The Enraged

CHAPTER 8

Quinn reached M Street moments before the eastbound number-thirty-two bus pulled up to the stop. He hopped on board and paid the fare. The bus was about a third full, most of the passengers concentrated in the front few rows, while a huddle of teenagers claimed the back. Quinn grabbed a seat in a relatively empty section near the middle, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Howard.

“Hello?” Howard said.

“Steve, it’s Quinn. I know you’re still on your job, but do you have a moment?”

“Sure. Just sitting around, waiting. You know how it is. What’s up?”

“I have a location problem.”

“How can I help?”

Howard made his home in Virginia right outside DC, so if anyone had an intimate knowledge of the area, he would.

Once Quinn had filled him in on what had happened and what he was looking for, Howard said, “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let me check and call you back.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

After he hung up, Quinn checked in with Daeng.

“Everything’s okay?”

“We’ve repositioned,” Daeng said.

Quinn leaned forward. “Was there a problem?”

“Hold on.” Something moved over the phone, a hand probably. Quinn could hear Daeng’s muffled voice, indistinct as he talked to Misty. Some movement, and finally Daeng again, now in a whisper. “Misty was getting a little anxious being so close to Peter’s place. We were careful. Nobody saw us.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside the Dupont Circle Metro station.”

“Don’t go in,” Quinn said. There would be security cameras everywhere. Whoever sent the watchers might’ve also had access to the video feeds.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Just melt into the background for a little bit. I’m arranging for someplace we can meet up. Once it’s set I’ll call you back.”

“Will do.”

The bus was on H Street, passing the White House, when Quinn’s phone rang again.

“I have an address for you,” Howard said.

“I take it you read the e-mail,” Griffin said.

“I would have rather not,” Morten replied. From the sound of his voice, Griffin knew his boss was using his speakerphone. “This is bullshit.”

Griffin had sent Morten the message five minutes earlier. Attached to it was a preliminary report from O & O concerning a break-in that afternoon at Peter’s apartment. Most disturbing was that the trio who’d been there had escaped.

“How did this get screwed up?” Morten went on. “It should have been simple. Or am I not reading this right?”

“You’re reading this right,” Griffin said. It should have been simple. If he had been there with Darvot’s team, the intruders would either be in a detention cell or dead.

“So they’ve just disappeared?” Morten said. “That’s it? That is unacceptable.”

“I haven’t lost faith that they’ll be found.”

Morten snorted. “You think O & O is going to find them?”

“I’m also putting some other feelers out.”

“Not our people,” Morten said quickly. “The less this can be tied to us, the better.”

“No, not our people,” Griffin said, though if the results of the search continued to be unsatisfactory, that would have to change.

The line went quiet for a moment.

“Okay. Good,” Morten said. “Find out who these intruders are.”

“We will.”

“Keep me updated,” his boss said, then clicked off.

The house Howard arranged for Quinn and the others to use was on the Virginia side of the Potomac, in an area known as Arlington Ridge. It was one of over a hundred single-family, brick homes in the area. Being an old neighborhood, the trees and bushes were tall and wide, all but obscuring the house.

The home’s interior could be best described as spartan. The large living room was furnished with four folding chairs, a table, a single couch, and an undersized TV. The kitchen was stocked with enough dishes, glasses, and silverware for four people to eat one meal, and just enough pots and pans to make it. Food-wise, there were some dry stores in the pantry, but that was about it.

The second-floor bedrooms were equally underwhelming, each of the three smaller bedrooms boasting dual sets of adult-sized bunk beds, while the master was outfitted with a fourth pair. Sheets and blankets were in the bedroom closets, while towels were stacked on the bathroom counter.

The place was a way station, a safe house. Who owned it? Quinn didn’t know, nor did he want to. Howard had vouched for the place. That’s all that mattered.

Quinn arrived twenty minutes before Daeng and Misty. From an upstairs window, he saw their taxi drop them off half a block away and across the street. He headed back to the first floor, and waited until they reached the front steps before he opened the door.

Misty looked shell-shocked and exhausted, her nervous eyes rimmed with red, while Daeng looked like he always did, relaxed and slightly amused.

They let Misty have a few minutes to freshen up as best she could, and then gathered around the living-room table. It was story time first — Quinn recounting his escape and subsequent attempt to question one of the watchers, followed by Daeng describing his and Misty’s efforts to avoid detection.

“So if the townhouse is out, what now?” Daeng asked.

“Maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong,” Quinn said. “Perhaps Peter’s message isn’t a password at all.”

“Then what?” Misty asked. “If it’s some kind of secret message, how do we decode it?”

“Do you have it with you?”

“It’s in the bag with the files.” She looked around, apparently not remembering where she left it.

“I’ll get it,” Daeng said, standing.

He made a quick trip to the couch, and returned with a cloth shopping bag that he and Misty must have picked up somewhere.

“Thanks,” she said as he handed it to her.

She rooted around inside, then started pulling the files out and setting them on the table until she finally found the envelope. Removing the card, she placed it between her and Quinn.

He read the first line again.

“It doesn’t look like any code I’m familiar with,” Misty said after studying the note for a moment.

Most codes were not easy to identify, but there were ones that employed unique character usages or patterns that could tip off someone in the know. Unfortunately, nothing was clicking for Quinn, either. Who he really needed to give this to was Orlando. She’d know how to figure it out. But she was not an option, so he pushed the idea out of his mind before thoughts of her could consume him again.

As he looked away from the note, his gaze fell on the stack of folders. He picked one up and asked, “Any chance there might be something useful in these that he might have wanted us to find?”

Misty took the folder from him. “These numbers on the side.” She turned it so both Quinn and Daeng could see what she was talking about. There was a nine-digit, alpha-numeric sequence running vertically up the edge. “It’s a project number. It’s how we tracked everything.” She ran a finger quickly down the other files. “They all have them, which means these are all old mission files.”

She opened the file she was holding and scanned the top document. Looking like she’d read something unexpected, she put the file down, and grabbed the next one off the stack. Another quick scan, and another new file. She kept up the routine and worked her way through the entire group.

“I know these files,” she said as she laid the last one down.

“You put them together, didn’t you?” Quinn said.

“Three of them, yes. The others are before my time, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Peter always kept these files close. They’re all jobs where something went wrong. Someone died or was severely injured, compromising the mission. He said they were to remind him of his failures so that he wouldn’t repeat them.”

“How far back do they go?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Seventeen? That’s a long time. I know the Office had a pretty good track record, but there must’ve been more than just seven failures.”

“A lot more. But these were the ones he said stuck with him the most.” She looked at the files. “There used to be eight, though.”

“One’s missing?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what it is?”

Misty hesitated, obviously not wanting to answer.

“Misty. If it’s important, we need to know.”

“It’s not important. It was…personal. Not a job like these.” She fell silent for a second. “It was letters from his wife, and a few pictures. That’s all.” Each word seemed to cause her pain, like she was divulging a secret she had no right to share. “I’m sure after he brought everything home from the Office, he just kept it someplace else. There would have been no reason to store it with the job files at that point. I was used to seeing them all together, that’s all.”

Quinn felt embarrassed for forcing her to share a glimpse into Peter’s personal life, but he had to ask, “Why would that be among his failure files?”

She seemed lost in a memory for a moment. “He always thought Miranda deserved more than he gave her, and after she died, he never had the chance to do better.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, looking more tired than ever.

Quinn put a hand on her back and gently rubbed her shoulder. “It’s been a full day. Maybe it’s time to get some rest.”

She nodded and opened her eyes. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Rising out of the chair, she started to put the files back in the bag. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.”

Quinn barely heard the last part. There was something about the files that caught in his mind, pulling at a memory, a thought.

Once Misty stuffed the last one in, she turned for the stairs. “Good night.”

She was nearly across the room when Quinn said, “Hold on.”

The files. It had been one of the Office’s job files that helped Quinn figure out what had happened to Peter, Nate, and the others Romero kidnapped. Misty had found the information for him. Only it hadn’t been a physical file, but a digital one. She had found it in…

“The Office archive,” he said. “You accessed it from Peter’s place?”

She shook her head. “It’s not located there.”

“Where is it?”

Again, she looked uncomfortable, the secrets she’d promised to keep fighting against desire to help. “It’s…it’s hidden in—” She stopped and gaped at him. “My God. You’re thinking that’s it, aren’t you? It didn’t even dawn on me.”

“I’m not saying that’s it. I’m just saying that we should at least see if Peter’s message works on it.” He stood up. “Maybe there’s a computer here. We can check right—”

“We can’t,” she said. “Peter was the only one who could log on remotely.”

“So we have to go where it’s stored?”

“Yes. But they won’t be open until the morning.”

Quinn’s brows furrowed. “Open? Where did Peter store it?”

“Library of Congress.”