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An alphabetical pattern?
“Quimper is not next. It’s likely to be Riga or Rimini, but I can’t be certain. Although I am sure Quimper will be hit right after that.”
Either she’s insane or I am. I have dyslexia, and even though I’ve learned to compensate, words can trip me up occasionally, but I don’t think that’s what’s happening. Although what she’s suggesting makes no sense. “Which alphabet are you using? Because R doesn’t come before Q in the Latin one.”
“It’s an alphabetical pattern, but not a sequential one.”
What the fuck does that mean? “Explain.”
“Porto, Oslo, R-city, Quimper. P-O-R-Q. I traced it back almost two years. From everything I’ve studied, they have never deviated from that pattern. It would make more sense if I could show you the graphs and charts I created.”
She created graphs and charts? Jesus Christ.
“The pattern,” she continues, “is B-D-C-F-E-H-G—”
I hold up both hands to stop her before my head explodes trying to make sense of something that will never make sense to me—not like this, anyway. “Why are you so sure about Quimper?”
“There are only three European cities that begin with the letter Q and also follow the profile. Quarteira is in Portugal, and the traffickers were just there, and the other is Quartu Sant’Elena, which has already been a target.”
“What about Queluz?”
“It’s in Portugal and doesn’t fit the profile anyway.”
“Why not?”
“It would be easier to explain if I could borrow a computer to access my work.”
I am so pissed at her, my hand trembles as I text Tamar to come to the conference room.
“You have this information stored on the cloud where anyone could connect it to you?” I’m ten seconds from shaking her.
“Of course not,” she huffs, like I’m an idiot. “It’s stored securely in a place that can’t be accessed by anyone but me.”
Can’t be accessed is a relative term, but still, I’m so relieved she took precautions that I bite back the retort on the tip of my tongue.
“What other variables are you considering besides the alphabet?”
“Size, redundancy, timing.” She shrugs. “I have a good sense of the pattern, but I don’t pretend to understand how all the variables impact it.” Her shoulders sag. “I was certain they were going to hit Oslo, but I was off on the timing.”
There’s a knock on the door before I can ask any more questions or mention the designer she claimed to be doing a story on. “Come in.”
“You need me?” Tamar asks.
“Ms. Clarke needs a computer. Set it up so we can use the large screen.”
Lexie and I eye each other as Tamar works, each in search of clues. She seems a little nervous, though still defiant. But I want answers that aren’t on her face or in her body language.
“Anything else?” Tamar asks, preparing to leave.
“Tamar’s going to sit in on this discussion,” I tell Lexie. “She’s trustworthy, and this is her area of expertise. Having her here will be beneficial to both of us.”
I wait for Lexie’s response, but it’s just for show. Tamar needs to be present for this, and she will be, regardless of what Lexie wants.
After a long moment, Mata Hari nods, and I relax a bit. There’s a fight ahead for us—a fucking war—but I prefer not to do battle every step of the way.
I glance up at Tamar, who I’m sure is wondering what the fuck is going on. Although her expression gives nothing away. “Ms. Clarke has been tracking the flesh traders.”
Tamar doesn’t bat an eyelash as she takes a seat. She nods, politely, like I just said Ms. Clarke is going to Israel, and she’s wondering about restaurants. Do you have any suggestions?
