Brett Battles - Shadow of Betrayal

“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.”

Quinn used the tips of his fingers to create a crease along the edge of the page near the binding, then tore it out of the book. He set it on the desk next to Orlando’s computer.

“Here,” he said. “In case you need to cross-reference.”

She glanced up at him. “Why don’t you get us some dinner?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Yes.”

Quinn smiled, then nodded and started for the door.

As he was pulling it open, Orlando said, “Wait.”

He looked back. Her attention was still on the computer, but she was waving him to return with her left hand.

“I think I found something,” she said.

Quinn walked back and leaned over her shoulder. She had the website for the Montreal Gazette up on the screen. The specific page featured an article titled:

FAMILY TRAGEDY

NOT AN ACCIDENT

Before Quinn could read further, Orlando said, “This is from two days ago. An elderly couple and their daughter, also an adult, died from a gas leak in their house. Went to sleep, never woke up. At first it was thought to be a faulty gas line, but now the police are saying the gas line might have been tampered with.”

“Don’t tell me,” Quinn said. “The family’s name is Dupuis.”

“Yep.”

“Could be just a coincidence,” Quinn said.

“Could be,” Orlando said, but she didn’t sound like she believed that.