all week for less than a hundred and fifty. She’ll be back though. Unless she finds a newbie not clued into the local pricing structure.”

Quinn shook his head sympathetically. It wasn’t a conversation he had any real interest in. “Where you from?” the man asked.

“Canada,” Quinn said. “Vancouver.”

“To the Queen, then.” The man raised his beer, and Quinn tapped it with his own glass. “Leo Tucker,” the Aussie said. “That’s me.”

“Tony Johnson.”

“Here on business, Tony?”

Quinn nodded. “You?”

“Nah. Just checking out the action. The ladies here are fucking gorgeous, but they’re pricing themselves out of business. You here for long?”

“Leaving in the morning.”

“Too bad,” Tucker said. “There’s a private party tomorrow night. Hoping it’ll salvage my trip. A friend’s throwing it. Should be a lot of fun. Plenty of women to go around.”

Quinn professed his disappointment, then, feigning fatigue, he made his escape. As he stepped outside, he felt a momentary sense of relief. But it didn’t last long. Standing just outside the door was the drug dealer from inside. There was no one else around. Even the bouncer seemed to have disappeared. Quinn’s senses went on alert.

“Where you going, American?” the dealer asked.

“Home,” Quinn said.

“It’s early. Party’s just starting. You want some pot?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, thanks.”

There was a cab parked a block up the street. He began walking toward it.

But before he got very far, the dealer ran up and grabbed Quinn’s arm. Quinn turned, glaring.

“Hold on,” the dealer said. Metal flashed in his hand. A knife. “Let’s you and me go for a walk. Okay?”

Quinn turned quickly, grabbing the man’s arm with both hands and shoving him backward until he was pinned against the outside wall of the club.

The dealer cursed in surprise, obviously not expecting Quinn to react so quickly.

Quinn held on tight to the hand holding the knife. He knew he couldn’t let go. If he did, he’d end up on the sidewalk cut, bleeding, maybe even dead.

The dealer knew this, too. He began to punch at Quinn with his empty hand while trying to pull free the one holding the knife. Quinn rolled into him, offering only his back to the man’s blows. The dealer’s breaths quickened, each huff more vocal than the last as his frustration grew.

Quinn twisted the man’s wrist, trying to make him drop the knife. But the dealer’s grip was strong. Changing tactics, Quinn pulled away slightly, then slammed himself back into the man’s chest. He did it again. And again. The third time, he knocked the breath out of the dealer. Surprisingly, the asshole still wouldn’t let go of the knife.

As the man gasped for air, Quinn quickly looked around. There was an old pipe, maybe four inches thick, running up the side of the building only a few feet away. Quinn pulled the dealer toward it, then smashed the man’s wrist against the pipe over and over again.

Suddenly there was a crack and the man cried out in pain. The knife clattered to the ground. Quinn found it with his foot and kicked it as far away as possible before he let go of the man. He needn’t have bothered. The dealer slipped down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, cradling his arm in his lap.

“You son of a bitch,” the man said.

Quinn leaned down, grabbed the man by the hair, and pushed his head back until their eyes locked.

“When someone tells you no,” Quinn said, “you should listen.”

He let go of the man’s hair, then stood back up.

“What the hell?” a voice called out in English.

Footsteps. It was Leo Tucker. “You all right, mate?” Tucker asked when he reached Quinn.

“I’m fine.”

Tucker looked down at the writhing drug dealer on the ground. “Who the hell is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“I saw him take a swing at you.” Tucker nodded in admiration. “Good move.”

“He’s high. It wasn’t hard.”

In the distance, they could hear the sound of sirens.

“Christ,” Tucker said. “The last thing you need is to be messing with the police. Come on.”

Tucker started toward a cab that had just pulled up. Quinn had no desire to get involved with the local authorities, so he followed. Tucker opened the door for him.

“Thanks,” Quinn said. “I owe you.”

“Just get in,” Tucker said.

Quinn ducked inside.

“You’re going to have to scoot over,” Tucker said, leaning through the doorway.

“I appreciate your help, but I’ve got it from here.”

Then Quinn saw the pistol in Tucker’s hand. The Australian smiled, and Quinn slid over.