Kohl came in wearing shorts and a tank top shirt. She still wasn't sweating. Her skin was still dusty. She was carrying her file, which was then about eight times as thick as when I had first given it to her.
"The sabot has got to be metal," she said. "That's their final conclusion."
"Is it?" I said.
"They'd have preferred plastic, but I think that's just showboating."
"OK," I said.
"I'm trying to tell you they've finished with the sabot design. They're ready to move on with the important stuff now."
"You still feel all warm and fuzzy about this Gorowski guy?"
She nodded. "It would be a tragedy to bust him. He's a nice guy and an innocent victim. And the bottom line is he's good at his job and useful to the army."
"So what do you want to do?"
"It's tricky," she said. "I guess what I want to do is bring him on board and get him to feed phony stuff to whoever it is who's got the hook in. That way we keep the investigation going without risking putting anything real out there."
"But?"
"The real thing looks phony in itself. It's a very weird device. It's like a big lawn dart. It has no explosive in it."
"So how does it work?"
"Kinetic energy, dense metals, depleted uranium, heat, all that kind of stuff. Were you a physics postgrad?"
"No."
"Then you won't understand it. But my feeling is if we screw with the designs the bad guy is going to know. It'll put Gorowski at risk. Or his baby girls, or whatever."
"So you want to let the real blueprints out there?"
"I think we have to."
"Big risk," I said.
"Your call," she said. "That's why you get the big bucks."
"I'm a captain," I said. "I'd be on food stamps if I ever got time to eat."
"Decision?"
"Got a line on the bad guy yet?"
"No."
"Feel confident you won't let it get away?"
"Totally," she said.
I smiled. Right then she looked like the most self-possessed human being I had ever seen. Shining eyes, serious expression, hair hooked behind her ears, short khaki shorts, tiny khaki shirt, socks and parachute boots, dark dusty skin everywhere.
"So go for it," I said.
"I never dance," she said.
"What?"
"It wasn't just you," she said. "In fact, I'd have liked to. I appreciated the invitation. But I never dance with anybody."
"Why not?"
"Just a thing," she said. "I feel self-conscious. I'm not very coordinated."
"Neither am I."
"Maybe we should practice in private," she said.
"Separately?"
"One-on-one mentoring helps," she said. "Like with alcoholism."
Then she winked and walked out and left a very faint trace of her perfume behind her in the hot heavy air.
Duffy and I finished our coffee in silence. Mine tasted thin and cold and bitter. I had no stomach for it. My right shoe pinched. It wasn't a perfect fit. And it was starting to feel like a ball and chain. It had felt ingenious at first. Smart, and cool, and clever. I remembered the first time I opened the heel, three days ago, soon after I first arrived at the house, soon after Duke locked the door to my room. I'm in. I had felt like a guy in a movie. Then I remembered the last time I opened it. Up in Duke's bathroom, an hour and a half ago. I had fired up the unit and Duffy's message had been waiting there for me: We need to meet.
"Why did you want to meet?" I asked her.
She shook her head. "Doesn't matter now. I'm revising the mission. I'm scrapping all our objectives except getting Teresa back. Just find her and get her out of there, OK?"
"What about Beck?"
"We're not going to get Beck. I screwed up again. This maid person was a legitimate agent and Teresa wasn't. Nor were you. And the maid died, so they're going to fire me for going off the books with Teresa and you, and they're going to abandon the case against Beck because I compromised procedure so badly they could never make it stand up in court anymore. So just get Teresa the hell out and we'll all go home."
"OK," I said.
"You'll have to forget about Quinn," she said. "Just let it go."
I said nothing.
"We failed anyway," she said. "You haven't found anything useful. Not a thing. No evidence at all. It's been a complete waste of time, beginning to end."
I said nothing.
"Like my career," she said.
"When are you going to tell the Justice Department?"
"About the maid?"
I nodded.
"Right away," she said. "Immediately. I'll have to. No choice. But I'll search the files first and find out who put her in there. Because I'd prefer to break the news face-to-face, I guess, at my own level. It'll give me a chance to apologize. Any other way all hell will break loose before I get the opportunity. All my access codes will be canceled and I'll be handed a cardboard box and told to clear my desk within thirty minutes."
"How long have you been there?"
"A long time. I thought I was going to be the first woman director."
I said nothing.
"I would have told you," she said. "I promise, if I'd had another agent in there I would have told you."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions."
"It's the stress," she said. "Undercover is tough."
I nodded. "It's like a hall of mirrors up there. One damn thing after another. Everything feels unreal."
We left our half-finished cups on the table and headed out, into the mall's interior sidewalks, and then outside into the rain. We had parked near each other. She kissed me on the cheek. Then she got into her Taurus and headed south and I got into the Saab and headed north.
Paulie took his own sweet time about opening the gate for me. He made me wait a couple of minutes before he even came lumbering out of his house. He still had his slicker on. Then he stood and stared for a minute before he went near the latch. But I didn't care. I was busy thinking. I was hearing Duffy's voice in my head: I'm revising the mission. Most of my military career a guy named Leon Garber was either directly or indirectly my boss. He explained everything to himself by making up little phrases or sayings. He had one for every occasion. He used to say: Revising objectives is smart because it stops you throwing good money after bad. He didn't mean money in any literal sense. He meant manpower, resources, time, will, effort, energy. He used to contradict himself, too. Just as often he would say: Never ever get distracted from the exact job in hand. Of course, proverbs are like that generally. Too many cooks spoil the broth, many hands make light work, great minds think alike, fools never differ. But overall, after you canceled out a few layers of contradiction, Leon approved of revision. He approved of it big time. Mainly because revision was about thinking, and he figured thinking never hurt anybody. So I was thinking, and thinking hard, because I was aware that something was slowly and imperceptibly creeping up on me, just outside of my conscious grasp. Something connected to something Duffy had said to me: You haven't found anything useful. Not a thing. No evidence at all.
I heard the gate swing back. Looked up to see Paulie waiting for me to drive through. The rain was beating on his slicker. He still had no hat. I exacted some petty revenge by waiting a minute myself. Duffy's revision suited me well enough. I didn't care much about Beck. I really didn't, either way. But I wanted Teresa. And I would get her. I wanted Quinn, too. And I would get him too, whatever Duffy said. The revision was only going to go so far.