Persuader
Chapter 11
I knew, but I calmed down fast during dessert and coffee. And I gave up on feeling terrific. Gave up on feeling ashamed, too. Those emotions were crowded out. I started to feel a little concerned instead. Because I started to see the exact dimensions of the tactical problem. And they were huge. They were going to force a whole new definition of working alone and undercover.
Dinner ended and everybody scraped their chairs back and stood up. I stayed in the dining room. I left the Saab's headliner undisturbed. I was in no hurry. I could get to it later. There was no point risking trouble to confirm something I already knew. I helped the cook clean up instead. It seemed polite. Maybe it was even expected. The Becks went off somewhere and I carried dishes through to the kitchen. The mechanic was in there, eating a bigger portion of beef than I had gotten. I looked at him and started to feel a little ashamed again. I hadn't paid him any attention at all. Hadn't thought much about him. I had never even asked myself what he was for. But now I knew.
I loaded the dishes into the machine. The cook did economical things with the leftovers and wiped off the counters and within about twenty minutes we had everything squared away. Then she told me she was headed for bed so I said good night to her and went out the back door and walked across the rocks. I wanted to look at the sea. Wanted to gauge the tide. I had no experience with the ocean. I knew the tides came in and out maybe twice a day. I didn't know when or why. Something to do with the moon's gravity, maybe. Possibly it turned the Atlantic into a giant bathtub sloshing east and west between Europe and America. Maybe when it was low tide in Portugal it was high tide in Maine, and vice versa. I had no idea. Right then the tide looked to be changing from high to low. From in to out. I watched the waves for five more minutes and then headed back to the kitchen. The mechanic had left. I used the bunch of keys Beck had given me to lock the inner door. I left the outer door open. Then I walked through the hallway and checked the front. I guessed I was supposed to do stuff like that now. It was locked and chained. The house was quiet. So I went upstairs to Duke's room and started planning the endgame.
There was a message from Duffy waiting for me in my shoe. It said: You OK? I replied: Sincere thanks for the phones. You saved my ass.
She came back with: Mine too. Equal element of self-interest.
I didn't reply to that. I couldn't think of anything to say. I just sat there in the silence. She had won a minor postponement, but that was all. Her ass was toast, whatever happened next. Nothing I could do about that.
Then she sent: Have searched all files and cannot repeat cannot find authorization for 2nd agent.
I sent: I know.
She came back with just two characters: ??
I sent: We need to meet. I will either call or just show up. Stand by.
Then I shut down the power and nailed the device back into my heel and wondered briefly whether I would ever take it out again. I checked my watch. It was nearly midnight. Day fourteen, a Friday, was nearly over. Day fifteen, a Saturday, was about to begin. Two weeks to the day since I had barged through the crowd outside Symphony Hall in Boston, on my way to a bar I never reached.
I lay down on the bed, fully dressed. I figured the next twenty-four or forty-eight hours were going to be crucial, and I wanted to spend five of the first six of them fast asleep. In my experience tiredness causes more foul-ups than carelessness or stupidity put together. Probably because tiredness itself creates carelessness and stupidity. So I got comfortable and closed my eyes. Set the alarm in my head for two o'clock in the morning. It worked, like it always does. I woke up after a two-hour nap, feeling OK.
I rolled off the bed and crept downstairs. Went through the hallway and the kitchen and unlocked the back door. I left all my metal stuff on the table. I didn't want the detector to make a noise. I stepped outside. It was very dark. There was no moon. No stars. The sea was loud. The air was cold. There was a breeze. It smelled of dampness. I walked around to the fourth garage and opened the doors. The Saab was still there, undisturbed. I eased the hatch open and pulled out my bundle. Carried it around and stowed it in its dip. Then I went back for the first bodyguard. He had been dead for several hours and the low temperature was bringing rigor on early. He was pretty stiff. I hauled him out and jacked him up on my shoulder. It was like carrying a two-hundred-pound tree trunk. His arms stuck out like branches.
I carried him to the V-shaped cleft that Harley had shown me. Laid him down next to it and started counting waves. Waited for the seventh. It rolled in and just before it got to me I nudged the body into the cleft. The water came in under it and pushed it right back up at me. It was like the guy was trying to grab me with his rigid arms and take me with him. Or like he wanted to kiss me good-bye. He floated there for a second quite lazily and then the wave receded and the cleft drained and he was gone.
It worked the same way for the second guy. The ocean took him away to join his buddy, and the maid. I squatted there for a moment, feeling the breeze on my face, listening to the tireless tide. Then I went back and closed up the Saab's hatch and slid into the driver's seat. Finished the job on the headliner and reached back and pulled out the maid's notes. There were eight legal-size pages of them. I read them all in the dim glow from the dome light. They were full of specifics. They had plenty of fine detail. But in general they didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I checked them twice and when I was finished I butted them into a neat stack and carried them back to the tip of the point. Sat down on a rock and folded each page into a paper boat. Somebody had showed me how, when I was a kid. Maybe it had been my dad. I couldn't remember. Maybe it had been my brother. I launched the eight little boats on the receding tide one after the other and watched them sail and bob away into the pitch darkness in the east.
Then I went back and spent some time fixing the headliner. I got it looking pretty good. I closed up the garage. I figured I would be gone before anybody opened it up again and noticed the damage on the car. I headed back to the house. Reloaded my pockets and relocked the door and crept back upstairs. Stripped to my shorts and slid into bed. I wanted to get three more hours. So I reset the alarm in my head and hauled the sheet and the blanket up around me and pressed a dip into the pillow and closed my eyes again. Tried to sleep. But I couldn't. It wouldn't come. Dominique Kohl came instead. She came straight at me out of the darkness, like I knew she would.
The eighth time we met we had tactical problems to discuss. Taking down an intel officer was a can of worms. Obviously MPs deal exclusively with military people gone bad, so acting against one of our own was not a novelty. But the intel community was a case apart. Those guys were separate and secretive and they tried very hard to be accountable to nobody. They were tough to get at. Generally they closed ranks faster than the best drill squad you ever saw. So Kohl and I had a lot to talk about. I didn't want to have the meeting in my office. There was no visitor's chair. I didn't want her standing up the whole time. So we went back to the bar in town. It seemed like an appropriate location. The whole thing was getting so heavy we were ready to feel a little paranoid about it. Going off-base seemed like a smart thing to do. And I liked the idea of discussing intel matters like a couple of regular spies, in a dark little booth at the back of a tavern. I think Kohl did, too. She showed up in civilian clothes. Not a dress, but jeans and a white T-shirt with a leather jacket over it. I was in fatigues. I didn't have any civilian clothes. The weather was cold by then. I ordered coffee. She got tea. We wanted to keep our heads clear.
"I'm glad we used the real blueprints now," she said.
I nodded.
"Good instinct," I said. As far as evidence went we needed to slam-dunk the whole thing. For Quinn to be in possession of the real blueprints would go a long way. Anything less than that, he could start spinning stories about test procedures, war games, exercises, entrapment schemes of his own.
"It's the Syrians," she said. "And they're paying in advance. On an installment plan."
"How?"
"Briefcase exchange," she said. "He meets with an attache from the Syrian Embassy. They go to a cafe in Georgetown. They both carry those fancy aluminum briefcases, identical."
"Halliburton," I said.
She nodded. "They put them side by side under the table and he picks up the Syrian guy's when he leaves."
"He's going to say the Syrian is a legit contact. He's going to say the guy is passing him stuff."
"So we say, OK, show us the stuff."
"He'll say he can't, because it's classified."
Kohl said nothing. I smiled.
"He'll give us a big song and dance," I said. "He'll put his hand on our shoulders and look into our eyes and say, Hey, trust me on this, folks, national security is involved."
"Have you dealt with these guys before?"
"Once," I said.
"Did you win?"
I nodded. "They're generally full of shit. My brother was MI for a time. Now he works for Treasury. But he told me all about them. They think they're smart, whereas they're really the same as anybody else."
