by Lee Child
“How did it go tonight?”
“All present and correct.”
“No absentees?”
“None at all.”
“Misfires? Hesitations?”
“None.”
“When did you do it?”
“I started when I heard the siren. It takes about five minutes, beginning to end.”
“So they’re self-certifying, aren’t they?”
“I don’t follow.”
Reacher said, “You don’t really know where they are or what they’re doing. All you know is if they answer your call or not.”
“I ask them where they are. They tell me. Either they’re in position or close to it. And the prison warden is entitled to check.”
“How?”
“He can go up in a tower and eyeball. The land is flat. Or he can tap in to our radio net and call the roll himself, if he wants.”
“Did he tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
Reacher asked, “Who was last into position tonight?”
“I can’t say. Early in the alphabet, they’re all still in motion. Late in the alphabet, they’re all already on station.”
“So they tell you.”
“Why would I doubt them?”
“You need to call Chief Holland,” Reacher said. “Mrs. Salter is dead.”
Reacher wandered through the silent station, the squad room, Holland’s office, the bathrooms, and he came to rest in the room with the crime scene photographs pinned to the walls. The biker, and the lawyer. He sat with his back to the biker and looked at the lawyer. He didn’t know the guy’s name. Didn’t know much about him at all. But he knew enough to know the guy was basically the same as Janet Salter. A man, not a woman, a frozen road, not a warm book-lined room, but they were both half-wise, half-unworldly people lulled into a false sense of security, tricked into relaxing. The shift lever in Park and the window all the way down in the door were the same things as Janet Salter’s comfortable posture and the book on her lap.
Understand their motives, their circumstances, their goals, their aims, their fears, their needs. Think like them. See what they see. Be them.
They were both all the way there. Not partway, not halfway. They were completely trusting. They had opened up, literally. Doors, windows, hearts, minds. Not half-worried, not half-formal, not half-suspicious.
They were all the way there.
Not just any cop could do that to them.
It was a cop they both knew, had met before, were familiar with.
Peterson had asked: What would your elite unit do now?
Answer: Reacher or Susan or any of the other 110th Special Unit COs in between them would put their feet up on the damaged desk and send a pair of eager lieutenants to map out both lives, to list all known acquaintances in the Bolton PD in order of intimacy. Then he or she or any of the others would cross-reference the lists, and a name would show up in common.
Reacher had no pair of eager lieutenants.
But there were other approaches.
A minute later Reacher heard footsteps in the corridor. Arrhythmic. The slap of one sole, followed by the scrape of the other. The old guy from the counter. He had a slight limp. He stuck his head in the door and said, “Chief Holland is on his way. He’s leaving his post up there. He shouldn’t, but he is.”
Reacher nodded. Said nothing.
The old guy said, “It’s a terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Salter.”
“I know.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet. Did anyone call anything in?”
“Like who?”
“A neighbor, maybe. A shot was fired.”
“Inside the house?”
“In her library.”
The old guy shrugged. “Houses are far apart. Everyone has storm windows. Most of them are triple-glazed and on a night like this all of them are shut tight.”
Reacher said nothing.
The old guy asked, “Is it one of us?”
“Why would it be?”
“Chief Holland called a meeting. Just before the siren. Can’t see any other reason for it. Can’t see any other way of doing it, either. The lawyer, I mean, then Mr. Peterson and Mrs. Salter. The three of them, fast and easy, just like that. It has to be one of us. And then you asked who was last in position tonight.”
“Were you a cop?”
“I was with this department thirty years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’d like to get my hands on the guy.”
“You spoke to him tonight. At some point. Either just before or just after.”
“They all sounded normal to me.”
“Do you know them well?”
“Not the new guys.”
“Was anybody particularly close with Mrs. Salter?”
“A lot of them were. She’s a fixture. Was a fixture.”
Seven miles up and four hundred miles south Plato’s cell phone rang again. The money he had taken from the Russian was hammering its way around the world. From one jurisdiction to another, shady and untraceable, an automated all-night trip that was scheduled to take seven hours in total. But it was always banking hours somewhere. The deposit flashed across a screen in Hong Kong and tripped a code that meant the account holder should be notified. So the clerk that saw it dialed a number that bounced through five separate call forwarding triggers before ringing out inside the Boeing high above Nebraska. Plato answered and listened without comment. He was already the richest man he had ever met. He always would be. He was Plato, and they weren’t. Not his parents, not the Russian, not his old associate Martinez, not anybody.
The bank clerk in Hong Kong hung up with Plato and dialed another number. Brooklyn, New York. After three in the morning over there, but the call was answered immediately, by the Russian, who was paying more than Plato was.
A lot more.
The clerk said, “I told him the money was in his account.”
The Russian said, “So now reverse the transaction.”
The clerk clicked and scrolled.
“Done,” he said.
The Russian said, “Thank you.”
From Brooklyn the Russian dialed Mexico City, a number deep inside a local law enforcement agency with a long name he couldn’t begin to translate. A colonel answered. The Russian told him that all was proceeding exactly according to plan.
