Текст книги "A Wanted Man"

Автор книги: Lee Child

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

FIFTY-SEVEN

THE TWO BUREAU suits led Reacher to a four-place table in the opposite corner of the room to where the eyewitness had stationed himself. Reacher took the corner chair, his back to the wall, the whole room in view. Pure habit. No real reason. No danger of any kind. That dining room was probably the safest place in Kansas.

The two agents sat down, one on his left and one on his right. They leaned in, intently, elbows on the table. They were maybe a little younger than McQueen or Sorenson. Late thirties, or dead-on forty. Not rookies, but not old-timers, either. Both were dark and wiry. One was going bald faster than the other. They said their names were Bale and Trapattoni. They said they were close colleagues of Dawson and Mitchell. Same field office, same job. They said they had read Reacher’s record from the military. They said they knew all about him.

Reacher said nothing about that.

Bale was the guy losing his hair. He asked, ‘You happy here?’

Reacher said, ‘Why would I be?’

‘Why wouldn’t you be?’

‘I took an oath to protect the Constitution. So did you, I guess.’

‘And?’

‘I’m being deprived of my liberty without due process of law. That’s a Fifth Amendment offence, right there. And you’re a party to it.’

‘This isn’t a prison.’

‘I guess the fence maker didn’t get that memo.’

‘So you’re not happy?’

Reacher said, ‘Actually I’m fine. I like you guys. I like the FBI. I like the way you think. I can’t help it. You’re doing wrong, but you’re doing wrong right. You put everyone together, so there are mutual witnesses to everything that goes on here. You could have thrown us in solitary somewhere and done whatever the hell you liked to us. But you couldn’t do that. Because deep down you’re on the side of the angels. I can’t take that away from you. You even left the mini golf here. When did you buy this place?’

Trapattoni said, ‘Three years ago.’

‘Was it a Kansas City initiative?’

‘Yes, it was. Counterterrorism, central region.’

‘Why did you need it?’

‘There was an emerging requirement.’

‘For what?’

‘For a place to keep people safe.’

‘I think it’s a place for keeping yourselves safe.’

‘How so?’

‘I think you take witnesses away from local law enforcement whenever your undercover operations get messy. So that no questions are ever answered.’

‘You don’t think undercover agents deserve to be kept safe?’

‘I think they deserve all the help they can get.’

‘So?’

‘I’m wondering how many undercover operations you run. This place could take fifty people at a time. That’s a lot of witnesses.’

‘I can’t comment on how many operations we run.’

‘Has this place ever been full?’

‘No.’

‘Has it ever been empty?’

‘No.’

‘In three years? That’s quite a few operations.’

‘It’s a big job.’

Reacher said, ‘So tell me the rules.’

Bale said, ‘There are two of them.’

‘Try me. I can count that high.’

‘You’ll be our guest here until the operation is concluded. That’s non-negotiable. And you won’t discuss what you’ve seen of the operation so far with the other guests. Or with anyone else. Not even any tiny little part of it. Not now and not ever. That’s non-negotiable too.’

‘That’s it?’

‘It’s for your own good. They saw you too. Only one of those guys in the Impala was on the side of the angels.’

‘King died.’

‘But not before he used his phone a couple of times. From the gas stations, we think. The times of the calls coincide with the use of the credit card.’

‘You were tapping his phone?’

‘Having an undercover man brings many advantages.’

‘What did he say about me?’

‘They have your name and your description. Bear that in mind when you think bad thoughts about the fence maker.’

‘Who are these guys?’

No answer.

‘Is McQueen going to be OK?’

‘Don’t worry about him.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘We put seven months into this. He’s not going to quit now.’

‘I’m not worried about him quitting. I’m worried about someone else making that decision for him. He’s got some explaining to do tonight.’

‘We can’t discuss it,’ Bale said. ‘Just remember the rules.’

And that was it. Bale sat back. Trapattoni sat back. The conversation was over. And right on cue the food came. Reacher figured the motherly type had been watching through a spy hole. Or listening on a headset.

Delfuenso and her daughter were long gone and the eyewitness was finishing up his seventh bottle of beer by the time Reacher left the dining room. He walked along the lit-up path towards his temporary quarters and he stopped in the chill air and looked up at the sky. There were no stars. No moon. Ideal conditions for a little clandestine activity, except there was no way out but the gate, and there was no way of opening it, and there were no telephones.

Then the eyewitness came stumbling out of the dining room and up the path. The knee-high fingerpost lights gave Reacher a pretty good view of the guy’s legs working not quite right. He was more than buzzed, but not yet falling down. He was taking slow and elaborately precise steps, left, right, putting his feet down flat, striding shorter than normal, looking down and concentrating hard. Reacher backtracked until his shins were in a pool of light. Full disclosure. He didn’t want to give the guy a heart attack.

