He used more napkins and water to clean off his torso, then opened the duffel bag. The sweater was on top. He removed it and pulled it over his head.
A few minutes later, Nate said, “There it is.”
Quinn looked out the front window. Two blocks ahead was the St. Martin Hotel. There were police everywhere, and traffic was starting to slow to a crawl.
“Turn here,” Quinn said. “See if we can get around back.”
“How are we supposed to get in?” Nate asked. “There’s too much security.”
“Just turn,” Quinn said.
Nate turned and drove for a few blocks before turning left again. The traffic was still slow, but it was moving.
“You really think Dahl brought the boxes here?” Nate asked.
“It’s his only option,” Quinn said. “Otherwise the plan is dead.”
“They could take them directly to Bosnia,” Nate countered. “Maximum effect that way.”
“And the maximum chance HFA would be blamed for the attack. Release the bug here and they can expect a few ancillary outbreaks would occur in Bosniak populations outside of the Balkans. Even if bioterrorism is suspected, the finger would point at a much wider group of potential suspects.”
“But Jansen said the virus won’t just infect the Bosniaks,” Nate said.
“We know that,” Orlando said. “But they still think they’ve created the perfect weapon.”
“Dahl must be getting paid a hell of a lot of money to make this happen,” Nate said.
“I’m sure he is,” Orlando said.
Quinn pulled back slightly. There was more to it than just the money, he knew. He realized he’d been avoiding the subject since Nate had picked them up. But he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Only as he started to speak, he couldn’t find words to make it sound real. Finally he looked at Orlando. “Do you still have your pictures of Garrett?”
She looked surprised, one hand unconsciously moving toward the pocket of her coat. “Yes. Why?”
“Can I see them?”
Still perplexed, she reached into the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out the small plastic wallet insert. She started to pull one of the pictures out.
“No,” Quinn said. “Give me the whole thing.”
Reluctantly, she handed it over.
In total, there were three pictures of Garrett: two recent, the third from when he was a baby. But it was the fourth picture in the miniature album that interested Quinn.
He removed the picture and held it over the seat toward Nate.
“Look at this,” he said.
“Eh…I’m driving,” Nate said.
“What are you doing?” Orlando asked.
“Just glance at it,” Quinn said to Nate.
Nate took the picture in his right hand, then held it up near his face, his eyes still on the road. After a moment, he glanced down. But instead of taking a quick look, his eyes remained riveted on the photo.
“That’s enough,” Quinn said, tapping him on the shoulder.
“Son of a bitch,” Nate said as he handed the photo back.
“What?” Orlando asked.
“That’s him,” Nate said.
“That’s who?” Orlando was beginning to sound angry.
“The guy I saw when they had me locked up in that hotel room. The older guy.” Nate looked quickly back at Orlando, then shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror so he could look at Quinn. “Is that Dahl?”
Quinn held the photo out to Orlando, but she didn’t take it. He knew she was well aware who was in the picture.
“I saw him, too,” Quinn said. “He was in the BMW.”
“That’s not possible,” she said, disbelief on her face.
Quinn locked his eyes on Orlando’s. “He’s not dead.”
“Bullshit. You saw him die. You gave me his ashes.”
“I know.” Quinn turned to Nate. “You’re sure this is the man you saw?”
“Yeah,” Nate said. “Maybe a little older now, but that’s definitely him. Who is he?”
“Nate’s never seen his picture before,” Quinn said to Orlando. “Maybe you don’t believe me, but Nate’s got no reason to lie.”
“It can’t be,” she said. Only now her voice conveyed more stunned disbelief than defiant anger.
“Think about it,” Quinn said. “Why would anyone else take Garrett?”
“But Piper’s Dahl,” Orlando said, looking for a flaw. “He’s the one who had Garrett kidnapped. He’s the one who has been trying to kill you. You saw Piper, not Durrie. Right? That has to be it. You made a mistake. The explosion messed up your head.”
“Durrie?” Nate said, confused.
Quinn shook his head. “Piper’s not Dahl. Durrie’s Dahl. I don’t think Piper has anything to do with this,” he said. “Leo Tucker was Durrie’s connection in Vietnam. Not Piper. He probably made you when he was following Nate and me. But he never told his old boss. Only Durrie, because he knew Durrie would be extremely interested.”
Orlando fell silent.
“Turn here,” Quinn said to Nate.
A moment later they were nearing the hotel again, only this time on the other side of the building from the main entrance.
The hotel took up an entire city block. While the architecture of the building led Quinn to believe it had been built recently, great pains had obviously been taken to have the building’s design complement those of the older stone buildings around it.
“Look for a delivery area,” Quinn said.
“We’ll still have a problem with security,” Nate said.
“Maybe.”
Nate steered the sedan past another public entrance, less ostentatious than the front, but no less busy. Apparently all the hotel’s non-conference guests were being directed to it. An army of bellhops stood outside the door, a different one peeling off each time a taxi pulled up. And while there were several police officers around, they seemed to only be observing the crowds, not stopping anyone.
“He wouldn’t enter through there,” Quinn said. “Not with the boxes.”
His eyes scanned ahead. Suddenly he pointed.
“That’s it.”
There was a large opening in the building, big enough for a delivery truck. A sign mounted to the wall indicated it was the entrance for deliveries and employee parking. There were two more police officers standing just inside the entrance. They were dressed warmly in long overcoats and gloves.
“Turn in there,” Quinn said. “But don’t stop until you are all the way inside. Let the cops walk up to you.” He looked up at the rearview mirror, his eyes momentarily meeting Nate’s. “You’re going to have to help me take them.”
“Kill them?” Nate said, sounding surprised and horrified.
“I’m hoping we can avoid that.”
Nate got into the center lane and slowed down to a stop. He waited until the oncoming traffic had cleared, then turned into the entrance of the garage. One of the police officers held up his hand for Nate to stop, but he continued on past them for several car lengths before bringing the car to a halt. They were far enough inside that no one on the street would pay them any attention.
“Get out and distract them,” Quinn said.
As the cops started walking toward them, Nate opened his door and got out.
“Sorry about that,” he said in English. “I didn’t see you at first.” He paused. “You do speak English, don’t you?”
Quinn slid across the back seat and reached for the passenger-side door.
“I’ll go,” Orlando said, her face taut.
“You don’t have to. I can handle this.”
“I’ll go.”
Without another word, she opened her door and got out. Quinn watched as she walked around to the back of the car, joining Nate and the cops. Quinn swiveled so he could see out the back window.
Nate had maneuvered the two police officers so that they stood behind the trunk, their backs to the car. Quinn could only hear muffled voices, nothing specific, but he did see the gun suddenly appear in Orlando’s hand. The cops froze, both apparently smart enough to know not to reach for their own weapons.