“So if the townhouse is out, what now?” Daeng asked.
“Maybe we’ve been looking at this wrong,” Quinn said. “Perhaps Peter’s message isn’t a password at all.”
“Then what?” Misty asked. “If it’s some kind of secret message, how do we decode it?”
“Do you have it with you?”
“It’s in the bag with the files.” She looked around, apparently not remembering where she left it.
“I’ll get it,” Daeng said, standing.
He made a quick trip to the couch, and returned with a cloth shopping bag that he and Misty must have picked up somewhere.
“Thanks,” she said as he handed it to her.
She rooted around inside, then started pulling the files out and setting them on the table until she finally found the envelope. Removing the card, she placed it between her and Quinn.
He read the first line again.
Y7(29g)85KL/24
“It doesn’t look like any code I’m familiar with,” Misty said after studying the note for a moment.
Most codes were not easy to identify, but there were ones that employed unique character usages or patterns that could tip off someone in the know. Unfortunately, nothing was clicking for Quinn, either. Who he really needed to give this to was Orlando. She’d know how to figure it out. But she was not an option, so he pushed the idea out of his mind before thoughts of her could consume him again.
As he looked away from the note, his gaze fell on the stack of folders. He picked one up and asked, “Any chance there might be something useful in these that he might have wanted us to find?”
Misty took the folder from him. “These numbers on the side.” She turned it so both Quinn and Daeng could see what she was talking about. There was a nine-digit, alpha-numeric sequence running vertically up the edge. “It’s a project number. It’s how we tracked everything.” She ran a finger quickly down the other files. “They all have them, which means these are all old mission files.”
She opened the file she was holding and scanned the top document. Looking like she’d read something unexpected, she put the file down, and grabbed the next one off the stack. Another quick scan, and another new file. She kept up the routine and worked her way through the entire group.
“I know these files,” she said as she laid the last one down.
“You put them together, didn’t you?” Quinn said.
“Three of them, yes. The others are before my time, but that’s not what I mean.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“Peter always kept these files close. They’re all jobs where something went wrong. Someone died or was severely injured, compromising the mission. He said they were to remind him of his failures so that he wouldn’t repeat them.”
“How far back do they go?”
“Seventeen years.”
“Seventeen? That’s a long time. I know the Office had a pretty good track record, but there must’ve been more than just seven failures.”
“A lot more. But these were the ones he said stuck with him the most.” She looked at the files. “There used to be eight, though.”
“One’s missing?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what it is?”
Misty hesitated, obviously not wanting to answer.
“Misty. If it’s important, we need to know.”
“It’s not important. It was…personal. Not a job like these.” She fell silent for a second. “It was letters from his wife, and a few pictures. That’s all.” Each word seemed to cause her pain, like she was divulging a secret she had no right to share. “I’m sure after he brought everything home from the Office, he just kept it someplace else. There would have been no reason to store it with the job files at that point. I was used to seeing them all together, that’s all.”
Quinn felt embarrassed for forcing her to share a glimpse into Peter’s personal life, but he had to ask, “Why would that be among his failure files?”
She seemed lost in a memory for a moment. “He always thought Miranda deserved more than he gave her, and after she died, he never had the chance to do better.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, looking more tired than ever.
Quinn put a hand on her back and gently rubbed her shoulder. “It’s been a full day. Maybe it’s time to get some rest.”
She nodded and opened her eyes. “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Rising out of the chair, she started to put the files back in the bag. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.”
Quinn barely heard the last part. There was something about the files that caught in his mind, pulling at a memory, a thought.
Once Misty stuffed the last one in, she turned for the stairs. “Good night.”
She was nearly across the room when Quinn said, “Hold on.”
The files. It had been one of the Office’s job files that helped Quinn figure out what had happened to Peter, Nate, and the others Romero kidnapped. Misty had found the information for him. Only it hadn’t been a physical file, but a digital one. She had found it in…
“The Office archive,” he said. “You accessed it from Peter’s place?”
She shook her head. “It’s not located there.”
“Where is it?”
Again, she looked uncomfortable, the secrets she’d promised to keep fighting against desire to help. “It’s…it’s hidden in—” She stopped and gaped at him. “My God. You’re thinking that’s it, aren’t you? It didn’t even dawn on me.”
“I’m not saying that’s it. I’m just saying that we should at least see if Peter’s message works on it.” He stood up. “Maybe there’s a computer here. We can check right—”
“We can’t,” she said. “Peter was the only one who could log on remotely.”
“So we have to go where it’s stored?”
“Yes. But they won’t be open until the morning.”
Quinn’s brows furrowed. “Open? Where did Peter store it?”
“Library of Congress.”
CHAPTER 9
Nate woke in a sweat. It wasn’t the first time. In fact, since getting off Duran Island, he seemed to always wake up drenched.
It was his dream, the same one every night. He was back on the island, racing through the jungle, looking for a way out of the tangled mess. But the vines and bushes and trees seemed to go on forever, trapping him more times than not, and twisting around his arms and legs to keep him from moving onward.
He would yank and rip at the plants holding him in place. Sometimes he would get an arm free or even a leg, but invariably he would wake up with a start, not having been able to break away.
In the real world, the world of the hospital room where he slept, his sheets would be soiled from his imaginary flight, the top one often pushed to the foot of the bed, or wrapped around his waist or legs.
Usually, he’d find Liz sleeping in the chair a few feet away, unaware of his ordeal due to her own exhaustion, but even in the semi-darkness he could see tonight the chair was empty.
Careful not to pull too much at the welts across his back, he turned so he could check the clock on the nightstand.
Eleven seventeen p.m.
Liz should have been there. She was always in the room by ten at the latest.
He glanced at the bathroom, thinking maybe she was using the toilet, but the door was open and the room beyond was even darker than the one he was in.
Where was she?
His condition was not one that required being hooked up to an IV or a pulse monitor or an oxygen tube, which was good, given how active he’d become in his sleep. Surely he would have ripped any needle right out of his arm the very first night. He swung out of bed and hopped over to the closet. As he’d hoped, his prosthetic leg was inside. Once it was fitted in place, he went over to the door and pulled it open.