Quinn's flight on Emirates was unremarkable. Like he was usually able to do on long commercial flights, he slept almost the entire way. Thankfully, he was seated next to an equally peaceable Middle Eastern gentleman, who probably assumed a language barrier when he heard Quinn speak English to the flight attendant. All to the good - Quinn had eaten the meal placed in front of him, silently and almost without tasting it, and then taken a chance on the first ten minutes of the in-flight movie – "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty", a piece of tripe if he had ever seen one, - and then checked out. He had found most air travel to be a very good place to catch up on sleep. An initial scan around for unsavory types, visually locate the air marshal if there was one, and give a nod – then out like a light for the entire trip without much fear of interference. It was cocoonlike, a suspension of time, in a way. When he flew, there would be no decisions to make, nor actions to take.

Quinn closed his eyes and started to drift off almost immediately. If only Walter Mitty knew how good he really had it, the thought, he never would have gone on his supposed vision quest. The quiet life, that's what's worth protecting. What most these people around him undoubtedly had, and did not appreciate – a safe, predictable and somewhat boring existence – was something he'd not had for many years and wondered if he'd ever have again.

Before he'd left DC, he'd passed by Carrie's sister's house a few times. Maybe more than a few times, actually. He'd done a drive-by to check on the place, and to make sure things looked safe and squared away. He'd been able to observe fragments of Maggie and Frank's placid, suburban existence there in the front yard. The older girl - was it Ruby or Josie?- watering the potted geraniums with a long-nosed watering can. Frank, his sleeves rolled up, applying an old-fashioned push-mower to the small front lawn, his cheeks rosy with the effort. And one memorable time, Maggie on the front steps with Franny, Carrie's child, who crawled up and down the steps, her fat diapered bottom in the air, crowing with victory as she reached the top and tried to grab the long tail of the tabby cat. It was the sort of thing soldiers - operatives - told themselves they were going overseas to protect. At first the scene warmed his heart, because Maggie was doting and affectionate, and the child was so earnest and cute. But her red hair set off a depth charge of loneliness. Carrie's child made him feel closer to her in some ways, but there was the red hair. The memory. Her pain, the child's father a traitor, and nothing he could do about it. He drove off and caught up with his friend, Jimmy Beam, that night.

It was behind him now, and he was glad. Back to Carrie, and to all outward appearances, she was acting as single as she did before the child was born. Some part of him found excitement and more than a bit of satisfaction in that. He promptly turned his face to the bulkhead, and conked out.

He dreamt, and he must have been dreaming of Carrie, because in his dreams there had been a flash of blonde hair as someone quickly turned in front of him. Yes, it was her, and he was close enough to touch her, to smell her. They were in a hallway, a school or a hospital of some kind. He didn't understand why, but in the dream, he was trying to apprehend her. Was he trying to hold her? Or just keep her from leaving, somehow? He felt she was in some kind of danger. He had a grip on her arm, and she railed at him. "Am I supposed to believe that you care for me?" she shouted at him, and he saw her face, Carrie's crazy face, good God, he hadn't seen that for a long time. Her eyes were wild. And then in the dream, she turned and elbowed him in the nose, the pain so sudden and unexpected that he let her go. The dream-pain jolted him out of sleep, and his last remembered dream-thought was, "She got loose from me, not safe for her." Then, the captain came on the comm and while he announced their descent into Benazir Bhutto International airport, Quinn lost the threads of the dream. "Got to do better than that next time," he admonished himself fuzzily, as he awoke, but then a moment later, couldn't remember what that meant. Better than what? The dream was gone, but the feeling of foreboding remained.

Carrie had been delighted to hear he was coming, at least that's how she sounded on the phone. She had given Qadir his flight number and sure enough, Qadir had picked him up outside International Arrivals. Buckling himself into the G-car, he didn't want to sound too interested, or too worried, but Quinn couldn't help but say, "Hey. Surprised Carrie didn't come with you." Qadir shrugged, "Oh, she's out at the secret site. Working on an asset." "Oh," Quinn said, entirely unsatisfied. He knew about the second site – Fara was there now – but he had only a few strong candidates for what a "secret" site would be or why she'd need one. He'd be heading to that secret site as soon as he could, to find out where Carrie was, and what – or who – she was working on.

