Once Orlando opened the paper bag the smell of burgers and fries wafted from inside. She handed one of the sandwiches to him.
“I also brought this.”
From the plastic bag she withdrew a newspaper, and held it up so he could see it.
It was the Albany Times Union. In bold print across the top was the headline:
SPY CHIEF DEAD
Then below it in smaller type:
DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF
NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE
JACKSON MURDERED
But neither was what caught Quinn’s eye, nor were they the reason Orlando was holding the paper up. It was the sketch above the fold that was of interest, an artist’s rendition of the man police were looking for in connection with the crime.
“I don’t think the guy could have done better if I’d posed for him,” Quinn said.
The image was definitely Quinn.
“Yeah,” Orlando said. “I was thinking about cutting it out and framing it.”
“Were you?” He was trying to joke back, but funny was the last thing he felt at the moment.
He grabbed the paper from her so he could get a better look. The nose was off, and the eyes were too close together, but it was still a near enough match for someone to make the connection. The caption under the picture read:
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING. Composite sketch of man believed to have been driving the car containing the body of Deputy Director Jackson.
“Dammit,” Quinn said. He tossed the paper onto the bed.
“Hey, you’re still free,” Orlando said. She reached into the plastic bag again, pulled out a box. “Besides, you need a haircut anyway.” From inside she removed a pair of electric hair shears. “I’ve also got some hair dye, and a few other things to change you up.”
He tried to smile.
“Food first, though,” she said.
The idea of food wasn’t very appealing, but he knew he would need the energy.
While they ate, he flipped on the TV and turned it to CNN. Better to see what else was being reported than to ignore it. No surprise. All the news was focused on the death of Deputy Director Jackson. There was a background story on him, interviews with people he’d known and worked with over the years, a review of the events from the previous evening, and an update on the manhunt for the person who matched the police sketch, the image prominently displayed on the screen. Otherwise, there was nothing that was new.
“I miss the days when news wasn’t so immediate,” Quinn said.
“I don’t remember those days,” Orlando said.
“Go to hell, you’re not that much younger than me.”
“But I am younger.”
Quinn glanced at his watch again: 3:52.
“Nate up yet?” Quinn asked.
“At least an hour. I sent him out to ditch the car and find us something new.”
On the TV, a Breaking News graphic cut across the screen. Quinn found the remote, then turned the volume up as the scene switched back to the two anchors on the news set.
“… by sources within the investigation,” the male anchor was saying. “Police were apparently led to an abandoned apartment building by something discovered in the car the body had been found in. It was at this building the suspect was discovered.”
“There was nothing in the car that would lead them there,” Quinn said.
“What suspect?” Orlando asked.
They both leaned toward the television.
“To repeat. Sources inside the Deputy Director Jackson murder investigation report an arrest has been made. We have been told that while the person they’ve apprehended does not match the police drawing that has been circulated, he is suspected of being involved in the murder.”
“As we’ve heard time and time again,” his female counterpart said, “the first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation are the most important. If they were able to make an arrest this quickly, that’s a very good sign.”
Quinn lowered the TV volume again.
“Peter?” Orlando said.
“Must be,” Quinn answered.
Somehow Peter had managed to take some of the heat off. But—
“Would have been nice if he’d fixed it so it looked like the man in the drawing was caught.”
“He’s staging it,” Orlando said.
She was right. It had been too late to control the release of the initial description and composite sketch. So to guide the story, Peter would let a little bit out at a time, turning the direction of the story until the man in the drawing was forgotten. All fine and good for the long run, but in the immediate future Quinn would have to remain vigilant.
Orlando seemed to realize this, too. She reached down into the plastic shopping bag, pulled out two boxes.
“So, you prefer your hair black or blond?” she asked.
By 8:30 p.m. they were deep into upstate New York. Quinn—with blond hair and brown-framed glasses that looked over a decade old— was driving a Volkswagen Jetta Nate had assumed temporary ownership of several blocks from the hotel. Beside him, Orlando sat staring out the window. The only one who seemed to be making good use of the time was Nate. He was curled up in the back seat, sound asleep.
