“You told Dremmler you would.”
“I was going to make up a name and send him on a wild goose chase.”
“You got records here?”
“All in code.”
“Why not make up a name in the bar? Why wait to get back to the records?”
“Was it Dremmler who told you?”
“Doesn’t matter who. You were going to sell me out. You were going to look me up in the records. Dremmler told you to call him at once, because it was very important to the cause.”
“No way, man. That’s bullshit. How could I? Who would trust me again?”
“Why didn’t you make up a name in the bar?”
Schlupp didn’t answer.
Wiley said, “Show me the records.”
Schlupp struggled to his feet and they went down the hallway the same way they came up, but slower, the gun in Schlupp’s back all the way, to a small bedroom in use as an office.
Schlupp pointed to a high shelf.
He said, “The red file folder.”
Which was like a three-ring binder, except it had four. Pre-punched pages had lines of handwritten code, nonsense non-words in separate columns, maybe old name, new name, passport, license, national ID.
Wiley said, “Which one am I?”
“I wasn’t going to sell you out.”
“Why didn’t you make up a name in the bar?”
“Dremmler’s full of it, man. Right now he thinks you’re deep in the country in a panel van, looking for Nazi gold. But evidently you’re not. So he’s wrong about that, which means he could be wrong about everything. That’s logical, right? Why even listen to him?”
“I didn’t,” Wiley said. “I listened to the barman. Dremmler asked and you answered. You were going to sell me out. If you didn’t want to, you would have given up a phony name right there and then. Or OK, maybe you froze, but a minute later you would have figured it out and said, yes now I remember, he calls himself Schmidt. Or some such. But you didn’t.”
“He scares me, man. He can make trouble. OK, I was going to tell him. But I changed my mind.”
“When you saw me?”
“No, before.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What kind of business would I have?”
“Dremmler told you he’d cover the risk.”
“I swear, man. You’re wrong. I changed my mind. I would never do it.”
In for a penny, in for a pound.
All or nothing.
Wiley said, “Better safe than sorry, pal.”
He swapped hands on the gun, fast and smooth and fluid, and he cracked Schlupp hard on the temple, backhand, with the heel of the butt. He didn’t want to shoot him. Not there. Too noisy. He hit him again, forehand, on the other temple, and the guy’s head bounced around like a rag doll. When it came to rest Wiley hit him again, a vicious downward chop, right on the top of his skull, like an ax or a hammer. Schlupp fell to his knees. Wiley hit him again. Schlupp pitched forward and fell on his face. Wiley leaned down and hit him again, and again, and again, and again, and again.
Bone cracked and blood oozed and spattered.
Wiley stopped and took a breath.
He checked Schlupp’s neck for a pulse.
Nothing.
He gave it a whole minute, just to be sure. Still nothing. So he wiped his gun on Schlupp’s shirt, and he picked up the red file folder, and he left.
Chapter 30
Reacher sat quietly in the corner of the consulate room, waiting for the phone to ring, wondering who would call first, either New Orleans or Deputy Chief Muller in the traffic division. It was like waiting for the winner of a slow-motion race. He pictured dawn breaking over the delta, languorously, and local FBI agents waking up and eating breakfast, slowly, and then heading out. At which point the process might get a little faster. Presumably their appointment with Wiley’s mother would be their first of the day. Given the pressure from Waterman and Landry. Possibly as early as eight o’clock in the morning, given that a welfare recipient would want to stay cool with the government. Against that semi-leisurely Louisiana timeline ran Wiley’s panel van, five thousand miles away in Germany, cruising at maybe sixty miles an hour, closing in on Hanover, and bypassing it, and leaving it behind, and rolling on south toward the unmarked cars. Who would get there first?
The phone rang.
Neither New Orleans nor Deputy Chief Muller.
It was Griezman.
Who said, “I have a serious problem.”
Reacher said, “What kind?”
“We have a homicide in the old part of town. A small man with his head bashed in. It’s a very fresh scene. A neighbor heard a noise. I feel obliged to send all my men there, at least for today. I really have no alternative. So I’m very sorry, my friend, but I am forced to suspend our temporary assistance.”
“And you’re wondering how I’m going to feel about that.”
Griezman paused a beat.
“No,” he said. “I took you at your word.”
Reacher said, “Good luck with the homicide.”
“Thank you.”
Reacher killed the call. Sinclair looked a question, and Reacher said, “We’re on our own now.”