"I'll take you to the Embassy, get you settled in," Qadir suggested.

"No," Quinn said quietly, "I'd rather go to Carrie's offsite HQ."

Qadir shrugged. "I know she'd want you there," he said, and turned north.

Quinn showed up at the outer door, solemn as a ghost. Fara heard him tapping, opened it, and greeted him quietly.

"Hey, Fara."

"You're early," she said, leading him inside the complex of small offices.

He thought for a moment about the dream – he had lost everything about it but the feeling of danger. "Tailwinds," he replied distractedly. He had gotten there as soon as he could - even gone stand-by for an earlier flight, the better to get to Carrie sooner. But no need to tell Fara that.

Fara eyed him, her cover holding back her hair and emphasizing her huge, dark eyes. "Carrie's not here yet," she said, answering his unasked question.

Quinn looked back at her, hoping he was keeping his expression blank. "Okay," he said, looking around for Carrie all the same.

Fara offered Quinn some coffee, as he settled into a vacant office – no more than a broom closet, really. But he'd stayed in worse.

"So," Quinn said, "Catch me up. Did Carrie identify the guy with the earpiece?"

"She did," Fara said, pouring coffee for Quinn and herself. "She's with Saul now, laying out the operation,"

Quinn winced inwardly- plans were being made without him. He wanted in on this thing. Now that he was here, he wanted to be sure he knew the outline of every Op – and if not Carrie's every move, at least her intended moves. Something was in play, and he knew she'd be at the forefront of it, for good or ill. "So," Quinn said, "Saul rattles a general's cage or two, and we wait to see who delivers the message to our foot soldier?"

"Yeah," said Fara, noncommittal. "His name's Fahrad Ghazi."

"How is she," he said, not bothering to elaborate. Quinn's tone must have changed, because Fara turned her head to look directly at him. He wondered if his deeper feelings were visible to Fara. Doubtful, he thought. Maybe some, but not all, he thought. He had cultivated his inscrutable look for two decades. And she's probably too discreet to say in any case.

"Good," Fara said immediately. A moment later, she amended, "Amazing, actually."

"You got this place up and running in record time," Quinn offered.

"All her," Fara insisted. "I don't know when she finds time to sleep."

Quinn's stomach sank. "Amazing" could mean a lot of different things. Efficient, helpful, ruthless, heartless, busy… some of that was good, some not so good. It also could mean "up all night and going manic." He was suddenly beside himself with worry. But he kept silent.

The outer door pushed open, and Max entered, looking a little frazzled.

"He's here," he said, nearly out of breath.

Quinn sat motionless in the office he had just occupied, his duffel and his briefcase shoved under the desk. He had seen Carrie for the first time since Sandy's funeral, just now, and part of him wanted her to come straight over and greet him, regardless of who was here. But no, they were putting a show on for the new asset. He knew that. And of course he knew that she was unsentimental, even on the best day. He would have enjoyed a hug, or a handshake, but he knew better than to expect one. She just side-eyed him and put all her attention on the asset. The boy, he said to himself. Carrie took the boy into her office and closed the door. Quinn did his level best to fade into the background, seated in the small, airless cubicle.

He sighed, and sat back. If he held motionless, he could hear the tone of the conversation going on behind the closed door, if not the exact words. It was maddening. Fara had had time to give him a look and a whispered one-sentence update after the door closed, then she scooted off to try to look like she was doing something "journalistic," no doubt. He knew he needed to play along, and pulled out his laptop and started it up. He stared at the screen but continued to listen to the voices through the door. Carrie, reassuring, suggestive, seemingly placating. The boy – Aayan something – was making complaining noises and finished a lot of sentences abruptly. Usually that means refusing, Quinn thought. Also his tone of voice varied high to low in a short time – usually means emotional upset. No doubt he was; if he was being recruited here, he was in it up to his eyeballs. Quinn squinted at the keyboard, not seeing, and listened harder, trying to make out individual words. It got quiet, and then he thought he could hear the boy crying. He heard Carrie make comforting noises – the thought of what she might be doing to provide comfort made him a little sick to his stomach – and then he thought he heard Carrie say the word "blackmailing". He listened intently, but no dice. The mumbling continued, but no other words were intelligible. Quinn's stomach rolled.

