Brett Battles - The Silenced

Quinn took a moment, knowing he was about to break his most important taboo. “My personal life may have been… compromised.”

It took a second, then Nate said, “Oh, God. How far back?”

“All the way,” Quinn said.

Nate digested the information, then asked, “Is that why we’re in Paris and not London?”

Again, Quinn hesitated. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex he’d honed over many years. Finally, he nodded. “You remember a couple of weeks ago, when I was out of town?”

“Sure.”

“I was attending my father’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I had no idea.”

“How could you? I didn’t tell you.”

“I really am sorry.”

“We weren’t close,” Quinn said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So the funeral has something to do with us being here?”

“Only in the sense that you need to know about it.”

Again, Nate looked confused.

“You’re going to meet someone who was there, and if she mentions it I don’t want you to be surprised.”

“All right. That makes sense. Who is it?”

“Her name is Liz,” Quinn said. “She’s… my sister.”

Nate stared at Quinn, surprised.

“She’s studying at the Sorbonne,” Quinn explained. “We’re here because she might be in danger. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He paused. “But to do that, I need your help.”

Nate didn’t even hesitate. “Whatever you need, I’m there.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anyone else you’re worried about?”

Quinn hesitated. Again, this was sacred ground. But he had no choice. “My mother. Orlando’s with her right now.”

“Whoa,” Nate said, shaking his head. It was a lot to take in. But like the professional he’d become, he seemed to quickly adjust and move on. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure yet. Liz and I, we aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”

“I sense a pattern. Does your mother hate you, too?”

Quinn shot him a withering look.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s complicated,” Quinn said. “And no, my mother doesn’t hate me.”

“Well, that’ll save you some therapy at least… Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that either.”

In the distance, the old man who had been watching the birds started walking down the path toward their bench. His gait was slow, almost a shuffle.

“Does your sister know what you do?” Nate asked.

“Of course not,” Quinn said. “Wait. Does anyone in your past know what you do?”

“No.”

“I’m serious, Nate. Have you told anyone what you do? Have you even hinted about it?”

“No. No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. And how did this suddenly become about me?”

Quinn leaned back, duly chastened. Nate was right. He’d momentarily channeled his anxiety into the possibility that his apprentice had screwed up.

“Liz thinks I’m in the international banking business. My mother thinks so, too.”

Nate had heard Quinn use the cover with other civilians in the past. “At least you can use that to explain why you’re in town.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said.

After a moment, Nate asked, “What’s Orlando setting up for your mom?”

Quinn explained the plan he and Orlando had worked out.

“When did you call your mom?”

“When we were waiting for the plane in Newark.”

“She go for it?” Nate asked.

“She didn’t say no. Secretly, I think she’s probably happy to have company. It’s been less than a month since she lost her husband.”

The old man had advanced down the path, but was still out of earshot. Quinn gave him a glance, then turned back to Nate.

“So what’s the plan?” Nate asked. “Are we just going to keep an eye on her?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Do you know what Liz’s living situation is?” Nate asked.

Quinn nodded.

“Does she have any roommates?”

“No.”

“So only a one-bedroom apartment.”

“Yes.”

“I assume she has a couch,” Nate said.

“Of course she has a couch.”

“Then why can’t we do a variation on what Orlando’s doing with your mom? You introduce me as a friend who needs a place to stay for a little while. I can crash on her couch and watch the inside. You can get someone to help you watch the perimeter. Done and done.”

The old man moved into hearing range, so Quinn and Nate fell silent.

Quinn used the quiet to think Nate’s idea through. Would it work? It would depend on whether Liz would even talk to him or not. Their less-than-quality time at their father’s funeral tended to make him think the odds were against it. He tried to come up with another option, some other way of getting someone close to her for protection. But nothing came.

In front of them, the old man stopped on the path and stared in their direction.

“C’est mon banc,” the old man said.

“Pardon?” Nate asked.

“C’est mon banc. Vous devez bouger,” he said, waving his hands at them to get off the bench.

“Je suis desole. Nous ne savions pas,” Nate apologized.

He and Quinn got up. Even before they started to walk away, the old man pushed past them and sat down.

“C’est mon banc,” he repeated.

“I guess he really likes that bench,” Nate said as he and Quinn walked toward the gate.

“He just wants to control his world,” Quinn said, painfully aware he was attempting to do the same thing.

“So what are we going to do?” Nate asked.

“Your idea is good. We’ll work with that.”

“Okay,” Nate said. “Then I guess there’s one more thing I need to know.”

“What’s that?” Quinn asked.

“What’s your real name?”

Quinn tensed. It was the final box that he’d left closed. The one he had thought he would never have to open.

“It’s Jake,” he said. “Jake Oliver.”

Petra and Mikhail arrived in London AT 9:15 p.m. Once in the terminal, Mikhail located a pay phone and made a quick call.

“It’s all arranged,” he told Petra. “An apartment in Bayswater.”

“Good,” was all Petra could manage to say. She didn’t think she’d ever been as exhausted as she was at that moment.

They took the Underground into the city, and before they had even gone two stops, she was slumped in her seat, asleep. At Earl’s Court, Mikhail woke her so they could switch trains, and woke her again when they reached Bayswater.

“Let me take your bag,” he said.

She yanked it away from his hand. “I’m fine.”

Being Russian in London had its advantages. The city was teeming with their former countrymen. The Russian community was large, and very connected. The use of the apartment was courtesy of one of Mikhail’s distant cousins. It was in a tired-looking building on the second floor. A fine layer of dust covered the floors and the windowsills. With the exception of two thin mattresses, a couple of plastic chairs, and a folding table, the place was empty.

Sleep was what Petra wanted, but she knew she needed to check in with Stepka first. So while Mikhail ran out to pick up some food, she called Moscow.

“Anything?” she asked.

“I’ve narrowed it down to three groups,” he said. “All in London. But I think that’s as far as I can get from here.”

“Who are they?” she asked.

“A group called CM8 run by a guy named Leon Currie. And another headed by an ops runner named David Wills.”

“And the third one?”

“That’s kind of tricky.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears to be associated with British intelligence.”