He’d just the reached the door when he was aware that the bartender had followed him.
“Drug dealers or spies?” she suddenly asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You ask too many questions. I figured you’re maybe Scotland Yard or maybe Mi6.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness. “We’re not fools here, you know.”
He smiled. “I’m sure you’re not. But I assure you that I don’t belong to either of those august organizations. I’m only guilty of having an insatiable curiosity.”
“You wouldn’t admit it if you were.” But she still looked disappointed. “I was getting excited. You saw how boring it is in this town. Like I was telling Alfie, it’s pretty sad when it takes people running back and forth into an old factory to cause us to perk up and have something to talk about. It wasn’t like that when we were younger. Maybe our minds are going as dead and rotting as this town.”
“I believe you have a very sharp mind,” he said gently. “You just made a bad guess.”
She shrugged. “You still asked too many questions. I could be on the right track.” She turned away. “By the way, my name is Dorothy Jenkins. Drop in anytime. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, and maybe we’ll have another chat.”
“Ryan Malone.” He nodded and smiled as he opened the door. “And maybe we will, Dorothy.”
*
“AN OLD UNIFORM FACTORY?” Lynch’s voice was incredulous on the phone.
Rye climbed into his car and closed the door. “Yes. According to Dr. Porter Shaw’s vehicle navigation system, this was one of his most frequent destinations.”
“No hint of what’s going on there?”
“None. The locals are clueless. I traced ownership records for the factory, and it was purchased by an overseas holding company, a couple of years ago.”
“What holding company?”
Rye glanced at his tablet computer. “An outfit called Schyler Investments, Ltd.”
“A brokerage firm?”
“You’d think so from the name, but the entity seems to have had no business other than owning this one abandoned factory.”
“Sounds like a cover.”
“Definitely a cover. I already have someone tracing ownership. Following the money, as they say.”
“Good. That’s also what we’re doing on this end. We found one of the thugs who tried to snatch Kendra the other night.”
“Excellent. I hope you gave him a good punch in the gut from me.”
“Don’t worry, I made sure he felt some pain. So what’s your next move?”
Rye put down his tablet. “As much value as I place on old-fashioned research, sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty. Filthy dirty.”
Lynch chuckled. “That sounds ominous, Rye.”
“Come now. It’s why you called me, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is.”
“Then let me do what I do best.”
“You mean cause trouble, raise hell, and make the world safe for democracy?”
“Something like that. But I have to call your attention to the fact that I’m a Socialist. Parliament would much prefer I choose to make our little corner of the world safe. Say hello to beautiful Kendra for me.”
“Will do, Rye. Thanks.”
11:40 P.M.
Rye crouched next to the factory’s east wall, which he’d identified as the spot least likely to be equipped with cameras or motion sensors.
He looked around. The town was dead. The pub was the last of the businesses to close for the evening, and he hadn’t seen a soul in over an hour.
He unzipped his black canvas duffel and pulled out a grappling hook and twenty-five feet of canvas rope. He’d sprayed the rope with adhesive that afternoon, and it was reassuringly tacky to the touch.
One … Two … Three!
Rye tossed the hook over the wall and it took hold immediately. He climbed hand over hand over the twenty-foot wall, and it was difficult enough that he was reminded how long it had been since he’d been in the field. Damn. Need to get out more often.
He straddled the top of the wall, reversed the hook, and surveyed the factory yard. Quiet, like any other sad, old factory that had been closed for decades. Had those people at the bar been pulling his leg?
Only one way to tell.
Rye rappelled down the inside of the wall, finally letting go and dropping the last few feet. He adjusted his black turtleneck shirt and slacks. He’d felt slightly silly when he donned the outfit—this wasn’t the Kremlin, after all—but he was now happy to be as invisible as humanly possible.