Carrie opened the door and motioned for Fara, who walked in and joined them. Quinn shifted his eyes over the top of his laptop screen, and got a look at Carrie's face. She was deep in the game, her recruiting circuit switched to all-the-way-open. He knew that look: top-shelf intensity and focus. She wasn't going to stop until she got what she wanted, a trait he managed to admire and revile at the same time. What was she getting herself into?

The door opened again and Fara emerged, walk-running to a small office safe stowed in the wall of the adjacent larger front office area, behind a panel of fake bookends. She opened the safe and withdrew a good-sized handful of Rupee notes – Quinn gave Fara a single raised eyebrow as she walked quickly past again, going back to Carrie's office. She caught his questioning look and turned her own face to the floor, abashed. She should know that he wouldn't think less of her, in any case. She was just following orders, a small fish caught up in Carrie's wake.

A moment later, the boy emerged and left the office in a hurry, looking down at his shoes as if the laces held all the answers. Quinn barely moved as he passed by, just looked down at his keyboard and appeared to be typing something, pretending to be absorbed in thought. After the boy left, Carrie followed him to the front door. Quinn stood, and walked into the main hallway, leaning on a doorframe, until the boy was gone.

Carrie turned back and seemed to see Quinn for the first time. She immediately noticed the visible inquiry on his face. Her first words to him after so much time apart were a disappointment, but unsurprising.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, daring him to judge.

Quinn kept his voice level, his tone light. "Fara filled me in on the kid," he said.

"And?" she dared him to respond in anything but the positive. Her body language was downright combative.

"And," Quinn said, as calmly as possible, "Getting anybody asylum these days is no easy matter, much less a place at medical college in London."

Suddenly dismissive, irritable that he would point out the obvious, Carrie snapped, "Yeah, I'm aware of that, Quinn."

"So, you have another play?" he asked, hoping he sounded reasonable. So many other scenarios passed through his mind that he was afraid to hear the answer.

Mercurial and agitated, Carrie brushed past him in the hallway, leaving a heartbreaking waft of her characteristic smell – God, but he had missed that smell. Even in her pissy mood, in total type-A mode, his hands itched to touch her hair as she moved past. Calm her like a kitten, smooth her jangled nerves. Humanize her, and make her feel something back, to him, to anyone.

"He's an iron in the fire," she snarled as she went by. Quinn closed his eyes, slowly breathing her in.

Reaching the inner office door, she turned, and held it open. She waited until Quinn swiveled on his feet, and turned to face her. When she had his eyes, she replied more softly, seeming to realize he was not there to attack her, or her methods. "Besides," she stated, "He knows something he's not saying. Our man with the earpiece paid him a visit last week." She waited a moment for the full import of this to register on Quinn's face.

"He did?" Quinn's heart began to beat faster. This is why he was always staying in – going back to the danger zone, the sniper's nest, the covert Op – it was the thrill of the chase.

Carrie's eyes sparkled. She felt it too. In that way, they were so very alike. "Anything else you want to know?" she teased. But she was serious. She was hooked and so was he – she could see it. The hardest person in the world to say no to, is the one who knows you the best. She was smiling now. Was she happy to see him? He couldn't tell. Did it really matter, though?

"I'll get my things," said Quinn, attempting to contain his excitement. He was jet lagged as hell, but the jolt of adrenaline which came from knowing they were on the trail and probably even had a site to stake out – that woke his ass right up. Besides, who needed sleep? To think he was ready to get out. He could be sleepless anywhere. Better here, closer to the Play, closer to Carrie. In a dark room, next to her, doing surveillance on… the subject. Closer to home, he thought, in spite of himself.

He'd been there for thirty minutes, and he was already high. On her. He grabbed his duffel and followed Carrie into the corridor.