He shrugged. “I’m no revolutionary. I’m a lawman, just like you. But I know a no-win scenario when I see one.”
The assistant was pounding on the door.
Gaspar said, “I’ve got your back. I’ll tell him you’re sick; don't make me a liar. I’ll buy you five minutes.”
He slipped out into the hallway and closed the door firmly behind him.
Kim knew the right things to do. Either leave empty handed, or stay with the evidence. She was an officer of the law and of the court. She’d taken her oaths with pride. She still had ideals. She planned to be the Director of the FBI one day. Bright lines divided her conduct from those less ambitious and less committed. Lines she’d never planned to cross.
Yet she looked around for a disposable container, just in case.
The hundred dollar bills were solid proof. They were the only hard evidence that Kliners still existed, and that Cooper owned some.
No warrant. No time to get one, even if she could.
If she took the envelope with no warrant, not only did she break the law, but the evidence became inadmissible.
If she left the envelope until a warrant was obtained, the evidence would disappear.
She might never find another Kliner.
Cooper might go free.
She might get caught in possession and be arrested and convicted.
No more time to think.
Create a record, at least.
Gaspar was arguing with the assistant in the hallway. Voices were rising and falling.
Working as fast as possible, shielding her actions from the cameras as much as she could, Kim photographed the envelope and its stuffing. She counted 250 bills, all of them hundreds. She laid out several on the table. She photographed them front and back. She quietly dictated a list of serial numbers, careful to keep her voice below the volume of Gaspar's argument on the other side of the door.
Now or never. Take Cooper down or let him win?
What’s it going to be?
Her trembling hand slipped four bills into her pocket. She returned the rest to the envelope and then to the box. She relocked the box. She left the depositor key in place.
She'd have controlled her stomach, but Gaspar's excuse made the effort unnecessary. She made it to the ten- inch plastic trash can in the corner before she heaved. Vomit splashed the wall and dribbled down her chin. She heaved again.
She doused her face with bottled water. Rinsed her mouth with Gaspar’s cold coffee.
She squared her shoulders. She straightened her jacket.
She rang the bell.
Gaspar opened the door. Sour vomit fumes hung in the air. The security guard fled. The assistant turned green and marched them to the exit. All but shoved them out into the night.
“The vomiting was a bit above and beyond, don't you think?” Gaspar asked.
“Not at all,” she said. She gulped exhaust laden air. She sipped the last of her water while Gaspar hailed a taxi. The four Kliners sat like nuclear waste in her pocket.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
They landed at Dulles. Caffeine and anxiety leveraged Kim vertical. She’d spent the entire flight working. She looked like hell and smelled worse. She felt subhuman. Nothing a long shower and a hot meal and red wine and two weeks in bed and a stomach transplant and a new career wouldn’t fix.
Gaspar asked, “What’s the plan?”
Her life was circling the drain. She grinned anyway. She said, “We attack at dawn.”
He grinned with her. “I’d hug you, but you stink.”
First phase: employ secret weapon.
She said, “Tell me again what happened when Hale collected Sylvia last night.”
“Not much to tell. Maybe ten minutes after you left, Hale showed up and took her away.”
“How did she react?”
“She’d been talking to her lawyer. She expected it.”
“How’d she look?”
“Like sixty-seven million dollars.”
“What, all green and wrinkly?”
“No, perfect. Clean clothes. Fresh makeup.”
“What did she take with her?”
“The Birkin bag. She’s not expecting indefinite detention.”
“Hale arrested her?”
“How long have you been doing stand-up?”
“What was he wearing?”
“Most guys only get dressed once a day unless someone pushes them into a ditch full of slimy water.”
“You fell in.”
“You touched my arm. Technically that was battery.”
She asked again, “What was Hale wearing?”
“Trench coat. Gloves. It’s cold out there, in case you forgot.”
“What, precisely, did he say?”
Gaspar was tired of the subject. “The whole episode was a year shorter than this inquisition.”
They shuffled with the airport crowd. Slow progress.
He relented. “Hale said Cooper sent him for her. He said the AG’s ready. I said OK. He knocked on the bedroom door. She came out. I asked should we wait. He said not necessary, she said goodbye and they left.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Ten minutes later they were in another taxi. Thick plastic separated the front seat from the back. Three nickel-sized holes permitted sound exchange. There was a cradle for cash payments and a swipe box in the passenger compartment for credit cards.
“Washington Hilton,” Kim said, and the taxi joined the outbound traffic. Then she said, “I checked Sylvia's flash drives on the plane. One contained copies of the Caribbean bank statements Finlay gave us.”
Gaspar raised his eyebrow. “Chicken or egg?”
“Sorry?”
He slowed delivery as if addressing a dimwit. “Did Finlay