"So what do we do?"
"We'll have to recruit the Syrian."
"Then we can't bust him."
"You wanted two-for-one?" I said. "Can't have it. The Syrian is only doing his job. Can't fault him for that. Quinn is the bad guy here."
She was quiet for a moment, a little disappointed. Then she shrugged.
"OK," she said. "But how do we do it? The Syrian will just walk away from us. He's an embassy attache. He's got diplomatic immunity."
I smiled again. "Diplomatic immunity is just a sheet of paper from the State Department. The way I did it before was I got hold of the guy and told him to hold a sheet of paper up in front of his gut. Then I pulled my pistol out and asked him if he figured the paper was going to stop a bullet. He said I would get into trouble. I told him however much trouble I got into wasn't going to affect how slowly he bled to death."
"And he saw it your way?"
I nodded. "Played ball like Mickey Mantle."
She went quiet again. Then she asked me the first of two questions that much later I wished I had answered differently.
"Can we see each other socially?" she said.
It was a private booth in a dark bar. She was cute as hell, and she was sitting there right next to me. I was a young man back then, and I thought I had all the time in the world.
"You asking me on a date?" I said.
"Yes," she said.
I said nothing.
"We've come a long way, baby," she said. Then she added, "Women, I mean," just in case I wasn't up-to-date with current cigarette advertising.
I said nothing.
"I know what I want," she said.
I nodded. I believed her. And I believed in equality. I believed in it big time. Not long before that I had met a woman Air Force colonel who captained a B52 bomber and cruised the night skies with more explosive power aboard her single plane than all the bombs ever dropped in the whole of human history put together. I figured if she could be trusted with enough power to explode the planet, then Sergeant First Class Dominique Kohl could be trusted to figure out who she wanted to date.
"So?" she said.
Questions I wished I had answered differently.
"No," I said.
"Why not?"
"Unprofessional," I said. "You shouldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because it'll put an asterisk next to your career," I said. "Because you're a talented person who can't get any higher than sergeant major without going to officer candidate school, so you'll go there, and you'll ace it, and you'll be a lieutenant colonel within ten years, because you deserve it, but everybody will be saying that you got it because you dated your captain way back when."
She said nothing. Just called the waitress over and ordered us two beers. The room was getting hotter as it got more crowded. I took my jacket off, she took her jacket off. I was wearing an olive-drab T-shirt that had gotten small and thin and faded from being washed a thousand times. Her T-shirt was a boutique item. It was scooped a little lower at the neck than most T-shirts, and the sleeves were cut away at an angle so they rode up on the small deltoid muscles at the top of her arms. The fabric was snow white against her skin. And it was slightly translucent. I could see that she was wearing nothing underneath it.
"Military life is full of sacrifices," I said, more to myself than to her.
"I'll get over it," she said.
Then she asked me the second question I wish I had answered differently.
"Will you let me make the arrest?" she said.
Ten years later I woke up alone in Duke's bed at six o'clock in the morning. His room was at the front of the house, so I had no view of the sea. I was looking west, at America. There was no morning sun. No long dawn shadows. Just dull gray light on the driveway, and the wall, and the granite landscape beyond. The wind was blowing in off the sea. I could see trees moving. I imagined black storm clouds behind me, way out over the Atlantic, moving fast toward the shore. I imagined sea birds fighting the turbulent air with their feathers whipped and ruffled by the gale. Day fifteen, starting out gray and cold and inhospitable, and likely to get worse.
I showered, but I didn't shave. I dressed in more of Duke's black denim and laced my shoes and carried my jacket and my coat over my arm. Walked quietly down to the kitchen. The cook had already made coffee. She gave me a cup and I took it and sat at the table. She lifted a loaf of bread out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. I figured I would need to evacuate her, at some point before things turned unpleasant. And Elizabeth, and Richard. The mechanic and Beck himself could stay to face the music.
I could hear the sea from the kitchen, loud and clear. The waves crashed in and the relentless undertow sucked back out. Pools filled and drained, the gravel rattled across the rocks. The wind moaned softly through the cracks in the outer porch door. I heard frantic cries from the gulls. I listened to them and sipped my coffee and waited.
Richard came down ten minutes after me. His hair was all over the place and I could see his missing ear. He took coffee and sat down across from me. His ambivalence was back. I could see him facing up to no more college and the rest of his life hidden away with his folks. I figured if his mother got away without an indictment they could start over somewhere else. Depending on how resilient he was, he could get back to school without missing much more than a week of the semester. If he wanted to. Unless it was an expensive school, which I guessed it was. They were going to have money problems. They were going to walk away with nothing more than they stood up in. If they walked away at all.
The cook went out to set the dining room up for breakfast. Richard watched her go and I watched him and saw his ear again and a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
"Five years ago," I said. "The kidnap."
He kept his composure. Just looked down at the table and then looked up at me and combed his hair over his scar with his fingers.
"Do you know what your dad is really into?" I asked.
He nodded. Said nothing.
"Not just rugs, right?" I said.
"No," he said. "Not just rugs."
"How do you feel about that?"
"There are worse things," he said.
"Want to tell me what happened five years ago?" I said.
He shook his head. Looked away.
"No," he said. "I don't."
"I knew a guy called Gorowski," I said. "His two-year-old daughter was abducted. Just for a day. How long were you gone for?"
"Eight days," he said.
"Gorowski fell right into line," I said. "One day was enough for him."
Richard said nothing.
"Your dad isn't the boss here," I said, like a statement.
Richard said nothing.
"He fell into line five years ago," I said. "After you had been gone eight days. That's the way I figure it."
Richard was silent. I thought about Gorowski's daughter. She was twelve years old now. She probably had the Internet and a CD player and a phone in her room. Posters on her walls. And a tiny dim ache in her mind about something that had happened way in the past. Like the itch you get from a long-healed bone.
"I don't need details," I said. "I just want you to say his name."
"Whose name?"
"The guy who took you away for eight days."
Richard just shook his head.
"I heard the name Xavier," I said. "Someone mentioned it."
Richard looked away and his left hand went straight to the side of his head, which was all the confirmation I needed.
"I was raped," he said.
I listened to the sea, pounding on the rocks.
"By Xavier?"
He shook his head again.
"By Paulie," he said. "He was just out of prison. He still had a taste for that kind of thing."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"Does your father know?"
"No," he said.
"Your mother?"
"No."
I didn't know what to say. Richard said nothing more. We sat there in silence. Then the cook came back and fired up the stove. She put fat in a skillet and started heating it. The smell made me sick to my stomach.
"Let's go for a walk," I said.
Richard followed me outside to the rocks. The air was salty and fresh and bitter cold. The light was gray. The wind was strong. It was blowing straight in our faces. Richard's hair strung way out behind him, almost horizontal. The spray was smashing twenty feet in the air and foamy drops of water were whipping toward us like bullets.
"Every silver lining has a cloud," I said. I had to talk loud, just to be heard over the wind and the surf. "Maybe one day Xavier and Paulie will get what's coming to them, but your dad will go to prison in the process."
Richard nodded. There were tears in his eyes. Maybe they were from the cold wind. Maybe they weren't.
"He deserves to," he said.
Very loyal, his father had said. Best buddies.
"I was gone eight days," Richard said. "One should have been enough. Like with the other guy you mentioned."
"Gorowski?"
"Whoever. With the two-year-old girl. You think she was raped?"
"I sincerely hope not."
"Me too."
"Can you drive?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"You might need to get out of here," I said. "Soon. You and your mother and the cook. So you need to be ready. For if and when I tell you to go."
"Who are you?"
"I'm a guy paid to protect your father. From his so-called friends, as much as his enemies."
"Paulie won't let us through the gate."
"He'll be gone soon."
He shook his head.
"Paulie will kill you," he said. "You have no idea. You can't deal with Paulie, whoever you are. Nobody can."
"I dealt with those guys outside the college."
He shook his head again. His hair streamed in the wind. It reminded me of the maid's hair, under the water.
