The Unknown Read online

  “I won’t. I’m sure we’ll be back before then.”

  “Good.”

  By the time Orlando’s car arrived, Mrs. Vo had packed the spring rolls and sandwich into two food containers and put them in a well-used paper bag for Orlando to carry.

  Orlando gave her a hug and went out to her ride.

  “You like peanut butter sandwiches?” she asked the driver as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Uh, sure.”

  She leaned forward and put the container with the sandwich on the passenger seat. “All yours.”

  The spring rolls, on the other hand, she kept.

  Chapter Six

  SWITZERLAND

  Quinn and Kincaid reached the outskirts of Zurich as the sun was setting and made their way toward Ferber-Rae’s headquarters. A light dusting of snow lay over most everything, though the roads were clear.

  Misty had been trying to get ahold of Stefan Ferber all day, but he’d apparently been bogged down in meetings. She’d said she’d tried to convey the urgency of her call, but wasn’t about to share with his underlings the reason she needed to speak to him, so she was still waiting for Ferber to call back. It looked like it was up to Quinn to get the man’s attention.

  “What’s that?” Kincaid asked as they neared their destination.

  Ahead, rising above the buildings, was a yellowish shimmer.

  Before Quinn could answer, a fire truck with lights flashing turned onto the road ahead of them and raced toward the glow.

  Quinn glanced at the GPS map on the dash. The location of Ferber-Rae’s headquarters appeared to be extremely close to the truck’s destination.

  About four hundred meters in front of them, he spotted a police barricade spanning the street.

  “I don’t like this,” Kincaid said.

  Quinn turned onto a side road and parked at the curb.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “No way. I want to know what’s going on.”

  Quinn locked eyes with him. “You’re only here because of me. Remember that. We do things the way I say we do them, or you can go to the airport and head back to the States right now. Your call.”

  Kincaid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ll stay.”

  “Smart.”

  Quinn exited the car, pulled on his overcoat, and walked back to the main road.

  One of the officers manning the barricade stepped forward as Quinn neared. “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t go through this way.”

  Quinn pulled out his Interpol ID. “Senior Inspector Schwartz, Interpol. I believe I’m expected.”

  “One moment.”

  The officer walked over and conferred with an older colleague, who then approached Quinn.

  “May I see your ID, please?” the man said.

  Quinn handed it to him.

  The older officer moved a few meters away and spoke into a walkie-talkie.

  “Interpol?” someone on the other end of the radio said. “What does he want?”

  “He said he’s expected.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  Quinn caught the police officer’s attention. “Tell him I’m on the terrorist task force. And that he can call my supervisor if he has any questions.”

  The officer relayed the information.

  “I don’t have time to—” A pause, then, “Send him in. Straight to me.”

  The officer returned and handed Quinn his ID. “Go down to the end of the block and turn right. You’ll find Major Mettler on the right side, at the command station.”

  “Thank you.”

  Quinn squeezed through a break in the barricade and followed the officer’s directions. When he rounded the corner, the answer to what had caused the glow sat before him.

  Across the intersection, at the end of the next block, the entire facade of the corner building lay in piles on the road, while flames licked out of what remained of the structure. The very same building that had served as Ferber-Rae’s headquarters.

  “Son of a bitch,” Quinn muttered.

  An explosion. Nothing else could have done this kind of damage.

  Given the type of work Ferber-Rae was involved in, perhaps the blast had been accidental. But Quinn didn’t believe that for a second. Unless he was proven wrong, he had to assume it was linked to Brunner’s abduction. The events had occurred too close together for him to think otherwise.

  Several fire trucks were parked along the road, and dozens of firefighters were doing whatever they could to contain the blaze. In addition, there were almost as many police officers, most gathered loosely on the sidewalk, about half a block away from the flames.

  The command station, no doubt.

  Staying on the other side of the street, Quinn headed toward the fire. The closer he got to the intersection, the more glass from blown-out windows lay on the ground. When he reached the corner across from the blaze, there wasn’t a window left intact.

  He surveyed the surrounding buildings. Right off the bat, he could see that all the major damage had been contained to Ferber-Rae’s headquarters.

  The second item he noted was the crater in the street directly in front of the building. Scattered around the hole were small chunks of what Quinn guessed had been the undercarriage of a vehicle. If he’d had any lingering thoughts about the blast originating from inside the structure, they were gone now.

  An amateur could see what had happened. And Quinn was no amateur.

  The vehicle, most likely a van, had parked in front of the building, where the bomb it carried was then detonated. The blast hadn’t been as large as the one in Oklahoma City in the mid-90s, but it had been more than sufficient to destroy a good percentage of the building.

  “Hey, you! Come here!”

  Quinn turned and saw a cop moving into the street near the command center. He was pointing at Quinn so he walked toward the man.

