The Cleaner

CHAPTER 28

Quinn found Internet access at a small coffee shop a couple of blocks from KaDeWe. The Mole’s promised picture of Henry Jansen was waiting for him. Quinn recognized the face in the picture immediately. Taggert and Jansen were indeed the same man. He spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get into the FTP site. He attempted variations on “Taggert” and “Jansen” and “virus.” He typed in the birthday that had been listed on his driver’s license, and “215 Yancy Lane”—the address of the house Taggert had stayed at in Colorado before it had burned down with him inside. He even tried “Campobello,” thinking for a moment that had to be it. But nothing worked.

Outside again, he called Peter.

“You either help now, or we’re done,” Quinn said.

“Is that a threat?” Peter asked.

“Absolutely.”

Peter didn’t say anything for a moment. “Do you remember four years ago?” he asked. “Montevideo.”

“Ramos,” Quinn said.

Ramos was a local politician who’d run afoul of a drug cartel. It was apparently in someone’s interests to help him out, so the Office was hired to assassinate the head of the cartel. Quinn made a few bodies disappear when things didn’t go as planned. “What about it?” Quinn asked.

“Your contact on the operation.”

Quinn thought for a moment. “Burroughs. Some kind of Agency or NSA guy, wasn’t he?”

“Something like that.”

“So?”

“He’ll have some answers for you,” Peter said.

“Where do I find him?”

“He’s working out of NATO headquarters.”

That gave Quinn pause. “In Brussels?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Maybe you’re just trying to set me up again,” Quinn said. “Couldn’t get me in Berlin, you’re taking another shot.”

“That’s up to you to decide.”

“Will you still be here when I get back?” Quinn asked.

He had returned to the abandoned store in Neukölln, stopping on the way to purchase a couple of sleeping bags, blow-up mattresses, and two lightweight folding chairs. Orlando was in the room where they’d spent the night, sitting on the floor and staring intently at the portable monitor. He told her about what the Mole had learned. He then wrote down the FTP site address and the user name on a piece of paper, in case she had the chance — or more accurately the inclination — to try her hand at getting in. Finally, he recounted his conversation with Peter.

“Will you?” he repeated.

“You’re kidding, right?” she said. “If I learn something that will help me get Garrett back, I’m not staying.”

“Even if it made more sense for us to act together?”

Her eyes turned steely. “We’re talking about my son,” she said. “Don’t you understand that? The moment there’s even a hint of where he is, I’m gone.”

Quinn crouched down and put a hand on her knee. “I do understand. I’m just saying he has a better chance if we go after him together.”

She stood up and started to walk out of the room.

“Orlando,” he said.

She stopped, but didn’t turn to look at him.

“Just wait here for me.”

Her breathing became deep and angry, but she didn’t say no.

He rented a car and drove southwest out of Berlin into the German countryside. The recent snowstorm had created a landscape of white, but the roads were clear and traffic was moving quickly.

As he drove, he worked out his plan for Brussels. No way Quinn could approach Burroughs directly. Though they’d worked on the same team in South America, Burroughs had made his contempt for freelancers clear. He was an arrogant asshole who seemed to think his position with the government made him somehow better than the “barely necessary scum” he was forced to associate with.

Then there was the whole Peter issue. If he’d gone bad, Quinn could be walking into another trap. So simply calling Burroughs ahead to set up a meeting was out.

But that was fine. There were ways around the problem.

After midnight, Quinn left the car in a parking garage in downtown Frankfurt. He hailed a taxi and had it take him to a hotel near the airport. Prior to going to his room, he used the twenty-four-hour business center on the hotel’s first floor to check his e-mail.

Quinn accessed his primary e-mail account. There was only one message in the in-box. There were two files attached, both jpegs. He clicked to open the first one.

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tensed.

It was a picture of Nate. He was sitting in a metal chair, tied in place. His face was battered, his eyes half open. Propped up on his lap was a copy of the International Herald. It was that morning’s edition. An old technique, but still effective. It was proof of life, conveying that, as of that morning, Nate was still alive.

