“No problem,” Geller replied.
“What’s going on?” one of the producers in the back asked.
Patty ignored him and said to Wendy, their graphic person, “We’re going to need a lower third.”
“Sure. What’s it need to say?”
“The reporter is Dewayne Beetner. Location-‘Outside Bucharest, Romania.’ ”
That caught Geller off guard. “Romania?”
As Patty nodded, the phone rang. She picked it up, listened for a moment, then said, “We go in thirty seconds.”
It didn’t matter that it was just after eleven p.m. Times Square was packed with tourists.
As always, the neon and video screens that lined the buildings lit up the area like it was day. Excited, beaming faces moved from one bright spot to another, taking in the wonder of a city most of them had probably never been to before. The only locals were those working-in the stores, at the carts along the street, in taxis.
Several television networks had giant video boards silently carrying their feeds. One such board was owned by Prime Cable News, also known as PCN.
Nate pulled the van to a stop at the curb, seventy-five feet from the building with the PCN monitor.
“Gentlemen, we’re going to be sorry to see you go,” Quinn said.
He nodded at Daeng, who cut the ties around the men’s ankles.
Orlando started to open the door.
“Wait,” Mila said.
They all knew they only had seconds before a cop approached and told them to keep moving, but Quinn motioned for Orlando to hold on.
Mila knelt down in front of the man who’d caused her to lose the life she used to have. “I want you to remember something, Mr. Mygatt. I want you to remember that Mila Voss is responsible for everything that has happened to you and will continue to happen to you. And if I could do more, I would.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t forget you,” Mygatt said.
“Good. Because you’re going to wish you could.”
She stood up and nodded at Orlando.
“It’s on the screen,” Nate called back. “My God, it’s really there.”
The door swung open.
Quinn and Daeng grabbed Olsen and Green first, shoving them outside, then together they pulled Mygatt to his feet.
“You’re through, Mr. Mygatt,” Quinn said. “I’m sure you don’t believe that now, but in a few seconds you’ll know I’m right.”
They threw him out of the van.
Before Quinn closed the door, he looked back at the three men in their bright orange jumpsuits as they tried to pull the bags off their heads. He could also see the PCN camera crew rushing toward them from half a block away. And the large screen that could be seen from almost anywhere in the square was broadcasting a live camera feed from “Outside Bucharest, Romania” that was focused on an aged and horribly thin Thomas Gorman.
“Go,” Quinn ordered as he shut the door. “We’re done.”
CHAPTER 43
Seldom was there a bigger story in an election year than the election itself. The Thomas Gorman scandal was going to be one of those exceptions.
His resurrection was littered with the bizarre. The facility he had been released from turned out to be an abandoned factory. PCN reporter Dewayne Beetner and his cameraman Zach Yates had searched the place themselves, finding absolutely no signs that it had been used at any point in the last decade. Wherever the prison was that Gorman said he had been held in, it wasn’t located in that building.
Strange occurrence number two happened at almost the same instant, half a world away in New York City. If a PCN crew hadn’t been assigned to do generic on-the-street interviews near the PCN monitor in Times Square, it was possible this second event would have been covered up. But the crew couldn’t help notice the three men in orange jumpsuits with black hoods on their heads being pushed out of a van. They had rushed over, and had been in time to see the men pull their hoods off moments before two SUVs screeched to a halt nearby. From inside, several men in dark suits jumped out and grabbed the three in orange. They quickly ushered them into their vehicles and drove away. But the faces of the men in jumpsuits had already been recorded, and within minutes producers at PCN identified them as former senator Mygatt, a high-ranking CIA operative named William Green, and another member of the intelligence community named Scott Olsen.
Even more interesting was that these were the same men implicated in a set of anonymously leaked documents, which included recorded phone conversations between the senator and Green that clearly showed they were responsible for Gorman’s faked death and incarceration.
Not surprisingly, before the sun had even risen the next day, both the current and former administrations publicly denounced the men, anxious to separate themselves from Mygatt and his associates’ grossly illegal actions.
Quinn and the others drove straight from New York to a safe house outside Philadelphia.
The next day a package arrived from Peter. In it were the contents of yet another new life for Mila.
When Quinn showed it to her, she looked less than enthusiastic.
“There might still be those loyal to Mygatt or Green who would want to take out their revenge on you,” he explained.
“I know,” she said. “I just hadn’t thought this far ahead.”
“You did the right thing, Mila.”
She held up the package. “And for that, this is my punishment.”
“Not a punishment. An opportunity. A chance to do something you wanted to do, perhaps.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Julien would have been proud of you.”
A smile touched her lips. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”
A few hours later, a car came to take Mila to her new life. Where and what that was going to be, Quinn and the others didn’t know. It was better that way.
They all gathered at the front door to see her off.
“Thank you,” she said. “All of you, for coming after me. I would have failed on my own.”
“You would have found a way,” Nate said.
“I don’t know about that.”
“We do,” Orlando told her.
Mila gave each of them a hug, saving the longest and last for Quinn.
“I’m sorry you were shot.”
“Part of the job.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to find me again.”
“If you need us to, we will.”
The day was sunny with only a few scattered clouds moving along the southern edge of the bright blue sky. The sound of the boat’s motor hummed as its propeller churned through the river.
As soon as the familiar dock came into view, Quinn could feel the release of the tension he’d been holding on to. In an odd way, it felt like he was coming home.
The scaffolding was still erected around the temple, and while he could see some work had been done, they were not nearly as far along as he’d thought they’d be.
No matter. It would get done eventually.
The engine died as the boat pulled against the dock.
“So this is it?” Orlando said.
“Sorry you came?” Quinn asked.
She smiled. “Not at all.”
“Please tell me they have Wi-Fi here,” Garrett said.
Quinn patted Orlando’s son on the shoulder. “Sorry, buddy. No Wi-Fi.”
“PlayStation?”
“No.”
“Wii? Xbox? They at least have cable, right?”
Quinn shook his head.
“Well…what am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find something.”
As they climbed out of the boat, three monks appeared at the end of the dock, smiling broadly. Both Quinn and Orlando gave them a deep wai.
“Welcome back, Khun Jonathan.”
“ Khob khun, krap,” Quinn said.
He took Orlando’s hand, put his other on Garrett’s back, and walked across the dock to the temple grounds.
“Thanks, Quinn,” the client said. “We’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
“Right. See you then.” Nate hung up.