Cleaning the Gold

by Karin Slaughter

  The stranger from Margrave introduced himself. “Jack Reacher.”

  2

  Reacher was there because of a temporary financial embarrassment. Literally. Nothing sinister. No impending bankruptcy. Purely mundane. Seventeen days earlier he spent more on lunch than he expected, and being a guy who looked ahead when he could, he figured he didn’t have enough remaining for all three of a bus ticket, dinner, and a motel for the night. So he went to the ATM.

  There was a recent deposit in the sum of $612.14.

  Which was unexpected, but easy to explain. It was a message. The six was F, the sixth letter of the alphabet. The twelve dollars was L. The fourteen cents was N. Frances L. Neagley. Not enough to say she was the best NCO he ever had. She was the best soldier he ever met. Maybe the best person. Certainly the closest he ever got to a friend. After the Army she started a hotshot security agency in Chicago. She was doing well. She was connected in all kinds of different places. But now she wanted to talk. That was the message. It was her only way of pinging a guy who lived under the radar, but also ran out of cash now and then. The money was real. She expected him to keep it. Some kind of big-sister thing. Or little sister. Maybe she pitied him.

  He called her from a pay phone in a diner.

  She said, “I heard a rumor about a guy who knows a guy who wants to talk to you.”

  He said, “Why me?”

  “They need an ex-soldier.”

  “There are plenty.”

  “An ex-MP especially.”

  “There are plenty of retired MPs.”

  “This is the twenty-first century,” Neagley said. “Obviously they wrote a program and scraped the databases and the answer was you. Or someone like you.”

  “Why would I be in a database?”

  “This is the twenty-first century,” she said again.

  Two days later he was inside the Pentagon. First in a general’s office. An impressive guy, but he had nothing specific to say, except to vouch unreservedly for the colonel Reacher was about to meet next. Who had nothing specific to say either, except to vouch unreservedly for the kid in the suit Reacher was about to meet last in line. Seriously. The real deal. Some shadowy agency no one had ever heard of, or ever would. Where the true power was. The people the Pentagon turned to with problems.

  The kid turned out to be thirty, and Reacher liked him a lot. A good age. Reacher remembered it well. The endless energy. The passion. Plus the guy was smart. And polite, but in a civilized way, not obsequious. He was from Georgia, Reacher figured, from his tones and his cadences. Metro Atlanta, maybe. Like blues music. The country rhythms, toughened up by the city. A nice guy, overall.

  Plus he had a sense of humor.

  He said, “One thing we need to get out of the way.”

  “What?” Reacher said.

  “The mission statement. It makes people laugh.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to break into Fort Knox.”

  “I see.”

  “Actually, I want you to take a job there. Only half undercover. They want guys like you anyway. You’re a shoo-in.”

  “The real part or the Disney part?”

  “The depository. I’m not real clear exactly what the job is. It sounds kind of ceremonial to me. Like a ritual. But that’s not the point. As you say, there’s more to Knox than the movies. Overall it’s a decent-sized town. With all the usual problems. Including a network of loan sharks. Which like all such networks leads back to a kingpin. Not a very nice guy. A leg-breaker, in fact. But not the borrower’s leg. Questions might be asked at sick call. Usually the wife’s leg, or one of the kids’. Complaints are never made. For two reasons. One, it’s part of the deal. Two, because of who the kingpin is.”

  “You know who it is?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It’s a US Army major named David Baldani. He’s a big piece of the chain of command down there. No one dares to say a word. Not even when their ten-year-old misses the soccer season.”

  “So bust him.”

  “You know how it is,” the guy said. “You were in the business. This has got to be tighter than a crab’s asshole. We need to see him make a threat. We know he goes to the Burger King from time to time. Perfect place, to meet wives or children. We need to see it happen.”

  “Why me?”

  “Part of the algorithm was based on a note in the file that said it helps to be strong.”

  “What the hell is this job?”

  “Apparently to do with the bars of bullion themselves. Which are heavy. I believe it’s some kind of ritual purification. The whole thing is theater anyway. It’s a public enchantment. Literally, once. They had to open it up for display—1974, I think. Before I was born.”