The guy came on slowly, left foot, right foot, and then he saw Reacher’s legs and stopped. No big shock. No great surprise.

The guy gave an amiable grin.

Reacher said, ‘Were you this drunk when you saw the red car?’

The guy thought about it and said, ‘Approximately.’

‘Who talked to you about it?’

‘Sheriff Goodman and the blonde lady from the FBI.’

‘What didn’t you tell them?’

‘I told them everything.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Reacher said. ‘No eyewitness ever does. You left things out. Things you weren’t sure about, things that might have sounded stupid, things you were doing that you shouldn’t have been doing.’

‘I was looking for my truck.’

‘Where was it?’

‘I couldn’t remember. That’s why I was looking for it.’

‘Did you tell them that part?’

‘They didn’t ask.’

‘And you were going to drive home like that?’

‘It’s not far. I know the turns.’

‘And?’

‘I got caught short. I stopped to take a leak.’

‘Where?’

‘In back of the old pumping station. I didn’t tell them that part, either.’

Reacher nodded. Things you were doing that you shouldn’t have been doing. Public urination, and drunk driving. Illegal in every town in America. He said, ‘So you didn’t really see them. Not if you were behind the building.’

The guy said, ‘No, I saw them real close. I was all done by then. I was all zipped up and coming out.’

‘Did they see you?’

‘I don’t think so. It was pretty dark. There was a shadow.’

‘How far away were you?’

‘Ten feet, maybe.’

Reacher asked, ‘What did you notice?’

‘I told the sheriff,’ the guy said. ‘And the blonde lady.’

‘You answered their questions. That’s not the same thing.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Concentrate.’

The guy closed his eyes. He swayed back and forth on his heels. He raised his hand and held it palm out, as if he was steadying himself against the old concrete building. He was using physical cues. He was thinking himself back into the moment.

He said, ‘The first guy was hurrying. He wanted to get in there first. He was unzipping his coat.’

‘Had they been in a group of three before that? Walking together?’

‘I can’t be sure. But I think so. It felt like that. Like suddenly the first guy had bolted ahead, and the other two guys were hustling to keep up.’

‘Suits, right?’

‘No coats at all.’

‘Anything in their hands?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What did you do when all three of them were inside?’

‘I headed back across the road.’

‘Why?’

‘I needed to find my truck. And I didn’t want to stick around.’

‘Why not?’

‘Bad feeling.’

‘From the guys in the suits?’

‘More from the first guy. In the green coat. I didn’t like him.’

Reacher asked, ‘Did you hear anything?’

The guy said, ‘A little shouting and yelling. Like they were fighting.’

‘Where were you when the guys in the suits came out again?’

‘On the other sidewalk.’

‘Anything else?’

The guy said, ‘I shouldn’t be talking about this. They told me not to.’ And then he stepped around Reacher, carefully and elaborately and precisely, and he carried on along the path. Reacher started after him, and then he stopped. Because he heard the soft whisper of a car on the road. A quarter-mile away, maybe. He turned and saw lights in the distance, vague diffuse beams bouncing and stabbing through the mist.

Then the gate began to open, not fast, not slow, and silent.

FIFTY-EIGHT

EVIDENTLY JULIA SORENSON had not gotten her phone back. Or her car. Or her reputation. She had not become a hero. Reacher saw a shiny black Crown Vic pull in off the two-lane and drive through the still-moving gate. Its headlight beams turned in a wide arc and it hissed over the concrete roadway and came to a stop on the circle near the main office door. A guy Reacher hadn’t seen before got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear passenger door. He didn’t seem to say anything. He just pointed with his chin. Like Dawson had.

Julia Sorenson slid out of the back and stood up and stood still. She looked tired in the low light, and a little defeated. A little round-shouldered. The night breeze caught her coat and flapped it open. She was still wearing the new shirt. But her holster was empty. She had surrendered her weapon.

The guy from the front closed her door behind her and slid back in his seat. The car drove off and left her standing there alone. The gate started to open again. The car drove through it, and paused a beat, and turned right, and drove back the way it had come.

The gate closed again behind it. Reacher watched the car until its lights were gone and its whisper had died away to silence. Then he turned around and watched Sorenson.

She stood still for a moment more, and then she went inside. Reacher counted out time in his head, for the greeting from the motherly type at the reception desk, and the smile and the welcome, and the kings and the queens and the twins, and the armchairs, and the floor space, and the majority preferences. All that kind of stuff. We’ve been expecting you. Four minutes, he figured. Maybe less, if the conversation went faster, which he figured it might, because it would be one agent to another. Or maybe more than four minutes, if Sorenson was up on her high horse and asking all kinds of outraged and resentful questions.

