I hear footsteps in the hall. Time’s up.

Chapter 10

QUINN

Matthew Quinn approaches the reception desk, where he finds a bored security guard who’s making $13.50 an hour to protect a billion-dollar skyscraper.

The guard glances at Quinn’s forged ID card, then up at Quinn’s face. He sees exactly what Quinn wants him to see—a white guy in his early forties, tired eyes, not exactly looking forward to a long day of hanging from a harness while he squeegees the grime off a pane of glass thirty stories above the pavement.

The guard nods. Quinn walks through.

He heads to the service elevators, because right now he’s dressed like one of the service people nobody notices. A few hours ago Quinn scoped out a blind spot not covered by security cameras and studied its dimensions until he could imagine them as clearly as his own living room.

He slips into that blind spot and begins to shed his khaki skin, walking as he transforms, swiftly and expertly. The khaki uniform goes into a black satchel that’s already strapped across his torso. It’s a Montblanc—most businessmen around here carry them or something just like them. The messy hair beneath his work cap is smoothed and parted neatly into a fashionable rakish look. Quinn’s posture changes from that of a slight, exhausted workingman to a confident, broad-shouldered businessman.

This takes all of seven seconds, tops. Quinn’s moves are as polished as a stage magician’s. Truth is, Quinn doesn’t even think about any of it very much at this point. His movements are hardwired into his nervous system.

On the other side of the blind spot, Quinn emerges as a completely different man—a handsome up-and-comer who’s got a very nice suit and even nicer bag and probably a spectacular dinner reservation somewhere this evening. He also looks nothing like the real Matthew Quinn.

Up on the thirty-sixth floor, the office suites of Paul Clee & Partners are modern and hip. There’s a falling-water display in the lobby, which is both pleasing to the eye and the source of a comforting white noise that practically forces visitors to keep their voices hushed and respectful, as if they were in church.

Somewhere down the hall Paul Clee himself is expecting Quinn, but Quinn is not going to see him.

Not yet.

He glides past the receptionist, who’s actually not a receptionist but a college intern filling in during the lunch break, which is why he chose this particular time to meet. The intern has only been here a week, so employee faces are still a little fuzzy. Quinn nods confidently and waves as if he works here; the intern nods and thinks, Crap, I should know that guy’s name, but I can’t remember.…

Quinn places himself in the conference room and dials Paul Clee’s extension.

“Mr. Clee? This is Matthew Quinn.”

“Where are you…wait—are you calling from our conference room?”

Quinn hangs up and waits. He learned a long time ago to keep his movements secret. To disguise his true identity. A person like Paul Clee may present himself as a potential client only to lure Quinn into a death trap. Better to keep them guessing at all times.