"That was phony," he said. "My mom and I discussed it. It was a setup."
I was quiet for a second. Did I trust him yet?
"No, it was for real," I said. No, I didn't trust him yet.
"It's a small community," he said. "They have about five cops. I never saw that guy before in my life."
I said nothing.
"I never saw those college cops either," he said. "And I was there nearly three full years."
I said nothing. Mistakes, coming back to haunt me.
"So why did you quit school?" I said. "If it was a setup?"
He didn't answer.
"And how come Duke and I were ambushed?"
He didn't answer.
"So what was it?" I said. "A setup or for real?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"You saw me shoot them all," I said.
He said nothing. I looked away. The seventh wave came rolling in. It crested forty yards out and hit the rocks faster than a man can run. The ground shuddered and spray burst upward like a star shell.
"Did either of you discuss this with your father?" I said.
"I didn't," he said. "And I'm not going to. I don't know about my mom."
And I don't know about you, I thought. Ambivalence works both ways. You blow hot, then you blow cold. The thought of his father in a prison cell might look pretty good to him right now. Later, it might look different. When push came to shove, this guy was capable of swinging either way.
"I saved your ass," I said. "I don't like it that you're pretending I didn't."
"Whatever," he said. "There's nothing you can do anyway. This is going to be a busy weekend. You've got the shipment to deal with. And after that you'll be one of them anyway."
"So help me out," I said.
"I won't double-cross my dad," he said.
Very loyal. Best buddies.
"You don't have to," I said.
"So how can I help you?"
"Just tell him you want me here. Tell him you shouldn't be alone right now. He listens to you, about stuff like that."
He didn't reply. Just walked away from me and headed back to the kitchen. He went straight through to the hallway. I guessed he was going to eat breakfast in the dining room. I stayed in the kitchen. The cook had set my place at the deal table. I wasn't hungry, but I forced myself to eat. Tiredness and hunger are bad enemies. I had slept, and now I was going to eat. I didn't want to wind up weak and light-headed at the wrong moment. I had toast, and another cup of coffee. Then I got more into it and had eggs and bacon. I was on my third cup of coffee when Beck came in to find me. He was wearing Saturday clothes. Blue jeans and a red flannel shirt.
"We're going to Portland," he said. "To the warehouse. Right now."
He went back out to the hallway. I guessed he would wait at the front. And I guessed Richard hadn't talked to him. Either he hadn't gotten a chance, or he hadn't wanted to. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Checked my pockets to make sure the Beretta was safely stowed and the keys were there. Then I walked out and fetched the car. Drove it around to the front. Beck was waiting there for me. He had put a canvas jacket over his shirt. He looked like a regular Maine guy heading out to split logs or tap his maple trees for syrup. But he wasn't.
Paulie was about ready with the gate so I had to slow but I didn't have to stop. I glanced at him as I passed. I figured he would die today. Or tomorrow. Or I would. I left him behind and gunned the big car along the familiar road. After a mile I passed the spot where Villanueva had parked. Four miles after that I rounded the narrow curve where I had trapped the bodyguards. Beck didn't speak. He had his knees apart with his hands held down between them. He was leaning forward in his seat. His head was down, but his eyes were up. He was staring straight ahead through the windshield. He was nervous.
"We never had our talk," I said. "About the background information."
"Later," he said.
I passed Route One and used I-95 instead. Headed north for the city. The sky stayed gray. The wind was strong enough to push the car a little off line. I turned onto I-295 and passed by the airport. It was on my left, beyond the tongue of water. On my right was the back of the strip mall where the maid had been captured, and the back of the new business park where I figured she had died. I kept on going straight and threaded my way into the harbor area. I passed the lot where Beck parked his trucks. One minute later we arrived at his warehouse.
It was surrounded by vehicles. There were five of them parked head-in against the walls, like airplanes at a terminal. Like animals at a trough. Like suckerfish on a corpse. There were two black Lincoln Town Cars and two blue Chevy Suburbans and a gray Mercury Grand Marquis. One of the Lincolns was the car I had been in when Harley drove me out to pick up the Saab. After we put the maid into the sea. I looked for enough space to park the Cadillac.
"Just let me out here," Beck said.
I eased to a stop. "And?"
"Head back to the house," he said. "Take care of my family."
I nodded. So maybe Richard had talked to him, after all. Maybe his ambivalence was swinging my way, just temporarily.
"OK," I said. "Whatever you need. You want me to pick you up again later?"
He shook his head.
"I'm sure I'll get a ride back," he said.
He slid out and headed for the weathered gray door. I took my foot off the brake and looped around the warehouse and rolled back south.
I used Route One instead of I-295 and drove straight to the new business park. Pulled in and cruised through the network of brand-new roads. There were maybe three dozen identical metal buildings. They were very plain. It wasn't the kind of place that depends on attracting casual passersby. Foot-traffic wasn't important. There were no retail places. No gaudy come-ons. No big billboards. Just discreet unit numbers with business names printed small next to them. There were lock-and-key people, ceramic tile merchants, a couple of print shops. There was a beauty products wholesaler. Unit 26 was an electric wheelchair distributor. And next to it was Unit 27: Xavier eXport Company. The Xs were much larger than the other letters. There was a main office address on the sign that didn't match the business park's location. I figured it referred to someplace in downtown Portland. So I rolled north again and recrossed the river and did some city driving.
I came in on Route One with a park on my left. Made a right onto a street full of office buildings. They were the wrong buildings. It was the wrong street. So I quartered the business district for five long minutes until I spotted a street sign with the right name on it. Then I watched the numbers and pulled up on a fireplug outside a tower that had stainless steel letters stretched across the whole of the frontage, spelling out a name: Missionary House. There was a parking garage under it. I looked at the vehicle entrance and was pretty sure Susan Duffy had walked through it eleven weeks earlier, with a camera in her hand. Then I recalled a high school history lesson, somewhere hot, somewhere Spanish, a quarter-century in the past, some old guy telling us about a Spanish Jesuit called Francisco Javier. I could even remember his dates: 1506 to 1552. Francisco Javier, Spanish missionary. Francis Xavier, Missionary House. Back in Boston at the start Eliot had accused Beck of making jokes. He had been wrong. It was Quinn with the twisted sense of humor.
I moved off the fireplug and found Route One again and headed south on it. I drove fast but it took me thirty whole minutes to reach the Kennebunk River. There were three Ford Tauruses parked outside the motel, all plain and identical apart from color, and even then there wasn't much variation between them. They were gray, gray blue, and blue. I put the Cadillac where I had put it before, behind the propane store. Walked back through the cold and knocked on Duffy's door. I saw the peephole black out for a second and then she opened up. We didn't hug. I saw Eliot and Villanueva in the room behind her.
"Why can't I find the second agent?" she said.
"Where did you look?"
"Everywhere," she said.
She was wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. Different jeans, different shirt. She must have had a large supply. She was wearing boat shoes over bare feet. She looked good, but there was worry in her eyes.
"Can I come in?" I said.
She paused a second, preoccupied. Then she moved out of the way and I followed her inside. Villanueva was in the desk chair. He had it tilted backward. I hoped the legs were strong. He wasn't a small guy. Eliot was on the end of the bed, like he had been in my room in Boston. Duffy had been sitting at the head of the bed. That was clear. The pillows were stacked vertically and the shape of her back was pressed into them.
"Where did you look?" I asked her again.
"The whole system," she said. "The whole Justice Department, front to back, which means FBI as well as DEA. And she's not there."
"Conclusion?"
"She was off the books too."
"Which begs a question," Eliot said. "Like, what the hell is going on?"
Duffy sat down at the head of the bed again and I sat down next to her. There was no other place for me to go. She wrestled a pillow out from behind her and shoved it in behind me. It was warm from her body.
"Nothing much is going on," I said. "Except all three of us started out two weeks ago just like the Keystone Cops."
"How?" Eliot said.
I made a face. "I was obsessed with Quinn, you guys were obsessed with Teresa Daniel. We were all so obsessed we went right ahead and built a house of cards."
