“You’re going to blackmail me.”
“Not my style. I already said I won’t tell anyone. No strings attached. Whether you choose to keep on helping me is entirely up to you. If you do, I’ll take it as two simple detectives getting along, nothing more.”
Griezman paused again.
“I wish to apologize,” he said. “I’m not the man you thought I was.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Reacher said.
“I don’t know why I did it.”
“I’m not your shrink.”
“But I would like to know why.”
“Was she cute?”
“Incredible.”
“There you go.”
“You think it’s that simple?”
“I’m a military cop.”
Griezman said, “I’ll help you if I can.”
“Thank you.”
“What do you need?”
“You could tell your night-shift guy to spend the rest of his watch right here. It’s a bottleneck. Wiley might come through again. If so, arrest him for walking while foreign. Keep him in the car until I get here.”
“There are many other ways out of the complex. There are cycle paths and footbridges at the back. And a big bridge to the bus stop on the main road.”
“We might get lucky. He might want more champagne.”
“Tell me one thing, about the man whose identity you are concealing. Will he be punished?”
“Yes,” Reacher said. “He will.”
“That’s good.”
“You liked her, right?”
Griezman said, “I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”
—
Wiley gave the champagne thirty more minutes in the refrigerator, and then he peeled off the foil wrap and eased out the cork, with his thumbs, slowly and gently, until it made a polite little pock and fell to the floor.
He poured a glass, which had also gotten thirty minutes in the refrigerator, and he carried it to his table, where his map of Argentina was spread out. The outline of his ranch was rubbed greasy by his fingertips. Truly his ranch now. Or soon, when the money reached Zurich and left again. Or more precisely when some of it left again. Not all of it. He had liked the girl they sent with the message. Sir, what I am permitted to know is, we accept your price. She was polite. Kind of deferential. Like when she popped the third button. There would be girls like that in Argentina. Dark, like her. Shy, but with no other choice.
He got up and refilled his glass. He held it high, as if toasting a cheering crowd of thousands. Horace Wiley, from Sugar Land, Texas. King of the world.
—
Reacher listened at Sinclair’s door and heard talking, so he knocked, and she said, “Come in.” Neagley was there, and Bishop, from the consulate. The head of station. Sinclair was sitting on the bed, and Bishop and Neagley were in the green velvet armchairs. Neagley had handwritten notes in her lap.
Reacher said, “Progress?”
“You?”
“I think he lives in an apartment complex near the waterfront. One of Griezman’s guys got a glimpse of him. He was out buying champagne.”
“Celebrating,” Bishop said.
Reacher nodded. “We should assume the negotiation is over. We should assume they agreed to the price. The wheels are in motion.”
“How big is the apartment complex?”
“Huge.”
“Paper trail?”
“Nothing in the name of Wiley.”
“Is he in there now?”
“Almost certainly.”
“We should lock the place down.”
“There’s an unmarked car at the main exit. That’s the best Griezman can do. He was already paying overtime earlier in the day.”
Neagley said, “It appears Wiley has no uncles. The witness who mentioned one has been ordered here for further questioning. Landry is working on possible great-uncles and the mother’s possible boyfriends. The latter could take some time.”
“OK,” Reacher said.
“And I spoke to his COs from Benning and Sill. The guy from Benning doesn’t remember him at all. The guy from Sill does. He said it was clear Wiley wanted to do his tour in Germany. He was fixated on it. He aimed for it. Every qualification he took narrowed his choices.”
“The guy remembers all that, three years later?”
“Because they had a long conversation at the time. The CO pointed out the consequences of the drawdown. A dead end, a black hole, and so on and so forth. Wiley said he wanted to go anyway. He wanted to serve in Germany.”
“So it was a long game,” Sinclair said, from the bed. “Now we’re trying to figure out what.”
Reacher said, “There was a guy watching this hotel. An hour ago. He disappeared when Griezman showed up.”
“Not one of mine,” Bishop said.
—
Muller called Dremmler at home again, and woke him up. It was very late. Or very early, depending on which direction a person was facing. Dremmler composed himself and Muller said, “Reacher got back to the hotel just before one in the morning. But Griezman came by and picked him up before he went inside. I got out of there real quick, in case Griezman recognized me.”