The Collected

CHAPTER 43

Puerto Rico

It was after midnight by the time they landed in Puerto Rico. Earlier, while waiting for their connecting flight in Mexico City, Quinn had made a call to an associate living on the US territory. As arranged, Veronique Lucas was waiting for them when they exited the terminal.

“This way,” she said, leading them across a suspension bridge to a Suburban waiting in the nearby parking structure.

Orlando, in the backseat with Daeng, broke out her laptop as they drove away from the airport, and set to work on some items she and Quinn had discussed on the flight. Since most of their trip had been over water, her ability to log on midair had been greatly reduced.

Quinn was sitting up front next to Veronique. “Any problems pulling things together?” he asked.

“Had to sub a few items, but think you’ll be happy. Otherwise I took care of everything you wanted.”

“Thanks, Vee.”

“Is this something you need an extra hand on? If so, I’ve got some time.”

“I think we’re good. But if that changes, I’ll let you know.”

They drove through the sleeping city of San Juan, then west along the northern coast of the island. Quinn took advantage of the time to work his way through the Romero file. After a while he heard Orlando close her laptop. The look she gave him when he glanced back said she’d learned something she needed to tell him, but they both knew it was best not to say anything in front of Veronique. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust her. It was just always better to keep the information contained.

After forty minutes, Veronique turned down a two-lane road, followed it for a couple of miles, then pulled into the parking area for a small, private airfield. There was no terminal or control tower, just a runway with the appropriate strips of lighting for night operations, a cemented area for planes to park, and a windsock.

Tonight, there was also a Gulfstream G500 jet sitting there, ready and waiting.

The first thing Quinn did when they got out was to pull Orlando to the side. “Change of destination?”

“No,” she said.

“All right. Give me the rest once we’re settled.”

Veronique led them toward the plane.

“Crew?” Quinn asked.

“Two,” she told him. “Gogan’s the pilot; Unger, co. I’ve used them a lot. They’ll do what you need and not ask questions. You’ll be happy.”

Veronique’s word was good enough for Quinn. She’d always been buttoned up, and he knew she wouldn’t tolerate underperformers.

The intros were brief. Once done, Veronique held out her hand.

“I owe you a martini,” Quinn said as they shook.

“Just one?”

“Maybe two.”

She smiled. “Good luck.” She said goodbye to the others, turned, and headed back to her car.

While Orlando, Daeng, and Liz were strapping in, Quinn told Gogan where he wanted to go, then joined his team in the back.

As soon as the wheels left the ground, Orlando said, “Javier Romero was a very powerful man in Isla de Cervantes. It’s not a large place, but its strategic location has meant a lot of money flowing in. Officially, the island is neutral, but unofficially the US Navy has used it for years as an alternate port when needed. Romero’s family has owned most of the harbor since the 1800s. That was all fine and good when he stuck to business.”

“But he didn’t,” Quinn said.

“No.”

“Let me guess. Politics.”

“Right on one. And you want to guess who he chose for a mentor?”

“Surprise me.”

“Hugo Chavez.”

“Great,” Quinn said, meaning anything but.

Chavez was the egomaniacal, anti-anything-that-didn’t-promote-him leader of Venezuela. A man who had basically made himself president for life despite the occasional election, and who relished seeing others follow in his footsteps, as long as they remembered he was the one giving them the hand up.

“At Chavez’s urging, Romero decided to make a run for president. Some of the polls even had him comfortably ahead. How reliable they were, who knows? But apparently just the thought of him winning was something that couldn’t be tolerated.”

“Hence the termination order. CIA?”

“Not exactly, though I’m sure our intelligence community helped guide the decision.”

“Who, then?”

“Basically from what I can tell, an unofficial subcommittee of the Organization of American States.”

The OAS was made up of representatives from North America, South America, and the Caribbean. Their stated mission was one of supporting other member nations in areas such as human rights and democracy. Assassination, Quinn was sure, wasn’t on their official list of good deeds.

“So they’re the ones who hired Peter?” he asked.

“That’s what it looks like.” She hesitated, like there was something more.

“What is it?” he prodded.

“I, um, played a hunch. I’m not sure if it means anything, but the body on Nate’s last job-Senator Lopez-he was serving in the Mexican delegation to the OAS four years ago.”

Quinn felt a familiar burn at the base of his neck. “As what?”

“Special envoy for the president of Mexico.”

“Isn’t that what the Mexican representative to the OAS is supposed to be?”

“One would assume.”

“What were Lopez’s duties?”

“The few places I was able to check had no information. I’ve put out some discreet feelers, so maybe something will come back. But I don’t think it matters.”

“Why not?”