"How?" he said again.
"My fault more than yours," I said. "Think about it from the very beginning, eleven weeks ago."
"Eleven weeks ago was nothing to do with you. You weren't involved yet."
"Tell me exactly what happened."
He shrugged. Rehearsed it in his mind. "We got word from LA that a top boy just bought himself a first-class ticket to Portland, Maine."
I nodded. "So you tracked him to his rendezvous with Beck. And took pictures of him doing what?"
"Checking samples," Duffy said. "Doing a deal."
"In a private parking garage," I said. "And as an aside, if it was private enough to get you in trouble with the Fourth Amendment, maybe you should have wondered how Beck got himself in there."
She said nothing.
"Then what?" I said.
"We looked at Beck," Eliot said. "Concluded he was a major importer and a major distributor."
"Which he most definitely is," I said. "And you put Teresa in to nail him."
"Off the books," Eliot said.
"That's a minor detail," I said.
"So what went wrong?"
"It was a house of cards," I said. "You made one tiny error of judgment at the outset. It invalidated everything that came after it."
"What was it?"
"Something that I should have seen a hell of a lot earlier than I did."
"What?"
"Just ask yourself why you can't find a computer trail for the maid."
"She was off the books. That's the only explanation."
I shook my head. "She was as legal as can be. She was all over the damn books. I found some notes she made. There's no doubt about it."
Duffy looked straight at me. "Reacher, what exactly is going on?"
"Beck has a mechanic," I said. "Some kind of a technician. For what?"
"I don't know," she said.
"I never even asked myself," I said. "I should have. I shouldn't have needed to, actually, because I should have known before I even met the damn mechanic. But I was locked in a groove, just like you were."
"What groove?"
"Beck knew the retail on a Colt Anaconda," I said. "He knew how much it weighed. Duke had a Steyr SPP, which is a weird Austrian gun. Angel Doll had a PSM, which is a weird Russian gun. Paulie's got an NSV, probably the only one inside the United States. Beck was obsessed with the fact that we attacked with Uzis, not H and Ks. He knew enough to spec out a Beretta 92FS so it looked just like a regular military M9."
"So?"
"He's not what we thought he was."
"So what is he? You just agreed he's definitely a major importer and distributor."
"He is."
"So?"
"You looked in the wrong computer," I said. "The maid didn't work for the Justice Department. She worked for Treasury."
"Secret Service?"
I shook my head.
"ATF," I said. "The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
The room went quiet.
"Beck isn't a drug dealer," I said. "He's a gunrunner."
The room stayed quiet for a very long time. Duffy looked at Eliot. Eliot looked back at her. Then they both looked at Villanueva. Villanueva looked at me. Then he looked out the window. I waited for the tactical problem to dawn on them. But it didn't. Not right away.
"So what was the LA guy doing?" Duffy said.
"Looking at samples," I said. "In the Cadillac's trunk. Exactly like you thought. But they were samples of the weapons Beck was dealing. He as good as told me. He said dope dealers were driven by fashion. They like new and fancy things. They change weapons all the time, always looking for the latest thing."
"He told you?"
"I wasn't really listening," I said. "I was tired. And it was all mixed in with stuff about sneakers and cars and coats and watches."
"Duke went to Treasury," she said. "After he was a cop."
I nodded. "Beck probably met him on the job. Probably bought him off."
"Where does Quinn fit in?"
"I figure he was running a rival operation," I said. "He probably always was, ever since he got out of the hospital in California. He had six months to make his plans. And guns are a much better fit with a guy like Quinn than narcotics. I figure at some point he identified Beck's operation as a takeover target. Maybe he liked the way Beck was mining the dope dealer market. Or maybe he just liked the rug side of the business. It's great cover. So he moved in. He kidnapped Richard five years ago, to get Beck's signature on the dotted line."
"Beck told you the Hartford guys were his customers," Eliot said.
"They were," I said. "But for their guns, not for their dope. That's why he was puzzled about the Uzis. He'd probably just gotten through selling them a whole bunch of H and Ks, and now they're using Uzis? He couldn't understand it. He must have thought they had switched suppliers."
"We were pretty dumb," Villanueva said.
"I was dumber than you," I said. "I was amazingly dumb. There was evidence all over the place. Beck isn't rich enough to be a dope dealer. He makes good money, for sure, but he doesn't make millions a week. He noticed the marks I scratched on the Colt cylinders. He knew the price and the weight of a laser sight to use on the Beretta he gave me. He put a couple of mint H amp;Ks in a bag when he needed to take care of some business down in Connecticut. Probably pulled them right out of stock. He's got a private collection of Thompson grease guns."
"What's the mechanic for?"
"He gets the guns ready for sale," I said. "That's my guess. He tweaks them, adjusts them, checks them out. Some of Beck's customers wouldn't react well to substandard merchandise."
"Not the ones we know," Duffy said.
"Beck talked about the M16 at dinner," I said. "He was conversing about an assault rifle, for God's sake. And he wanted to hear my opinion about Uzis versus H amp;Ks, like he was really fascinated. I thought he was just a gun nerd, you know, but it was actually professional interest. He has computer access to the Glock factory in Deutsch-Wagram in Austria."
Nobody spoke. I closed my eyes, then I opened them again.
"There was a smell in a basement room," I said. "I should have recognized it. It was the smell of gun oil on cardboard. It's what you get when you stack boxes of new weapons and leave them there for a week or so."
Nobody spoke.
"And the prices in the Bizarre Bazaar books," I said. "Low, medium, high. Low for ammunition, medium for handguns, high for long guns and exotics."
Duffy was looking at the wall. She was thinking hard.
"OK," Villanueva said. "I guess we were all a little dumb."
Duffy looked at him. Then she stared at me. The tactical problem was finally dawning on her.
"We have no jurisdiction," she said.
Nobody spoke.
"This is ATF business," she said. "Not DEA."
"It was an honest mistake," Eliot said.
She shook her head. "I don't mean then. I mean now. We can't be in there. We have to butt out, right now, immediately."
"I'm not butting out," I said.
"You have to. Because we have to. We have to fold our tents and leave. And you can't be in there on your own and unsupported."
A whole new definition of alone and undercover.
"I'm staying," I said.
I searched my soul for a whole year after it happened and concluded I wouldn't have answered any differently even if she hadn't been fragrant and naked under a thin T-shirt and sitting next to me in a bar when she asked the fateful question. Will you let me make the arrest? I would have said yes, whatever the circumstances. For sure. Even if she had been a big ugly guy from Texas or Minnesota standing at attention in my office, I would have said yes. She had done the work. She deserved the credit. I was vaguely interested in getting ahead back then, maybe a little less so than most people, but any structure that has a ranking system tempts you to try to climb it. So I was vaguely interested. But I wasn't a guy who hijacked subordinates' achievements in order to make myself look good. I never did that. If somebody performed well, did a good job, I was always happy to stand back and let them reap the rewards. It was a principle I adhered to throughout my career. I could always console myself by basking in their reflected glow. It was my company, after all. There was a certain amount of collective recognition. Sometimes.
But anyway, I really liked the idea of an MP noncom busting an intel light colonel. Because I knew a guy like Quinn would absolutely hate it. He would see it as the ultimate indignity. A guy who bought Lexuses and sailboats and wore golf shirts didn't want to be taken down by a damn sergeant.
"Will you let me make the arrest?" she asked again.
"I want you to," I said.
"It's a purely legal issue," Duffy said.
"Not to me," I said.
"We have no authority."
"I don't work for you."
"It's suicide," Eliot said.
"I survived so far."
"Only because she cut the phones."
"The phones are history," I said. "The bodyguard problem resolved itself. So I don't need backup anymore."
"Everybody needs backup. You can't go undercover without it."
"ATF backup did the maid a whole lot of good," I said.
"We lent you a car. We helped you every step of the way."
"I don't need cars anymore. Beck gave me my own set of keys. And a gun. And bullets. I'm his new right-hand man. He trusts me to protect his family."
