Shadow of Betrayal (33 page)

When Quinn brought night vision binoculars back to his eyes, he saw the fence right away. Rather, fences. There were two running parallel to each other, and disappearing off to the left and the right. The only break was at the point where they met the road. There a gate closed the gap. Next to it was a concrete building no more than fifteen feet square—enough room for some bunks, a table, a hot plate, and some storage.
Guardhouse
, Quinn thought. Light spilled out of the solitary window on the east side.

Nate tapped Quinn once on the arm, then pointed a dozen feet right of the outpost. Quinn stared at the spot for several seconds before he made out what had caught Nate’s attention. There were three men standing in a loose group. Quinn assumed they were talking, but they were too far away to hear anything.

Nate tapped him again. But instead of pointing at anything, he made a waving motion with his fingers like he wanted to pull back, then he retraced their path down the hill. Quinn followed.

“Did you see it?” Nate asked, once they were off the hill.

“The men?” Quinn said. “Yeah, I saw them.”

“Not the men,” Nate said. “The fence.”

“I saw it. What about it?”

“It didn’t seem odd to you?”

“Tell me what you saw,” Quinn said.

Nate seemed to be lost in thought.

“What?” Quinn asked.

Instead of answering, Nate started walking along the edge of the hill, toward the fence.

“Wait,” Quinn said. “What did you see?”

“I might be wrong,” Nate said. “I want to get a closer look first. We should be able to approach it right up there.” He was pointing along a gully to the right.

As they neared the fence, the hum grew louder again. It was …
electronic
, Quinn thought.

They came around the edge of a rock that looked like a gigantic
T-bone steak, and found themselves only twenty feet away from the double fence.

The hum was loud enough now that Nate had to raise his voice above a whisper to be heard. “I was right,” he said.

Each fence was a series of thick wires strung horizontally from one post to the next with no more than six inches between them. The posts were made of some type of composite material and were placed every ten feet. The planners had taken the extra step of staggering the two fences so that their posts didn’t line up. And as for the sound, it was coming from the wires. Each crackled and hummed with electricity.

Quinn looked first left, then right. It was the same setup for as far as he could see.

“How the hell do we get through that?” Nate asked.

But Quinn said nothing. It was better than saying he had no idea.

“WE’VE GOT AN ALERT ON THE OLD ROAD.” THE
guard’s voice was clear, though a bit overamplified.

Tucker moved his handheld radio closer to his mouth. “Any visual?”

“No,” the guard replied. “Just the motion sensor.”

“Still going off?”

“It was a single notification. Just happened.”

The system didn’t use simple motion sensors like some people had in their homes or offices. These devices were more refined, weeding out most extraneous movement and only reporting on objects that were large enough to be human. Over the two months they had been deployed, there had only been one false alarm. Perhaps this was a second; Tucker wasn’t going to take any chances. The Dupuis woman had friends out there somewhere. Maybe they had decided to come for a visit.

“Send someone to check,” Tucker said. “But do not intercept yet. I want to know how many people are out there first.”

“Copy,” the guard said.

Tucker heard the guard relay his instructions, followed by a distant grunt of agreement.

“I’m sending a team out to you just in case you need some backup,” Tucker said. “Should be there in five minutes.”

“All right.”

“Report back the moment you know anything.”

Tucker didn’t wait for an acknowledgment before clipping the radio to his belt. He used Yellowhammer’s built-in PA system to order one of the other security teams to the main gate.

He reached for his desk phone, but stopped before picking it up. With the helicopters due to leave in just over eight hours, he knew Mr. Rose would still be in the lab overseeing the final preparations. The old man would not be happy to be disturbed. Better to find out if the alarm was real or not, and implement an appropriate response before filling his boss in, Tucker thought.

He still picked up the phone, but instead of Mr. Rose, he called his contact in Toronto—a guy named Donald Chang.

“You get anything from Montreal yet?” Tucker asked.

“Hold on,” Chang said. “Let me bring it up.”

