Secondly, the Elite Assassin isn’t that stupid. He would not fly into hostile territory without a plan. In fact, infiltrating Tehran was probably his intention all along. Complete the final job in Oman, collect payment in Qatar, and then retire back home in Iran, skipping like a perfectly launched sliver of rock across the hot desert sands.
But, of course, Quinn doesn’t have any proof. And no leads to follow up on. No plausible theories to run by Van or Moretti, and no real case to make for why she might need to wait around for Naan and Pita to wake up. So she shovels her makeshift office back into her bag and tosses the Ziploc into the nearest trash can. With a working phone and a trail that’s gone cold, the only place left for Quinn to go is the airport.
But first she needs to use the restroom. They’re in the back, just beyond some sort of a locker room where, on her way past, she gets a glimpse of a woman in a black hooded bodysuit stacking bins into a tall cubby. The restroom door is heavy, and after Quinn pushes through, she is pleased to discover that all the stalls appear pristine. She picks one in the middle and sits.
She is thinking about stopping by the Bariq Pavilion Food Court on her way out and grabbing a slice of that robot-tossed, New York–style pizza (with dough made from municipal tap water flown in all the way from Brooklyn), but something doesn’t feel right. When she wipes, she closes her eyes and sighs. Just minutes after sacrificing every last one of her tampons to the cause of resuscitating her handset, Quinn realizes that she has just gotten her period.
She could probably bum something off Fatimah, but that would mean going all the way back out to PLC. Quinn is about to resign herself to searching the Bariq Pavilion for a convenience store when she recalls the woman in the locker room. A complete stranger who she will never have to see again, and who is in close proximity. Perfect.
Quinn gets herself squared away as best she can with the supplies at hand, washes up, and walks out of the bathroom doing her very best to project poise and aplomb. The locker room is as Quinn remembers it: empty but for her potential savior. The petite woman has opened a second cubby and is distributing her multidimensional bins among them like a three-dimensional, block-based puzzle game. Centered on the wall is a holographic console, presumably for authentication.
“Excuse me,” Quinn says from the opening. “Do you speak English?”
“I’m American,” the woman replies without turning. “English is all I speak.”
“Perfect,” Quinn says. “This is a little embarrassing, but…”
“You need a tampon.”
“How’d you know that?”
For the first time, the woman pauses her shifting and shimmying and turns. A piece of the most vibrant orange-red hair Quinn has ever seen escapes the woman’s hood and falls across a sun-bleached seashell complexion.
“You were in there for at least fifteen minutes, and the first thing you did when you came out was approach a complete stranger. What else could it be? You probably have a little twat wad tucked into your panties right now, don’t you?”
Quinn doesn’t exactly love the woman’s demeanor, but it’s not like she’s flush with options.
“Worst timing ever,” she manages.
The woman indicates a stuffed black duffel against the opposite wall. “Outside pocket. Help yourself.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Quinn’s knees pop as she squats. The duffel is covered in outside pockets, and she starts rummaging through them like a perverted TSA agent hoping to palm something dirty.
“Need underwear, too?”
“No, thank you,” Quinn says. In a feeble attempt to pretend like all this is normal, Quinn says, “So, are you here visiting?”
“Nope,” the woman says. “Leaving.”
Quinn rakes her fingers through the expected sundries: lotion, deodorant, tissues, hair ties, Tylenol, mints, lip balm, nail clippers.
“You don’t sound very excited.”
“I have a lot to answer for,” the woman says. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Of course,” Quinn says, and as she unzips the next pocket in line, she discovers a threadbare pink teddy bear with a matching ribbon embroidered on its chest. The international symbol of breast cancer awareness. In an instant, Quinn glimpses the vulnerable little girl that the woman’s tough outer shell has been forged to protect. Another life long enough to know loss, but too brief to find peace.
Beneath the bear, Quinn lays eyes on her prize.
“Take two,” the woman tells her. “I’m not expecting any surprises.”
Quinn doesn’t mind if she does. She stands and slips the cylinders into the front pocket of her jeans one at a time as though she were loading a double-barreled shotgun.
“Again,” Quinn says, “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Good deed for the day,” the woman says.
Quinn is just about to go see about swapping out her field dressing for the real thing when something stops her—something about the lockers. Instead of little engraved labels, they are numbered with miniature plasma-dot displays. And as far as Quinn can tell, the digits are entirely random.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asks her.
“What is this place?”
“Storage,” the woman says. “But most people use it as a dead drop.”
“A dead drop?”
“A place to leave things for other people to pick up.”
“What kinds of things?”
“You know where you are, right? Best not to ask those kinds of questions.”
“Why aren’t the numbers sequential?”
“You can enter whatever number you want into the console when you lock it. As long as it’s unique.”
Quinn takes a step forward as she scans. She is looking at an entire wall of random four-digit numbers that international criminals use to exchange illicit goods.
If the numeric sequences with which the Elite Assassin tagged his victims had simply been safe deposit box numbers, Quinn would have made the connection a long time ago. In fact, it would have been next to impossible not to,
