“About?”
“Schedules,” she said. “Peter told you there was nothing on the leaders’ schedules that would seem to connect with whatever it is Tucker is up to, right?”
“Right.”
“What if it’s not the leaders they’re after?” she asked.
“What do you mean? Like, someone lower level? Secretary of State or something like that? Wouldn’t their schedules be pretty much the same as their bosses’?”
“No. You’re right. I was just thinking of something else.”
“What?” he asked.
But before she could respond, Marion reappeared.
“Shouldn’t we go or something?” she said. “Why are we waiting?”
“As soon as Nate gets back, we’ll leave,” Quinn said.
“But Iris?” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.
“We haven’t given up, okay? We just need to try and figure out where she’s—”
“I know,” Orlando said.
Quinn looked at her.
“I know what they’re going to do,” Orlando said.
“What?”
“It’s not the leaders they’re after, not directly.” She turned her laptop around so Quinn could see it. “It’s their wives.”
“Wives?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
But on the screen was the itinerary for the First Lady of the United States. And there listed in bold, and to begin at 9:30 a.m.:
Quinn stared at the screen. A school focused on the teaching of the mentally disabled. A wonderful photo op for the spouses of the G8 leaders—seven women and one man, the husband of the German Chancellor. A public face of caring while God knew what their other halves were discussing behind the closed doors of Hearst Castle.
“What is it?” Marion asked.
Quinn looked at his watch: 8:20. Seventy minutes. Less than that really, because once the VIPs were on-site, it would be too late.
“You’re staying here,” he said to Marion, his tone dead serious.
“No way,” she said.
“Then we’re all dead,” he said. “You. Us.” He paused. “Iris.”
Her stare was defiant, but he could see hesitation creeping in. After a moment, she started unconsciously chewing on her lower lip, then she nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We passed a motel a couple blocks south of here, remember?”
Another nod.
He pulled some cash out of his pocket, peeling off two hundred dollars.
“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Use a false name. Something easy to remember.”
Orlando snapped her laptop closed. “Nate,” Orlando said, nodding toward the window.
Nate was standing in front of the cafe, next to a Nissan Maxima.
Quinn dropped a few bucks on the table to pay for the coffee, then stood up.
“Please bring her back,” Marion said.
“That’s the plan,” he told her.
The closer they got to San Luis Obispo, the more police and Highway Patrol cars they saw. No checks yet, but Quinn knew there would be some ahead.
“Get off here,” Orlando said, glancing up from her computer screen.
The sign read
“Not the PCH?” Nate asked. The Pacific Coast Highway was the direct route from San Luis Obispo to Morro Bay.
“This’ll get us there, too,” she said. “Just comes in from the back side.”
Nate nodded, then turned up the off-ramp, stopping at the top. “Which way?” he asked.
“Left.”
They passed through the outskirts of San Luis Obispo and entered a more open farm country framed to the right by a series of dramatic hills.
Quinn’s phone began to vibrate. Though Peter’s name was on the display, it wasn’t Peter’s voice that spoke. It was Sean Cooper, the guy who had gotten them the car in New York.
