Stein said. He kept squeezing and releasing the steering wheel like he was doing isometric exercises. “How did you stand the smell in there?” Claussen was beside him in the passenger seat of their Chevy cargo van, reviewing the security codes he had been given by Lou Quinn, a Boeing collaborator of 23 years. He glanced at the speedometer. “Please slow down. You’re four miles an hour over the limit. I don’t want us stopped. We’re behind as it is.” “Because you had to wait for that stinkender Arab to leave. What was so important about getting into his place? I don’t get it. He was just some dumb student.” Claussen waited until the speedometer dropped to 55. “There was a document I wanted him to have, Karl.” “Is that all you’re going to say? What kind of a document? I don’t like it when you just sit there.” It was two o’clock in the morning, the traffic was sparse.
