Night School

by Child, Lee

  “He said nothing of interest. Certainly nothing that would help you shed light on what happened to him afterward.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “It was all pleasantries. I saw him once at a business dinner. He was a nodding acquaintance, nothing more. I was merely saying hello. A professional courtesy. I hardly knew the fellow.”

  “Were you trying to sell him shoes?”

  “No, no, not at all. It’s a politeness. It oils the wheels.”

  “Do you go to that bar often?”

  “Not very.”

  “Why that day?”

  “To see and be seen. I have many different places. On rotation. It’s what we do.”

  “We?”

  “Entrepreneurs, civic leaders, business people, wheelers and dealers.”

  Griezman said, “Did you notice who your back was to?”

  Dremmler paused a beat. Remembered elbowing in next to Schlupp, shoulder first, his back to the room. Who was behind him? He couldn’t recall.

  Griezman said, “It was a fellow about to run into trouble with the taxman. He overheard the whole conversation. He was very specific about the details.”

  Dremmler paused again. He had a good memory. Solid judgment. He was also nimble and creative. A man in his position needed such qualities. He rewound the tape in his head and played the day-old conversation from the beginning, from when he had asked how was business, and Schlupp had asked what he needed. He skimmed it fast and picked out the important parts, which were the words information, and cause, and new Germany, and drivers and licenses, and the question about the American’s new name, and the cause again, and the bribe, and the word important, and for the third time, the word cause.

  Busted.

  He said, “I have people in places that might surprise you. It would be hard for this city to run without them. And none of them has broken any law. Myself included.”

  “Yet.”

  “Which is to say, none of them has broken any law.”

  “We’ll be ready when you do.”

  “Persecuting us will only increase our numbers.”

  “Prosecuting is not persecuting.”

  “Think for yourself, Herr Griezman. You’re facing a powerful force. Soon to get even more powerful. It might be time to abandon obedience to your masters. You should side with us. Our interests are perfectly aligned. You have nothing to fear. Your job will be safe. Even in the new Germany there will be petty criminals.”

  Griezman said, “Did Schlupp call you back before he died, with the American’s new name?”

  Dremmler said, “No.”

  And Griezman believed him. He expected nothing less.

  —

  Sinclair made the call to the White House from the regular office. Helmsworth had left. Bishop had arrived. Waterman repeated his gloomy predictions, that it was too late anyway, that the Germans would take half a day even to respond, and a whole day to brief in. Maybe more, because they were starting from cold. Then they heard that a NATO clause had been invoked, which only added to the complexity. Sinclair predicted a significant delay. Reacher called Griezman, and was told he was out in his car. His secretary said she would make sure he called back just as soon as he could. She sounded like a very pleasant woman.

  He hung up.

  Sinclair said, “Wiley is an AWOL soldier in the same city as you.”

  Reacher said, “I need his new name.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “We could attempt a prediction.”

  “Based on what?”

  “We know customers were free to choose what names they wanted. We know Wiley used Ernst and Gebhardt at the rental franchise. Why choose those two? And if they were number three and number two on a list, what was number one?”

  “That would be highly speculative.”

  “What the MP business would call a wild-ass guess.”

  “Is that better than a Hail Mary, or worse?”

  “It leaves a Hail Mary so far behind you can barely see it. It’s a gut call. Like closing your eyes and swinging the bat.”

  “So what’s his new name?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s in the back of my mind. Can’t get it all the way out. I might need to check a book or make a call.”

  “Call who?”

  “Someone who grew up in southeast Texas.”

  The phone rang.

  Griezman.

  Who said, “How may I help you?”

  Reacher said, “I’m not sure you can yet.”

  “Then why did you call me?”

  “I hoped to be ready.”

  Sinclair said, “Gamble, Reacher.”

  He remembered raising his hand and brushing her forehead with his fingertips, and sliding his fingers into her hair, and running them through. He remembered the texture, alternately thick and soft as the waves came and went. He remembered sweeping it back and hooking part of it behind her ear, and leaving part of it hanging free.

