[Quinn 01] - The Cleaner

The moment Quinn climbed off the cyclo, it began to rain. He ran down the cracked sidewalk and found cover in the recess of the building's doorway just as the initial sprinkles turned into a downpour. He opened the door and went inside.

There was a reception desk at the far end of the lobby. A young woman, Vietnamese but dressed in Western clothing, was sitting behind it, looking in his direction. Quinn put on a smile and walked over. 'Do you speak English?' he asked.

'Of course,' she said. 'How may I help you?'

'I'm not sure if I'm in the right place,' he said.

'Who are you looking for?'

'The Tri-Continent Relief Agency.'

She smiled. 'You are in the right place. Second floor, on your left. Room 214. Would you like me to show you?'

Quinn shook his head. 'Thanks. I should be able to find it.'

'You are welcome.'

Quinn took the stairs to the right of the desk. When he reached the second floor, he turned left and walked down the hall until he came to room

214.

The door was solid wood. Mounted in its center was a brass plaque engraved with the words in English: Tri-Continent Relief Agency, Ho Chi Minh City Branch. Below it, in smaller type, was a Vietnamese translation.

Quinn paused before knocking. He was standing at the edge of the proverbial point of no return. Until his hand actually made contact with the door, he could still just turn around and go back to the hotel. Call the whole thing off.

He took a deep breath, then raised his hand and knocked.

A moment later the door opened revealing a short, middle-aged Vietnamese man. He looked at Quinn expectantly.

'Tri-Continent Relief Agency?' Quinn asked.

The man smiled. 'Please, come in.'

He moved out of the way so Quinn could enter. The room was not large. In fact, Quinn realized, it was about the same size as his hotel room at the Rex. An old wooden desk sat against one wall, piled high with folders and papers. More piles, of books and magazines, lined most of the remaining wall space. Opposite the entrance, several windows looked out onto the now gloomy day.

A door on the right, apparently leading to an adjacent room, was partially closed. Quinn thought he could hear music playing from just beyond it. It sounded like Edith Piaf.

'My name is Mr. Vo,' the man said. 'How may I help you?'

'Is Director Zhang in?'

'She is. May I give her your name?'

'Tell her it's Quinn.'

The man waited for more, but when it became obvious that Quinn had nothing else to add, the man turned and walked into the other room.

Quinn stepped over to a large bulletin board hanging on one of the walls. It was covered with dozens of notices and advisories. He quickly scanned several of the notes.They were all communications about localized disasters throughout Southeast Asia.

He was reading about an upcoming meeting to discuss regional health issues when he paused. He didn't hear her come into the room, but he felt her presence nonetheless. Slowly, he turned around. Standing in the doorway to the adjacent room was a petite Asian woman.

They looked at each other for several moments, neither seeming able to move. Finally, Quinn smiled.

'Hello, Orlando,' he said.

She shook her head, then began walking toward the main door. 'Not here,' she said.

Orlando, known in Vietnam as Director Keira Zhang, led Quinn back outside. The rain had all but stopped as she led him down several blocks to a small park, saying nothing the entire time. On the walk over and without trying to be too obvious, Quinn took in every inch of her.

She had changed little since the last time he'd seen her, four years earlier. The usual red highlights in her shoulder-length dark hair were gone. And she was wearing a pair of narrow glasses framed by translucent blue plastic; that was new. But otherwise, she was the same. Skin the color of bleached pine, and smooth except for a small worry line just above the bridge of her nose when she frowned. She was small, barely five feet tall, and could pass for anything from Japanese to Chinese to Filipino or even Vietnamese or Malaysian. In truth her mother had been Korean and her father half Thai, half Irish American. Quinn was one of the few people who knew this.

She had been his friend, his confidant, his colleague as they both started from nothing, then gained experience in the business. She had been there for him when times were rough, and he had tried to be there for her in return. But he wasn't as good at it as she was, hence the reason they hadn't talked in four years.

There was another reason, too. One of self-preservation. Being near her made him want something he could never have. He didn't need that kind of mental torture. Orlando was off-limits. Always was. And, he knew deep down, always would be.

By the time they finally found a quiet spot in the park, the sky was once again clearing.