It took four minutes exactly. Sorenson came out with a key in her hand. She looked resigned. She checked the numbers on the low fingerposts and set off in Reacher’s direction. Then she checked again at the next fork and headed off at a shallow angle down a different path.

‘Julia,’ Reacher called, softly.

She stopped walking.

She called, ‘Reacher?’

‘Over here.’

She stepped off the path and walked over the crushed stone to him. He asked, ‘What happened with you?’

She said, ‘We’re not supposed to communicate.’

‘Or what? They’re going to lock us up?’

‘Well, we can’t talk out here. Where can we go?’

They went to Reacher’s room. Sorenson took a good look around it and said, ‘This is completely bizarre. It’s just like a regular motel.’

Reacher said, ‘It is a regular motel. Or it was. The Kansas City field office bought it three years ago. They told me. You never heard about it?’

‘Not a word. Are the others here too?’

Reacher nodded. ‘Delfuenso and her kid, and the eyewitness. Safe and sound. They’re all having a good time, actually.’

‘Even though they’re locked up?’

‘They’ve been told they’re sequestered. Like a jury. For their own good. Not the same thing as being locked up. They’re all treating it like a vacation. Mini golf and free beer.’

‘Is it legal?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. But it probably is. Except that it probably shouldn’t be. You know how these things are.’

‘Who brought them here?’ she said. ‘Who burned in the car?’

‘Alan King burned in the car,’ Reacher said. ‘But he was shot in the heart first. By McQueen. McQueen is one of you, undercover. Out of Kansas City. Which is why Dawson and Mitchell came straight up to babysit you at the pumping station. They were doing damage control. McQueen burned the car and he and Delfuenso were picked up by part of his Bureau support team. In a Bureau sedan, like the tyre marks showed, again out of Kansas City. McQueen came here with them but left again immediately. Apparently he said he had to get back in position.’

‘Poor guy. He’s going to be under a hell of a lot of pressure. With King dead? How is he going to explain that?’

‘With great difficulty, I would think.’

‘But you were right. He missed you deliberately. He fired over your head.’

‘But there was nothing he could fake when it came time to punch Delfuenso’s ticket. So he offed King instead.’

‘Good man. I hope he’s OK.’

‘What happened with you?’ Reacher asked again.

Sorenson sat down on the bed. She said, ‘Me? It started out OK. In fact it started out just fine. I drove back to Delfuenso’s place and got my phone and got back in my own car and called my SAC. I told him I had managed to overpower you and hand you over to the Kansas City boys. My SAC was very impressed. And he was very pleased. But I couldn’t quite let it go. I asked a few too many questions. He didn’t like that so much. I could tell. Then at one point he changed completely. He wasn’t pleased any more. Not pleased at all. I could hear it in his voice.’

‘At what point?’

‘I checked the glove box when I locked up Goodman’s car. Purely out of habit. I didn’t want any unsecured weapons left in it, and who knows what a country sheriff keeps in his glove box? But as it happened there was nothing in there except a notebook and a pen. So I looked through the notebook, naturally. Turns out Sheriff Goodman was a very thorough guy. He’d been doing his research overnight, and he’d been making notes about Karen Delfuenso. I guess he figured the more the merrier, when it came to information. I guess he thought it would help, if we didn’t get her back fast, although I can’t see how it would.’

‘And?’

‘There was something in there that struck me as odd, so I asked my SAC about it. Except I didn’t actually ask about it. I just mentioned it, really. But whichever, that was when he went all weird on me.’

‘What something was odd?’

‘I took Delfuenso to be a long-term resident. Maybe not necessarily a fourth generation farm girl or anything, but I got the impression she’d been there a good long time. Certainly I figured Lucy would have been born and raised there.’

‘But she wasn’t?’

‘They’ve only been there seven months. The neighbour on the other side said they moved there after a divorce. So it seems to have been a much more recent divorce than I thought.’

‘Are we even sure she was married in the first place?’ Reacher said.

‘There’s a kid.’

‘That doesn’t confirm marriage.’

‘Why wouldn’t she have been married?’

‘She copes on her own,’ Reacher said. ‘She copes really well. Like she’s always been obliged to. And she’s smart. Looking after some guy would drive her crazy.’

‘Smart women shouldn’t get married?’

‘Are you married?’

