The Enraged

CHAPTER 23

Not long after Orlando had fallen back asleep, Liz had come into the room and offered to stay for a while so Quinn could freshen up and get something to eat. Once she promised to call him if Orlando woke again, Quinn allowed himself to leave.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, he went to the small cafeteria and took a table in the corner, where he could work on Orlando’s laptop without anyone looking over his shoulder.

The problem was, Orlando had dozens of different decrypting programs. He’d gone through as many as he could the night before, looking for any that mentioned a code called Hansell IV, but had struck out.

For the first thirty minutes he sat in the cafeteria, he was having more of the same lousy luck. Then he opened a program called Juniper Lemon 23. What the title meant, he had no idea, but under the selection menu was the option: HANSELL IV.

When a nurse at a nearby table looked over, he realized he must have grunted in triumph, so he smiled his apologies. She returned a disapproving scowl, but turned back to her meal and seemed to forget he was there.

He imported the first image he’d taken of the microfilm into the program and clicked the START button. As the computer was doing its thing, Nate entered the cafeteria and joined him.

“Still at it, huh?” Nate said as he sat down.

“Think I might have it this time,” Quinn told him.

“Really?”

Though the program was still processing, Quinn turned it so Nate could see the screen, too. A status bar lay across the center of a white page, the progress marked as the bar filled with red. The bar disappeared when the red hit the end, and a finished image took its place.

“Uh, not sure that’s right,” Nate said.

“Stow it,” Quinn told him.

While the image was no longer rows of what appeared to be randomly placed black squares, it was not a readable document, either. The decrypting had produced a few places where words could be teased out—“play,” “window,” and “might” were the easiest — but most were still indecipherable blobs.

There must have been a wrong setting, or—

Protocol is base seven.

“I’m an idiot,” Quinn whispered to himself.

“Well, if we’re taking a poll…” Nate said.

“One more word and I’ll put you back in that hospital bed permanently.”

Quinn opened the program’s options, searching for a place to input the correct protocol, but nothing looked right.

“You want me to try?” Nate asked.

“You think you could do better?”

“I was thinking maybe a fresh pair of eyes? You know.”

Quinn scooted the laptop in front of Nate. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

Nate had just begun to hunt around when Quinn’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out, thinking maybe Orlando had woken up. But the caller ID read:

What the hell? UNKNOWN was not something that usually appeared. Thanks to some software additions Orlando had installed, Quinn’s, Nate’s, and Daeng’s phones were able to read every number that came in, even if it was blocked by more than the standard phone company setup.

“Who is it?” Nate asked.

Quinn showed him the screen.

“I didn’t think that was possible,” Nate said.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“You going to answer?”

Quinn shook his head, and pushed the button sending the call to voice mail, sure that the person on the other end wouldn’t leave a message. After a few seconds, the phone began vibrating again with another call.

This time, he sent it to voice mail right away.

“Same again?” Nate asked.

Quinn nodded. Ten seconds later, UNKNOWN called for the third time. He considered sending the call away again, but he was curious now.

“Who is this?” he said, his voice low and emotionless.

“I did not…want…to call you, but…I…have no choice.”

Though it had been a few years since he’d heard the voice, Quinn immediately recognized the halting pattern and electronic monotone. It was one of Orlando’s sources. A guy, or maybe a girl, who went by the name the Mole. The last time Quinn had talked to him was when Orlando went missing in Berlin and Durrie reappeared.

“What do you mean, you have no choice?”

“I tried to call…Orlando…but she…has not answered and…I don’t…have a lot of…time. I need to talk…to…her.”

“Well, you can’t right now,” Quinn said.

“Where is she?”

“Unavailable.”

Silence for several seconds. “Is she…dead?”

Though the Mole’s monotone made the question sound detached, Quinn sensed concern.

“No, but she’s not exactly doing great right now, either.”

Another pause. “I need…to talk…to her.”

“I told you, you can’t. If you need to talk, you can talk to me.”

“I need…to talk…to her.” Before Quinn could repeat his response, the Mole added, “This is very…important…deadly important. I need to talk…to Orlando.” Desperate, almost pleading now.

“I don’t even know if she’s awake.”

“Please…please can you check?”

Against his better judgment, Quinn said, “Call me back in five minutes,” and hung up without waiting for an answer.