Although she’s doing her best to stay on script, Quinn can’t help but be momentarily derailed by wondering if she looks as disgusting as she feels. All the travel, combined with the unfamiliar Omani food (and, if she’s being honest, the two mini bottles of chardonnay she paid for out-of-pocket on the plane) is not doing her stomach any favors.
“Mr. Hashem,” she says. He did not offer a hand, so she decides not to offer hers. Instead, she removes her ID from the inside pocket of her blazer and unfolds it for Tariq to verify. “My name is Quinn Mitchell. I work for the CIA.”
“Call me Tariq,” the manager says, though not especially warmly. A curt nod indicates that he is satisfied with her credentials, and Quinn tucks them away.
“Thank you for making time to see me.”
“You’re welcome.”
There is an economy to this man that is making her feel rushed. It doesn’t help that he glances down at what looks to her like a very high-end Chinese timepiece strapped to the inside of his wrist by the skin of what was probably once an exotic, endangered reptile. Quinn hopes that the sleeve of her blazer is covering her own plastic Timex Ironman.
“Do you know this man?”
Quinn’s handset is configured so that the back is mirroring what’s on the front, and she and Tariq are both looking at one of the renderings of her suspect from L.A.
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“You’ve never seen this man before in your life?”
“No.”
“You don’t recognize this man as a guest of this hotel?”
“I do not.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“I am.”
Tariq al-Fasi Hashem is considerably less exotic and attractive when he is obstructing justice. The unfamiliar fragrance he brought with him that only moments ago Quinn found not entirely off-putting she now finds a little douchey.
“Mr. Hashem—Tariq—I’m here in coordination with Interpol investigating a series of extremely brutal murders, the most recent of which occurred just seven kilometers from this hotel.”
“I understand.”
“And we have reason to believe that this man is involved.”
“I see.”
“And that he stayed here. In your hotel.”
Nothing. Doesn’t even blink.
“Is it possible you were a little hasty before? Would you like to see the image one more time?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Quinn places her handset down on the glass surface in front of her. The table is composed of two independently supported sections that, when she initially sat, registered simply as abstract blobs—something approximating opposing commas—but that she now realizes constitute a yin-yang symbol. An unconventional one, though. Given that the piece is fully transparent, it is impossible to tell which role in the symbol’s duality her side plays versus Tariq’s.
“Have you ever heard the saying We know what we are, but know not what we may be?”
“I have not.”
“It was first attributed to the Prophet Muhammad, and it is believed that—”
“Allow me to save us both some time,” Tariq interjects. As he leans forward and his gray-brown eyes bore into hers, Quinn is transfixed by their clarity. “I am not susceptible to CIA mind games, and I am not going to give you any information on any of my guests. The coffee and the water are on me. Safe travels, Ms. Mitchell.”
The manager stands, and Quinn is so stunned that her gaze does not adjust, and she subsequently finds herself staring at a well-tailored crotch. In her experience, being spoken to in such a way elicits one of two diametrically opposed reactions in her, and she often does not know which until she opens her mouth.
“Tariq,” Quinn says, then a moment later raises her gaze. “Sit back down. I’m not finished.”
Tariq gives her an intensely inquisitive look. There is nothing dismissive or mocking about it—just pure perplexity that the American woman whom he has just told, in his own way, to fuck off has the balls to come at him again.
“That must be why they sent a woman to do a man’s job,” the hotel manager says. He lowers himself back down, this time not bothering with the trouser hitching. “Because you do it like a man.”
Quinn can see that she has not intimidated one curly hair on this man’s head, and that he only sat back down because, unless another international serial killer happens to be due sometime soon, this conversation is probably the most interesting thing he will do all day. Regardless of the reason, she still has his attention, and she has yet to make her final move.
She picks her handset back up and swipes to the next image. She does not look at it herself, because the first time she saw the autopsy photo of the nine-month-old baby boy on a stainless-steel surgical table beneath harsh white spotlights, she nearly vomited. So instead, she flips it around and watches Tariq. She cannot tell if his expression changes or if it is just the pounding of her heart that’s affecting her vision.
“This is the real reason I’m here,” Quinn says. She wonders if Tariq has gathered a long enough sample of her voice to realize that it is now quivering. “You should know that the man who you’re protecting did this. This is how he can afford to stay in places like this and buy people like you.”
Tariq is still looking down at the handset. Quinn senses there could be an opening, so she jams in a wedge.
“People involved in drugs or organized crime or espionage—they understand the risks. But that’s not the business this guy is in. He appears to be killing people for no reason whatsoever. He’s killing children. This guy’s not some type of high-class assassin, Tariq. He’s just a psychotic murderer.”
Tariq raises his eyes from the handset, and as he watches Quinn, she searches his expression for something that still is not quite there. It is as though he has chosen to call—not to fold, not to raise, but to stay in the game long enough to see what she’s really got.