  “I’m Senior Inspector Schwartz, from Interpol,” Quinn said. “I’m looking for—”

  “Follow me,” the man said, then headed back to a group of officers gathered around an older man with salt-and-pepper hair.

  “…everything on that side of the road. Blum, you take—” The older man stopped and looked over at Quinn. “You the guy from Interpol?”

  Quinn nodded and held out his hand. “Senior Inspector Johann Schwartz. You must be Major Mettler.”

  The major shook but looked less than pleased. “Herr Schwartz—”

  “Inspector,” Quinn corrected.

  “Inspector Schwartz, you were told to come directly to me.”

  “I wanted to get a look first so I could see what we had here.”

  “What we have here is someone who shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Wait for me over there,” Mettler said, pointing at a spot about five meters away. “And don’t go anywhere.”

  Quinn did as instructed.

  Mettler spent a few more minutes talking to his officers. When he finished, the men dispersed and the major all but marched over to Quinn.

  Without preamble, Mettler said, “How did you know this is terrorism?”

  “That’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? But I never actually said it was—”

  “You told my officer you’re with the terrorism task force. Did someone tell you to come here?”

  “I was across the city when the explosion occurred,” Quinn lied. “I knew you could use my help, so I made my way here as fast as I could.”

  “Did you report in?”

  “Report in?”

  “To your bosses at Interpol.”

  “To my supervisor, yes. He concurred that I should offer my assistance.”

  “And has he told anyone else?”

  “I believe he’s waiting to hear back from me first.”

  Mettler looked relieved. “And you’re alone?”

  “Yes, it’s just me.” Quinn narrowed his eyes. “What am I missing here?”

  Mettler took a deep breath. “Our
initial belief was that this was an accident, inside the building.”

  “But it clearly isn’t.”

  “I realize that. But for the first twenty minutes we couldn’t get close enough to know that.” He looked around and then back at Quinn. “Inspector, I am going to ask for your cooperation.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Officially, I’ve been ordered to still refer to this as an accident. There are several members of my government who haven’t been informed yet. Until that happens, there is to be no mention of terrorism to anyone. Press, other governments. Interpol. The public is already scared enough. Once word gets out that this was planned…well, let’s just say we’d like to control the situation as much as we can. I’m sure the embargo will be lifted soon, but until then, what you see here, what you hear here, stays here.”

  “You have my word. I won’t say anything to anyone until it’s public.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a—”

  “Are you open to suggestions?”

  “I really don’t have—”

  “Major, I am on the terrorism task force. This isn’t my first bombing. How many have you investigated?”

  The man frowned, then nodded. “You’re right. If you have suggestions, I would be glad to hear them.”

  Quinn liked leaders who didn’t let their ego stop them from listening to others.

  “First, have your men conduct a meticulous search in the street around the crater. Collect every scrap of metal or wire or anything that looks like it might be part of an electronic device. These could be parts of the bomb’s triggering system. If an actual piece is located, it could prove invaluable in helping to identify who built the device. Second, gather any pieces that could be from the vehicle that contained the explosives. It’s possible a serial number might be on one of them. At the very least, you should be able to determine the make of the vehicle, and from that, track down where it came from.”

  “We already planned to carry out a search once the fire is out, but I’ll make sure everyone knows specifically to look for those items.”

  “Excellent.”

  Mettler looked toward the building. “Have you ever seen a bombing like this?”

  “I have, but it’s unusual. To do that much damage, the bomb needed to be substantial. But see how the surrounding buildings haven’t been affected nearly as much? Typically, an explosive device of this size would have destroyed more than just that one structure.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that. Any idea why that didn’t happen?”

  “Yes. Whoever built it designed a delivery system through which the majority of the blast could be aimed at a specific target. This tells me that its creator is someone with a lot of experience and skill in this kind of thing. Not a lot of people would fall into that category.”

  Mettler stared down the street. “If this ability is so rare, wouldn’t that information alone help point at who built it?”

  “Maybe. But what it can definitely do is point at who didn’t do it. For example, I think you can safely rule out any amateur homegrown organizations.”

  “Couldn’t they have bought this bomb maker’s services?”

  “Something like this, they would have to have pretty deep pockets to afford it. Don’t waste your time with any organization or individual who doesn’t fit that profile. May I ask a few questions?”

  A beat, then a nod from Mettler.

  “Do you know the exact time the bomb went off?”

  “Not to the second, but we do know from several witnesses that it was right before six p.m.”

  “The end of the business day.”

  “For some, yes.”

  “Were there still a lot of people inside?”

  Mettler took a deep breath. “We believe so. It will be a while before we know the exact number.”

  “Ferber-Rae LTD—they are the main tenant?”

  “They are the only tenant.”

  “Do you know if they had any high-profile guests visiting today? Maybe a government official or foreign dignitary?”

  “I’m not aware of anyone like that at this point, but it’s possible.”

  “What about Ferber-Rae management? Heads of specific departments? Company president?”

