Brett Battles - The Destroyed

The woman looked embarrassed. Quinn couldn’t tell whether it was because she regretted her relationship with Julien, or because she didn’t want that to color Quinn’s professional opinion of her.

“Julien, please,” she said. She patted him a few times on his ribs, and pulled out from under his arm. “We talked about this, remember?”

“What?” he asked, then his smile faltered a bit. “Quinn’s different. He’s not going to care.”

She sighed.

“Okay, okay,” Julien said. “ Je suis desole.” He looked at Quinn. “Some things are apparently better left unsaid.”

“I’m going to have to agree with you on that,” Quinn said.

“Let’s start again, d’accord? Jonathan, this is Mila Voss. Courier extraordinaire. Mila, this is the legendary Jonathan Quinn.”

She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You, too,” Quinn said. “Now, if you guys don’t mind, maybe we can get this handoff taken care of and get the hell out of here.”

“Of course,” Mila said.

“I have a great idea,” Julien said. “Quinn and I are going to grab a late dinner after this. Maybe you can join us?”

Quinn was about to tell Julien that was a bad idea when Mila said, “Thank you, but I’ve been instructed to deliver this without delay. Maybe some other time.”

The Frenchman looked disappointed.

“Sure,” Quinn said quickly. “Some other time.” From his pocket, he pulled out the envelope he had put the microfilm into, and gave it to her. “That’s it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll, uh, just be on my way. It was good to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”

“Just Quinn is fine. Good to meet you, too, Mila.”

She gave Julien another hug. “Be safe, okay?” She hesitated before adding, “I still worry about you.”

“No need to ever worry about me. I will live forever. I worry about you.”

She hit him on the arm as she pulled away. “Find a good woman and settle down. That’s what you need to do.”

“Is that an offer?”

She shook her head and laughed to herself as she walked away.

Once she disappeared around the corner, Quinn said, “You’re still in love with her.”

“I’ll always be in love with her,” Julien replied wistfully. Then, in a tone of recharged energy, said, “I will always be in love with any woman who shares my bed. Why would I invite them there otherwise?”

Quinn saw right through the lie of the second part, but he could tell the first was one hundred percent true.

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

Mila’s hair was now black. Technically, it was the wig that was black, but she’d learned many years ago that to really sell a disguise, you had to make it your own- be a woman with black hair, in this case.

She was dressed in a conservative gray business suit, and carried over her shoulder a brown leather briefcase. Tinted glasses helped hide her still youthful face, and high heels made her seem taller than she was.

She had taken the Victoria line of London’s Underground from Oxford Circus all the way out to Tottenham Hale. From there she transferred to a regular passenger train out to Waltham Cross Station, and then grabbed a cab into neighboring Waltham Abbey.

It was early yet, only ten thirty, and while many of the shops were already open on Sun Street near the old church, the shoppers had yet to show up in any kind of numbers.

As she walked down the middle of the walking street, she could feel the eyes of those in the stores looking out at her, wondering who she might be. That was fine. It didn’t matter if they remembered the black-haired businesswoman who looked like a lawyer or stockbroker or some other high-powered type. She wouldn’t be that person for long.

Her destination was a half block before the end of the street, a small suite of offices on the upper floor of a building, above a pub called Sir David. The door to the offices was off to the side, allowing the pub to have as much front real estate as possible. There was no sign next to the door, nothing to indicate what kind of business was beyond. There was only a cream-colored plastic box with a speaker on top and a button on the bottom that Mila pushed.

The speaker crackled to life.

“Yes?” a male voice said.

“I have an appointment,” Mila replied, her voice low so that it wouldn’t carry down the street.

“Ms. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“One moment.”

As the speaker went dead, the front door lock clicked. She grabbed the handle and pulled it open. Carpeted stairs rose through a narrow, dingy passageway to another door at the top. Just before she reached it, it opened.

“Come in,” the man standing on the other side said.

She covered her hesitation with a smile. The information she’d uncovered in Stockholm had been right. It was him.

The six years since she’d last seen him had not been particularly kind to the man. He looked older, much older, and favored a hip as he backed out of the way so she could enter. She had expected some change, of course. According to what she’d learned, he’d been forced out of the business because he’d contracted lung cancer, and while surgery and chemotherapy treatments had put it into remission, it was obvious his illness had taken a huge toll on him.

“I assume you’re Mr. Johnston,” she said.

“I am. Please, this way.”

She sensed no recognition in his eyes, but given her disguise and the fact that she supposedly died just hours after the only time they had ever met, it wasn’t surprising.

He led her through two rooms, stuffed with old books in boxes and on shelves, to an office at the back.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, motioning to the guest chair in front of the desk. “Would you like some tea?”

His English accent amused her. It was good, but she knew he was as American as she was.

“Not right now, thank you,” she said as she sat.

“You won’t mind if I have some, I hope.”

“Not at all.”

Johnston walked over to a hot plate on a cabinet in the corner, and picked up the teakettle. Once he’d filled a cup, he carried it back to the desk, stirring constantly, and sat down in his stuffed leather desk chair.

“You’re right on time, Ms. Carter. I appreciate that.”

“Time is not something to be wasted.”

“Very true.” He smiled and took a tentative sip of tea.

“In the interest of time, perhaps we can get right to business? You said you had one of the books on my list.”

“I do.”

He stood again, and used a key to unlock a nearby cabinet.

If he’d actually figured out who she was, this was the moment he’d make his move, and retrieve not a book but something more lethal. She slipped her hand into her shoulder bag, encircling the grip of the pistol inside, and pointed it at the retired spy.

Since his body blocked her view, she couldn’t tell what was in his hand until he turned around. At the sight of the book, she released her gun.

He set the Steinbeck on the desk in front of her. On the worn dust jacket was printed The Grapes of Wrath and the author’s name. Below this was a faded illustration of a man in overalls looking down into a valley at several trucks heading, presumably, to California.

“Viking Press first US edition, 1939. I’m lucky enough to have two copies, but this is the one in the best condition.”

“Good.” She pretended to examine the book. “And the others on the list?”

“I have leads on the Maugham and two of the Greenes. Perhaps next week. The Hemingway is proving to be more difficult than I expected.”

She shrugged. “No matter. It’s not the books that are important.”

The man looked at her for a moment. “Pardon? I must have misunderstood you.”