Now.
She climbed out over the passenger seat. Out the passenger door. Along the painted flank. She followed him back to safety.
Orozco and Hooper came back from their car.
In the other direction a dozen workers were watching. A whole regular crowd. Still a shambling arrowhead. Fifty yards away. Shuffling closer.
Neagley said, “What happened?”
“Should be ten bombs in the truck,” Reacher said. “But I only counted nine.”
—
Hooper and Reacher had never met before, so Reacher was sure Hooper wouldn’t say it. Or Orozco. Too much old-world courtesy. It would be Neagley who said it. She would assemble a dozen alternative theories, starting with ships sailing back to Brazil, or with trucks rolling on to Berlin. And then ending, either with successful resolutions, or with blast zones and fireballs and a million dead. All depending on one critical question.
Which she would ask.
She said, “Are you sure you counted right?”
He smiled.
“Let’s use the two-personnel rule,” he said. “Basic nuclear safeguard. Hooper should go. He hardly knows me. He’s still an unbiased observer.”
So Hooper went. He checked from the corner, one eye, very carefully, and then he stepped into the hidden bay. Reacher replaced him at the corner, one eye, and saw him at the tailgate. He was too short. The height of the load floor plus a couple of feet to the top of the backpacks meant he was looking up at the front rank only.
Then Reacher saw a man in the corner of the office room. On the right. In the far back. On an exact diagonal from where Reacher was. Which meant the guy couldn’t see Hooper. Not yet. The angle was wrong. The corner of the truck was in the way.
The guy in the room moved. He was looking for something. He was going from desk to desk, opening drawers, stirring a thick finger through, moving on. He was a big guy. He looked competent.
Hooper stepped back and went up on tiptoe.
The guy moved on, the length of a desk.
Now the angle was right.
The noise was loud. Howling, squealing, rattling. Chugging and beeping.
Reacher called, “Hooper, get in the van.”
Loud enough to be heard, he hoped, by one and not the other. Hooper froze for a split second, and then he vaulted up on open palms and scrambled over the backpacks into the shadows.
The guy in the office looked out the window.
He took a step closer.
He checked the van. He checked the space behind the van.
He watched for a moment.
Then he turned and walked away, to the far back corner again, and through a door, to the hidden part of the suite.
Reacher waited.
The guy didn’t come back. Not in one minute. Not in two. Which he would, if he had heard. Human nature. He would have grabbed his guns and his buddies and come back right away.
He hadn’t heard.
Reacher called, “All clear, Hooper.”
No response.
Howling, squealing, rattling.
Reacher called again, louder this time, “Hooper, all clear.”
Hooper stuck his head out the back of the truck. Then he jumped down, and bounced up, and walked back to safety.
“Nine bombs,” he said. “The code book is missing, too.”
Chapter 44
In the other direction the crowd had grown to about twenty strong, and they were forty yards away. Still tiny, in the industrial vastness. Not threatening. Reacher felt the opposite was true. They were standing up in puzzled solidarity against what they saw as a threat against their bosses in the office. They were ready to close ranks against the intruders. They were loyal employees. Or more. Maybe some of them were low-level members of the cause. Maybe that’s how a guy got a foreman’s position, at Schuhe Dremmler.
Reacher said to Hooper, “How good is your German?”
“Pretty good,” Hooper said. “That’s why I work here.”
“Go tell them to calm down and get back to work.”
“Any particular form of words you want me to use?”
“Tell them we’re American military police here on behalf of the Brazilian military police, conducting a routine audit connected to shoes, and if we’re forced to report a hostile reception they’ll get extra scrutiny.”
“Will they believe me?”
“Depends how convincing you are.”
They watched him, forty yards away, face to face with the guy at the tip of the arrowhead. He was talking in long composed sentences. The crowd wasn’t buying what he was selling.
Orozco said, “Stand by to rescue him.”
Reacher said, “Don’t kick them in the knees.”
“Why not?”
“They’re wearing knee pads.”
Hooper kept on talking. And talking. Forward motion ebbed away. The crowd went still. But not convinced. Hooper took the long walk back. He said, “I did my best.”
“Are they going to call the cops?” Reacher said.
“Not their place. They’re confused, is all. And concerned. It’s a family business.”
“Then we better be quick.”
“Where do we start?”
“With data. Which means the office. And the guy in it.”