The Unwanted (16 page)

"I'm sorry. Who?"

"Primus. It's the code name for the DDNI's source," Peter said. "If it turned out the information was good, the DDNI would bring in his people at that point."

Peter's story made sense. Much of Washington's behind-the-scenes work these days was outsourced to private companies. In this post-9/11 world, there just wasn't enough manpower to handle everything. Even wars were outsourced to companies like Blackwater and Halliburton.

"Are you saying the meeting in Ireland was with the DDNI's source?" Nate asked. "Because if it was, he's dead. We all watched him get shot."

A year ago, Quinn would have given his apprentice a look that would have told Nate to keep quiet. For the most part, that wasn't necessary anymore. Nate's questions now were more often than not the same questions Quinn would have asked.

Peter shook his head. "The meeting concerned Primus, yes, but we never met with him directly. The men you saw killed were his gobetweens. Up until that point, the information Primus had been feeding us was pretty solid. Nothing big, just things meant to build trust. The package from Ireland was supposed to be the first about the specific operation Primus had told the DDNI about." He nodded at the screen. "This itinerary is the movements of one of the terrorist agents."

"What have you learned from it?" Orlando asked.

"That this guy has made a lot of trips to a lot of different places. Mostly third world."

"Who is he?"

"We don't know that yet."

"Do you know what they're planning?" Quinn asked.

"No."

Before Quinn could say anything else, Peter held up a hand, stopping him.

"Primus was supposed to feed us the rest of the information over two additional meetings. The first was to take place two nights ago. And the last, next Thursday."

"Sounds like the one two nights ago didn't happen," Quinn said.

"After Ireland, Primus got scared. He sent a message canceling both upcoming meets. But we knew we needed the information. It seemed like he might actually be onto something. So the DDNI sent a message back using an emergency contact system we had in place. He was able to convince Primus to meet with him personally, one-on-one. Nobody liked the idea, but it seemed like the only thing we could do."

"You watched him, of course," Orlando said.

"We did the best we could. The meeting took place here in New York. Grand Central Terminal. That was Primus's suggestion."

Same type of location Quinn would have suggested in similar circumstances. A large, public facility with plenty of nooks and crannies for a quick, private chat.

"We lost the DDNI there. That was three days ago."

"Didn't he at least have a tracking bug on him?" Quinn asked.

"Of course he did," Peter snapped. "Sewn in the cuff of his pants. But it had been cut out and dropped in a trash can on Fifth Avenue."

"So your valuable source kidnapped him? Was he setting him up the whole time?"

Peter took a breath, then said, "We don't think he did it. Primus contacted us that night, wondering what the hell happened, why the DDNI hadn't shown up. He could have been just playing with us, but we don't think so. We think the same people who sent the assassin to Ireland are the ones who grabbed Deputy Director Jackson and killed him."

The room became still.

"How does it tie in to the building today?" Orlando asked.

Peter turned back to the computer and opened another document. "Primus sent us a list of locations in New York he thought might be of interest."

The displayed list had at least two dozen places on it. Quinn spotted the address of the abandoned apartment building a little more than halfway down.

"How did he come up with this?" Quinn asked.

"We don't know."

"Peter, for God's sake, you still trust this guy? It sounds to me like he was in on it."

"We're convinced otherwise," Peter said. "Our priority now is to get the rest of the information from him so we can judge if we have a credible threat on our hands or not."

"The DDNI is dead," Quinn said. "You have a credible threat, all right. You've been talking to him." He paused. "And, you know what? Right now, shouldn't your number one priority be getting me out of trouble?"

"I have a question," Nate said.

They all turned to him.

"Am I the only one wondering why Peter is telling us all this? I mean, no offense or anything, but usually you don't tell us anything. Am I wrong?"

Quinn could feel his gut clench. He would have noticed, too, if the evening's events hadn't pissed him off so much. He had come into Peter's room expecting to get answers, and answers he got. But now he realized why.

Peter must have seen it in Quinn's eyes. "Number three," he said.

"No," Quinn said.

"Are you going back on the deal? No questions. You're the one who offered that condition. That means you take whatever I give you."

Quinn could feel Orlando and Nate tense behind him, everyone realizing the fate they were about to receive.

"Here it is," Peter said. "Job number three. You help me get the information Primus knows, then help me stop it if necessary."

"That's two jobs," Quinn said, regretting more than ever the deal he'd made.

"It's one if I say it's one," Peter said. "The condition was no questions."

There was a low, short hum followed by another a second later. Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He flipped it open.

"Yes?" Peter said, then listened for a moment. "All right. Stay there." He closed the phone, then looked at Quinn. "So what's it to be? Are you going to stand by your word? Or do I need to let people know you're unreliable?"

In Quinn's world, reputation was everything. He was pretty sure he could weather whatever negative PR Peter put out there, but it would still hurt. More important, though, Quinn considered himself a man of his word. If Peter wished to pervert a promise made out of necessity, there was nothing Quinn could do but go along with it.

"Fine," he said.

"Good." Peter smiled, then stood up. "Sean found a car for you. It's on Forty-sixth, on the other side of Times Square, about halfway down the block. He's waiting."

