Inside Outt

desk. McGlade came around, swept up the piles of paper on each, and made a show of stacking them neatly on the floor. “Here,” he said. “Have a seat. Coffee?”
    Ben and Paula both said, “No,” simultaneously and equally emphatically.
    McGlade circled back to an incongruously fancy leather office chair Ben suspected he’d stolen. “All right,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
    “It’s not what you can do for me,” Paula said, reaching into her purse and taking out her credentials. “It’s what you can do for the FBI.”
    McGlade examined her ID, his expression suddenly sewn up tight. “All right. What can I do for the FBI?”
    “You can tell us about a case you were working on a little over three years ago,” Ben said. “Guy named Daniel Larison. His wife thought he was having an affair.”
    McGlade’s face lost a drop of color. “I’m sorry, but all my client matters are entirely confidential.”
    Paula smiled at him. “Mr. McGlade,” she said, her tone exceptionally sweet, “we’re very busy, so I’ll get straight to the point. Tell us something useful, and you’ll have a contact and friend inside the Bureau for life. Fuck with me, and I’ll crawl up your ass and chew my way out.”
    Ben thought,
What?
He had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from laughing. At the same time, he was beginning to realize McGlade would have to be a fool to think she was bullshitting him.
    There was a long silence while McGlade assessed the probabilities. Then he said, “All right. Three years ago, a woman in Kissimmee contacted me, told me she thought her husband was having an affair.”
    “Marcy Wheeler?” Paula asked.
    “Yeah. Wheeler. Happens all the time. Usually it’s a wife who calls me, but sometimes a husband. Ninety percent of what I do is domestic. Anyway, I get what I need from her—photograph of the husband, car registration, that kind of thing—and I go to tail the guy, see where he’s going. SOP. Except, it turns out the guy is almost impossible to tail.”
    “Watching his back?” Ben said.
    “You could say that. Now I see a little of this kind of thing all the time. People who are up to no good can be jumpy, sometimes they pay more attention than your average honest citizen. I’m used to it and it’s not a problem for me. This guy was way beyond that. His wife told me he was some kind of military spook, but when I saw how surveillance conscious he was, I knew he was something really special. Counterterrorism, Delta, something like that. I told Wheeler this one could take a while, he was too watchful and I couldn’t get close. I quoted her a long-term rate and she was okay with it.”
    “A little annuity for you, huh?” Ben said, and he realized he felt weirdly protective of Marcy. “She the first client you fed that story to?”
    “As a matter of fact, smart guy, she was. I don’t charge by the hour. My business is about results.”
    “Okay,” Paula said. “So you backed off. But you stayed on him.”
    “That’s right. His wife would tell me when he was traveling. Now here’s the interesting thing. Most times, even though I couldn’t stay on him long, I could confirm he was going to Patrick Air Force Base. Figured from there, he was getting a military flight to wherever he was going. But other times, I confirmed he was going to Orlando International. When I’d get the word from the wife, I’d set up at the airport in Orlando, wait for him there. Didn’t matter that he was watching his back if I could get set up in front of him, right?”
    Ben popped a knuckle. “You figured the civilian flights were the illicit ones.”
    “Exactly. So twice in Orlando, I watched him board a flight to Miami. Next time the wife told me he was traveling, I went to Miami, started staking out the arrivals gates for flights from Orlando.”
    Paula leaned forward in her chair. “And?”
    “And twice I saw him boarding a flight to Costa Rica. San Jose, the capital. I told Wheeler it looked like he was up to something in Costa Rica. As it happens, I have a contact there, someone who could pick Larison up when he arrived. She said do it. So I did.”
    Paula said, “Who?”
    “Guy who goes by the name Taibbi. I know him from the service. He’s a surfer, or was when I knew him, anyway. Now he owns a bar in Jacó, near Playa Hermosa, a big surfing beach. Freelances in this and that, if you know what I mean.”
    “No,” Ben said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Look,