They said nothing.
"I'm an inch away from nailing Quinn," I said. "I'm not butting out now."
They said nothing.
"And I can get Teresa Daniel back," I said.
"ATF can get Teresa Daniel back," Eliot said. "We go to ATF now, we're off the hook with our own people. The maid was theirs, not ours. No harm, no foul."
"ATF isn't up to speed," I said. "Teresa will be caught in the crossfire."
There was a long silence.
"Monday," Villanueva said. "We'll sit on it until Monday. We'll have to tell ATF by Monday at the latest."
"We should tell them right now," Eliot said.
Villanueva nodded. "But we won't. And if necessary I'll make sure that we don't. I say we give Reacher until Monday."
Eliot said nothing more. He just looked away. Duffy laid her head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
"Shit," she said.
"It'll be over by Monday," I said. "I'll bring Teresa back to you here and then you can head home and make all the calls you want."
She was quiet for a whole minute. Then she spoke.
"OK," she said. "You can go back. And you should probably go back right now. You've been gone a long time. That's suspicious in itself."
"OK," I said.
"But think first," she said. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"I'm not your responsibility," I said.
"I don't care," she said. "Just answer the question. Are you sure?"
"Yes," I said.
"Now think again. Still sure?"
"Yes," I said again.
"We'll be here," she said. "Call us if you need us."
"OK," I said.
"Still sure?"
"Yes," I said.
"So go."
She didn't get up. None of them did. I just eased myself off the bed and walked out through the silent room. I was halfway back to the Cadillac when Terry Villanueva came out after me. He waved me to wait and walked across to me. He moved stiff and slow, like the old guy he was.
"Bring me in," he said. "Any chance you get, I want to be there."
I said nothing.
"I could help you out," he said.
"You already did."
"I need to do more. For the kid."
"Duffy?"
He shook his head. "No, Teresa."
"You got a connection?"
"I got a responsibility," he said.
"How?"
"I was her mentor," he said. "It worked out that way. You know how that is?"
I nodded. I knew exactly, totally, and completely how that was.
"Teresa worked for me for a spell," he said. "I trained her. I broke her in, basically. Then she moved up. But ten weeks ago she came back to me and asked if I thought she should accept this mission. She had doubts."
"But you said yes."
He nodded. "Like a damn fool."
"Could you really have stopped her?"
"Probably. She would have listened to me if I had made a case why she shouldn't do it. She'd have made up her own mind, but she'd have listened."
"I understand," I said.
And I did, no question about it. I left him standing there in the motel lot and slid into the car and watched him watch me drive away.
I stayed on Route One all the way through Biddeford and Saco and Old Orchard Beach and then struck out east on the long lonely road out to the house. I checked my watch as I got close and figured I had been away two whole hours, of which only forty minutes were legitimate. Twenty minutes to the warehouse, twenty back. But I didn't expect to have to explain myself to anybody. Beck would never know I hadn't come straight home and the others would never know I had been supposed to. I figured I was right there in the endgame, freewheeling toward victory.
But I was wrong.
I knew it before Paulie got halfway through opening the gate. He came out of his house and stepped across to the latch. He was wearing his suit. No coat. He lifted the latch by butting it upward with his clenched fist. Everything was still normal. I had seen him open the gate a dozen times and he was doing nothing he hadn't done before. He wrapped his fists around the bars. Pulled the gate. But before he got halfway through opening it he stopped it dead. He just made enough space to squeeze his giant frame through. Then he stepped out to meet me. He walked around toward my window and when he got six feet from the car he stopped and smiled and took two guns out of his pockets. It happened in less than a second. Two pockets, two hands, two guns. They were my Colt Anacondas. The steel looked dull in the gray light. I could see they were both loaded. There were bright snub-nose copper jackets winking at me from every chamber I could see. Remington.44 Magnums, without a doubt. Full metal jacket. Eighteen bucks for a box of twenty. Plus tax. Ninety-five cents each. Twelve of them. Eleven dollars and forty cents' worth of precision ammunition, ready to go, five dollars and seventy cents in each hand. And he was holding those hands very steady. They were like rocks. The left was aimed a little ahead of the Cadillac's front tire. The right was aimed directly at my head. His fingers were tight on the triggers. The muzzles weren't moving at all. Not even a fraction. He was like a statue.
I did all the usual things. I ran all the numbers. The Cadillac was a big car with long doors but he had put himself just far enough away that I couldn't jerk my door open and hit him with it. And the car was stationary. If I hit the gas he would fire both guns instantly. The bullet from the one in his right hand might well pass behind my head but the car's front tire would roll straight into the path of the one from his left. Then I would hit the gates hard and lose momentum and with a blown front tire and maybe with damaged steering I would be a sitting duck. He would fire ten more times and even if I wasn't killed outright I would be badly wounded and the car would be crippled. He could just step over and watch me bleed while he reloaded.
I could sneak it into reverse and howl away backward but reverse gear is pretty low on most cars and therefore I would be moving slowly. And I would be moving directly away from him in a perfectly straight line. No lateral displacement. None of the usual benefits of a moving target. And a Remington.44 Magnum leaves a gun barrel at more than eight hundred miles an hour. No easy way to outrun one.
I could try my Beretta. It would have to be a very fast snap shot through the window glass. But the window glass on a Cadillac is pretty thick. They make it that way to keep the interior quiet. Even if I got the gun out and fired before he did, it would be pure chance if I hit him. The glass would shatter for sure, but unless I took all the time I needed to make absolutely certain the trajectory was exactly perpendicular to the window the bullet would deflect. Perhaps radically. It could miss him altogether. And even if it hit him it would be pure chance if it hurt him. I remembered kicking him in the kidney. Unless I happened to hit him in the eye or straight through the heart he would think he had been stung by a bee.
I could buzz the window down. But it was very slow. And I could predict exactly what would happen. He would straighten his arm while the glass was moving and bring the right-hand Colt within three feet of my head. Even if I got the Beretta out real fast he would still have a hell of a jump on me. The odds were not good. Not good at all. Stay alive, Leon Garber used to say. Stay alive and see what the next minute brings.
Paulie dictated the next minute.
"Put it in Park," he yelled.
I heard him clearly, even through the thick glass. I moved the gearshift into Park.
"Right hand where I can see it," he yelled.
I put my right palm up against the window, fingers extended, just like when I signaled I see five people to Duke.
"Open the door with your left," he yelled.
I scrabbled blindly with my left hand and pulled the door release. Pushed on the glass with my right. The door swung open. Cold air came in. I felt it around my knees.
"Both hands where I can see them," he said. He spoke quieter, now the glass wasn't between us. He brought the left-hand Colt around on me, now the car was out of gear. I looked at the twin muzzles. It was like sitting on the foredeck of a battleship looking up at a pair of naval guns. I put both hands where he could see them.
"Feet out of the car," he said.
I swiveled on my butt, slowly on the leather. Got my feet out onto the blacktop. I felt like Terry Villanueva outside the college gate, early in the morning of day eleven.
"Stand up," he said. "Step away from the car."
I levered myself upright. Stepped away from the car. He pointed both guns directly at my chest. He was four feet away from me.
"Stand very still," he said.
I stood very still.
"Richard," he called.
Richard Beck came out of the gatehouse door. He was pale. I saw Elizabeth Beck behind him in the shadows. Her blouse was open at the front. She was clutching it tight around herself. Paulie grinned at me. A sudden, lunatic grin. But the guns didn't waver. Not even a fraction. They stayed rock steady.
"You came back a little too soon," he said. "I was about to make him have sex with his mother."
"Are you out of your mind?" I said. "What the hell is going on?"
"I got a call," he said. "That's what's going on."
I should have been back an hour and twenty minutes ago.
"Beck called you?"
"Not Beck," he said. "My boss."
"Xavier?" I said.
"Mr. Xavier," he said.
He stared at me, like a challenge. The guns didn't move.
