U.N. SEEKS LOCAL HELP KEEPING CHILDREN SAFE
“‘Community leaders pose in front of a new children activities facility in Yamoussoukro, Cote d’Ivoire, with UN workers,’” Orlando read. “This article says Marion Dupuis is part of the UN mission in Cote d’Ivoire. That explains where she got all those.” Orlando nodded at the stack of papers.
They had already established that the papers were printouts from a UN database. Before diving into them, Orlando wanted to see if she could establish what Marion Dupuis’ connection to them might be. Turned out it didn’t take her very long.
“I have contacts in New York who work there. I can verify her position fairly easily.”
“Do it.”
While Orlando composed an email to her contacts, Quinn stood up and walked over to the door and peeked through the eyehole. The fish-eye magnifier on the other end gave him a near 180-degree view of the hallway beyond, though only for a distance of about fifteen to twenty feet. The area he could see was empty.
He had expected his apprentice to be waiting for them when they returned. But instead, they were the first to arrive.
Quinn wanted to call him, but that wasn’t procedure.
“Maybe he got tired of waiting for us and went to get something to eat,” Orlando said, sensing, as she always did, what he was thinking.
Quinn grunted a response, then walked over to the TV and looked around for the remote.
“Please don’t turn that on,” she said.
“Just thought I’d check the news.”
She looked up from her computer and stared at him for a moment. “Even if something has happened to him, you’re not going to find anything local right now. And I doubt he’s made CNN yet.”
“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to see if there was anything new about the Deputy Director’s death.”
But his lie was a thin one, and she saw right through it. “Just leave it off.”
He sat down on the chair next to the built-in desk, listening to Orlando’s fingers tapping on her keyboard. He pulled a brochure about Montreal out of the desk drawer and tried to read through it, but got halfway before he realized he couldn’t remember anything he’d just read.
A glance at his watch told him more than twenty minutes had passed since they had arrived. If it reached thirty, he was going to call Nate, to hell with procedure.
Quinn’s phone rang at minute twenty-seven, Nate’s name glowing on the touch screen.
“Don’t be angry with him,” Orlando said as he was about to press Accept.
“Fine,” he muttered, then connected the call.
“Quinn?” Nate’s voice was hushed.
Whatever Quinn had been feeling disappeared as he kicked into operation mode. “What’s going on?”
“We weren’t the only ones interested in the woman,” Nate said.
Quinn wanted to ask what happened, but suppressed the urge and said, “Do you need help?”
“I think I might need you to pick me up. I dumped the car and have been on foot for the last thirty minutes. Think I might have lost them, but I’m not sure. Heading into the metro now. I’ll grab the first train and take it toward the end of the line … Hold on.” Quinn could hear the phone moving away from Nate’s ear, and rubbing against something. “Okay. I’ll be on the Orange line, heading toward Henri-Bourassa. I’ll plan on getting off a few stops ahead. Say … Sauve.”
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Do a check along the way.”
“I will,” Nate said. “See you in a bit.”
“What is it?” Orlando asked as Quinn slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“Someone else was looking for Marion. When they spotted Nate, looks like they tried to find out who he was.”
“You’re going to bring him in?”
Quinn nodded.
“You need me to come with you?”
“No. We’ll be fine. You see if you can figure out what she was running from.”
They’d dumped the Lincoln several blocks from the Comfort Inn when they returned, thinking they wouldn’t need it anymore. Quinn considered using it again, but he wanted something less flashy.
He hiked ten minutes and found another motel with a large anonymous parking lot where he appropriated a three-year-old Toyota Camry for the night.
Soon he was back over the bridge into Montreal. He followed the Orange line aboveground as best he could until he reached Sauve station.
There were two entrances, one on either side of Rue Sauve, neither larger than a three-car garage. Each looked grimy and gray in the artificial illumination from the surrounding lighting. Quinn imagined they didn’t look much better during the day.
He drove by, keeping a few miles an hour below the speed limit, his eyes on guard for someone emerging out of