She didn’t answer that. She said, ‘I don’t care if it was a wedding with a thousand guests on a beach in Hawaii or a one-night stand in a motel in New Jersey. The point wasn’t that she was a single mom. The point is she’s a single mom who moved to town just seven months ago.’

Reacher said, ‘The Kansas City boys told me this operation is seven months old.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘Why would they lie?’

‘No, I mean Delfuenso can’t be connected. How could she be? It has to be a coincidence. It has to be. Because we’ve already got one coincidence.’

Reacher said, ‘So now we have two coincidences?’

‘Which is one too many.’

‘What’s the first coincidence?’

Sorenson said, ‘You remember Alan King’s brother?’

‘Peter King? The fister?’

‘Apparently my night guy put a search on him. Just to be helpful. Right after he got off the phone with Mother Sill, the first time. DMVs, the postal service, the banks, the credit card companies. The cell phone companies, if we can get away with it, which is usually always. And the results came back this evening.’

‘And what were they?’

‘It looks like Peter King left Denver and moved to Kansas City.’

‘When?’

‘Seven months ago.’

FIFTY-NINE

REACHER MOVED IN his chair and ran his fingers through his hair and said, ‘Alan King told me his brother wasn’t speaking to him.’

Sorenson said, ‘Did Alan King live in Kansas City?’

‘I think so.’

‘Maybe he didn’t. And even if he did, maybe they never met. Kansas City is a big enough place.’

‘I know,’ Reacher said. ‘Metro area population is a million and a half.’

‘Is it?’

‘Area code is 816.’

‘OK.’

Reacher said, ‘So now we have three coincidences. Seven months ago Delfuenso moved to the back of beyond in Nebraska, and simultaneously Peter King moved to Kansas City, Missouri, where his brother might or might not have been living, and where his brother might or might not have been even speaking to him, and simultaneously your central region counterterrorism people, who are based in Kansas City, Missouri, decided to start up a complex undercover operation that seems to be centred on a spot very close to Delfuenso’s new quarters in the back of beyond in Nebraska.’

‘We can’t have three coincidences. That’s too many.’

‘I would agree,’ Reacher said. ‘Theoretically. But we don’t have three coincidences. We have two proven links.’

‘Proven how?’

Reacher leaned forward in his chair and put his palm on the bed. He pressed down and tested the mattress for softness and yield.

He said, ‘First, Peter King was definitely Alan King’s brother. And Alan King was definitely a bad guy. Because an undercover FBI agent found it necessary to shoot him in the heart and burn him up in a fire. Which is a pretty basic definition for being a bad guy, wouldn’t you say?’

‘And second?’

Reacher said, ‘Your SAC had you brought here because you found out about Delfuenso’s move seven months ago. And this place is for people who stumble on evidence of undercover operations. Therefore Delfuenso’s move was part of an undercover operation.’

‘What part?’

Reacher said, ‘Let’s go ask her.’

Reacher stopped short of Delfuenso’s door, and Sorenson stepped up and knocked softly. There was a long minute’s delay, and then there was the rattle of a chain. The door opened a crack on dim light inside and Delfuenso’s voice whispered, ‘Who is it?’

Reacher figured she was whispering because her kid had just gone to sleep.

Sorenson said, ‘Karen Delfuenso?’

Delfuenso whispered, ‘Yes?’

Sorenson said, ‘I’m Julia Sorenson from the FBI field office in Omaha. I was working on getting you back last night.’

And then Delfuenso shushed her, quite impatiently, like Reacher knew she would. Because her ten-year-old had just gotten to sleep. Delfuenso came out and bustled Sorenson away from the door, like Reacher knew she would, over to a place more than ten feet away, where it was safe to make a noise.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sorenson said. ‘I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. I just wanted to introduce myself. I just wanted to see you were OK.’

‘I’m fine,’ Delfuenso said, and more than ten feet behind her Reacher slipped into the room.

He had been in the room once before, so he was safely familiar with its layout, even in the dark, and it was dark. There was no light anywhere except an orange neon bulb inside a light switch in the bathroom. Its faint glow showed Lucy asleep in the bed farther from the door. She was on her side, fetal, rolled into the blankets. The sheet was up to her chin. Her hair was spilled on the pillow, black on white. Reacher found Delfuenso’s bag on the other bed. Nearer the door, nearer the armchairs. He had seen her lift it off the chair and dump it on the bed. It had looked heavy. And the mattresses were soft and yielding. Not like trampolines. Not like drum skins. But even so the bag had bounced. Like she still had her bottle of water in it.

He stepped slow and quiet on the carpet and carried the bag to the bathroom. He spread a folded bath towel on the vanity counter, one handed, patting it into place directly under the dim glow from the light switch. He emptied the bag on the towel. A precaution against noise, which worked to some extent, but not completely. There was no loud clattering, but there were plenty of sharp thumps.