  “I was there,” Reacher said. “Some asshole started a rumor there was no gold. He said it was all a lie. People got uneasy. It was a visceral thing. Quiet, but kind of scary. You could see how it could turn ugly. So they started public tours. We were in D.C. very briefly. I was a kid. My dad knew a guy at the head of the line. It was awesome. People felt better after that.”

  “Knox really hasn’t moved on since then,” the guy said. “There’s splendor and majesty and it’s a very potent symbol, but it’s still a totally, totally analog world down there.”

  “Works for me,” Reacher said.

  “The CO is mad as a box of frogs. She’s a full bird named Stephanie Lukather. Baldani is her XO. She insists on calling him Dave in public. Local opinion is split whether that’s disrespectful or analog.”

  “How well does he take it? That’s usually a clue.”

  “Find out for yourself,” the guy said. “Baldani is the guy who hires the purification crews. That’s his post. You’ll be next to him all day long. Follow him to the Burger King. We need to see it happen.”

  Which was how Reacher found himself cleaning gold, and shaking hands with the new guy, who he needed, because his previous guy had been pulled off the job, unexplained, no reason given, but hey, this was the Army. The job was not rocket surgery, but even so, it helped to have two people. The new guy looked acceptable. Maybe a little surprised. He was a tall guy meeting someone taller. Also a little tense. Maybe worried about something. He said his name was Jack Phineas Wolfe. Presumably ex-Army, a number of years ago, which seemed to be Baldani’s fetish, when it came to hiring. His accent sounded a little like the kid in the suit, but older, so from longer ago. More country, less city.

  He started with the usual thing about the weight. All the new guys did. About how heavy gold was. About how their gym time was wasted. Then Baldani gave a little lecture about troy weights. From a town called Troyes, in France, way back long ago. The way they measured precious metals. Different ounces, different pounds. Couldn’t compare.

  Overall, Wolfe learned the job fast enough. But then, so would a chimpanzee. It was not rewarding work. Tolerable as cover for a day or two, but so far Reacher had been there eleven. He was close to maxing out. Close to attracting attention. But Baldani had not yet been to the Burger King. Not one time.

  Lunch break was approaching.

  Reacher lived in hope.

  And for once in his life was rewarded. For the first time Baldani turned away from his usual chow hall and headed for the on-base fast food. Where the families went. Like a decent-sized town. Including the crowds. Following Baldani was easy. On the one hand Reacher had expertise and experience, and on the other Baldani had a kind of smug, sweaty complacency, as if nothing could go wrong in his life.

  Reacher wasn’t complacent. Same as anyone who had served in West Berlin. The old hands had all kinds of nostrums. One of which was, just because you’re following someone doesn’t mean someone else isn’t following you. Happened all the time.

  It happened that lunch break. Reacher glanced back three separate times, and on each occasion he saw the new guy coming after him. He was good, but not the best in all of human history. Of course, i
t was not actually possible to tell who exactly he was tailing. It was all a straight line. Maybe he was after Baldani also. Maybe he was working a different angle. Tighter than a crab’s asshole was a high bar to meet. The more evidence the merrier. Maybe the kid in the suit had sent him too.

  Or maybe not. Maybe someone else had sent him. The guy didn’t feel like a soldier. Certain words. He was totally willing to take instruction, but not unthinking reflex automatic. Not like the Army. He was a little closed up. He had a personal secret. Not possible, in the big green machine. It would have been beaten out of him long ago.

  All in all, Reacher wasn’t really sure who he was. Didn’t really care, either. The more the merrier. All good. Except Jack Phineas Wolfe was a dumb name to make up. Not plausible. No parent who liked Phineas would put Jack in front of it. Human nature.

  Up ahead, Baldani stepped into the Burger King. It was a double-wide store, with three obvious cameras, which meant at least two more not-so-obvious cameras, both of which were quickly identified, and both of which were avoided by keeping right, and then left, and then sitting on a shuttle bench, in line with a large trash can gaudily sponsored by a soda company.

