The Heist (13 page)

“I know this didn’t work out the way you planned,” she said to Curly, “but I’m okay with how it went down. I’ve got nothing against you. We’re cool. You can walk away from this and take your friends with you.”

Even if he didn’t understand English, she hoped that the tone of her voice, her body language, and the two guys on the ground would get the point across. But Curly decided to up the stakes, even with witnesses all around. He pulled a knife and rushed at her.

She waited until the last possible second, turned sideways, grabbed his knife hand, and held it as he passed, yanking his arm behind him and using his own weight and forward momentum to dislocate his shoulder with an audible crack. He yelped in agony and went to the ground. Kate looked back toward Unter den Linden and saw the van speeding off. Scared away by the police sirens one street over, she thought. She hurried in the direction of Museum Island, the people around her giving her a wide berth. She didn’t see the Audi at the next street. She hoped that was because he’d gotten scared off, too, and not because he’d managed to capture Nick. The irony of that thought made her smile. She’d never rooted for Nick Fox to escape before.

A flash of something cream-colored caught her eye, and she realized it was Nick’s shirt hanging on a rack in a booth selling vintage clothes. She did a 360 degree scan of the area and spotted Nick on a tour boat moving down the Spree canal. He was standing at the railing wearing a blue watch cap, sunglasses, and a gray East German army shirt with double-buttoned breast pockets and
elastic bands at the sides of the waist. He gave her a little nod and Kate nodded back.

Two green Polizei patrol cars pulled up on Unter den Linden and people pointed in Kate’s direction, so she made a quick exit down a side street and didn’t stop moving until she got to her hotel.

Kate was done with Berlin. She’d seen everything she wanted to see. She’d had her meeting with Nick. She’d pigged out at the Fassbender & Rausch café. She was ready to get on with it. So she checked out of her hotel, paying for the day without spending the night. She went back to the airport, where she booked the first available flight to London, an evening flight out of Heathrow to New York, and an early morning flight from New York to Cape Girardeau, Missouri.

Kate crashed in an airport hotel close to JFK for the night, and rushed out first thing in the morning only to find that her flight was indefinitely delayed. She roamed the airport and finally napped in a chair, coming awake when her flight to Cape Girardeau was announced. She hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder and shuffled her way to the gate, jet-lagged and not in a happy place. She’d had a fast food burger and fries at JFK. By the time she
boarded she was wearing most of her ketchup, her short hair was a mess, and her eyes were red and puffy. They were right to boot her out of the SEALs, she thought. She was a wimp. She couldn’t even manage commercial air travel.

She Googled Cape Girardeau while the plane was still loading and found that it was a big town in the middle of nowhere, midway between St. Louis and Memphis, on the banks of the Mississippi. It was known for having a picturesque old hilltop courthouse and a floodwall covered in murals, and for being the birthplace of conservative radio host Rush Limbaugh. She could give a hoot about any of it. She wanted a real burger and ten hours of sleep.

She landed in Girardeau, picked up a rental car, and drove to the Stony Peak Lodge, which wasn’t on a peak and wasn’t stony. It was a ’60s-era motel beside a freeway that a regional hotel chain had renovated by building a two-story A-frame lobby between two of the wings. It was like putting antlers on a dog and calling it a reindeer.

Kate parked in the lot and staggered into the lobby, dragging her suitcase on wheels up to the front desk. The lobby reeked of popcorn from a movie-style popper stuck in a far corner. There was a big stone fireplace with a roaring gas fire, the flames licking at concrete logs. The walls were decorated with mounted animal heads, all fakes that made it look like somebody had slaughtered a lot of Disney characters. The desk clerk standing under the dismembered heads of Tigger and Bambi was blond, rail thin, and in her early twenties.

“I’d like a room,” Kate said, sliding across her credit card. “As far away from the freeway as possible, nonsmoking, with two double beds.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Two nights,” she said.

The clerk ran Kate’s credit card, Kate got her key, and as she turned to leave she crashed into Nick.