“When I found out about Lopez’s tie to the OAS, I checked around to see if there were any other OAS or former OAS personnel missing or recently dead. I focused on people who would have access to the highest levels of their government.” She paused. “I found three others for sure, all whose bodies have turned up in the last three weeks-a former ambassador in Chile, an economics expert in Brazil, and member of the Canadian parliament. There could be more, but it seemed unnecessary to keep searching.”

If Orlando’s theory was right, each was a member of a secret council of death who passed judgment on Romero, and then hired the Office to carry out the termination. That in and of itself was not surprising. They wouldn’t have been any different than the clients on most of the other jobs Quinn had worked on over the years, but the fact that members of that council were now being eliminated was unusual. Especially when you took into account the kidnappings-or worse-of the people they’d hired.

“Any idea who’s behind it?” he asked. “Could it be some of Romero’s former colleagues carrying out revenge on those responsible for their friend’s death?”

“Well, there’s no actual proof Romero did die.”

Quinn stared at her, wide-eyed. “Wait. What?”

“He was shot and severely injured, but he wasn’t killed outright.”

“Are you saying he’s still alive?”

“I’m saying I don’t know for sure. There were reports for a while about surgeries and hospital vigils. Then the election went on without him, and eventually he was no longer in the news.”

Quinn leaned back in his chair. “Peter’s notation in the file. The complication.” Another thought clicked in his mind. “Curson. He would have been the shooter.”

“Right. And since this was probably pretty high-profile, not fulfilling his mission wouldn’t have gone down well.”

“That’s why he was blackballed. Has to be. And that’s what Peter was noting. The screwup.” He glanced over at her again. “No follow-ups with Romero? No ‘victim goes home to die’ or ‘miraculous recovery’?”

“Nothing. Zero. No reports at all.”

“Come on. Someone had to be keeping tabs on him.”

“Maybe, but it’s a small country, remember? While the international press shined its light in the island’s direction for a little while after the assassination attempt, as soon as a bigger story came along somewhere else, they were gone.”

“What about the local press?”

“State controlled. Not all democracies are created equal.”

“What about the Office? If they failed the first time, Peter must have sent a second team in.”

“I checked the file. Though it doesn’t say anything about Romero surviving, there’s a notation on one of the log sheets of a second team being put together after the date of the initial job. But the mission was apparently cancelled before the team could leave.”

“By who?”

“Client.”

“My guess is that if Romero didn’t die, he was messed up enough that the committee that ordered his hit lost the taste for blood.”

That must have pissed Peter off, Quinn thought. But as annoying as it might have been, Peter would have been hesitant to counter the people who had paid him.

So, Romero alive. An extremely ego-driven politician with designs on ruling for life permanently derailed. It sounded like more than enough motive for revenge.

“Here’s another little tidbit for you,” Orlando said. “David Harris is a former freelance soldier who did a lot of mercenary work in Africa and South America. Not always on the side our government would like.”

“He’s politically motivated?”

She shook her head. “The person I heard from said he never gave a damn what someone believed. If the paycheck was big enough, that’s all that mattered. Said that as he got older, he branched out a bit, and eventually hooked up with Romero through some of Chavez’s contacts.”

“So, is Harris working for Romero to honor Romero’s memory?” Quinn asked.

“I don’t think this guy would honor anyone’s memory but his own.”

“Romero’s alive, then.”

“That would be my guess.”

“Any leads on Harris’s location?”

“Nothing yet, but if we find one, I have a feeling we’ll find the other.”

Quinn nodded. It was exactly what he was thinking.

They landed at St. Renard International Airport, Isla de Cervantes’s main entry point just outside the capital city of Cordoba, at three a.m.

After their conversation at the start of the flight, Orlando had taken a nap while Quinn sat silently, his eyes closed, but his mind unable to shut down. Romero, with the apparent help of Harris, had been having the members of the OAS committee who’d sentenced him to death killed, but the members of the ops team-at least in Nate’s and Peter’s cases-they’d kidnapped. Why the difference?

He considered the possibility that each was taken to someplace quiet where a bullet was put in their skull, but that didn’t make sense. Peter was removed from his home, where he’d apparently been in bed. Why waste time dragging him out of the building, and possibly exposing themselves, instead of terminating him on the spot?

Of course. Romero wanted to be present as each member of the ops team was put to death. It was the only theory that rang true, and it also lent more credence to Quinn and Orlando’s belief the man was still alive.

What about Nate? Now that he’d most likely been taken to Romero, were they already too late to save him?

As soon as the question entered his mind, he pushed it away. What-ifs like that could derail them. He needed to stay focused. They would find Nate.

They’d find him alive.

To do that, though, they needed to find Romero and Harris. And to find someone, you started at their last known location. Romero’s public trail had gone cold a little more than three years earlier, at the Isla de Cervantes hospital where he was treated for his wounds.

That’s where they would start.

