Washington, D.C.
November 4
9:45 p.m.
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. Gaspar thinks like Reacher thinks.
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 take the statements from Sylvia’s safety deposit box? Or plant the statements in the box?”
She shrugged; she’d come to love that response. “Either way, statements prove Sylvia and Harry laundered Kliners offshore. Statements add up to fifty-eight million over four years.”
“Leaving nine million still unwashed?”
“Maybe. Or stashed in one of the other three accounts.”
“We’ve only been on this case four days.”
“Cooper could have made a long-lead plan, I guess. Knowing he was going to bring us in sooner or later?” Some things still made no sense to her.
He shrugged. “Unlikely.”
She said, “The statements prove the box was accessed at least once after Sylvia’s initial set up. Five years ago, she hadn’t laundered any money yet. The flash drives were obsolete. Like the data was old, too.”
“Was it Sylvia who accessed the box at least once?”
“Maybe.”
“When?”
“Can’t say for sure.”
He shrugged. “Anything on the other two flash drives?”
“Sylvia’s memoirs on one. Nothing we couldn’t guess.”
“Boyfriend?”
“She called him ‘My Man’ or ‘MM.’”
Gaspar noticed her hesitation. “What about the third drive? Anything about Harry? The Kliners? Cooper? Reacher?”
She pointed to the hotel just ahead. “I’d rather show you.”
The taxi dropped them at the service entrance. In their room, she pulled the third flash drive out of her pocket. Tossed it to him. “Look at this while I shower.”
What would he find that she’d misinterpreted?