The colonel said, “Plato is already in the air. He took off more than three hours ago.”
The Russian said, “I know.”
The colonel said, “I want fifteen percent.”
The Russian went quiet for a moment. He pretended to be annoyed. He had promised ten percent. A ninety-ten split was what had been discussed all along. But privately he had budgeted for eighty-twenty. Eighty percent of Plato’s business had been his aim. To get eighty-five percent would be an unexpected bonus. A free gift. The colonel was a shallow, unambitious man. Limited in every way. Which was why he was a colonel, and not a general.
The Russian said, “You drive a hard bargain.”
The colonel said, “Take it or leave it.”
“You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t.”
A long silence, purely for effect.
“OK,” the Russian said. “You get fifteen percent.”
The colonel said, “Thank you.”
The Russian hung up and dialed again, a number he knew belonged to an untraceable cell currently located on a night table in a Virginia bedroom. After three in the morning down there, the same as Brooklyn. The same time zone. The untraceable cell belonged to a tame DEA agent who belonged to the Russian’s cousin’s friend’s brother-in-law. The guy answered in Virginia and the Russian told him all was going exactly according to plan.
The guy asked, “Do I have your word?”
The Russian smiled to himself. Office politics at their very best. The cousin’s friend’s brother-in-law’s bent DEA guy had overrul
ed Plato’s bent DEA guy and had agreed that the Russian could take over the rest of Plato’s U.S. operations just as long as he didn’t take the government meth out of the hole in the ground in South Dakota. In fact if the government meth could just disappear altogether, then so much the better. Too embarrassing all around. Embarrassing that it was still there, embarrassing that it had been forgotten about, embarrassing that it even existed at all. Even bent guys had departmental loyalties.
The Russian said, “You have my word on that.”
The guy in Virginia said, “Thank you.”
The Russian smiled again at the absurdity of it all. But he would comply. Why wouldn’t he? It was a treasure trove, for sure, but he had longer-term goals. And he wouldn’t miss what he never had. And it wasn’t as if he had paid for it, anyway.
He hung up again and composed a text message on another phone, and hit send.
Seven miles above Nebraska, three rows behind Plato, in seat 4A, a silent phone vibrated once in a pocket, a solid mechanical thrill against the muscle of a thigh. The fifth of the six disposable Mexicans pulled out the phone and checked the screen. He was the guy who had driven Plato in the Range Rover to the airfield. He showed it to the man sitting next to him, in seat 4B, who was the sixth of the six, and who had sat with him earlier in the front of the truck. Both men nodded. Neither man spoke. Neither man even smiled. They were both way too tense.
The text said: Do it.
A minute later Reacher heard Holland’s car in the frozen stillness. He heard the low mutter of its engine and the soft crunch of its tires on the ice. Then the sigh and the silence as it shut down, and the creak and slam of the door, and the sound of Holland’s boots on the snow. He heard the lobby door open and imagined he felt the pulse of cold air coming in from the lot. He heard Holland’s steps in the corridor and then he arrived and filled the doorway, stooped, bent, defeated, like he was right at the end of something.
Holland said, “Are you sure?”
Reacher nodded. “No doubt about it.”
“Because sometimes they can still be alive.”
“Not this time.”
“Should we check?”
“No point.”
“What was it?”
“Nine millimeter between the eyes. Same as the other two.”
“Anything left behind?”
“Nothing.”
“So we’re no closer. We still don’t know who it is.”
Reacher nodded.
“But I know how to find out,” he said.
Chapter 41
Reacher said, “It’s going to snow again soon. The runway is going to get covered again and the bikers aren’t there to plow it anymore. Weather is unpredictable, therefore time is tight. Therefore Plato is on his way, probably right now. Because he needs to get his jewelry out before the sale goes through. He’s probably going to double-cross the Russian and take some of the meth, too. Maybe most of it. He’s got a big plane. So my guess is he told his guy to be there to help. So the guy will pull off the perimeter at some point and head up there. Maybe real soon. All we have to do is get there before him. We’ll hide out and see who shows up. He’ll walk straight into our arms.”
Holland said, “You think?”
“For sure.”
“We could be waiting there for hours.”
“I don’t think so. Plato needs to get in and get out. He can’t afford to get trapped in a storm. A big plane on the ground, no proper facilities, he could be stuck until the start of summer.”
“What kind of help would he need, anyway?”
“Got to be something.”
“He’ll bring people with him. It’s just walking up and down a staircase.”
“You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself.”
“You sure?”
“They’re going to land a big plane in the middle of nowhere. Someone might hear it. Anything might happen. A local cop is always useful.”
“We have to hide out up there? It’s very cold.”
“Cold?” Reacher said. “This is nothing.”
Holland thought about it for a minute. Reacher watched him carefully. Holland’s mouth worked silently and his eyes danced left and right. He started out reluctant, and then he got right into it.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
Five minutes to three in the morning.
One hour to go.
