The Heist

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 sheboarded 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