Shadow of Betrayal

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.”