“Satellite phone,” she said. “Encrypted. To the office.”
She pressed buttons and waited for answering beeps, and then she said, “I want the personnel jacket for U.S. Army Private First Class Wiley, first name unknown, currently four months absent without leave from an air defense unit in Germany. To me in Hamburg, seriously fast.”
Then she clicked off.
The National Security Council.
The keys to the kingdom.
There was a knock at the door.
For an illogical split second Reacher thought, seriously fast, you bet your ass.
But no.
The door opened. A guy came in. Busy, bustling, sixty-something, medium size, a gray suit, a tight waistband, a warm and friendly face. Pink and round. Lots of energy, and the start of a smile. A guy who got things done, with a lot of charm. Like a salesman. Something complicated. Like a financial instrument, or a Rolls-Royce automobile.
“I’m sorry,” the guy said. To Sinclair only. “I didn’t know you had company.”
American. An old-time Yankee accent.
No one spoke.
Then Sinclair said, “Excuse me. Sergeant Frances Neagley and Major Jack Reacher, U.S. Army, meet Mr. Rob Bishop, CIA head of station at the Hamburg consulate.”
“I just did a drive-by,” Bishop said. “On the parallel street. The kid’s bedroom. The lamp has moved in the window.”
Chapter 19
Bishop wouldn’t let them see for themselves. He said he had driven by, and then driven by again, immediately, which was one time too many on any given visit. But he had to, because something wasn’t right. But even so, he couldn’t allow a third go-round. He knew which window to look for, and they didn’t. He would have to crawl past and point it out. A third consecutive pass, driving slow, four people hunched down in the car, craning their necks. Too obvious. Not going to happen. Couldn’t risk it.
Reacher asked, “What wasn’t right?”
“The kid was supposed to move the lamp from the edge of the sill to the middle of the window. But it’s only halfway there. It’s way off center. It’s not exactly the prearranged signal.”
“Which means what?”
“One of three things. First, maybe he only had half a second. In and out, real quick. Or second, maybe he felt moving the lamp all the way was too obvious. Maybe the others are in and out of his room all the time. They might notice. Who takes a moment to move a lamp the same day their old pal shows up again? These guys are not interior decorators. They have other things on their minds. Maybe it was a bad idea.”
“He hasn’t called?”
“Presumably that’s difficult right now. Presumably they’re all in a huddle. They’re excited about this, remember.”
“What’s the third thing?”
“He’s trying to tell us something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Something has changed. Some new factor. As if he’s trying to say, it is but it isn’t. As if for instance the messenger is here in Hamburg, but the rendezvous is somewhere else. Maybe the guy told them he has to take the train to Bremen. Or Berlin. They could meet on the train. That could be a smart way to do it. They could meet accidentally and talk for a minute. Or it could be something else completely.”
Sinclair said, “We have forty-eight hours to figure it out.”
“If they stick to the same schedule,” Neagley said. “Which they might not. It’s a lottery. Travel could be delayed. I imagine they’re making connections all over the place. Including third world countries. So I assume they build in extra time. If the planes go on schedule, then they get to hang out for two days. But if the planes are late, then they have their meetings more or less immediately. Or somewhere in between. That would be my assessment.”
Bishop said, “We need eyes on the apartment building.”
“Can’t do it,” Sinclair said. “Can’t risk the safe house.”
“We’re blind if we don’t. We’re passing up a solid-gold chance of getting the guy.”
Reacher looked at Bishop. An unexpected ally.
Sinclair said, “There are future considerations.”
“That’s then and this is now.”
“Can’t do it,” Sinclair said again.
“We’re already doing it,” Reacher said.
“What?”
“Chief of Detectives Griezman agreed to watch the apartment building. Plain-clothes officers in cars. They’re pretty good. We saw them at work. Or rather, we didn’t.”
Sinclair went pale. Anger mostly, Reacher figured.
She said, “Starting when?”
“Maybe this afternoon,” he said. “Depends on his scheduling issues.”
“Why is he doing it?”
“I asked him to.”
“In exchange for what?”
“I’m running the fingerprint.”
Sinclair said, “Major, I need to talk to you.”
Reacher said, “You are talking to me.”
“In private.”
Neagley said, “Use my room. We won’t hear you from there.”
She tossed her room key, a soft underhand arc, and Sinclair caught it, one-handed, no trouble at all.