  It had looked good.

  He had gambled then.

  He said to Griezman, “I need you to check city records for the development where Wiley lives.”

  Griezman said, “For what name?”

  “Kempner.”

  “That’s fairly common.”

  “Single males, middle thirties, living alone, not much else going on in their lives in terms of a paper trail.”

  “That’s hours of work. Are you in a hurry?”

  “We’re stepping a little faster than we’d like to be.”

  “Then you better be sure. This could be your only wish. No time to rub the lamp again.”

  “Try it.”

  “Kempner?”

  “Get back to me as soon as you can,” Reacher said.

  He killed the call.

  Sinclair said, “Why Kempner?”

  “Why Ernst and why Gebhardt? Wiley grew up in Sugar Land, Texas, and then one day years later he was asked for three German names. What came to the surface? There’s a lot of German tradition in Texas. An ancient community. A lot of success, and a lot of stories. Legend has it the first German to arrive was a guy named Ernst. He founded the colony. I’m sure Wiley heard all about him. Then years later another guy brewed a hot sauce. Now you can get it in plastic bottles from the PX or the supermarket. It’s all over Texas. I’m sure Wiley has put it on his food all his life. The brand is Gebhardt.”

  “Coincidence,” Sinclair said. “Both of them.”

  “But what if? If Ernst and Gebhardt came from a subliminal association with growing up in southeast Texas, what would come next?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  “Wiley was proud of his home town. That was in the original AWOL file. And Specialist Coleman confirmed it. Wiley’s crewmate from the Chaparral truck. Wiley’s home town was all about Imperial Sugar. Founded in 1906. Sugar Land was a company town, side to side and top to bottom.”

  “How do you know this stuff?”

  “There was a movie. And I read about it once, on a bus, in the Houston Chronicle. Imperial Sugar was founded by Isaac H. Kempner. He was the father of the town, essentially. He built it. I’m sure he’s very famous there. Maybe they named a street for him.”

  “Hell of a gamble.”

  “You made me do it.”

  White said, “They should close the port.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Sinclair said. “I’m sure those discussions are already underway. The White House will call us back and let us know.”

  She checked the clock on the wall.

  The banks in Zurich were open for business.

  The phone didn’t ring.

  Chapter 36

  The phone didn’t ring during the first hour. Or the second. Reacher said, “I want to bring Orozco on board.”

  Bishop said, “Why?”

  “We need an extra pair of hands. We’re running short of time.”

  “What could he do for us?

  “He’s a good interrogator.
If we find Wiley before we find the crate he’s going to have to tell us where it is. Orozco would be good for that. People respond to him.”

  “How much does he know already?”

  “Some of it.”

  Sinclair said, “Call him.”

  So Reacher did, there and then. He told Orozco as of ten hundred Zulu and eleven hundred Lima he was TDY to the NSC and for further detail an immediate 10-16 was required at the front desk number.

  Then he killed the call.

  Neagley looked at him.

  He said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He left the office and walked down the stairs. To the front lobby. He waited at the desk. The phone rang. The guard picked up. He looked confused for a second, and then he handed the phone to Reacher. It was Orozco. A 10-16 was MP radio code for a report by land line. An immediate 10-16 meant call back right away. At the different number, Orozco would understand, for reasons of privacy.

  Orozco said, “Are we in trouble?”

  Reacher said, “Not yet.”

  “That sounds like the guy who just jumped off a building. How does it feel? Pretty good so far. Like flying.”

  “All we need to do is get the guy.”

  “Are we going to?”

  “How hard can it be?”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I told them you’re coming in as an interrogator. But you’re not. You’re coming in to get the Iranian out of the safe house. They’ve forgotten all about him. Or else they’re set on taking a stupid risk. We can’t let either thing happen. They’ll kill him. So get him out as soon as we make a move.”

