“Can you give me some unmarked cars?”
“Impossible, I’m afraid. I’m standing by to be briefed. Which at this rate might be tomorrow. Someone already said that corner of the garage is near the hotel kitchen, so we should look at animal activists worried about foie gras and crate-raised veal.”
“I don’t think it was them.”
“Neither do I. But you see my point. This is going to be a long night. The mayor’s office doesn’t know any better.”
Twelve hours until the Swiss banks opened.
Reacher said nothing.
Griezman killed the call without saying goodbye.
—
Later Bishop’s airport bus took them back to the hotel. They all went to their rooms. Reacher heard Neagley’s door click shut. Then Sinclair’s. Then a minute later she called him on the house phone. She said, “When should we ask for help?”
He said, “Not before tomorrow.”
“You say that every day.”
“I live in hope.”
She said, “Will it happen tomorrow?”
“It might.”
“Will you come over and talk to me?”
She was waiting for him, standing in the middle of her room, in her black dress, with her pearls, and her nylons, and her shoes, and her uncombed hair.
She said, “What are you thinking about?”
He kissed her, long and slow, and then he moved behind her. She leaned back and rested against him.
He said, “Personally or professionally?”
She said, “Professionally first.”
He bent her forward an inch and found the tag on her zipper, at the back of her neck. The metal teardrop. Tiny, but perfectly cast. A quality item. He eased it down, past the clasp of her bra, to the small of her back.
He said, “Where do they plan to use what they’re buying?”
She said, “I don’t know.”
“In Germany?”
“That would make no sense politically.”
He tipped the dress off her shoulders, and it fell, and caught, and fell again, and puddled on the floor around her feet.
She leaned back.
She was warm.
She said, “More likely D.C. or New York or conceivably London.”
“Then they’ll ship it by sea. We wasted a day. Wrong assumption. Wiley was never headed out of town. It’s a big heavy thing that needs a large-size panel van. Driving is not the best way to get it out of Germany. They can’t drive it all the way to D.C. or New York or London anyhow. It has to go by sea eventually.”
He bent her forward again, just an inch, and he unhooked her bra. He smoothed his hands over her shoulders, snagging the straps, pushing them off.
The bra joined the dress.
He cupped her breasts.
She leaned back, and turned her head, and kissed his chest.
He said, “Wiley drove the furniture truck straight here, seven months ago. Even though he never served here. He chose Hamburg because it’s a port. The second largest in Europe. They call it the gateway to the world.”
He hooked his thumbs in the top of her pantyhose.
She said, “He’s going to put it on a ship.”
“That’s my guess.”
“When?”
He eased her pantyhose down.
Panties, too.
Clumsy thumbs.
He said, “When he gets paid.”
“Which could be tomorrow.”
He said nothing.
She stepped out of her shoes, and turned to face him. Naked, apart from the pearls. A sight to see.
She said, “When should we ask for help?”
He said, “Not this exact minute.”
He took off his T-shirt.
She said, “Now your pants.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said.
She rode cowgirl again, but this time reversed, with her back to him. Which visually speaking had a complex balance of pluses and minuses. Overall it was no kind of a hardship. He felt like an observer of a private pleasure. She was going for the big one. That was clear. OK with him. Whatever worked. Whatever got you through the night.
Chapter 34