“Now it’s not such a large area. We just narrowed it down.”
Neagley said, “He would want solid construction. And a live phone number for the rental. He wouldn’t squat. Too insecure for a very big deal. Anything could happen. He’d want to do it face to face. With a big wad of cash. He’d let himself get taken for a little extra. Like a rube. Because then he’s the golden goose. They’ll leave him alone in the hopes of coming back for more at the end of his term. So we’re looking for a solid door, with an inquiries number thumbtacked to it.”
Reacher said, “Now we narrowed it down some more.”
Sinclair said, “Still no decision from the White House.”
“Why not?”
“Perhaps the complexities surpass human understanding. Or perhaps they haven’t admitted to the world what happened yet. Too embarrassing. In the hopes that in the meantime the problem will go away, because of us.”
“Which is it?”
“I feel like I’m supposed to know. But I don’t.”
“I think it’s the latter. My guess is they want us to continue.”
“Are you advocating immediate action?”
“Let’s go park the car at the bridge,” Reacher said. “Let’s at least do that. Then we’ll see what happens next.”
Chapter 39
The old dockside quarter still had telephone booths, and being German they still worked. Wiley dialed Zurich, and paid the toll, another long stream of foreign coins, and he gave his passcode number, and he asked if a deposit had been made to his account that day.
A keyboard pattered.
There was a pause.
“Yes, sir,” was the answer. “A deposit was made.”
Wiley said nothing.
“Would you like to know the amount?”
Wiley said yes.
“One hundred million U.S. dollars and no cents.”
Wiley said, “There’s a plan in place.”
“I see that, sir. The project in Argentina. Shall we execute immediately?”
“Yes,” Wiley said.
He closed his eyes.
His place.
Visible from outer space.
Little Horace Wiley.
He opened his eyes, and he hung up the phone, and then he walked back the way he had come.
—
In Zurich the messenger came out of the bank, through a glossy but anonymous door, to the street, where she walked to the corner and flagged down a cab. She settled in the back seat and said in carefully practiced German, “The airport, please. International departures. Lufthansa to Hamburg.”
The driver started his meter and pulled out into traffic.
—
Dremmler had gotten the rental van’s plate number from Muller, which enabled a friend at a Mercedes-Benz dealership to trace its security code through its vehicle identification number, which enabled another friend at an auto parts store to make a duplicate ignition key. Which Dremmler gave to a third friend, one of a team of two assembled for the occasion. They were both big men, both competent, both resourceful. They had been in the army. Now one was a motorcycle mechanic. The other worked security for visiting Russians.
“The traffic cop at the bridge is mine,” Dremmler said. “As far as he’s concerned you’re invisible. He’s like a blind man. But even so, don’t push your luck. Get in and out real fast. You know where to find it, and you know where to take it afterward. Any questions?”
The guy with the key said, “What’s in it?”
“Something that will bring us great power,” Dremmler said, which he figured was vague, but probably true.
—
They found a traffic division black-and-white parked ahead of the boxy metal bridge. The guy inside rolled down his window and told them nothing had passed, either coming or going. No trucks, no vans, no cars, no bikes, and no one on foot. No traffic at all. Reacher asked Griezman to tell the guy to block the road with his car if he saw a panel van coming. Probably white, and probably with the plate number it was born with, but neither thing was definite. It could have been repainted or otherwise disguised. Better safe than sorry. Any kind of a panel van, the guy should block the travel lanes and ask questions later.
Griezman asked why.
Reacher said to get the job done before NATO got its finger in the pie. Which he figured Griezman would interpret as a chance for individual glory and recognition. Maybe the guy wanted to run for mayor one day.
Griezman told the traffic cop what to do.
Reacher said, “Let’s go take a look around.”
Griezman drove down the street, with the cobblestones pattering under his tires, then across the boxy metal bridge, its deck humming and ringing, then more cobbles, and then a choice of two main ways to explore the place from nearest to farthest. One was the wharf itself, and the other was an arterial route set back from the water.
“Which way?” Griezman said.