"I went shopping," I said. Stay alive. See what the next minute brings.
"I don't care what you did."
"I couldn't find what I wanted. That's why I'm late."
"We expected you to be late."
"Why?"
"We got new information."
I said nothing to that.
"Walk backward," he said. "Through the gate."
He kept both guns four feet from my chest and walked forward while I walked backward through the gate. He matched me pace for pace. I stopped twenty feet inside, in the middle of the driveway. He stepped to one side and half-turned so he could cover me on his left and Richard and Elizabeth on his right.
"Richard," he called. "Close the gate."
He kept the left-hand Colt aimed at me and swung the right-hand Colt toward Richard. Richard saw it coming around at him and stepped up and grabbed the gate and pushed it shut. It clanged into place, loud and metallic.
"Chain it."
Richard fumbled with the chain. I heard it ringing and rattling against the iron. I heard the Cadillac, idling quietly and obediently forty feet away on the wrong side of the gate. I heard the waves pounding on the shore behind me, slow and regular and distant. I saw Elizabeth Beck in the gatehouse doorway. She was ten feet away from the big machine gun hanging on its chain. It had no safety catch. But Paulie was in the blind spot. The back window couldn't see him.
"Lock it," Paulie called.
Richard snapped the padlock shut.
"Now you and your mom go stand behind Reacher."
They met near the gatehouse door. Walked toward me. Passed right by me. They were both white and trembling. Richard's hair was blowing. I saw his scar. Elizabeth had her arms crossed tight against her chest. I heard them both stop behind me. Heard their shoes on the blacktop as they shuffled around to face my back. Paulie stepped over to the center of the driveway. He was ten feet away. Both barrels were aimed at my chest, one to the left side, one to the right. Jacketed.44 Magnums would go straight through me and probably straight through Richard and Elizabeth, too. They might make it all the way to the house. Might break a couple of first-floor windows.
"Now Reacher holds his arms out by his sides," Paulie called.
I held them out, away from my body, stiff and straight, angled down.
"Now Richard takes Reacher's coat off," Paulie called. "He pulls it down, from the collar."
I felt Richard's hands on my neck. They were cold. They grasped my collar and peeled the coat down. It slid off my shoulders and came down my arms. It pulled past one wrist, then past the other.
"Ball it up," Paulie called.
I heard Richard balling it up.
"Bring it here," Paulie called.
Richard came out from behind me carrying the balled coat. He got within five feet of Paulie and stopped.
"Throw it over the gate," Paulie said. "Real far."
Richard threw it over the gate. Real far. The arms flapped in the air and it sailed up and then down and I heard the dull padded thump of the Beretta in the pocket landing hard on the Cadillac's hood.
"Same thing with the jacket," Paulie said.
My jacket landed next to the coat on the Cadillac's hood and slid down the shiny paint and ended up on the road in a crumpled heap. I was cold. The wind was blowing and my shirt was thin. I could hear Elizabeth breathing behind me, fast and shallow. Richard was just standing there, five feet from Paulie, waiting for his next instruction.
"Now you and your mom walk fifty paces," Paulie said to him. "Back toward the house."
Richard turned and walked back and passed by me again. I heard his mother get in step with him. Heard them walk away together. I turned my head and saw them stop about forty yards back and turn around and face front again. Paulie tracked backward toward the gate, one pace, two, three. He stopped five feet from it. His back was to it. He had me fifteen feet in front of him and I guessed he could see Richard and Elizabeth over my shoulder, maybe a hundred feet farther on in the distance. We were all in a perfect straight line on the driveway, Paulie near the gate and facing the house, Richard and Elizabeth halfway to the house and facing back at him, me in the middle, trying to stay alive to see what the next minute would bring, facing Paulie, looking him square in the eye.
He smiled.
"OK," he said. "Now watch carefully."
He stayed facing me the whole time. He maintained eye contact. He crouched down and placed both guns on the blacktop by his feet and then flipped them backward toward the base of the gate. I heard their steel frames scraping on the rough surface. Saw them come to rest a yard behind him. Saw his hands come back, empty. He stood up again and showed me his palms.
"No guns," he said. "I'm going to beat you to death."
Dinner ended and everybody scraped their chairs back and stood up. I stayed in the dining room. I left the Saab's headliner undisturbed. I was in no hurry. I could get to it later. There was no point risking trouble to confirm something I already knew. I helped the cook clean up instead. It seemed polite. Maybe it was even expected. The Becks went off somewhere and I carried dishes through to the kitchen. The mechanic was in there, eating a bigger portion of beef than I had gotten. I looked at him and started to feel a little ashamed again. I hadn't paid him any attention at all. Hadn't thought much about him. I had never even asked myself what he was for. But now I knew.
I loaded the dishes into the machine. The cook did economical things with the leftovers and wiped off the counters and within about twenty minutes we had everything squared away. Then she told me she was headed for bed so I said good night to her and went out the back door and walked across the rocks. I wanted to look at the sea. Wanted to gauge the tide. I had no experience with the ocean. I knew the tides came in and out maybe twice a day. I didn't know when or why. Something to do with the moon's gravity, maybe. Possibly it turned the Atlantic into a giant bathtub sloshing east and west between Europe and America. Maybe when it was low tide in Portugal it was high tide in Maine, and vice versa. I had no idea. Right then the tide looked to be changing from high to low. From in to out. I watched the waves for five more minutes and then headed back to the kitchen. The mechanic had left. I used the bunch of keys Beck had given me to lock the inner door. I left the outer door open. Then I walked through the hallway and checked the front. I guessed I was supposed to do stuff like that now. It was locked and chained. The house was quiet. So I went upstairs to Duke's room and started planning the endgame.
There was a message from Duffy waiting for me in my shoe. It said: You OK? I replied: Sincere thanks for the phones. You saved my ass.
She came back with: Mine too. Equal element of self-interest.
I didn't reply to that. I couldn't think of anything to say. I just sat there in the silence. She had won a minor postponement, but that was all. Her ass was toast, whatever happened next. Nothing I could do about that.
Then she sent: Have searched all files and cannot repeat cannot find authorization for 2nd agent.
I sent: I know.
She came back with just two characters: ??
I sent: We need to meet. I will either call or just show up. Stand by.
Then I shut down the power and nailed the device back into my heel and wondered briefly whether I would ever take it out again. I checked my watch. It was nearly midnight. Day fourteen, a Friday, was nearly over. Day fifteen, a Saturday, was about to begin. Two weeks to the day since I had barged through the crowd outside Symphony Hall in Boston, on my way to a bar I never reached.
I lay down on the bed, fully dressed. I figured the next twenty-four or forty-eight hours were going to be crucial, and I wanted to spend five of the first six of them fast asleep. In my experience tiredness causes more foul-ups than carelessness or stupidity put together. Probably because tiredness itself creates carelessness and stupidity. So I got comfortable and closed my eyes. Set the alarm in my head for two o'clock in the morning. It worked, like it always does. I woke up after a two-hour nap, feeling OK.
I rolled off the bed and crept downstairs. Went through the hallway and the kitchen and unlocked the back door. I left all my metal stuff on the table. I didn't want the detector to make a noise. I stepped outside. It was very dark. There was no moon. No stars. The sea was loud. The air was cold. There was a breeze. It smelled of dampness. I walked around to the fourth garage and opened the doors. The Saab was still there, undisturbed. I eased the hatch open and pulled out my bundle. Carried it around and stowed it in its dip. Then I went back for the first bodyguard. He had been dead for several hours and the low temperature was bringing rigor on early. He was pretty stiff. I hauled him out and jacked him up on my shoulder. It was like carrying a two-hundred-pound tree trunk. His arms stuck out like branches.
I carried him to the V-shaped cleft that Harley had shown me. Laid him down next to it and started counting waves. Waited for the seventh. It rolled in and just before it got to me I nudged the body into the cleft. The water came in under it and pushed it right back up at me. It was like the guy was trying to grab me with his rigid arms and take me with him. Or like he wanted to kiss me good-bye. He floated there for a second quite lazily and then the wave receded and the cleft drained and he was gone.