He waited. And listened. Lucy slept on, breathing low and quiet.

He raked through the things on the towel. There was all kinds of stuff. Make-up, a hairbrush, two plastic combs. A slim glass bottle of scent. Two packs of gum, both half gone. A wallet, containing three dollars and no credit cards and a seven-month-old Nebraska driver’s licence. It was made out to Delfuenso at the address Reacher had visited. She was forty-one years old. There was an emery board for her fingernails, and a steakhouse toothpick still in its paper wrapper, and seventy-one cents in loose coins, and a ballpoint pen, and a house key on a chain with a crystal pendant.

He saw the pack of aspirins. There was no bottle of water. There was nothing large and heavy except a bible. A hardcover King James version, smaller than an encyclopedia, bigger than a novel. Fairly thick. Dark red cardboard on the front, dark red cardboard on the back. Gold printing on the spine, gold printing on the front. Holy Bible. It looked like it didn’t get much use. It looked like it hadn’t been opened very often.

In fact it was impossible to open. The pages were all crinkled and gummed together, by some kind of yellowish fluid, dried long ago. A spillage, possibly. Inside the bag. Pineapple juice, maybe, or orange. Or grapefruit. Something like that. Something sugary. A small carton with a straw, or a drinking cup for the kid, dumped in there and overturned.

So why keep the bible? Was there a taboo against trashing damaged bibles and replacing them? Reacher didn’t know. He was no kind of a theologian.

It was very heavy, for a book.

He used his nails and tried to separate the front cover from the first endpaper page. Not possible. It was gummed solid. Evenly, and uniformly. Reacher pictured the spilled juice, pulsing out around the hole for the straw or through the spout of the cup, flooding the bag, soaking the good book evenly and uniformly.

Not possible.

Spilled juice would leave a random stain, probably large, but it wouldn’t cover the whole book equally. Some part of it would be untouched. What got wet would swell, and the rest would stay the same. Reacher had seen books in that condition. Frozen pipes, bloodstains. Damage was never uniform.

He used one of Delfuenso’s combs and forced it end-on between the pages. He slid it up and down and levered it back and forth until he had made two fingertip-sized recesses in the pulp. Then he put the book spine-down on the vanity counter and bent over and hooked his nails in the recesses and jerked left and right.

Paper tore and the book fell open.

Everything from Exodus to Jude had been hollowed out with a razor. A custom-shaped cavity had been created. Very neat work. The cavity was roughly rectangular, maybe seven inches by six, maybe two inches deep. Not much of the paper had been left at the top and the bottom and the sides of the book. Hence the glue. Walls had been built, thin but solid. The whole thing was like a jewellery box with its lid stuck shut.

But it contained no jewellery.

The cavity was shaped and sized and contoured specifically for its current contents, which were a Glock 19 automatic pistol, and an Apple cellular telephone with matching charger, and a slim ID wallet.

The Glock 19 was a compact version of the familiar Glock 17. Four-inch barrel, smaller and lighter all around. Often considered a better fit for a woman’s hand.

Always considered easier to conceal.

It was loaded with eighteen nine-millimetre Parabellums, seventeen in the magazine and one in the chamber, ready to go. No manual safety on a Glock. Point and shoot.

The phone was switched off. Just a blank screen on the front, and a shiny black casing on the back, with a silver apple, partly bitten. Reacher had no idea how to turn the phone on. There would be a button somewhere, or a combination of buttons, to be pressed in sequence or held down for a certain small number of seconds. The charger was a neat white cube, very small, with blades for an outlet, and a long white wire tipped with a complex rectangular plug.

The ID wallet was made of fine black leather. Reacher flipped it open. It was like a tiny book in itself. The left-hand page was a coloured engraving of a shield. Department of Justice. Federal Bureau of Investigation. The right-hand page was a photo ID. Delfuenso’s face was on it. A little pale from the flash, a little green from fluorescent tubes overhead. But it was her. The picture was overlapped with an official seal. Department of Justice again. Holographic. The words Federal Bureau of Investigation ran side to side across the whole width of the card.

Special Agent Karen Delfuenso.

Reacher repacked the cavity and squeezed the covers down over the damage he had caused. He carried the book in his hand, slow and quiet past the sleeping girl, out through the door, towards the two women still huddled ten feet away. Sorenson was talking inanely, just burning time, and Delfuenso was looking a little exasperated and impatient with her. They both heard the scuff of Reacher’s boots on the concrete. They both turned towards him.

Reacher raised the bible and said, ‘Let us pray.’