Shadow of Betrayal

Quinn spent several minutes driving randomly until he was sure they weren’t being followed, then settled on a direction that would take them back toward their motel.

“Tell me,” he said.

Nate took a few more deep breaths. “I was heading back to the motel. You know, like you told me to do. But after a few minutes I realized there was someone behind me. I made a few turns, normal stuff, nothing too fast, just to see if I was right. The guy stayed with me.”

“Did you recognize him from earlier?” Quinn asked, trying to put the pieces together.

“No. Like I said, I didn’t pay attention when I was following the woman.”

“Her name’s Marion.”

“What?”

“The woman in the Saab. Marion Dupuis,” Quinn said.

“Right,” Nate said.

“So you were being followed,” Quinn said, trying to get Nate back on track.

“Yeah. Once I knew for sure, I played it cool for a while, letting him get relaxed. Then, when I thought he was comfortable, I made a break for it. It worked great. I was able to get a little distance, enough that I could dump the car and head out on foot without them catching me.”

“Them?”

Nate nodded. “There were two. Both guys, strong looking. One a little older, but I didn’t get much of a look at either of them. I tried, I swear. But that’s all I got.”

“What happened next?”

“One of them got out of the car and chased me. But by then I had them beat. Lost them a few minutes later, then made my way to a metro station. That’s when I called you.”

Quinn thought for a moment. “Maybe they weren’t following the girl. Maybe they were just interested in giving you a hard time.”

“I guess,” Nate said, his tone indicating he didn’t believe it.

Quinn didn’t believe it, either. It would have been too much of a coincidence. And Quinn just didn’t believe in them. The easier answer, the more logical one, would be that they must have had some interest in Marion Dupuis. They had to have been staking out the Dupuis’ house from farther down the street. But did that mean they had seen Quinn and Orlando go inside? What if there were more of them than just those in the car? Could they have followed Quinn and Orlando back to the Comfort Inn?

“Sorry,” Nate said.

“What?” Quinn said. “No. You did fine. Better than fine. You got away.”

Nate was silent for a moment, then said, “Thanks.”

Quinn pulled out his phone, intending to call Orlando, but his phone began to ring before he could dial. Peter. Dammit. Quinn hit Accept.

“Hold on, Peter,” Quinn said.

“Wait. What’s going—”

“I said hold on.” Quinn put Peter’s call on hold, then punched Orlando’s name on his quick-contact list.

“Hello?” she said.

“Everything all right there?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said. “Why?”

“Serious. Are you okay?”

She paused. “Hunky-dory,” she said, using their latest code to signify all was normal. “What’s going on?”

“We may have been followed, too.”

“From the Dupuis’?” she said. “You would have noticed.”

It’s true. He would have. He was excellent at the spotting-the-tail game, and he hadn’t seen anyone suspicious on their way back to the motel. But if the others had the resources, there were ways to track a car without needing to keep visual contact.

“I still want you to get out,” Quinn said. “We’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“All right,” she said, but she sounded annoyed.

Quinn clicked back over to Peter.

“What the hell are you doing putting me on hold?” Peter all but yelled.

Quinn ignored the comment. “The Dupuis you wanted us to find. Is her name Marion?”

Peter took a moment, then said, “I told you I don’t have a first name.”

“Well, if it isn’t, there’s another Dupuis who’s in a hell of a lot of trouble.” Quinn recounted the evening’s events, up to and including the suitcase, what Orlando had learned online, and Nate’s encounter with the men who had followed him.

“They weren’t yours, were they?” Quinn asked.

“No. Not mine.”

“So is she who you wanted us to find?”

Silence.

“I… I don’t know,” Peter finally said. “It sounds like it, but…” Peter went quiet again.

After several seconds, Quinn said, “But what?”

Nothing.

“Peter?”

Quinn moved the phone away from his ear so he could see the display. The call was gone.

CHAPTER

16

“QUINN?” PETER SAID. “GODDAMMIT. QUINN, ARE you there?”

The line was dead. The cause was right there on his display screen. No Sig—no signal.

He was on a private jet flying back to Washington, D.C., from New York. Usually the onboard equipment had no problem connecting his signal to the nearest ground station, but on occasion there were moments when it would fail.

Even as he was looking at his phone, the signal strength went from nothing to back to full. He started to redial Quinn, then stopped.