El QaaT
he UNICEF refugee camp director was a lanky, good-looking American woman from Texas with tan skin and sun-bleached hair that indicated plenty of experience in the Middle East. Lynn Fulton spoke Arabic, French, and English with a distinct Rio Grande Valley twang. She gave Evans’ hand a firm grip and led him into a small trailer that felt like an oven despite the best efforts of a wheezing air conditioner. They had to speak loudly over a bank of generators roaring outside the trailer.
“What makes you think this man Davis will show up here, Mr. Evans?”
Fast Eddie smiled and pointed at the local phone on her desk. “Well, he’s on the run and being hunted for something he didn’t do, Lynn, and he’ll likely be looking for friendly faces, you know? I figure he might make for a place like
