“Didn’t think to park around back?” Shaw mused.
Nilsson said, “Good at stealing parts from his employer. Not so good at tradecraft.”
“You a former officer?” he asked.
The job title in this context would mean CIA.
She said, “No. But I worked with Langley some.”
That she didn’t give the name of her former employer made Shaw wonder if she’d ever crossed paths with his brother. Russell too worked for some anonymous government security agency. But now was not the time for it’s-a-small-world conversations.
She steered around the corner and parked.
Nilsson said, “You’re carrying.”
He nodded. Like Abe Lincoln, she’d noticed this too. But it was an easy deduction by a pro. Shaw, for his part, had seen that she too was armed. Inside the waistband, like his. No woman in this line of work ever carried her weapon in a purse.
“Odds thatheis?” she asked.
Shaw considered. “Ten percent. When everything was going down in the factory, he wanted to climb under a desk till it was over.”
A smile crossed her face.
“How do you want to handle it?”
He said, “We’ll get his hands up—in case of that ten percent—and let him see the money out the window. He’ll say no. We make him stay at attention. I collect the cash. Then we leave.” He looked at her. “And have lunch.”
“I like that plan.”
Shaw took the attaché case holding the fake hundred thousand and set it in front of the window for him to see. He pulled out his phone and called the hotel, then asked for room 104. The clerk said they needed a name to connect to a room. He shared this with Nilsson, who said, “Probably not using his real one. But give it a shot.”
“Paul LeClaire.”
“Yessir, I’ll connect you.”
Nilsson muttered, “Oh, brother...”
After eight rings: “Um, hello?”
Shaw said in a stern voice, “Paul, you have two options. If you hang up on me, a SWAT team’ll be in your room in five minutes. Or you can hear me out.”
“Who—”
“Two options.”
“I... Okay. I’m listening.” The familiar whimpering grew more pronounced.
“We met today at the factory.”
“You! If I come out you’ll kill me.”
“Paul. Open the drapes and window. And keep your hands where we can see them.”
“Do it now,” Nilsson called.
After a brief pause the curtain parted. LeClaire stood, a deer in headlights, staring out the window into the parking lot. His hands raised, like a stickup victim in an old Western. He wore the same clothing he had on earlier. His white shirt was stained from the yellow smoke. Shaw approached. He examined the room. It appeared clear.
Shaw then explained the offer to buy back the S.I.T.