“What the heck?” Kate said, taking a step back, shocked to see him standing there.

He was wearing a V-neck pullover, jeans, and Vans. No ketchup stains. No airplane hair. He was looking relaxed and as handsome as ever. And he was smiling. Looking like he was having fun. She had no clue how he did it, but the guy always looked like he was having fun. Even now that he was working for the government he looked like he was having fun, and no one was supposed to have fun working for the government.

“How did you get here so fast?” Kate asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Private jet,” Nick said.

“You have a private jet?”

“No, but billionaire Count Lippe of Lisbon is in the market to lease two or three of them, so the sales staff of UniJet Global in London were eager to give him a demonstration flight to the U.S. to show off their amenities and services,” Nick said. “The lobster was excellent and the masseuse was a nice touch that I hadn’t expected.”

Kate’s amenities and services were an economy class chair that reclined 2 degrees, a flat can of Coke, and a bag of stale pretzels.

“Is there really a Count Lippe?” she asked.

“Of course, and he cherishes his privacy, which is why there are so few photos of him around and instances of mistaken identity are bound to arise.”

“Only if someone goes around calling himself Count Lippe and leasing airplanes,” Kate said. “This is how you keep a low profile?
How many counts do you think fly into Cape Girardeau in private jets?”

“You think I was putting our operation at risk just to indulge myself in extravagance,” Nick said.

“You had lobster and a midair massage.”

“You are missing the practical aspects.”

“I certainly am,” she said, stopping outside the door to her first-floor room, which was conveniently located next to the ice maker and the vending machines. She was certain that if Stony Peak Lodge had a presidential suite, Nick was in it.

“I flew straight into St. Louis on a private jet, thus avoiding an international commercial flight and the chance of being recognized at customs in New York, where they are on heightened alert for terrorists and felons. Things go much smoother on a private VIP level, especially in smaller international airports in midwestern cities. I rented a car as Nicolas Raider and drove here. So Count Lippe, in essence, disappeared upon arrival in St. Louis. And by using the Raider alias, I quietly checked us in with Bolton, who certainly knows by now that we’re both back home and on the job.”

Kate couldn’t argue with the practicality or logic behind his choices, though she really wished that she could. His reasoning demonstrated to her why he’d evaded arrest for so long. There was more going on beneath the surface of his actions, even the ones that seemed frivolous or indulgent, than she’d ever realized. She appreciated the knowledge. It would make it easier to catch him next time.

Nick checked his watch. “We have two tickets to the seven
P.M.
show of
Death of Salesman
, so you’d better get ready.”

“Tonight?”

“We aren’t on vacation here,” he said. “We have a job to do. I thought you were indefatigable.” He looked at her chest. “Is that ketchup?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good color on you. You should wear red more often.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. What’s the dress code tonight?”

“Missouri black tie,” Nick said. “No shirt, no shoes, no service.”

Country Mama’s Buffet & Theater was located next door to the Stony Peak Lodge. The hostess who seated Kate and Nick told them to help themselves to the buffet, enjoy the show, and have a blessed meal.

Kate didn’t think a blessing was going to be nearly enough to save them from what they were facing. Everything at Country Mama’s was fried, breaded, cheesed, and noodled, including the desserts. She thought it was no wonder most of the diners prayed before they ate. What the buffet really needed wasn’t blessings or prayers but a team of paramedics on standby and a priest on hand to perform last rites. And Kate couldn’t wait to dig in.

“Yum,” Kate said, “this looks fantastic.”

Nick grinned. “Go for it.”

She came back to their table with a mountain of fried chicken, broccoli noodle casserole, hash brown casserole, fried corn bread, buttermilk biscuits, fried shrimp, an oozing glob of grits, fried okra, and dumplings. All smothered in gravy.

“That looks like the artery-clogging special,” Nick said to Kate.

“I have excellent genes,” Kate said. “No one in my family has ever had heart disease. We all die from unfortunate circumstance. Like my Uncle Stump got run over by a cement truck. And my Aunt Jean was struck by lightning.”