It worked the same way for the second guy. The ocean took him away to join his buddy, and the maid. I squatted there for a moment, feeling the breeze on my face, listening to the tireless tide. Then I went back and closed up the Saab's hatch and slid into the driver's seat. Finished the job on the headliner and reached back and pulled out the maid's notes. There were eight legal-size pages of them. I read them all in the dim glow from the dome light. They were full of specifics. They had plenty of fine detail. But in general they didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. I checked them twice and when I was finished I butted them into a neat stack and carried them back to the tip of the point. Sat down on a rock and folded each page into a paper boat. Somebody had showed me how, when I was a kid. Maybe it had been my dad. I couldn't remember. Maybe it had been my brother. I launched the eight little boats on the receding tide one after the other and watched them sail and bob away into the pitch darkness in the east.
Then I went back and spent some time fixing the headliner. I got it looking pretty good. I closed up the garage. I figured I would be gone before anybody opened it up again and noticed the damage on the car. I headed back to the house. Reloaded my pockets and relocked the door and crept back upstairs. Stripped to my shorts and slid into bed. I wanted to get three more hours. So I reset the alarm in my head and hauled the sheet and the blanket up around me and pressed a dip into the pillow and closed my eyes again. Tried to sleep. But I couldn't. It wouldn't come. Dominique Kohl came instead. She came straight at me out of the darkness, like I knew she would.
The eighth time we met we had tactical problems to discuss. Taking down an intel officer was a can of worms. Obviously MPs deal exclusively with military people gone bad, so acting against one of our own was not a novelty. But the intel community was a case apart. Those guys were separate and secretive and they tried very hard to be accountable to nobody. They were tough to get at. Generally they closed ranks faster than the best drill squad you ever saw. So Kohl and I had a lot to talk about. I didn't want to have the meeting in my office. There was no visitor's chair. I didn't want her standing up the whole time. So we went back to the bar in town. It seemed like an appropriate location. The whole thing was getting so heavy we were ready to feel a little paranoid about it. Going off-base seemed like a smart thing to do. And I liked the idea of discussing intel matters like a couple of regular spies, in a dark little booth at the back of a tavern. I think Kohl did, too. She showed up in civilian clothes. Not a dress, but jeans and a white T-shirt with a leather jacket over it. I was in fatigues. I didn't have any civilian clothes. The weather was cold by then. I ordered coffee. She got tea. We wanted to keep our heads clear.
"I'm glad we used the real blueprints now," she said.
I nodded.
"Good instinct," I said. As far as evidence went we needed to slam-dunk the whole thing. For Quinn to be in possession of the real blueprints would go a long way. Anything less than that, he could start spinning stories about test procedures, war games, exercises, entrapment schemes of his own.
"It's the Syrians," she said. "And they're paying in advance. On an installment plan."
"How?"
"Briefcase exchange," she said. "He meets with an attache from the Syrian Embassy. They go to a cafe in Georgetown. They both carry those fancy aluminum briefcases, identical."
"Halliburton," I said.
She nodded. "They put them side by side under the table and he picks up the Syrian guy's when he leaves."
"He's going to say the Syrian is a legit contact. He's going to say the guy is passing him stuff."
"So we say, OK, show us the stuff."
"He'll say he can't, because it's classified."
Kohl said nothing. I smiled.
"He'll give us a big song and dance," I said. "He'll put his hand on our shoulders and look into our eyes and say, Hey, trust me on this, folks, national security is involved."
"Have you dealt with these guys before?"
"Once," I said.
"Did you win?"
I nodded. "They're generally full of shit. My brother was MI for a time. Now he works for Treasury. But he told me all about them. They think they're smart, whereas they're really the same as anybody else."
"So what do we do?"
"We'll have to recruit the Syrian."
"Then we can't bust him."
"You wanted two-for-one?" I said. "Can't have it. The Syrian is only doing his job. Can't fault him for that. Quinn is the bad guy here."
She was quiet for a moment, a little disappointed. Then she shrugged.
"OK," she said. "But how do we do it? The Syrian will just walk away from us. He's an embassy attache. He's got diplomatic immunity."
I smiled again. "Diplomatic immunity is just a sheet of paper from the State Department. The way I did it before was I got hold of the guy and told him to hold a sheet of paper up in front of his gut. Then I pulled my pistol out and asked him if he figured the paper was going to stop a bullet. He said I would get into trouble. I told him however much trouble I got into wasn't going to affect how slowly he bled to death."
"And he saw it your way?"
I nodded. "Played ball like Mickey Mantle."
She went quiet again. Then she asked me the first of two questions that much later I wished I had answered differently.
"Can we see each other socially?" she said.
It was a private booth in a dark bar. She was cute as hell, and she was sitting there right next to me. I was a young man back then, and I thought I had all the time in the world.
"You asking me on a date?" I said.
"Yes," she said.
I said nothing.
"We've come a long way, baby," she said. Then she added, "Women, I mean," just in case I wasn't up-to-date with current cigarette advertising.
I said nothing.
"I know what I want," she said.
I nodded. I believed her. And I believed in equality. I believed in it big time. Not long before that I had met a woman Air Force colonel who captained a B52 bomber and cruised the night skies with more explosive power aboard her single plane than all the bombs ever dropped in the whole of human history put together. I figured if she could be trusted with enough power to explode the planet, then Sergeant First Class Dominique Kohl could be trusted to figure out who she wanted to date.
"So?" she said.
Questions I wished I had answered differently.
"No," I said.
"Why not?"
"Unprofessional," I said. "You shouldn't do it."
"Why not?"
"Because it'll put an asterisk next to your career," I said. "Because you're a talented person who can't get any higher than sergeant major without going to officer candidate school, so you'll go there, and you'll ace it, and you'll be a lieutenant colonel within ten years, because you deserve it, but everybody will be saying that you got it because you dated your captain way back when."
She said nothing. Just called the waitress over and ordered us two beers. The room was getting hotter as it got more crowded. I took my jacket off, she took her jacket off. I was wearing an olive-drab T-shirt that had gotten small and thin and faded from being washed a thousand times. Her T-shirt was a boutique item. It was scooped a little lower at the neck than most T-shirts, and the sleeves were cut away at an angle so they rode up on the small deltoid muscles at the top of her arms. The fabric was snow white against her skin. And it was slightly translucent. I could see that she was wearing nothing underneath it.
"Military life is full of sacrifices," I said, more to myself than to her.
"I'll get over it," she said.
Then she asked me the second question I wish I had answered differently.
"Will you let me make the arrest?" she said.
Ten years later I woke up alone in Duke's bed at six o'clock in the morning. His room was at the front of the house, so I had no view of the sea. I was looking west, at America. There was no morning sun. No long dawn shadows. Just dull gray light on the driveway, and the wall, and the granite landscape beyond. The wind was blowing in off the sea. I could see trees moving. I imagined black storm clouds behind me, way out over the Atlantic, moving fast toward the shore. I imagined sea birds fighting the turbulent air with their feathers whipped and ruffled by the gale. Day fifteen, starting out gray and cold and inhospitable, and likely to get worse.
I showered, but I didn't shave. I dressed in more of Duke's black denim and laced my shoes and carried my jacket and my coat over my arm. Walked quietly down to the kitchen. The cook had already made coffee. She gave me a cup and I took it and sat at the table. She lifted a loaf of bread out of the freezer and put it in the microwave. I figured I would need to evacuate her, at some point before things turned unpleasant. And Elizabeth, and Richard. The mechanic and Beck himself could stay to face the music.
I could hear the sea from the kitchen, loud and clear. The waves crashed in and the relentless undertow sucked back out. Pools filled and drained, the gravel rattled across the rocks. The wind moaned softly through the cracks in the outer porch door. I heard frantic cries from the gulls. I listened to them and sipped my coffee and waited.