So Quinn goes all in. She swipes again, and this time, she finds what she’s looking for. This time, Tariq’s expression changes.
“Where did you get that?” he asks her.
This nine-month-old baby boy is very much alive. He is sitting on his mother’s lap and is overjoyed by her undivided attention. One outstretched hand is on her cheek and the other is over his mother’s mouth as she playfully gobbles at the chubby fingers.
Another swipe.
This time, it is Tariq holding the baby boy. They are on a beach, and Dad is dressed in a white oxford and jeans rolled up to his knees. Quinn notices that he is wearing a different watch in the photo—a metal one. His wife has thick, wavy black hair and wears a flowing white dress. Her sandals dangle from her hooked fingers by thin leather straps.
Quinn considers swiping again, but she can see that she does not need to.
“I asked you where the fuck you got those.”
Instinctively, Quinn gives it right back to him. “I work for the C-I-fucking-A,” she says. “That’s where I got them. In fact, I have hundreds of these. I know that your son, Omar, is two and a half now, and that your wife, Aasimah, is twenty-four weeks pregnant with your first daughter. I can even tell you what she’s thinking of naming her, in case you didn’t know.”
“Are you threatening my family?”
Quinn instantly drops the smirk. “Of course not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to make you realize that every single one of these victims left families behind that loved them just as much as you love your family. Just as much as I…Just as much as everyone loves their families.”
The hotel manager’s demeanor has transformed into something disquieting. He shakes his head in what Quinn interprets as an amalgam of rage and astonishment.
“You people make me sick.”
“Tariq, listen—”
“You come into my country. Into my place of business. You insult the Prophet Muhammad. You don’t even do me the courtesy of covering your head.”
Reflexively, Quinn reaches up and touches her hair.
“And then you have the audacity to threaten my family?”
“I’m not threatening your family, Tariq.”
“You’re not threatening my family? Tell me, what would you do if a Middle Eastern man came into your country, followed you into a Starbucks or your gym or wherever you go, and when you didn’t answer his questions, showed you photos of your children next to a picture of an eviscerated baby? How would you react?”
Quinn holds up her hands in a halting gesture. “Please. I realize how this looks, Tariq. I do. But I want to be very clear that I am not, in any way—”
“And you wonder why the world hates you so much. How would you like it if we parked aircraft carriers off the coasts of California and New York and fired Tomahawk missiles into your country every time something happened that we didn’t like? Or if we sent Navy SEALs into Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night to kill or kidnap whomever we pleased. Or if we put Americans in secret prisons, and denied them legal representation, and tortured them. Even if you didn’t respect your own government, how would you feel about ours?”
“The United States and the Sultanate of Oman are allies,” Quinn says. “We would never—”
“I’m not talking about Oman, Ms. Mitchell. I’m talking about the world. I’m talking about our Muslim brothers and sisters. Look at you. You don’t even know you’re doing it. You are so arrogant and so entitled that you don’t even know how the rest of the world sees you. You don’t even know why everyone hates you so much.”
“Tariq, all I’m doing is investigating a murder. All I want is to—”
“Get out of my hotel and don’t ever come back. If I see you in here again, I’ll have you taken down into the basement, where we have a soundproof room, and I’ll give you a reason to hate Muslims. Do you understand me?”
Quinn has gone from apologetic to terrified. She could have waited until Interpol agents arrived in Sohar, and they could have all done this together, but she didn’t want to give the killer another seven hours to run. She can see now what a mistake that was—how far out of her depth she really is. Tariq is waiting for a response, and Quinn barely manages a nod.
“And just to be clear,” he adds, “I am threatening you.”
That is all Quinn can take. The rapid flash of fear; the talk of dead children; being seven thousand miles from home in a strange country; the fact that she has no fucking clue what she’s doing. It is all just too much. The only thing she can think to do is cover her face with her hands.
“What’s the matter, Agent Mitchell?” Tariq asks with mock concern. “Does the truth hurt?”
And then, for the second time today, Quinn Mitchell sobs.
“I hope you’re not expecting me to feel sorry for you.”
She has no idea what’s going on around her anymore. Trying to suppress what is inside her with deep and deliberate breathing takes all her concentration.
“Poor, poor American. Poor CIA agent. The murderer who can’t catch the murderer.”
She wonders why Tariq hasn’t gotten up and walked away. Is he still there just to mock her, or has he summoned men in tight suits and wires in their ears to grasp her by the arms, lift her out of her seat, and escort her outside? Or worse, into a side room, and then down the back stairs and into the basement.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says from behind her hands.
“What’s that?”
Quinn cycles through one final breath, then uncovers her face.
