Part 37 (1/2)

I nodded.

”Good instinct,” I said. As far as evidence went we needed to slam-dunk the whole thing.

For Quinn to be in possession of the real blueprints would go a long way. Anything less than that, he could start spinning stories about test procedures, war games, exercises, entrapment schemes of his own.

”It's the Syrians,” she said. ”And they're paying in advance. On an installment plan.”

”How?”

”Briefcase exchange,” she said. ”He meets with an attache from the Syrian Emba.s.sy.

They go to a cafe in Georgetown. They both carry those fancy aluminum briefcases, identical.”

”Halliburton,” I said.

She nodded. ”They put them side by side under the table and he picks up the Syrian guy's when he leaves.”

”He's going to say the Syrian is a legit contact. He's going to say the guy is pa.s.sing him stuff.”

”So we say, OK, show us the stuff.”

”He'll say he can't, because it's cla.s.sified.”

Kohl said nothing. I smiled.

”He'll give us a big song and dance,” I said. ”He'll put his hand on our shoulders and look into our eyes and say, Hey, trust me on this, folks, national security is involved. ”

”Have you dealt with these guys before?”

”Once,” I said.

”Did you win?”

I nodded. ”They're generally full of s.h.i.+t. My brother was MI for a time. Now he works for Treasury. But he told me all about them. They think they're smart, whereas they're really the same as anybody else.”

”So what do we do?”

”We'll have to recruit the Syrian.”

”Then we can't bust him.”

”You wanted two-for-one?” I said. ”Can't have it. The Syrian is only doing his job. Can't fault him for that. Quinn is the bad guy here.”

She was quiet for a moment, a little disappointed. Then she shrugged.

”OK,” she said. ”But how do we do it? The Syrian will just walk away from us. He's an emba.s.sy attache. He's got diplomatic immunity.”

I smiled again. ”Diplomatic immunity is just a sheet of paper from the State Department.

The way I did it before was I got hold of the guy and told him to hold a sheet of paper up in front of his gut. Then I pulled my pistol out and asked him if he figured the paper was going to stop a bullet. He said I would get into trouble. I told him however much trouble I got into wasn't going to affect how slowly he bled to death.”

”And he saw it your way?”

I nodded. ”Played ball like Mickey Mantle.”

She went quiet again. Then she asked me the first of two questions that much later I wished I had answered differently.

”Can we see each other socially?” she said.

It was a private booth in a dark bar. She was cute as h.e.l.l, and she was sitting there right next to me. I was a young man back then, and I thought I had all the time in the world.

”You asking me on a date?” I said.

”Yes,” she said.

I said nothing.

”We've come a long way, baby,” she said. Then she added, ”Women, I mean,” just in case I wasn't up-to-date with current cigarette advertising.

I said nothing.

”I know what I want,” she said.

I nodded. I believed her. And I believed in equality. I believed in it big time. Not long before that I had met a woman Air Force colonel who captained a B52 bomber and cruised the night skies with more explosive power aboard her single plane than all the bombs ever dropped in the whole of human history put together. I figured if she could be trusted with enough power to explode the planet, then Sergeant First Cla.s.s Dominique Kohl could be trusted to figure out who she wanted to date.

”So?” she said.

Questions I wished I had answered differently.

”No,” I said.

”Why not?”

”Unprofessional,” I said. ”You shouldn't do it.”

”Why not?”

”Because it'll put an asterisk next to your career,” I said. ”Because you're a talented person who can't get any higher than sergeant major without going to officer candidate school, so you'll go there, and you'll ace it, and you'll be a lieutenant colonel within ten years, because you deserve it, but everybody will be saying that you got it because you dated your captain way back when.”

She said nothing. Just called the waitress over and ordered us two beers. The room was getting hotter as it got more crowded. I took my jacket off, she took her jacket off. I was wearing an olive-drab T-s.h.i.+rt that had gotten small and thin and faded from being washed a thousand times. Her T-s.h.i.+rt was a boutique item. It was scooped a little lower at the neck than most T-s.h.i.+rts, and the sleeves were cut away at an angle so they rode up on the small deltoid muscles at the top of her arms. The fabric was snow white against her skin.

And it was slightly translucent. I could see that she was wearing nothing underneath it.

”Military life is full of sacrifices,” I said, more to myself than to her.

”I'll get over it,” she said.

Then she asked me the second question I wish I had answered differently.

”Will you let me make the arrest?” she said.