As the plane taxied from the runway to the area reserved for private aircraft, Quinn got out of his seat and turned so he could talk to everyone at once.

“We need to track Romero down fast.”

“If he’s still alive,” Daeng said.

“He is,” Quinn said. “I’m sure of it.”

“How do we find him?” Liz asked.

Quinn looked at his sister. “Orlando and I are going to pay a visit to the hospital where he was last treated, and see what we can turn up. You’re going to stay here with Daeng.”

Liz didn’t look happy. Before she could argue the point, Orlando said, “He’s right, Liz. We need to keep a low profile. The more people, the more chance we’ll be discovered.”

“I can wait in the car,” Liz said.

“True,” Quinn said. “But what will you say when a security guard comes out and asks what you’re doing? It’s the middle of the night. People don’t just sit in their cars.”

She looked at her brother, her fear for Nate written on her face, but then she nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, I…just…”

Quinn reached over and touched her hand. “We’re going to find him. Don’t worry.”

Liz tried to smile, but failed. “I know.”

Two Customs and Immigration officials met them in the parking area and processed their documents. Once that was done, Daeng and Liz headed back into the plane with the two pilots, while Quinn and Orlando hitched a ride with the C amp;I guys back to the main terminal.

On the road, in front of the passenger arrival area, were two taxis, both drivers asleep in their seats. Quinn and Orlando woke the man in the first cab as they climbed in, and had him take them to Cristo de los Milagros Hospital, where Romero had been treated.

By American standards, the place was small for being the main medical facility in the biggest city in the country. Of course, size was relative. Cordoba only had thirty-five thousand residents, while the island as a whole boasted somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred and seven thousand. When viewed that way, the two-story structure that wasn’t much larger than a grocery store back home was undoubtedly more than adequate for the people it served.

They had the cabbie drop them off at the entrance to the parking lot, then took a quick, wide walk around the entire place.

“CCTV,” Orlando said, pointing out the closed-circuit security cameras as she spotted them.

Using the camera function on his phone, Quinn zoomed in to get a better look. “Reycons. Y23s,” he said, citing the make and model.

They were decent enough, but not top of the line. Using his knowledge of their specs, he picked out a blind spot that would get them right up to the hospital next to a nondescript side door without being seen.

They walked across a parking area, not deviating from the path, and reached the side of the building without incident. By the look of things, the door was used by hospital personnel in search of a smoke break. Butts littered the ground, and the aroma of stale tobacco and smoke lingered in the air.

Before leaving the plane, Quinn and Orlando had equipped themselves with some of the items Veronique had loaded onto the aircraft at their request. Quinn removed a set of lock picks from his pocket, and seconds later had the door unlocked.

Orlando ran a handheld scanner along the door, checking for an alarm. It vibrated once near the top. She hit a few buttons, put the scanner back over the spot, and held it there until the vibration stopped. Once she gave Quinn a nod, he opened the door.

The hallway they entered was well lit and deserted.

“That one,” Orlando whispered, pointing at a door just ahead on the right.

From the name plaque mounted on it, it was clear that on the other side they’d find an office. And where there was an office, there would be a computer.

Quinn picked the lock and then shut the door after they were both inside. The room was cramped but neat-books on shelves on both sides, and a desk in the middle with the hoped-for workstation.

While Orlando delved into the hospital’s network, Quinn perused the books. They were mostly medical text, a mix of Spanish and English. There were also several binders specific to the hospital-guidelines, standard procedures, employee handbook, and a facility directory.

After several minutes, Orlando sat back, her eyes still focused on the screen. “I need to get to another computer. This one’s blocked.”

“If this one’s blocked, won’t they all be?”

She paused. “I should be able to get around it in IT.”

Getting them into an empty office in the middle of the night was one thing. Sneaking into the hospital’s main computer room was something else entirely. While there wouldn’t be a full staff on duty at this time, someone would be around in case any problems came up.

Quinn snatched the facility directory off the bookshelf. Inside was a map, followed by pages listing names and extension numbers by department. He first located the computer room. It was on the same floor, but clear on the other side of the building. He pulled the map out of the binder, and found the page with the extensions for the IT department and one listing all hospital department heads. He removed them also.

“Here,” he said, showing her the map. “This is where you want to be.” He gave her a moment to memorize it. “What’s the extension here?”

She looked at the phone. “425.”

“I’ll scope it out and clear the way, then call you.”

He turned for the door.

“Hey,” she said, stopping him.

He looked back as she stood up and came around the desk.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said. She pulled his head down and kissed him.

When she finally backed away, he said, “We haven’t been doing enough of that lately.”

“You’re telling me.” She gave him a playful smirk. “Now go do your job. I’ll give you another one when we get out of here.”

“Always nice to have a little motivation.”