He pushed past them and headed across the room toward the door.

"Once you're out of the city, head north," Peter said. "I'll call you with instructions later."

Peter let them out of the room. Quinn didn't even look at Peter as he stepped into the hallway, but he could sense the head of the Office lingering in the doorway.

"Quinn," Peter said. "The agent that was hurt tonight . . ."

Quinn stopped. "What about her?"

"I thought you should know. It was Tasha."

"Tasha?" Quinn said.

The name had also gotten Orlando's and Nate's attention. They had all crossed paths with Tasha the previous year in Singapore.

"Tasha Douglas?" Nate said.

Peter nodded.

"How is she?" Orlando asked.

"Not good, but she's holding on."

"She working for you now?" Quinn asked.

"It was a . . . joint operation," Peter said. "With her out . . . see . . . that's why I need your help."

Quinn stared at Peter, then said, "This is the last one. And I'm not talking about just our deal, Peter. No more after this."

Peter's jaw tensed, his words slipping through clenched teeth. "I know."

CHAPTER
11

IN ONLY A WEEK'S TIME, FEAR HAD BECOME SUCH
a dominant aspect of Marion Dupuis's life that she hardly even noticed it anymore. It had become her norm. Her friends would have picked up on it. Her family, too. But she had told none of them she had even returned from Africa.

The only people who knew she was no longer on the job were her boss at the UN who had approved her request for emergency leave— "A family issue," she had said—and the two trusted colleagues whose help she'd needed to leave Côte d'Ivoire.

The first thing she'd needed were papers to get out of the country. Not for herself, but for Iris. There was no way she was going to leave the child behind. One of her colleagues in Africa had assisted her with this. Noelle Broussard was the only one Marion had told the whole story to. Marion was afraid that if she didn't, the woman would have turned her in to the head of the mission instead of helping her to escape.

It must have worked, because ten hours later her friend showed up at her hotel room near the UN compound with a full set of backdated adoption documents, naming Marion as Iris's mother, and a Canadian passport for the girl.

And that wasn't all.

"Here," the woman said, handing Marion a second packet.

Marion looked inside. There was another set of papers and two additional passports.

"What's this?" Marion asked.

"In case of emergencies."

Marion pulled out one of the passports. The picture inside was hers, but the name was different. Niquette Fournier. Hometown: Gatineau. The second passport was for Iris, only her name was listed as Isabel Fournier.

"What am I supposed to do with these?" Marion asked, confused.

"Maybe nothing," her friend said. She looked over at Iris. The girl was sitting on the bed, holding a doll, but she was watching the two women. The woman turned back to Marion. "Someone came looking for you earlier today."

Marion felt a chill go up her spine. "What? Who?"

"A man. A European, I think."

"Caucasian?"

"Yes. He asked about a woman with a child. An African child."

"What did you tell him?" Marion asked.

"I didn't talk to him. But I heard about it later. Since no one else knows about the girl, they didn't know who he was talking about."

"Did he say who he was?"

"No name, just said he worked for an NGO and needed to talk to . . . well, you, I guess." She nodded at the document packet in Marion's hand. "So hold on to those. If you don't want anyone to know where you are, they'll help. They're valid. No one will question you."

Marion's initial thought had been that she and Iris would be safe once they were out of the country. But would they be? Would she and the child need to disappear completely?

You need to get her away . . . you need to disappear . . . don't let anyone know where you are.
Jan's words before Marion took Iris from the orphanage.

She put both sets of documents on the end of the bed and picked up Iris.

"Thank you," she said to her friend.

The woman stood and walked to the door. "Be safe," she said, and then she was gone.

Marion hugged Iris tightly, feeling the child smile against her cheek. So innocent. So vulnerable, yet almost always happy. She would be childlike for life, thanks to a genetic misfire, but in a way Marion envied that. But it was also that misfire, that malformed chromosome giving the child Down syndrome, that had made her both unwanted in her own community yet desired by men with guns who tried to steal her in the night.

That's why Frau Roslyn had hidden the child at the first hint that her orphanage was going to be searched again. She had told Marion a few weeks earlier that there was a group on the lookout for discarded children of a certain type—those with traits that in the West would label them "special needs." Specifically those with either autism or Down syndrome. Other facilities had been searched, and word had spread among those who cared for the orphans in the city to be on their guard. Why someone wanted these children, Frau Roslyn had no idea. But whatever the answer was, she'd told Marion it could not have been good. And when Iris came into her possession, Roslyn had made Marion promise to do what she could to help keep the child safe. Only Marion hadn't realized at the time it would turn into this.

After what she and the child had been through, Marion knew she'd done the only thing she could have. And no matter how difficult, it had been the right thing. She was even starting to rethink her plan to find Iris a real home once they were safe. The child's home should be with her. How could it not be?

That was if Marion didn't get them killed first.

She brought Iris back to New York on the first flight another colleague, one who worked at the UN headquarters in Manhattan, could get her and Iris on. At JFK Airport, she had been tense as she approached passport control. She had chosen to go with the set of documents bearing her own name, but still worried about those Noelle had given her for the child. But Iris's papers had held up, and they were both allowed into the country without a second look.