  “Are you going to make a move?”

  “I remain optimistic.”

  “How will I know which are the Saudis and which is the Iranian?”

  “I’m sure a man with your level of cultural sensitivity will have no trouble at all.”

  “What do I do with the Saudis?”

  “They can be collateral damage, if you like.”

  “That’s hardcore,” Orozco said.

  “There are ten missing bombs.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  “We just figured it out.”

  “What kind of bombs?”

  “Nuclear bombs,” Reacher said. “Atom bombs as big as Hiroshima.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As lung cancer.”

  “Ten of them?”

  “In a crate.”

  Orozco was quiet for a long, long moment.

  Then he said, “I would want to bring my sergeant.”

  Reacher said, “I would expect nothing less.”

  “I’m on my way,” Orozco said.

  Reacher hung up and took the stairs back to the regular office. The phone rang as soon as he got there. Sinclair put it on speaker. Not the White House. Not new orders from NATO. It was Griezman. Who said, “There are five Herr Kempners in Wiley’s development. Four look unlikely based on age. The fifth is a strong possibility. His lease expires in less than a month. He has no employment records. The source of his funds is unclear. He is registered as Isaac Herbert Kempner.”

  “That’s him,” Reacher said. “That’s the guy who founded Imperial Sugar. The exact same name. We found Wiley.”

  “I’ll pick you up in five minutes,” Griezman said. “But please, just you, Sergeant Neagley, and Dr. Sinclair. No CIA. I haven’t told Berlin yet. I’m out on a limb with this.”

  Sinclair killed the call.

  She looked at Reacher, and said, “Congratulations, major. Another medal.”

  Reacher said, “Not yet.”

  —

  Muller closed his office door and called Dremmler from his desk phone. He said, “Griezman is checking city records for a guy named Kempner. In the new development where they think Wiley lives. Where they had the unmarked car.”

  Dremmler said, “It’s a common name.”

  “I looked for myself and found five in that neighborhood. Three are old men. One is a student. The fifth is thirty-five years old. He has a driver’s license. Which gives me access to his record. Which is completely empty. There’s nothing there. No speeding tickets, no parking tickets, no warnings or cautions, no insurance claims, no witness statements, no nothing. No contact whatsoever with the bureaucratic world. That’s not normal for a thirty-five-year-old. I don’t think he’s real. I think Kempner is Wiley’s new name.”

  “You have the address?”

  “We should think ahead. Griezman will go to the apartment. It will be inaccessible to us. But think like a traffic cop. He has a long-wheelbase panel van. Where does he park it? Not on the street, because my guys have been looking for it, and they haven’t found it. And not in a garage, either, because it’s the high-roof model, as well as too long. So it’s in a large shed, or possibly a small warehouse. Near enough to where he lives to be convenient. It’s there right now. Just waiting for us. It’s what we want. Not Wiley himself.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “You need to ask the people you know. Did anyone rent out an old shed or a warehouse? Possibly for cash, certainly to someone they never saw before, who had some type of vague bullshit story for why he needed it. It’s the kind of thing you people talk about, right? A guy who knows a guy who knows a guy?”

  Dremmler said, “I’ll make you chief of police.”

  —

  Bishop led the way to his office, which had an old-fashioned combination safe in the corner, as big as a basement washing machine. He spun the dials and turned the handle and opened the door. Inside was a mess of stuff, including four handguns stored butts-up in a long cardboard box. He took out three and passed them around. One for Sinclair, one for Reacher, and one for Neagley. They were Colt Government Model .380s. Seven-shooters, blued steel, plastic grips. Short barrel, but accurate. They were loaded.

  “Try not to use them,” Bishop said. “And if you do, for God’s sake don’t shoot anyone but Wiley. The legalities would be a nightmare.”

  Reacher said, “Tell Orozco where we are and what we’re doing, as soon as he gets here. Tell him to stand by.”

