Griezman did the kind of job Reacher expected. Like a veteran taking a test. Practiced, but suddenly cautious. As if he knew something must be wrong. A trap. Was he on trial about how fast he could find it? What was at stake? He didn’t know.
In the end only three items were worthy of comment. First was Wiley’s new passport, in the name of Isaac Herbert Kempner, because it was a thing of beauty. It was completely, utterly, entirely genuine. Second was the map they had seen in his kitchen, now neatly folded, because it was of limited cartographical utility, and therefore likely sentimental, which might bring a clue as to his state of mind.
Third item was a Mercedes-Benz key.
Probably not for a sedan. A little too large. Too much plastic. Too everyday. It was the kind of key that one day would be grimy. The kind of key that came in a panel van.
Griezman agreed.
Reacher said, “Can a brand-new Mercedes-Benz start without a key?”
Griezman said, “No.”
“Therefore the van was stolen with a duplicate.”
Griezman said, “Yes.”
“Hard to get.”
“Yes.”
“Your department has been very impressive. Since the first moment. Your performance has been excellent. Would you agree?”
“Modesty forbids.”
“I mean it sincerely.”
“Again, I can’t comment.”
“There was only one weak spot. The surveillance south of Hanover never happened.”
“That was the traffic division.”
“They put the car on the bridge for us.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying a sequence of events can be explained in a large variety of different ways.”
“Give me one way, for example.”
“Everything is a really strange coincidence.”
“Give me another way.”
“The police department leaks through the traffic division.”
“Leaks to who?”
“Some kind of a mobbed-up community. But not Italian. Nostalgic Germans instead. With members and chapters and rules and all kinds of things. And goals and ambitions. That’s what we heard.”
Griezman said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Reacher said. “We’re withholding secrets and prying into yours.”
“Do you have an overall theory?”
“Only two possibilities. First is they stole the truck from one garage and hid it in another garage about three blocks away. Why? For what possible reason? Are they planning to sneak back at night and get it? Is it a double bluff? Is it a triple bluff? It all gets way too weird and complicated. I prefer the second possibility.”
“Which is?”
“The cop at the bridge was lying.”
“That’s a big thing to say out loud.”
“They stole the truck and drove it away. The guy at the bridge turned a blind eye. These things happen. Get over it. It’s what mobbed up means. It’s a port. You need to make mental adjustments.”
Griezman didn’t answer.
Reacher said, “It would make sense of what the messenger just told me.”
“Hardly a reliable witness.”
“I agree.”
Griezman said, “What is in the truck?”
“What would you most hate it to be?”
“One of a number of things.”
“It’s worse than any of them. Believe me. Therefore we need to question everything. So we can figure out where to look.”
Griezman said, “I suppose a corrupt traffic policeman is a theoretical possibility.”
“You know these people. You told me you were biding your time. You told me you can’t arrest them for thought crimes. You told me you need actual crimes.”
Griezman was quiet a beat.
Then he said, “I talked to their leader this morning. As a matter of fact he was the last man to see the forger alive. He wanted Wiley’s new name. He had a copy of the sketch. His name is Dremmler. He imports shoes from Brazil. I had to go to his office. I couldn’t ask him to come to mine. He said he has people in places that would surprise me. He said I was facing a powerful force, soon to get more powerful.”
“We need to go pay Herr Dremmler a visit.”
—
Griezman drove, to a mixed-use street about four blocks from the bar with the varnished wood front. Apparently neon was permitted in that part of town. Dremmler’s place was a narrow four-story building, part of the 1950s reconstruction, with a lit-up sign running side to side in the space between the top-floor windows and the rainwater gutter. It was written in red, in a complicated copperplate script, as if it was a famous brand. Like an old-style Coca-Cola sign in America. It said Schuhe Dremmler, which Reacher figured meant Dremmler’s Shoes.
The elevator was slow. And the guy wasn’t there. His secretary said he had taken a call and gone out. She had no idea where. She had no idea when he would return.