  In the corner of his eye Reacher saw the so-called Jack Phineas Wolfe take up station behind the next trash can along. It was sponsored by a different company.

  Inside the restaurant Baldani moved between tables. Toward the back. Where it all went wrong. At least for the first split second Reacher assumed it all went wrong. For both of them. Both him and Baldani alike. Because sitting at a table in back was Stephanie Lukather. The batshit crazy CO. The full bird colonel. For once in her life she wanted a burger. That day of all days. A terrible coincidence. Baldani would have to abort. He would have to make his excuses and leave. Nothing would happen. Nothing would be seen. Eleven days, with nothing to report.

  But no.

  It hadn’t gone wrong. It had gone right. Baldani sat down opposite Lukather. They looked at each other in a certain way. A little heart-in-mouth, but mostly practiced. They had done this before. Baldani put his hand in his coat and came out with two envelopes. One held a bulging wad. Unmistakable size and shape. Greenbacks, close to two inches thick. Baldani passed it across the table. Lukather took it.

  The second envelope held almost nothing. Just a small hard thing, seeking the corner, heavy enough to slide when the envelope was tilted. About the size of a .45 Magnum round. But flatter. Familiar. Tip of his tongue. Like a dumb quiz show on TV. He would be mad with himself when they said the answer.

  Baldani passed it over. Lukather took it.

  Out of the corner of his eye Reacher saw the so-called Jack Phineas Wolfe melt away. He himself stayed where he was another long minute. Mostly mad. This was now a whole different circus. This was no longer filling out the blanks in a preprinted boilerplate indictment. This would need a whole new investigation all its own. Could take forever.

  He slipped back in the shadows and set out walking, a different route, a little longer, but more interesting, including one spot with a corner and then a blind bumped-in alley entrance, where he stepped in smartly, and waited, until the so-called Jack Phineas Wolfe appeared, looking ahead, a little anxious.

  Reacher stepped out behind him.

  He said, “Howdy.”

  Wolfe turned around.

  “Oh, hey,” he said.

  All kinds of things in his face. No real guile or deception. In fact, regret such things were necessary. Deep down, an honest man.

  Reacher asked, “What did you see?”

  “See?”

  “Back there.”

  Wolfe moved his hands, as if rehearsing a sentence, and then added face and eyes, as if wanting to communicate on every level. For a second Reacher thought the only syllables that could fit the rhythm of the movement were, I saw you watching Baldani.

  Instead the guy said, “I saw Baldani.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He gave two envelopes to Lukather.”

  “Contents?”

  “Lots of cash in the first.”

  “Correct,” Reacher said.

  “A USB drive in the second.”

  Dumb, Reacher thought. I knew that.

  Out loud he said, “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to know. But I assume we’re on the same side. So do me one favor. At least tell me your name.”

  The guy started to say Jack Phineas Wolfe, but Reacher said, “No it isn’t.”

  The guy said, “Will Trent.”

  3

  Back inside the vault, Will carefully wiped dust off the last row of gold bars on the pallet. The overhead light made the Treasury logo and the serial numbers dance across the yellow metal. Inside Will’s face mask, his breath had crossed the dew point. The white cotton gloves were glued to his sweaty hands. Lukather had been right about the glamor of the job wearing off quickly. Will’s back spasmed as he dead-lifted two bars, turned, then passed them to Reacher.

  There was no resting between pivots. Reacher had two hands and one of them was still empty. Not that Will thought of them as hands. They were more like skids on a forklift, because how else could a human being bicep curl almost sixty pounds of gold in each hand like he was lifting sticks of butter?

  Will hefted up another two bars, swiveled, and loaded another sixty pounds onto the free skid. He shook out his arms as Reacher all too quickly stacked the bars inside the vault. Megatron wasn’t even sweating. Meanwhile, Will’s shoulder muscles were clanging like the cymbals on a wind-up monkey.