  Bishop said, “Sure.”

  Sinclair put her gun in her bag. Reacher and Neagley put theirs in their pockets.

  Good to go.

  —

  Griezman stopped on the same curb as the day before, and Sinclair climbed in the front of the car. Reacher and Neagley climbed in the back. Then Griezman took off and threaded through the center of town, on a road Reacher remembered. Eventually they came to the crossroads. High brick buildings on every side. The champagne store was a right turn, and the new urban village was a left.

  They turned left.

  They drove around the brand-new traffic circle and took the middle exit, straight ahead into the apartment complex. The buildings looked high-rise in their surroundings, but none was more than fifteen stories tall. Exterior panels that in America would have been glass or mirror were sometimes metal painted bright simple colors. As if the dwellings had inspired or been inspired by a child’s construction toy. Or maybe children were supposed to feel at home there. Reacher couldn’t see how. He had been a serious kid. He felt the relentless cheerfulness would have driven him mad.

  Griezman slowed the car.

  He said, “It’s the next building on the left.”

  Which was an identical structure, like a giant shoebox laid on its side, piebald with colored panels, peppered with windows, which were smaller than they might have been, and which had thick, efficient frames. The lobby was a bite out of the lower two floors, like a grand arcade, presumably with entrances right and left. Two elevator banks.

  Griezman said, “Should we park and walk, or drive right up?”

  “Drive,” Reacher said. “Let’s get this done.”

  So Griezman accelerated again and then coasted to a stop outside Wiley’s lobby. There were young trees planted in the shoulders. There was another building dead ahead, and then two more in the distance, with a wide footpa
th running between them, to the preserved part of the cityscape, and then to a footbridge made of teak and steel. It looped over the water, and away.

  They opened all four doors at once and got out of the car. According to his unit number Wiley’s lobby was the left-hand option. There were two elevators serving that half of the building. Both cars were waiting on the lobby level. The morning rush to work was over. Wiley’s unit was on the ninth floor. SOP for an apartment raid was to send people up in every elevator simultaneously, plus more on the stairs. A full-court press, to prevent a lucky escape. Reacher had known it to happen. He had seen security video, of a guy strolling out his door and getting in an elevator, literally half a second before the cops burst out of another elevator. Unfortunate timing. A teaching moment. Reacher figured Griezman would get a heart attack if he had to climb nine floors, so he suggested he ride in one car, with Sinclair in the other. Neagley took the stairs. Reacher went with Sinclair. Her gun was still in her bag. Not good practice. Getting it out would be slow, and the Government Model’s only real weakness was a prominent magazine release near the trigger. A fumble in a bag could unload it. Not ideal.

  The elevator doors closed on them. The car moved up. Sinclair said, “How do you feel?”

  Reacher said, “Personally or professionally?”

  “About Wiley.”

  “I saw him on the liquor store video. He looked as quick as an outhouse rat. And he has a gun. And he’s about to do the deal of the century. But that’s OK. I like a challenge.”

  “We’ll arrest him as soon as he opens the door. He won’t have time to do anything.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t open the door? Suppose he looks out the peephole and waits in the bedroom?”

  Sinclair didn’t answer.

  The elevator stopped.

  The doors opened.

  Griezman was already out. Apart from him the corridor was empty. There were doors every thirty feet. Unit numbers were marked on narrow vertical panels next to the doors. The panels had an integrated wall sconce above, and the number below. They were all different bright colors. The numbers were written like a book from elementary school. Wiley’s was 9b. His panel was green, and his door was yellow. Like a playhouse. My first apartment.

  There was no peephole in the yellow door. Instead there was a head-height plastic eye on the green panel, the size of an egg, bulging out, smoky gray. A camera. Presumably with a screen on the wall inside. A big fish-eye picture. Below the camera at elbow height was a doorbell button. A visitor who got close enough to ding the bell would have his face right in front of the camera. Which made sense.