The captain lit another cigarette and gave a vigorous nod, ecstatic at being able to communicate with his new guest. He motioned for Quinn to follow him to the foredeck and the captain’s quarters. He gave a sweeping motion of his arms and pointed inside, repeating Quinn’s sleep gesture. Quinn said thank you and ducked inside.
Surely the nicest accommodations on the ship, they smelled of fishy mildew and whiskey — but Quinn didn’t care. He fell into the hard berth, pulling his jacket tight around his neck for warmth against the cold metal bulkhead inches from his back. Resting his face against the leather satchel to protect it from the greasy blanket, he let the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull push him into a welcome unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 36
Lee McKeon walked his Bichon Frise puppy in the backyard of the governor’s estate as he talked. His advisors had told him he needed a dog to help him look all-American. It seemed to him that a freakishly tall Pakistani man dragging a fluffy dog along the grass looked anything but American. But his approval rating had gone up when the photos were leaked to the press.
“I haven’t heard anything yet,” the governor said, trying not to trip over the leash as the stupid animal ran around him in circles. “There have been no reports.”
“Be patient, my friend,” Qasim Ranjhani said on the other end of the line. He paused as if checking a clock. “A few hours at the most. It will be in the news by then. I assure you.”
CHAPTER 37
August Bowen left the meeting with Veronica Garcia with more questions than he had answers. For starters, he couldn’t understand why a man with a woman like the strong and curvaceous Latina would still be bothering with his ex-wife.
There was little doubt that Garcia would have lied to protect Quinn if she’d had any information, he but felt pretty certain Quinn hadn’t contacted her since the shooting. She had an ache of betrayal in her eyes that was hard to fake, but Bowen recognized Quinn’s recent lack of communications was his way of shielding her.
Gunnery Sergeant Thibodaux had been tougher to read, answering most every question with another question. He was good natured and congenial enough but as impenetrable as a concrete wall.
By the time Bowen pulled off the quiet, tree-lined residential street into Emiko Miyagi’s long circular driveway, he knew only that Quinn’s friends cared little about what aiding a wanted fugitive would do to their respective careers. They had all, no doubt, spilled blood together. Bowen could see it in their eyes. It was a look he knew all too well.
He left the file in the car, keeping both hands free as he walked up to the front door of the colonial red brick home that was supposed to be Emiko Miyagi’s address. A chilly wind had kicked up from the north, swaying the high crowns of the big sycamores along the driveway and whistling through the boxwood shrubs that surrounded the house. Bowen shivered, as much from the feeling in his gut as from the cold.
Years in federal law enforcement and two deployments on active duty with the Army had given him the ability to smell spy games — and this whole deal reeked of it. So far, he had an unknown Asian sniper shooting at an OSI agent who had an encrypted phone — whose personnel file had vanished — teamed up with a decorated Marine and a beautiful Latina who had wanted to meet near the CIA’s training facility at Camp Peary. Oh, yeah, this was definitely spy games. He preferred head-on, out-in-the-open law enforcement to all the sneaking around and intrigue.
Bowen rang the doorbell, counted to ten, and listened for footsteps. He rang it again. Still nothing. The backyard, which looked to be the size of some British castle estate, had a ten-foot stone wall running all the way around it. He rattled the gate. Locked.
He was just about to give in to the thought of climbing over, when the BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket.
“This is August,” he said, stepping back to consider what it would take to leap up on the fence. He hadn’t quite given up on the idea.
“Gus,” Geoff Barker said. His voice was antsy, as if about to pop with news. “You’re not gonna believe what I’ve found.”
“Let me have it,” Bowen said, trying a nearby ash tree to see if it would bend enough to get him on top of the wall.
“Dude, this phone has some seriously good tech,” Barker said. “Real cutting-edge shit. They don’t just hand this out to everyone, if you know what I mean.”
“Funny,” Bowen said. “I’ve come to the same conclusion.”
“Well, considering that is the case,” Barker continued, “I figured if this Miyagi woman is involved in the same line of work, she’s too smart to leave much in the way of a call record on her number. I checked it out anyway and was right. There was nothing outgoing. I mean she doesn’t even order pizza unencrypted.”
Bowen peered through a tiny crack between the curtain and frame of a side window. The inside hall was bare polished pine, orderly and clean. There were few decorations but for a wooden stand on which sat a Japanese sword.
“This lady doesn’t seem like the pizza ordering kind,” Bowen mumbled into the phone, half to himself.
“You know she had to make some calls,” Barker said. “But she was smart enough, or at least had the right tech to wipe them.”
“Okay,” Bowen groaned. He paced the fence line, looking for some way through.
“But get this,” Barker said. “I figured her friends may not be so savvy in tradecraft so I went back three years. In all that time, there’s a record of only one incoming call from Japan.”
“Can you get subscriber info?”
“Dude.” Barker scoffed. “Have faith. I told you I had contacts with the Japanese National Police. It’s already done. Number comes back to Ayako Shimizu in Fukuoka, Japan. According to my buddy, Ms. Shimizu is a fairly successful hooker who plies her wares near Hakata Harbor.”
“That’s where he’s going,” Bowen said. “A prostitute would hear everything that was going on in her area. If Quinn’s looking for information in Japan, Shimizu would be a good place to start.”
“That’s where I’d be,” the other deputy said.
“You think you can get your friend to arrange a contact for me with the police over there? I’ll call AD Nelson and see if he’ll let me take a road trip.”
“Sure,” Baker said. “I’m on it. You speak Japanese?”
“Yeah, right.” Bowen laughed. “There’s a big need for Asian languages in Kalispell, Montana. I’ll do what I always do when I book someone in who doesn’t speak English. I’ll speak louder and slooowwwwer.” He matched his volume and speed to the words.
“Yeah,” Baker said. “Tell me how that works out for you.”
“Come on,” Bowen said, turning to go back to his car. “We’ll be brother lawmen. We should all speak the same language. Right?”
“Hmmm,” Baker groaned. “I’ll see if they can find you someone who speaks English.”
“We have a photo of Shimizu anywhere?”
“Coming your way, brother,” Baker said. “Be careful, though. She looks like she could carve out your liver and fry your cojones up as a side dish.”
CHAPTER 38
Quinn woke to the sound of feet running back and forth on deck. Large winches fore and aft groaned and squealed, playing out heavy line as big as a man’s wrist as they made ready to offload and load cargo. Gruff voices barked orders in Japanese and Korean.
Quinn swung his feet off the edge of the cramped berth and sat up, rubbing the effects of exhausted sleep from his eyes. He was angry with himself for sleeping so deeply for so long. His plan had been to be ready to step off the boat as it came even with the pier. There was no way to know when Customs might pay a visit — and he wanted to be gone when they did.