  If he didn’t know the guy had perpetrated a murder that took twenty-two years to carry out, Will would’ve admired his stamina. And also his surveillance skills. Reacher was basically the size of a Ford Pinto, but he’d deftly avoided the security cameras outside the Burger King. There was no way Baldani or Lukather had known that they were being watched.

  Did it matter to Will why they were being watched?

  He hadn’t expected to find Reacher singing in a church choir. The man was a murdering thug, so it made sense that he’d be up to murdering-thug things. Maybe the ex-MP was trying to get in on whatever action Baldani and Lukather had going. One of those envelopes had been filled with a shit-ton of money. Will assumed that the Army paid about as well as the GBI, which was to say they all would’ve been better off flipping Whoppers. Reacher had been out of the service for years. He lived the life of a twenty-first-century hobo. Will could find no record of him owning a house or car. A toothbrush seemed to be Reacher’s only possession, and speaking frankly, that thing had to be a germ factory from staying in his sweaty back pocket all day.

  Will bent down and lifted another two bars. He swiveled, placing them in Reacher’s outstretched hand, then rotated back, silently reminding himself—

  Deputy Phillip Michael Deacon had never held his first grandchild. He had never watched his son play ball. He had never kissed his wife again . . .

  Will passed over another two bars. It had been a risk to give Reacher his real name. Then again, Will had known the guy would not pull out his phone and google him. Hobos didn’t have phones. But hobos needed money. Fifteen bucks an hour was more than most Americans could expect for back-breaking labor that would eventually disable or kill them, but Reacher was a criminal, and criminals generally had easier ways to earn cash. So the question was, why was Reacher following Baldani? Was he trying to hone in on whatever action had netted that fat envelope of cash? Or did he want to beat the asshole into the ground the same way that Will did?

  Lukather put the goings-on at a whole other level.

  But that was a Lukather problem, not a Will problem.

  The shady dealings at the base were not part of his mission statement. The only reason he was in this place at this time was to collect evidence that would put Jack Reacher on death row.

  Back in 1997, DNA testing had been in its infancy, and onerously expensive for most police forces. Now, you could practically pull a fart out of the crack in a vinyl chair and have it processed
within twenty-four hours. Or, for another example, you could extract DNA from three drops of dried sweat that had fallen over twenty-two years ago onto the pages of a book entitled A Guide to Birds of the Southeastern United States.

  The GBI’s paper expert had extracted a complete profile from the title page of Chapter 16: Hummingbirds—Beautiful Backyard Warriors. CODIS hadn’t returned a match because Jack Reacher’s biometrics were not in the system. The obvious next step was to get a judge to sign a warrant compelling Reacher to give a DNA sample, but not even the most red-blooded, flag-hugging, eagle-shitting judge in the state of Georgia would sign on that dotted line.

  The chain of evidence was not at issue. Will had the GBI’s Dry Branch evidence log stating that the library book had been in the state’s possession since April 16, 1997, the day that Phillip Michael Deacon was shot. He had the publisher’s bill of lading and the shipper’s records proving that the book had arrived at the Margrave library on that same morning. He had the 1997 forensic report confirming that the only usable fingerprints were found on the book’s cover and belonged to the librarian. He had a sworn statement from that same librarian testifying under penalty of perjury that Stranger 1, who was also Stranger 2, was the only patron she had ever seen handle the book.

  What Will did not have was a legal foundation to force Jack Reacher to hand over his DNA.

  In the arresting-people business, Will had run into what was called the Combo-Key Paradox, which went like this: Say there was a bad guy who’d stashed incriminating evidence in a safe. If the safe had a combination lock, the police could not force the guy to give them the combination. But if the safe required a key to open, then the cops could compel the guy to give them the key.

  The courts had extrapolated this contents of the mind reasoning to everything from opening your phone with your fingerprint to using your biometrics to unlock your computer. As far as self-incrimination went, there was nothing more self than your physical person. Your thoughts, like remembering a combination or a phone passcode, belonged solely to you. Your fingerprints, your eyes, your face, the shape of your ears, your walking gait, and especially your DNA—these were yours alone, and the courts were loath to turn them against you without a damn good cause.