“Could be less?”
“Not much less.”
Silence again for a longer while. Kim waited.
“Examine your evidence. Talk things over with Gaspar. Send me your report before ten tonight. Include the photos. I want to see them.”
Ten tonight? He wanted a full encrypted report in four hours? “Yes, sir.”
“You’re booked on a 10:30 Delta flight to Kennedy. Same security set up as this morning. Your second subject is only available tonight. Someone will meet you at the gate and take you to him. Sorry for the short notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Six minutes later Gaspar knocked on the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Kim rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, seeking to relieve the unremitting tension. For twenty-four hours, she’d been running on her standard triple A’s: ambition, adrenaline, and anxiety. Add two gut-wrenching plane rides on less than two hours sleep and her nerves, like her muscles, were screaming. None of this, she knew, was visible even to the keenest observer. And she meant to keep it that way.
Sixty-five minutes ago, she’d arrived in the luxury suite of the JFK Hudson Hotel excited and fully armed with her well-crafted approach. Allotted ninety minutes, she’d planned to complete the Reacher file through this single interview. She would make a powerful ally, learn everything she needed to know, write a perfect report, and wrap. From start to finish in less than twenty-four hours. Record success in record time, even for her. The boss would be pleased. She’d go home in triumph, sleep for a week, and never go back to Margrave again.
That was then.
Her optimism had dimmed as her time expired. She was forced to revise, cut, refocus, and revise her plan again and again. Now she had only twenty-five minutes to complete the mission. Not enough time. Not even close.
“You’re looking a little silly up there on the ceiling,” Gaspar said, without opening his eyes. He rested on the edge of his seat, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, head supported by the narrow wood across the chair back, hands folded like a corpse.
“Whatever do you mean, Gumby?” she said, haughty, as if he’d missed the mark completely.
“This is total bullshit. You didn’t cause it and you certainly can’t fix it. You might as well relax until he shows up.” He grinned. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to panic.”
“You’re too kind.”
“It’s a gift.”
“A curse, you mean.”
“Suit yourself. Wake me up when his royal highness appears.”
He wasn’t fooling her. She saw the white knuckles on his clasped hands. He’d been slouching like that since they arrived, but he hadn’t actually slept a second.
“Don’t worry, Quixote. You’ll hear the trumpets.”
She’d run the revised plan through her head a hundred times, but it never got any better. All available accounts proclaimed Finlay an honorable man whose integrity equaled his superior competence. Which had to mean the negatives had been removed from his records and the complainants silenced. Nobody got as high up the ladder as this guy without making enemies.
She needed leverage and she simply didn’t have any.
His title was Special Assistant to the President for Strategy. What did that mean? The precise nature of his job was nowhere described. Which was more than enough to shove her internal threat-level against the top of the red zone and hold it there.
He’d been selected by the highest-ranking civilian responsible for Homeland Security and Counterterrorism, and placed one heartbeat away from the U.S. Commander in Chief. No watchdog kept tabs on him. He reported seldom and only through verbal briefing. No paper trail so much as named the missions he’d undertaken. Process, performance, results, also absent from the record.
Casualties, of course, never acknowledged. She’d heard rumors. Unconfirmed.
Everything she’d learned about Finlay marked him as dangerous. He deployed unspecified unique skills in service to her country on unidentified missions. Like nuclear power, when properly harnessed he might be useful. But she’d found nothing restraining him; not even his own word.
Was he friend or foe? Wiser to assume the worst.
She heard a door swish over carpet in the suite’s anteroom. The noise charged her nervous system like a cartoon character’s finger plugged into a light socket, an image she’d never found remotely funny. She’d been tasered. She knew how it felt.
“He’s here,” she said. Her voice sounded calm. No tremors, good cadence, low octave. So far, so good.
“Finally.” Gaspar’s scowl had become a permanent groove in his forehead. “Who does the guy think he is? Jennifer Lopez? Now there’s someone worth waiting for.”
She knew what he meant. Worthy leaders never disrespected subordinates. Loyalty was a two-way street in her book, too.
Gaspar had decided Finlay’s tardiness was deliberately dismissive. Kim wanted to believe he’d been unavoidably detained, even as her stomach acid said Gaspar was right.
She warned Gaspar again, “Our time is his time.”
“Yeah. I got that. Remember me? I’m the one with four kids to put through college.” He stood up, stretched. Kim pretended not to watch him stroll awkwardly around the room. She saw the pain on his face, too. At some point, she’d ask him about the leg. But not now. She had more immediate things to worry about.
Maybe the interview wouldn’t be a disaster. A glimmer of her initial excitement remained. She’d been given this rare chance to impress a powerful man who could and did advance women on the job. Finlay had a proven track record on that score: Roscoe.
Would Roscoe have become Margrave Police Chief without Finlay’s support? Hardly.
“He could have a good reason for being late, you know,” she said.
Twenty-two minutes left. She strained to hear the voices in the anteroom. But the suite was near soundproof; she couldn’t quite capture the words being exchanged, which might be OK. Or not. Depended on what the words actually were, didn’t it?
Three or four men were talking. One was the aide who had escorted them from their arrival gate. She hoped one was their subject. If so, the other two could be his protection detail. A lot of firepower for a friendly conversation with two FBI agents.
She heard footsteps. She stood up. Lamont Finlay, Ph.D., pushed the door open and crossed the threshold as if he owned the room and everything in it.
Even at two o’clock in the morning, he looked like a spokesman for financial services. Tall, straight, solid; close cropped hair slightly grey at the temples. Clean shaven. Well dressed. Everything polished to high gloss. Distinguished. Experienced.
Intimidating.
A black man, but his ethnicity was not African-American. The file said his grandparents had emigrated from Trinidad to New York before settling in Boston, where he’d been educated at Harvard. The Boston accent had faded but Kim could hear it.
“Mr. Gaspar, Ms. Otto,” he said, shaking hands with both of them in turn. His paw felt as big as a catcher’s mitt. She could have made a fist with both hands inside his grip. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Please, sit, sit. Have your needs been adequately attended to?”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” Kim said. A tray delivered more than an hour ago still rested on the table top. The silver coffee carafe with sides of sweeteners and cream, bone china cups and saucers, silver spoons, crystal glasses, linen