Afraid of what the second file might reveal, but knowing he had to look, he opened it. It was a picture of Garrett. But unlike Nate, the boy appeared unharmed. The image was a profile shot of Garrett sitting on a carpeted floor, eyes glued to a cartoon playing on a large TV. The room he was in was not familiar to Quinn. It was definitely not taken in one of the rooms at Orlando’s apartment. In fact, it didn’t look like Vietnam at all.

Beyond Garrett was a window, its curtain pulled open. Through it, Quinn could see another building not far away. The roof of the neighboring building was covered with snow. And then there was the sky. Heavy, gray, and cloudy. If Quinn were to venture a guess, a particularly German sky.

But maybe that’s what the sender wanted him to think. Faking a picture these days was easy. Give a halfway decent computer artist a copy of Photoshop and he could have put Garrett almost anywhere.

Of course it wasn’t really the setting that mattered. It was the message that both the picture of Garrett and the one of Nate represented: “Don’t fuck with us.”

Still, if the picture hadn’t been faked, there was always the possibility someone could narrow down the location. The chances were slim, but it was worth checking. Quinn opened a new message, attached the picture, then wrote:

He sent it to the Mole, then downloaded each picture to his memory stick.

He caught an 8:00 a.m. flight to Brussels. That was the easy part. Getting to Burroughs was still the challenge. What Quinn needed was a conduit. Someone Burroughs could trust, or if not trust, at least not suspect of doing something out of the ordinary. Quinn knew just the man to help him out.

Finding Kenneth Murray’s flat was not difficult. A simple hack job using a computer at an Internet café to break into the NATO personnel records and obtain Murray’s home address was all it took.

Quinn located the flat, then found a quiet café and enjoyed a leisurely lunch. Having left his gun in Berlin, he spent an hour in the afternoon securing a firearm from one of his local contacts. Once he was rearmed, there was nothing else to do. So he took a cab to Murray’s apartment and let himself in.

It appeared as though Murray were living alone again. His second wife, a Flemish woman named Ingeborg, had left him several years before. Soon after, a Turkish secretary who worked at NATO had moved in. But there was no sign of her presence now.

The flat had a definite male feel. The living room was dominated by a large television. Murray liked sports, that much Quinn remembered. American sports, football and baseball mainly. Along the other walls were shelves and bookcases. Souvenirs of Murray’s many postings shared space with rows of books, few of which Murray had probably read. The great philosophers section. The historical section. The sensitive man section. Each designed to impress, whether it be a coworker, a boss, or a date.

Quinn moved into the kitchen. It was neat and organized. Not surprisingly, the refrigerator was all but empty. A bottle of chardonnay, cream for coffee. No food. Murray was one of those types who ate every meal out.

Down the hallway, on the other side of the living room, were two bedrooms. The larger contained a double bed, a black lacquer dresser, and an elaborate stereo cabinet that housed a top-of-the-line audio system.

The other room was a home office complete with desk, computer, printer, and scanner. Murray’s private lair and, apparently, a room he never shared with anyone. Neatness here was no longer necessary. Stacks of papers, files, and books everywhere.

Quinn thought about switching on the computer and getting onto the net so he could make another attempt at the FTP site, but there was a good chance someone somewhere monitored Murray’s surfing activities. Murray wasn’t the most important man at NATO, but he was important enough to draw interest from several different directions.

Quinn returned to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of wine, then carried it into the living room. He found the remote and switched on the TV.

No sense being bored all afternoon, he thought as he settled down in one of Murray’s chairs.

Kenneth Murray returned home at ten minutes past eight that evening. His hairline had receded a bit since Quinn had seen him last, but otherwise he was the same old Murray, blessed with one of those faces that blended easily into crowds. Not too tall, not too short. He was the perfect go-between man.