Tucker could hear the clacking of a computer keyboard. Once it stopped, Chang came back on the line.

“There wasn’t really anything at the house,” Chang said. “Plenty of prints, but they mainly belonged to the family.”

“Mainly?” Tucker asked.

“The other ones check out as members of the Montreal Police Department. Which makes sense, of course. Unless you think the people you’re looking for might be cops.”

“I don’t,” Tucker said.

So the Dupuis house was clean. Tucker was only mildly disappointed. It had been a long shot at best.

“I did get a hit from the license plate on the car you were following, though,” Chang said.

“What kind of hit?” Tucker asked.

“Police found it in Brossard, on the other side of the St. Lawrence River.”

“You got prints from inside?” Tucker asked, hopeful.

“No. It was clean. But we did go ahead and check motels in the area. The car matched a description given by a man staying at a Comfort Inn that night. There were three people, actually. Two men and a woman. One of the men and the woman stayed together. The other had his own room. They left the next morning. No one knows exactly what time, they just left their keys in the rooms.”

“Did you get any names?” Tucker asked.

“The couple registered as Mitch and Sissy Booth. The other guy as Vince Salas. But they were phony. Home addresses didn’t check out.”

“How did they pay?”

“Same credit card for both rooms,” Chang said. “The name on it was Mitch Booth. It was good, but I back-checked. It’s the only time it’s ever been used.”

Prepared false IDs. No prints. A disposable car.

Professionals.

“What about security cameras? The motel had to have one.”

“You’re going to love this,” Chang said.

“What?”

“They had a jammer.”

Tucker said nothing.

“The camera in the motel office takes stills every ten seconds, low res. At the beginning of each day, they burn the previous twenty-four hours to disk. My guy got a look at the night the people you’re looking for checked in. But at the time they would have been in the office, the pictures were just digital crap.”

“So other than knowing where they stayed, you’ve got nothing?” Tucker said.

“Not exactly nothing,” Chang said. “There is another camera. Parking lot security. Whatever type of jammer they were using, it looks like it had to be within thirty feet or so of a camera for it to work.”

“So you got them on the parking lot camera?”

“Yes. It’s from a distance, and not very clear, but it’s something.”

“Send it to me.”

“Should be in your email now.”

“Thanks,” Tucker said, then hung up.

His laptop was in a shoulder bag next to his desk. He pulled it out
and booted it up. Mr. Rose’s technicians had installed a wireless system that worked throughout the facility, so as soon as his desktop appeared, he activated his email. The message from Chang was there, complete with two attachments. He highlighted both and opened them.

The first showed a grainy nighttime shot of a parking lot. There were dozens of cars parked in neat rows. Though the photo was black-and-white, he thought one of the cars parked next to the motel building looked very much like the car he had followed in Montreal. Beside it were three people. The two closest had their backs to the camera and were opening the doors on the passenger side of the vehicle. One was the woman. She was short and thin, but other than that she was unidentifiable. On the other side, facing the camera, was the second man. But his head was lowered in preparation to climb into the car, leaving only the top visible. He could have been anywhere from eighteen to sixty.

Tucker brought the second image forward. Same angle only a few seconds later, he guessed. The woman who had been climbing into the back seat was just a shape through the rear window now. The driver had also disappeared.

But the man who’d been getting into the front passenger seat was still there. It looked like he was just about to slide in, but in doing so he had turned and given the camera his profile.

Tucker leaned in toward the computer screen. There was something about the man. Something familiar.

He knew if he just concentrated for a minute, it would come to him. He switched back to the first shot, looking at the man’s back. Nothing special there. Lean, but not thin. A little under six feet tall. He looked strong—not rippling-muscle strong, but useful strong. Like he was the kind of guy who could do a lot of things.

Tucker clicked on the second picture. It confirmed what he’d seen in the first. A man of action. He flipped between the photos, letting the images dance on the screen in front of him.

Back.

Profile.

Back.

Profile.

Back.

Profile.

Stop.