The call from Peter had come just before they left the Morgan Motel.
“Montreal,” he had said. “As fast as you can.”
“And what are we supposed to do when we get there?” Quinn asked.
“Call me when you arrive, and I’ll have further instructions.”
So they had continued on their northern route, only this time with a specific destination in mind.
Quinn glanced over at Orlando. She seemed to be focused on a constant point several car lengths ahead of them, and didn’t acknowledge his gaze. He’d seen that look on her face before; she was working something in her mind, some problem she needed to solve. Whatever it was, he knew she’d share once she’d got it figured out.
He still had a hard time believing he and Orlando were together. For so many years it had been an unfulfilled dream with zero chance of ever happening. At least that’s what he’d convinced himself.
Yet here she was, sitting next to him, the smooth, pale skin of her neck peeking out from beneath her black hair. And her smell—the familiar, comfortable, enfolding smell that was hers alone. God, how he missed that smell when they weren’t together.
God, how he missed her.
But that wasn’t going to be as much of an issue as it had been.
“I like the idea,” she’d whispered into his ear as he kissed her shoulder, then her neck before they’d fallen asleep at the motel earlier.
“What idea?” he said, then moved his lips down her shoulder toward her breasts.
“What are you doing?” she said. “I thought you told me you were dead tir—” Her words turned into a moan, and her breath stuttered as Quinn’s tongue touched her nipple, then moved away, encircling it, teasing it. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
He stopped, and lifted his head an inch above her skin. “Are you sure?”
Her fingers weaved themselves into his hair. “No. I was lying.” She paused, but he remained frozen, his lips still hovering above the slope of her breast. “Please.”
“I don’t know. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that’ seems pretty definite to me,” he said.
“For God’s sake don’t listen to me.”
She pulled his head to her chest, and moaned again as he began tracing a line with the tip of his tongue that encircled her areola but didn’t touch it. After a few moments, he began to spiral inward. When he reached the center, he caressed her nipple with his tongue, then began spiraling outward again, away from it.
He moved his hand down her waist, keeping his fingers hovering just above her skin so that they didn’t touch her. She at first shivered, then sighed as his hand slipped between her legs. He lifted his head so that her lips met his.
When they had finished making love, she nestled into him, a sigh of comfort escaping her lips. Just when he felt she was about to fall asleep, he used his finger to retrace the movement his tongue had made earlier on her breast.
Her back arched. “You keep doing that, we’ll never get any rest.”
He laughed, then reluctantly moved his hand onto her back.
“You said something about liking an idea …?”
For a moment he thought she’d fallen asleep, then she said, “You getting a place in San Francisco. I like the idea.”
It took him a second to realize what she meant. It was the conversation they’d been having in Boston before Peter had called. It had been less than twenty-four hours earlier, but with everything that had happened since, it could have been a month ago.
“Really?” he asked.
“I’m … thinking about getting rid of my place in Saigon,” she said. “We’ve been spending more and more time over here, it doesn’t make sense to keep it any longer.”
“But what about the relief agency?” he said. Orlando ran a small emergency organization call the Tri-Continent Relief Agency out of Ho Chi Minh City. It was a passion of hers, something she took very seriously.
“I’m not giving up the agency,” she said. “I’ll go back when I need to. But I’m going to open an office in San Francisco. It is the Tri-Continent Relief Agency.”
Quinn began to smile.
“Don’t get too smug. It’s not because of you,” she said. “It’s Garrett.”
Garrett, her son, was six years old. The product of a love affair with the man who had been Quinn’s mentor. But that was over now. Permanently. Quinn liked the boy. He was smart and seemed to have a lot more traits from his mother than from his father.
She went on, “He’s been accepted to the French American International School in the city. He starts first grade in September. I… I think it will be easier for him over here.”
Quinn smiled. “It is because of me,” he said. “You want to be closer.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Yes, you do. You can’t stand being so far away.”
“You have a serious case of inflated sense of self-worth.” She tried to push away from him, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Call it whatever you want, I know the truth.”
After several moments, she settled back into his arms. They stayed that way for a while, then Orlando yawned, and repositioned herself so that her chest was against his.