“I said I’m sorry. I did that all wrong. You want to know why?” She leans forward, removes the cocktail napkin from beneath a bottle of water, and starts trying to clean up her face. “Because I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” She addresses the snot on her top lip first, then finds a dry piece of napkin to begin soaking up tears. “I don’t belong here. I’m not a field officer. I’m not any kind of officer. I’m an analyst. I’m supposed to be back in Langley, sitting in a cubicle. But somebody got the brilliant idea to send me out after an international murderer. Probably because my daughter died, and they thought that would incentivize me or something.” She sniffs and blinks and finds that she is not done with the tears just yet. “But all it’s done is turn me into a complete fucking mess. And all I want to do is catch this motherfucker so I can go home and drink an entire bottle of wine by myself and curl up in bed and not wake up for week.”
“Then why are you chasing bodies?” Tariq asks her.
Quinn was expecting stunned silence. Maybe even just a tiny bit of sympathy. The one thing she was not expecting from Tariq was advice.
She swaps the wad in her hand for the second cocktail napkin. “What?”
“I asked you why you’re chasing bodies,” Tariq says again.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“If you keep following the bodies, then bodies are all you are ever going to find. That’s not how you catch a killer.”
“What am I supposed to follow? I don’t have any other leads.”
“You don’t need leads. You already know exactly why he’s doing it.”
Quinn looks up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you may not know how someone can do the kinds of things he does, but you know exactly why.”
“The money,” Quinn says.
“The money,” Tariq repeats. “If you want to know where he’s been, keep following the bodies. But if you want to know where he’s going, follow the money.”
In addition to being a bloated, blubbering mess, Quinn now feels like a complete moron. It isn’t like the oldest investigative cliché in criminal justice history never occurred to her. It’s more that she just hasn’t had the time. She’s been so busy looking for something in the killer’s recent past that she hasn’t thought about other ways to peer into his immediate future. Plus, all Moretti seems to be interested in are details about crime scenes and timeline reconstructions. Maybe that’s the problem with having access to so much information. Everyone always assumes that the challenges with “big data” revolve around storing, retrieving, processing, and making some kind of sense of it. But maybe the bigger problem with having access to more information than anyone ever dreamed possible is that it distracts you from asking the simplest and most obvious questions of all.
Given that the most exotic place Quinn has ever been prior to this was Diagon Alley at Harry Potter World during her daughter’s spring break, the fact that she is now on the Arabian Peninsula trying to catch a serial killer while blowing her nose into a cocktail napkin after imagining herself getting kneecapped in the basement of a luxury hotel by a man she fantasized about both torturing and sleeping with is just too funny not to laugh at. Even Tariq seems to be relieved by the dissipation of international tensions.
“You know what?” Quinn says. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Good,” Tariq says. He stands, but rather than offering his hand, he pulls his sport coat across his silk shirt and buttons it closed. “We’ll take care of all of this. Get yourself cleaned up, and when you’re ready, go catch your killer.”
There is the slightest of smiles in Tariq’s eyes as he turns.
“Hey, Tariq,” Quinn says. “One more thing.”
The hotel manager turns with eyebrows cocked.
“Can you please tell me where I can get some decent American food around here?”
17
PITCH-ROLLING
IF RANVEER WERE the type, he could boast about any number of feats, deeds, and flukes, not the least of which was having been present for the inception of one of the most ambiti
ous and significant enterprises of all time. This was back before he was a practicing airline monogamist. After booking a last-minute seat on a shared charter from San Francisco to Doha, Qatar, he witnessed a troop of Soylent-drinking, health-hacking, microdosing Silicon Valley bros expound upon their vision for disrupting every last aspect of innovation by first disrupting its very foundation: sovereignty.
“Pitch-rolling” it was called. It was when you tricked potential investors—who would otherwise sooner have a colonoscopy than take a meeting with you—into hearing your idea. Struggling entrepreneurs ran up hundreds of thousands in credit card debt purchasing open seats on shared transpacific private jets in order to ensure captive access to affluent capitalists. Once in the air, they typically stoked their courage with a Red Bull and vodka, pushed the sleeves of their hoodies up past their skinny elbows as they stood, croaked a few polite interjections until they had everyone’s attention, and then unleashed a myriad of improbable schemes for achieving their spectacular utopian dreams.
It was kind of like a Shark Tank flash mob, or like having a timeshare spiel unexpectedly sprung on you at forty thousand feet, but since it was usually much more entertaining than anything else there was to do, you went with it. At least initially. Pitch-rolling was also kind of like open mic night in that the second you started misfiring, the audience let you know. Therefore, unless you wanted to get booed back into your seat—or worse, right there in front of everyone, get offered a check for a thousand dollars to sit the fuck back down and shut the fuck up (which you sheepishly accepted)—you had to make your time up there count. Like the senior-year promposals most of these Harvard and Stanford dropouts were plotting just a few years prior, originality was as essential as the message itself.
The ultimately successful pitch for The Grid by the band of eager young geeks to a jetful of bearded, austere, and discriminating sheikhs went, more or less, like this….
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