“That didn’t turn up in my research on you.”

Kate glanced at his plate. No food. “You obviously didn’t bring me here because you like the cuisine,” she said. “So why
are
we here?”

“We’re here for the show.”

Kate dug in to her broccoli noodle casserole and looked over at the makeshift stage set up against the far wall of the huge dining room. Someone had hung a crudely painted canvas backdrop of a living room and placed a couple pieces of worn-out furniture on the wood riser.

Halfway into the dessert course Kate paused to listen to the cast introductions. Boyd Capwell, as Willy Loman, was the headliner. All the others were local amateurs. As far as Kate could tell, none of the diners had much interest in the production. Conversation continued after the show started, and the actors were frequently obscured by people passing the stage to make trips to the buffet line.

“This is horrible,” Kate whispered to Nick, wishing she had the nerve to scuttle in front of the stage for another piece of pie. “This is the worst acting
ever
.”

“Concentrate on Boyd Capwell. I stumbled on Boyd performing three roles in
Equus
in a hotel dinner theater in Billings, Montana, after some cast members were sidelined with food poisoning. Boyd actually managed to pull it off, delivering three distinct performances, even when he was the only one on stage. I’ve kept my eye out for Boyd’s shows during my travels and ended up seeing him in productions all over the country. He has a broad range, as well as an ability to perform in the worst possible circumstances. I once saw Boyd hold the audience spellbound in a dinner theater production of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
in El Paso, and in
the middle of a key dramatic scene he performed the Heimlich maneuver on a woman choking on a buffalo wing without breaking character.”

“Good to know in case I get a chunk of apple pie stuck in my throat tonight.”

“You scoff, but at the rate you’re shoveling the food in you might need his help. Do you ever chew anything?”

“Excuse me, but I’m starving. I didn’t have caviar and hot fudge sundaes on my flight.” She cut her eyes to Boyd. “So how did this amazing actor end up exiled to the dinner theater circuit?”

“He’s a nut. He won’t compromise on his artistic vision. Early in his career he was offered a big break, the chance to be the new voice of Casper the Friendly Ghost, but he got fired when he insisted on playing the character in anguish and misery. He told the director that Casper was a dead child, for God’s sake, what does he have to be happy-go-lucky about? More recently, he was hired for a beer commercial, and he said he needed to know the background of his character. Did he graduate from college? Was he married? What was his ethnic background? The director screamed at him to just drink the freaking beer, and Boyd walked off the set. He said he couldn’t create under the existing circumstances.”

“Now he’s here as Willy Loman, in Cape Girardeau,” Kate said.

“Yep,” Nick said. “Check him out.”

Kate pushed aside thoughts of more lemon meringue pie and found herself completely captivated by Boyd’s performance. It was as if he was infusing Willy Loman with his own lifetime of disappointments, unfulfilled dreams, and unmet potential. It was a genuinely moving performance.

“You’re right,” Kate said when the play was over. “He’s good.”

“He’s better than that,” Nick said. “He’s a natural grifter, he just doesn’t know it yet. He’s going to join our band of merry men.”

Kate felt the gravy and grits slide around in her stomach. This was the first step on the road to hell. Kate’s original assignment from Jessup had been to watch over Nick and make sure he was kept out of harm’s way. Now, as the con was beginning to unfold, she realized she was going to have to play a role in it. There was no room for an observer in the con. There was only room for participants. She was going to help Nick persuade this poor schmuck to enter a life of crime. And she shuddered to think what she’d be called upon to do in the future. Not that she hadn’t done some morally questionable things in the past, depending on how you felt about shooting at people and home invasion in foreign countries. Granted they were all legal military operations, but some people (and even possibly God) might find them unsavory. And then there were smaller transgressions, like cheating on her final algebra exam in tenth grade and wearing a push-up bra for Megan’s wedding so her breasts could compete with her sister’s.