“Of course I am.” Her voice was soft and heavy with sleep.
“What?” he asked.
“Moving to be closer to you. Of course I am. That’s why you were being ridiculous.” She paused. “Stating the obvious.”
She was asleep a moment later.
Quinn continued to watch her for twenty minutes as she breathed in and out, her shoulders rising one second, then falling the next.
How in God’s name had he gotten so lucky?
But he’d fallen asleep before he could come up with an answer.
CHAPTER
13
“THE LAST NAME’S DUPUIS,” PETER SAID. “A WOMAN, early thirties. First name unknown.”
Quinn had activated the speaker function on his phone so all three of them could hear. They were still in the car, the U.S.-Canadian border now ten minutes behind them, and Montreal about twenty ahead.
“That’s not a lot to go on,” Quinn said.
“It’s all I have,” Peter snapped.
“How’s Tasha?” Orlando asked.
Peter took a moment before he answered, and when he did, he sounded calmer. “Still unconscious. But she’s made it twenty-four hours so far, so they tell me that’s a good sign.”
“What are we supposed to do when we find this woman?” Quinn asked.
“That’s a big if, I think,” Peter said. “What I need you to do is find out as much as you can about her. Where she might go if she had reason to hide. Who might help her.”
“Does she live in Montreal?”
Peter paused again. “The name came from Primus. He sent the information to the DDNI when they were negotiating the follow-up meeting after Ireland. An act of good faith, he’d said. It was an attached document with a single line of information. ‘Dupuis. Female. Montreal. Unresolved.’ That was it.”
“Unresolved? What does that mean?” Orlando asked.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Peter said.
No one spoke for a moment.
“Montreal. That doesn’t necessarily mean she lives there,” Quinn said.
“Maybe she has family there. Or friends. I didn’t say it was going to be easy.”
“So why are we looking for her?” Quinn asked.
Peter paused. “It’s the only lead we’ve got. And since she’s apparently of interest to the other side, I think that’s worth looking into, don’t you?”
“She’s part of them?”
“You have everything I know.”
Again silence.
“Peter,” Orlando said, “any chance you can send me that itinerary you showed us?”
“Why?”
“Just something I was thinking about. Thought I could check it out.”
Quinn gave her a questioning look, but she only smiled.
“All right,” Peter said. “I can do that.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You said there were more documents, too. If you really want our help, you should probably send those to me, also.”
“Fine,” he said. “Anything else?”
Quinn looked at Orlando. She shook her head. He then turned to Nate, who looked surprised by the attention.
“I got nothing,” Nate whispered.
“That’s all for the moment,” Quinn said, then disconnected the call.
Once they were back on the road, he said, “Itinerary?”
“Something that was bothering me on the drive. I think there’s a connection between all the destinations. But I need to see the list again to be sure.”
“What kind of connection?”
“Relax. Just let me take a look first.”
They got rooms at the Comfort Inn in Brossard just across the St. Lawrence River from the old city of Montreal. Nate used a localized jammer Orlando had brought along to neutralize the surveillance camera in the lobby when he made the arrangements for the rooms. Quinn had remained in the car, staying out of sight just in case.
By the time they were getting settled in their rooms—Nate in one, and Quinn and Orlando in another—it was 8:45 p.m. Outside, the sun had just sunk below the horizon.
While Quinn ran some cold water over his face in the bathroom, Orlando got out her laptop and checked to see if Peter had sent the documents.
“Nothing,” she called out.
“See what you can find out about the woman,” Quinn said. “The sooner we get this done …”
Orlando nodded, then turned back to her screen and set to work.
After drying his face, Quinn checked the dresser and nightstand until he found what he was looking for. A phone book. Not just for Brossard and the South Shore, but the whole Montreal area.
He flipped through the pages until he came to the D’s, then slowly turned a few more before stopping.
“Well, this isn’t good,” he said.
“What?” Orlando asked, not looking up.
“I’ve got three dozen Dupuis right here. More than half are just initials. No first name. And you’ve got to believe there are at least as many other Dupuis unlisted.”