  “Stefan Ferber was inside. It’s his company. There’s been no sign of him.”

  So much for getting information from the company’s owner.

  “Were there any threats to Ferber-Rae or one of their employees? Any advanced warning that something bad was going to happen?”

  “Nothing that’s been reported to us. But it’s something we’ll be looking into.”

  Quinn figured as much. A warning would have implied a desire not to kill indiscriminately. But if that had been the case, the bomber or bombers would have set off the blast in the middle of the night or on a Sunday, when fewer people would be around.

  Instead, a time had been chosen when most of Ferber-Rae’s employees were still in the building, ensuring extensive damage.

  Down the street, the fire had finally been extinguished on one side of the building and seemed mostly under control on the other. Several firefighters disappeared into the structure through a crumbling archway. Within seconds, one of them returned, carrying an unmoving woman over a shoulder.

  Two firefighters who had remained outside rushed to help. The one with the woman transferred her to them before racing back into the building. His colleagues carried the victim to an ambulance parked near where Quinn and Mettler were standing. Her face was covered in lacerations, and there was a deep, jagged cut on one of her arms. Quinn couldn’t tell whether she was breathing or not.

  “Excuse me,” Mettler said, and hurried to the ambulance.

  Quinn was tempted to follow, but there was really no more he could learn here, so he took advantage of the distraction and headed back to the barricade.

  When he reached it, he saw a Mercedes parked just on the other side, lights on, engine running. The driver stood in front of his vehicle, surrounded by three officers and looking inconsolable. One moment he would say something and gesture past the roadblock, and the next he seemed barely able to stand.

  As Quinn passed through the gap, he nodded to the officer who’d let him in earlier.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said.

  “You found the major?”

  “I did.” Quinn glanced over at the grief-stricken man in front of the sedan. “What’s that all about?”

  “That’s Eric Ferber.”

  “As in Ferber-Rae?”

  A nod. “His father owns the company.”

  “Oh.” Quinn grimaced in sympathy. “Does he work there, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s lucky he wasn’t inside, then.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Quinn shot a hand into his pocket and triple-tapped the side button on his phone. A second later, the device rang with a faux call. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  He stepped to the side and raised the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  When the cop turned away, Quinn opened his camera app and took several pictures of the younger Ferber.

  Two minutes later, Quinn climbed back into his car, where he found an antsy Kincaid staring at him expectantly. Quinn told him what he’d seen.

  “My god,” Kincaid said.

  “They haven’t found him yet, but I’m pretty sure your client is dead.” Quinn pulled out his phone, brought up the best picture of the grief-stricken man at the barricade, and showed it to Kincaid. “This is apparently his son.”

  “I never met him. Guess he looks a little like Stefan Ferber.”

  Quinn did a Google image search for Eric Ferber. The guy at the barricade was a match.

  “Perhaps he can answer some of our questions,” Kincaid said.

  Quinn started the engine. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Nice spread,” Kincaid said, as
Quinn drove their car past the gate to the Ferber family estate outside Zurich.

  After leaving the bombing site, Quinn had texted Orlando, asking her to find out where Eric Ferber lived. The fact she was sitting on a plane somewhere over North America was not a hindrance. All members of Quinn’s core team had satellite-enabled phones, allowing them to stay in touch pretty much wherever they were.

  Within ten minutes, she’d texted back. Eric Ferber lived on an estate on the outskirts of the city with his father, though apparently not in the same house. She provided links to a satellite image of the property, and to a Forbes Magazine feature story in which the property was discussed.

  The photograph revealed that the two and a half meter-high wall fronting the estate extended all the way around the three hundred meters-deep property, to where it bumped against a large swath of woods at the back. The main house, used by Ferber senior, sat smack dab in the middle of the giant lot. Behind it were two smaller homes, with separate driveways leading around the big house to each. The area between the three structures was covered by a lush, well-tended garden, complete with pond and fountain. This also continued beyond the back houses to the rear fence.

  In addition to the Ferber’s estate, the satellite image revealed a narrow dirt road, approximately two kilometers past the property, that led from the road Quinn and Kincaid were on into the woods.

  Quinn turned onto it. Once they were safely under the cover of the forest, he executed a Y turn and parked at the side of the road, the sedan now facing the way they’d come. There was little need to hide the vehicle. The satellite photo indicated the road ended a half kilometer farther on, and there were no homes in that direction. So, on a cold night like this, it was highly unlikely anyone would be heading this way.

  Quinn’s last task of the Brussels job had been to return his weapon, and the other specialized items he couldn’t take on a plane, to the contact who had supplied them to him. Other than picking up the police vehicle he was now using, he hadn’t had time to resupply himself. He did, however, have a few things in his small roller suitcase that might come in handy. First and foremost were the two sides of the bag’s extendable handle. Each tube contained a collapsible baton that would provide quite a blow. He gave one to Kincaid and put the other in his coat pocket.