White said, “That would be a political disaster. It would project weakness. Russia is practically next door. We can’t wash our dirty linen in public.”
Waterman said, “And it’s too late anyway. The Germans would take half a day even to respond. It would take a whole day to brief them in properly. Maybe more, because they’re starting from cold. Which means Wiley would get at least a thirty-six-hour start. By then he could be anywhere. This is a big country now.”
—
Dremmler’s office was on the fourth floor of a building wholly owned by him. He rode down in the elevator, which was the original 1950s item. Reliable, but slow. It took twenty seconds to reach the lobby. During which time Dremmler imported and sold thirty-three pairs of Brazilian shoes. Which was a comforting statistic. A million pairs a week. More than fifty million pairs a year.
He left his building and walked through the weak midday sun, a block, two, three, to the bar with the varnished wood front. Once upon a time it would have been considered early for a lunch break, but the place was already crowded. Because new staggered office hours meant lunch breaks happened throughout the day, in a ceaseless ongoing relay.
Dremmler pushed through the crowd, nodding and greeting, until he saw Wolfgang Schlupp on a stool at the bar. Not an impressive specimen. Dark hair, dark eyes, lean dark face, built like a shivering dog. But useful. About to be more useful. Dremmler elbowed in next to him, shoulder first, his back to the room. He said, “How’s business, Herr Schlupp?”
Schlupp said, “What do you need?”
“Information,” Dremmler said. “For the cause. The new Germany depends on it.”
A barman in a heavy canvas apron came over and Dremmler ordered a liter of beer.
Schlupp said, “What kind of information?”
“You made a driver’s license and maybe a passport for an American gentleman.”
“Hold it right there. I didn’t make nothing.”
“OK, you passed a customer’s order to your partners in Berlin. They made it. All you did was keep half the money.”
“So what?”
Dremmler squeezed himself some extra space and took out the drawing. He smoothed it on the bar.
He said, “This guy.”
The hair, the brow, the cheek bones. The deep-set eyes.
Schlupp said, “I don’t remember him.”
“I think you do.”
“What of it?”
“It’s important to the cause.”
“What is?”
“What new name did this man take?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“We want to find him.”
Schlupp said, “You know I can’t tell you. What kind of business would I have? No one would trust me.”
“This is one time only. No one will ever know. This guy is in trouble already. But we want him first. Right now he’s heading somewhere in an empty panel van. To pick something up. Presumably a heavy load. Given the size of the van. Could be weapons. Could be Nazi gold from a salt mine.”
“And you want it.”
“For all of us. For the cause. It would make a huge difference.”
Schlupp didn’t answer.
Dremmler said, “There would be a finder’s fee, of course. Or a consultation agreement. Or a straight commission, if you like.”
Schlupp said, “I would be taking a risk. It’s like being a priest. It’s understood I won’t talk.”
“The size of the fee would of course reflect the size of the risk.”
Schlupp looked at the sketch.
He said, “I think I remember him. I’ve done a lot of Americans. I think this guy chose three separate names. The first two were identity cards and driver’s licenses only. But I think the third had a passport.”
“What were the names?”
“It was months ago. I would have to look it up.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I hear hundreds of names.”
“When can you do it?”
“When I get home.”
“Call me at once, will you? It’s very important. To the cause.”
“OK,” Schlupp said.
Dremmler nodded in satisfaction and left the way he had come, leading with the other shoulder, pushing through the crowd, nodding and greeting, back to the weak midday sun beyond the open door.
The barman who had served his liter of beer picked up the phone.
—
The phone rang in the consulate room. Vanderbilt picked it up and gave it to Reacher. It was Orozco. He said, “Are we in trouble?”
“Not yet,” Reacher said. “We think Wiley’s heading for Frankfurt. We think he stole something from the storage lager near his home base, about seven months ago. Then we think he hid it. Now we think he’s heading down there to pick it up.”
“We have plenty of people in Frankfurt.”
“I know,” Reacher said. “I’ll call them if I need them.”
“I just finished up with Billy Bob and Jimmy Lee. They saved the best for last. Turns out they sold an M9 to Wiley. So bear that in mind. He’s armed.”