“Soon, I hope.”
“Exactly.”
“You should talk to Bishop,” Reacher said again.
Then Sinclair came in. Black dress, pearls, nylons, shoes. Her hair was damp. Landry and Vanderbilt made a space and she sat down. She said, “I talked to Mr. Ratcliffe. We’re assuming the negotiation phase is over and the delivery phase is about to begin. So we need to know what, where, and when.”
“The messenger could be home already,” Neagley said. “She might have flown direct. Or nearly. Then they’ll send a messenger to Switzerland. Because they don’t trust the phones. With the account details and the passwords. The transaction might take an hour or two. Could happen tomorrow.”
“Or a year from now,” Vanderbilt said. “Are they ready to act? Do they have the money?”
“Wiley can’t wait another year,” Waterman said. “He’s already been on the run four months. Not easy. A lot of stress, and a lot of risk. He needs to get settled. I think this will happen fast now. Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. I’m sure the money is lined up and ready to go. Probably in the same bank. Different blips in the same computer.”
“OK,” Sinclair said. “So it’s what, where, and soon.”
“The where depends on the what,” Reacher said. “If it’s intelligence or a document, they might do the handover right there in the banker’s office. If it’s a big thing, right now it must be stored or hidden somewhere in Germany, so they’ll have to send a crew over to haul it away.”
“We should watch the bank,” Waterman said.
“Don’t know which one. They have hundreds.”
“The airports, then. Here and Zurich.”
Landry said, “The easiest way would be to figure out what he’s selling.”
“No shit,” Neagley said.
“Must be something.”
“But what? He can’t go get it now. He would be arrested immediately. Therefore it was stolen or otherwise obtained more than four months ago. Except nothing was reported missing.”
White said, “We need to get the Iranian out.”
“Not yet,” Sinclair said.
“Then when?”
“Talk to Mr. Bishop. We’re heading for the consulate now. He set up an office for us. Be in the lobby in ten minutes.”
—
Muller walked up the fire stairs to Griezman’s floor. It was still early. Before eight o’clock. No one was in. The secretarial stations were still deserted. Griezman’s secretary’s in-tray looked like it had before. Muller had replaced the papers carefully. Nothing suspicious. But where was the sketch? Presumably the American investigators had taken as many copies as they wanted. Griezman himself might have taken a couple more, to start a cover-your-ass file of his own. He would have stored the original somewhere safe. In a special drawer, perhaps. He might have dozens of sketches. A whole category. It was a detective bureau, after all.
But where? There was a side-to-side line of drawers behind the secretary’s ergonomic typing chair. They formed the base of a wall unit, with shelves above. Muller slipped in behind her desk and bent down to take a look. None of the drawers was labeled. He backed out and glanced through Griezman’s door. The inner sanctum. There were identical drawers inside, but with no shelves above. Like a credenza, with framed photographs on it, of a woman and two children. Griezman’s wife and kids, no doubt. Plus a statuette trophy for something or other. Probably nothing athletic, given the size of the guy. There was another line of file cabinets on the wall opposite. A total of twenty drawers inside the room, and four outside.
An inconvenient ratio.
Muller made a deal with himself. A one in five chance of success was better than a four in five chance of losing his job. He was useful where he was, in the long term. In the big picture. That fact had to be weighed in the balance. Therefore he would search the secretarial station, but not Griezman’s office itself. A sensible compromise. He slid in again behind the secretary’s desk. He would go left to right, he figured. A quick look. A sketch should be easy to spot. Probably done on thick paper, from an art store. Possibly a non-standard size. Probably cased in a plastic page protector.
He bent down.
A woman’s voice behind him said, “Hello?”
Surprised, and a little quizzical.
Muller straightened up and turned around.
Griezman’s secretary.
He said nothing.
The woman dumped her purse on her desk and shucked off her coat. She hung it on a hook and bustled back. She said, “Can I help you, Deputy Chief Muller?”
Deputy Chief Muller didn’t answer.
The woman said, “Are you looking for something?”
“A sketch,” Muller said.
“Of what?”
Muller paused a beat.
Thinking.