Holland drove. His unmarked car was still warm inside. The roads were still frozen and empty. The middle of the night, in the middle of winter, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing was moving, except the wind. They passed the end of Janet Salter’s street. It was deserted. Holland was sitting close to the wheel, belted in his seat, his parka still zipped, its material stiff and awkward against him. Reacher was sprawled in the passenger seat, no belt, his coat open, its tails hauled around into his lap, his gloves off, his hands in his pockets. The ruts on the road were worn and wizened by the cold. The front tires hopped left and right, just a little. The chains on the back whirred and clattered. There was a moon high in the sky, close to full, pale and wan, behind thin tattered ribbons of frozen cloud.
Reacher asked, “How long are you guys supposed to stay deployed on the perimeter?”
Holland said, “There’s no set time. It will be a gut call by the warden.”
“Best guess?”
“Another hour.”
“So any cop we see before then is our boy.”
“If we see one at all.”
“I think we will,” Reacher said.
They made the turn on the old county two-lane parallel with the highway and headed west. Five miles, not fast, not slow. Wind and ice in the air. Then they turned again, north, on the narrow wandering ribbon, eight long miles. Then the runway loomed up, spectacular as always, imposing, massive, wide, flat, infinitely long in the headlight beams, still clear and dry. Holland didn’t slow down. He just thumped straight up on the moonlit concrete and held his line and held his speed. There was nothing but gray darkness ahead. No lights. No activity. Nothing moving. No one there. The wooden huts looked black in the distance, and behind them loomed the stone building, larger and blacker still.
Two hundred yards out Holland took his foot off the gas and coasted. He was still upright, still close to the wheel, still belted in, still trapped and mummified by the stiff nylon of his coat.
“Where should I put the car?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Reacher said. He was still sprawled out, no belt, his hands in his pockets.
“We should hide it. The guy will see it. If he comes.”
Reacher said, “He’s already here.”
“What?”
“He just arrived.”
The car coasted and slowed. It rolled to a stop thirty yards from the first line of huts. Holland kept his foot on the floor. Not on the brake. The lever was still in gear. The engine’s idle speed was not enough to push through the resistance of the snow chains. The whole car just hung there, trembling a little, not quite moving, not quite inert, right on the cusp.
Holland asked, “How long have you known?”
Reacher said, “For sure, about three minutes. Beyond a reasonable doubt, about thirty minutes. Retrospectively, about thirty-one hours. But back then I didn’t know I knew.”
“Something I said?”
“Stuff you didn’t say. Stuff you didn’t do.”
“Like what?”
“Most recently you didn’t slow down and kill your headlights when we hit the runway. The guy could have been here already. But you knew he wasn’t. Because you’re the guy.”
Holland said, “You’re wrong.”
Reacher said, “I’m afraid not. We spent an hour underground earlier tonight, and the first thing you should have done when we got back to the surface was call the Salter house. But you didn’t. I had to remind you. Turned out she was OK, because the guy hadn’t gotten to her during that hour. And you knew that in advance, because you’re the guy. Which is why
you didn’t think to call. You should have faked it better.”
Holland said nothing.
Reacher said, “I had a conversation with Peterson last night. He came over at eight o’clock, when we thought the head count at the jail was going to come up one short. We were worried. We were tense. He took me to one side and asked me, was I armed? I said yes. I told him Mrs. Salter was, too. Obvious questions, in a situation like that. You didn’t ask those questions the night before. You should have.”
Holland said, “Maybe I assumed. I knew Mrs. Salter had guns in the house. She asked me for advice about ammunition.”
“And it was good advice you gave. But you should have made absolutely sure those guns weren’t still in the box that night. Verbally at least, if not visually. Anyone would have done that, except a guy who knew for sure they weren’t going to be needed.”
Holland said nothing.
Reacher said, “Right back at the beginning, we found you confronting those bikers on the street. But you weren’t really confronting them, were you? You were listening to them. You were getting your instructions. A regular ten-minute lecture. Plato had decided. Kill the lawyer, kill Janet Salter. They were passing on the message. Then you heard Peterson’s car behind you and you threw your gun down in the snow, just to give yourself a reason to be standing there so long. Then you shoved one of them and started a fight. All staged, for Peterson’s benefit. And mine, I guess. And that thing about rolling the dice? No way could they have avoided random checks so long, unless you were calling them and tipping them off. You were all working for the same guy. Which is why you let them leave town without a word.”
Holland said nothing.
Reacher said, “Then much later Peterson and I put you on the spot. We showed up here just when it was safe for you to get the key out of the stove. You knew where it was. But you hadn’t figured it out. You had been told. You were there to set things up. But we all went downstairs together. Because you couldn’t think of a convincing way of stopping that from happening. And so Peterson saw stuff he was obviously going to react to. So you put that crap on the radio so when you killed him straight afterward there would be sixty suspects in the frame, and not just you. And then you lied to me about Kapler. You tried to point me in the wrong direction. There were no rumors about drug money in Miami. If there were, my friend in Virginia would have found them long ago.”