Half an hour earlier, Quinn had turned off the TV. He was sitting in the darkened living room, finishing off a second glass of wine, when the door opened. At first, Murray didn’t notice Quinn as he entered the flat and turned on the light. Humming softly to himself, he placed his keys in a ceramic bowl on a stand next to the door, then turned toward his living room.

“Working late?” Quinn asked.

Murray slammed back against the door in surprise. He sucked in air, trying to catch his breath. “Who the hell are you?”

“It hasn’t been that long, has it, Ken?”

Murray’s eyes grew wide. “Quinn.”

“How are you doing?”

On two prior jobs, Murray had served as a secondary contact for Quinn. On each occasion they had met only once: the first time during a soccer game in Ostend, the second time over dinner in a café near Murray’s previous apartment. Murray had struck Quinn as the nervous type. All talk when it came to impressing the women, but little substance when it came to any real action.

Somehow he had gotten it into his mind that Quinn killed people for a living. Quinn had decided not to set him straight. Both times they met, Murray had seemed to want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“What are you doing here?” Murray asked.

“I thought maybe we could have a chat.”

Murray’s eyes darted toward the kitchen, then toward the back hall. “Are you alone?”

“For the moment.”

The reply did little to ease the tension in Murray’s face. “What do you want to talk about?”

Quinn casually stood up. As he did so, Murray backed away a few feet along the wall. “Please, Ken. What do you think’s going on here?” Quinn asked. “Do you think I want to hurt you?”

“I don’t know what you want to do,” Murray said. “But I’m pretty familiar with what you can do.”

“We’re on the same side, buddy. I just came to talk.” Quinn nodded toward the couch. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a glass of wine. Okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“It’ll help you relax.”

Quinn waited until Murray broke away from the wall and sat down. “See?” said Quinn. “That wasn’t so hard.”

He walked into the kitchen and pulled the bottle of wine out of the refrigerator. From an overhead cupboard he removed a wineglass and carried it and the bottle into the living room. He sat back down in the chair he’d been in when Murray arrived and poured a generous amount of wine into the glass.

“Here.” He held it out to Murray. “It’s good. I’ve had some myself.”

Murray took the glass. With only the slightest hesitation, he raised it to his lips and took a big gulp.

“Better?” Quinn asked, as he sat back down.

Murray nodded slightly. “Are you going to tell me what you want now?”

“Just talk.”

“That’s it?”

“That depends on the talk.”

Murray took another drink. “Are you here to kill me?”

“I don’t kill people. Not unless I really need to.” Quinn cocked his head. “Is there a reason I should need to?”

Murray shook his head vigorously. “No.”

“Okay, then. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Murray relaxed a little more. “You know,” he said, still with an undertone of nervousness, “you really scared the shit out of me.”

Quinn remained silent.

“I mean, I thought maybe you were a burglar or something.”

Quinn still said nothing.

“I’m glad you’re not.”

“I’m glad I’m not, too.”

“So.” Murray gave him a weak smile. “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“Somebody who works at NATO. He probably came on recently.”

“What’s his name?”

“Burroughs.”

“Mark Burroughs?” Murray asked, eyes widening.

“I take it you know him.”

“I can’t help you,” Murray said quickly.

“That’s disappointing.”

“Burroughs is into a lot of heavy stuff here. He’s untouchable. I’ve been able to steer clear of him, and I really don’t want to change that.”

Quinn leaned close, his face only a few feet from Murray’s. “And I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell anyone about that little incident in Lisbon you told me about.” Reflexively, Murray recoiled. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Murray closed his eyes. “Goddamn it, Quinn. Why the hell did you have to pick me?”

Quinn smiled. “Because I knew I could count on you.”

After several phone calls, Murray learned that Burroughs was having dinner at Duquois, a small upscale restaurant downtown. “There,” Murray said after he wrote the restaurant’s address down and handed it to Quinn. “Have a nice talk.”

“I think you may have misunderstood something, Ken,” Quinn said. “You’re coming with me.”

“No, I’m not,” Murray said.

Quinn smiled. “Yes. You are.”