All of a sudden he was remembering snow. Not the snow that capped the peaks just outside the entrance to Yellowhammer. German snow. Berlin snow.

Jonathan Quinn.

That’s who he was looking at. Jonathan-fucking-Quinn. Tucker had last seen him on a sidewalk in Tiergarten in the middle of Berlin almost a year and a half earlier. They’d made a deal. Tucker had given up his boss’s whereabouts, and Quinn had let him walk away alive.

Jonathan Quinn.
Goddammit.

He looked back at the first picture, this time concentrating on the woman getting into the back seat. Like before, he could only see her back, but now that he knew what to look for, her hair and her height gave her away.

Dark, probably black, and a little longer than it had been in Berlin. As for her height, she didn’t even look like she cleared the top of the Jetta.

Orlando. She’d been on that sidewalk with Quinn and Tucker. There had been murder in her eyes. His murder if she had had her way. Couldn’t really blame her. He’d been involved in the abduction of her son, after all. But a deal was a deal, and Quinn had made her keep it.

If Tucker’s and Quinn’s roles had been reversed, he wasn’t so sure he would have been as honorable as the cleaner had been. Honor, he knew, was mostly bullshit anyway.

The other man had to be Quinn’s assistant.
What the fuck was his name? Tucker
realized he wasn’t sure he had ever heard it. Didn’t matter anyway. Quinn was the important one.

But in reality, their presence didn’t change anything. Tucker seriously doubted Quinn and his team even knew about Yellowhammer. How could they? Even if they had been able to get to Marion and talk to her, they would have learned nothing, because she knew nothing.
Tucker was sure of that now. He believed her story about the African girl. Playing the part of the good Samaritan, she had unintentionally gotten in the way. That had been all there was to it.

They’d been hunting her not so much to get the child back, but because they were worried she’d known more than she did. She’d been a potential leak that needed to be stopped. Tucker’s fault, really. He knew that. The army colonel he’d hired in Côte d’Ivoire had been too heavy-handed. Tucker had told him a less direct approach was best. Fewer questions that way. And much more cooperation. But the man had gone in with a whole squad, acting all tough and demanding. Stupid.

Tucker closed his laptop and leaned back in the chair. The only thing that stopped him from giving the order to get rid of the Dupuis bitch at that moment was the
what if
floating in the back of his mind.
What if
Quinn had actually made it this far?
What if it
was one of the cleaner’s team poking around outside the fence? Or better yet,
what if
it was Quinn himself who had tripped the motion sensor?

Tucker liked to believe he was always thinking ahead and preparing for all the different possibilities. Covering his own ass just in case. If Quinn somehow got the upper hand—which Tucker thought very unlikely—Marion Dupuis could then become a bargaining chip. Tucker could play to Quinn’s honor again, giving him the woman and walking away clean. Or better yet, he could use Dupuis to trap the cleaner, then threaten to kill the woman if Quinn didn’t tell him everything he knew. It would be an interesting experiment to see how far Quinn’s honor went.

Tucker couldn’t help but smile at the possibility.

Marion was getting worried. She’d been locked in her dark cell for hours without another visit from the Australian or the old man with the creepy eyes. From the little experience she’d had, that was unusual. Until now, they hadn’t let her go for more than two hours without another round of questioning.

She kept time by pacing the cell and brushing the fingers of her hand along the wall, letting them guide her so that she wouldn’t run
into anything. She slowed her pace so that it took a full thirty seconds to make one circuit, then began counting laps, one minute for every two, an hour for every 120.

A couple of times she lost count and had to estimate, but she didn’t stop until she reached 800. By her estimate over six and a half hours. But it wasn’t her legs that stopped her. It was her fear.

Six and a half hours and no visitors?

No one had even come to see if she needed to use a toilet. She didn’t. She hadn’t drunk enough liquids in the last twenty-four hours to warrant that.

Something must be wrong
, she thought. Could they have decided they didn’t need her anymore, and were just going to let her die?

Maybe everyone was gone. Maybe there was no one left here but her.