Richard came down ten minutes after me. His hair was all over the place and I could see his missing ear. He took coffee and sat down across from me. His ambivalence was back. I could see him facing up to no more college and the rest of his life hidden away with his folks. I figured if his mother got away without an indictment they could start over somewhere else. Depending on how resilient he was, he could get back to school without missing much more than a week of the semester. If he wanted to. Unless it was an expensive school, which I guessed it was. They were going to have money problems. They were going to walk away with nothing more than they stood up in. If they walked away at all.
The cook went out to set the dining room up for breakfast. Richard watched her go and I watched him and saw his ear again and a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
"Five years ago," I said. "The kidnap."
He kept his composure. Just looked down at the table and then looked up at me and combed his hair over his scar with his fingers.
"Do you know what your dad is really into?" I asked.
He nodded. Said nothing.
"Not just rugs, right?" I said.
"No," he said. "Not just rugs."
"How do you feel about that?"
"There are worse things," he said.
"Want to tell me what happened five years ago?" I said.
He shook his head. Looked away.
"No," he said. "I don't."
"I knew a guy called Gorowski," I said. "His two-year-old daughter was abducted. Just for a day. How long were you gone for?"
"Eight days," he said.
"Gorowski fell right into line," I said. "One day was enough for him."
Richard said nothing.
"Your dad isn't the boss here," I said, like a statement.
Richard said nothing.
"He fell into line five years ago," I said. "After you had been gone eight days. That's the way I figure it."
Richard was silent. I thought about Gorowski's daughter. She was twelve years old now. She probably had the Internet and a CD player and a phone in her room. Posters on her walls. And a tiny dim ache in her mind about something that had happened way in the past. Like the itch you get from a long-healed bone.
"I don't need details," I said. "I just want you to say his name."
"Whose name?"
"The guy who took you away for eight days."
Richard just shook his head.
"I heard the name Xavier," I said. "Someone mentioned it."
Richard looked away and his left hand went straight to the side of his head, which was all the confirmation I needed.
"I was raped," he said.
I listened to the sea, pounding on the rocks.
"By Xavier?"
He shook his head again.
"By Paulie," he said. "He was just out of prison. He still had a taste for that kind of thing."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"Does your father know?"
"No," he said.
"Your mother?"
"No."
I didn't know what to say. Richard said nothing more. We sat there in silence. Then the cook came back and fired up the stove. She put fat in a skillet and started heating it. The smell made me sick to my stomach.
"Let's go for a walk," I said.
Richard followed me outside to the rocks. The air was salty and fresh and bitter cold. The light was gray. The wind was strong. It was blowing straight in our faces. Richard's hair strung way out behind him, almost horizontal. The spray was smashing twenty feet in the air and foamy drops of water were whipping toward us like bullets.
"Every silver lining has a cloud," I said. I had to talk loud, just to be heard over the wind and the surf. "Maybe one day Xavier and Paulie will get what's coming to them, but your dad will go to prison in the process."
Richard nodded. There were tears in his eyes. Maybe they were from the cold wind. Maybe they weren't.
"He deserves to," he said.
Very loyal, his father had said. Best buddies.
"I was gone eight days," Richard said. "One should have been enough. Like with the other guy you mentioned."
"Gorowski?"
"Whoever. With the two-year-old girl. You think she was raped?"
"I sincerely hope not."
"Me too."
"Can you drive?" I said.
"Yes," he said.
"You might need to get out of here," I said. "Soon. You and your mother and the cook. So you need to be ready. For if and when I tell you to go."
"Who are you?"
"I'm a guy paid to protect your father. From his so-called friends, as much as his enemies."
"Paulie won't let us through the gate."
"He'll be gone soon."
He shook his head.
"Paulie will kill you," he said. "You have no idea. You can't deal with Paulie, whoever you are. Nobody can."
"I dealt with those guys outside the college."
He shook his head again. His hair streamed in the wind. It reminded me of the maid's hair, under the water.
"That was phony," he said. "My mom and I discussed it. It was a setup."
I was quiet for a second. Did I trust him yet?
"No, it was for real," I said. No, I didn't trust him yet.
"It's a small community," he said. "They have about five cops. I never saw that guy before in my life."
I said nothing.
"I never saw those college cops either," he said. "And I was there nearly three full years."
I said nothing. Mistakes, coming back to haunt me.
"So why did you quit school?" I said. "If it was a setup?"
He didn't answer.
"And how come Duke and I were ambushed?"
He didn't answer.
"So what was it?" I said. "A setup or for real?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"You saw me shoot them all," I said.
He said nothing. I looked away. The seventh wave came rolling in. It crested forty yards out and hit the rocks faster than a man can run. The ground shuddered and spray burst upward like a star shell.
"Did either of you discuss this with your father?" I said.
"I didn't," he said. "And I'm not going to. I don't know about my mom."
And I don't know about you, I thought. Ambivalence works both ways. You blow hot, then you blow cold. The thought of his father in a prison cell might look pretty good to him right now. Later, it might look different. When push came to shove, this guy was capable of swinging either way.
"I saved your ass," I said. "I don't like it that you're pretending I didn't."
"Whatever," he said. "There's nothing you can do anyway. This is going to be a busy weekend. You've got the shipment to deal with. And after that you'll be one of them anyway."
"So help me out," I said.
"I won't double-cross my dad," he said.
Very loyal. Best buddies.
"You don't have to," I said.
"So how can I help you?"
"Just tell him you want me here. Tell him you shouldn't be alone right now. He listens to you, about stuff like that."
He didn't reply. Just walked away from me and headed back to the kitchen. He went straight through to the hallway. I guessed he was going to eat breakfast in the dining room. I stayed in the kitchen. The cook had set my place at the deal table. I wasn't hungry, but I forced myself to eat. Tiredness and hunger are bad enemies. I had slept, and now I was going to eat. I didn't want to wind up weak and light-headed at the wrong moment. I had toast, and another cup of coffee. Then I got more into it and had eggs and bacon. I was on my third cup of coffee when Beck came in to find me. He was wearing Saturday clothes. Blue jeans and a red flannel shirt.
"We're going to Portland," he said. "To the warehouse. Right now."
He went back out to the hallway. I guessed he would wait at the front. And I guessed Richard hadn't talked to him. Either he hadn't gotten a chance, or he hadn't wanted to. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Checked my pockets to make sure the Beretta was safely stowed and the keys were there. Then I walked out and fetched the car. Drove it around to the front. Beck was waiting there for me. He had put a canvas jacket over his shirt. He looked like a regular Maine guy heading out to split logs or tap his maple trees for syrup. But he wasn't.
Paulie was about ready with the gate so I had to slow but I didn't have to stop. I glanced at him as I passed. I figured he would die today. Or tomorrow. Or I would. I left him behind and gunned the big car along the familiar road. After a mile I passed the spot where Villanueva had parked. Four miles after that I rounded the narrow curve where I had trapped the bodyguards. Beck didn't speak. He had his knees apart with his hands held down between them. He was leaning forward in his seat. His head was down, but his eyes were up. He was staring straight ahead through the windshield. He was nervous.
"We never had our talk," I said. "About the background information."
"Later," he said.
I passed Route One and used I-95 instead. Headed north for the city. The sky stayed gray. The wind was strong enough to push the car a little off line. I turned onto I-295 and passed by the airport. It was on my left, beyond the tongue of water. On my right was the back of the strip mall where the maid had been captured, and the back of the new business park where I figured she had died. I kept on going straight and threaded my way into the harbor area. I passed the lot where Beck parked his trucks. One minute later we arrived at his warehouse.
It was surrounded by vehicles. There were five of them parked head-in against the walls, like airplanes at a terminal. Like animals at a trough. Like suckerfish on a corpse. There were two black Lincoln Town Cars and two blue Chevy Suburbans and a gray Mercury Grand Marquis. One of the Lincolns was the car I had been in when Harley drove me out to pick up the Saab. After we put the maid into the sea. I looked for enough space to park the Cadillac.
"Just let me out here," Beck said.
I eased to a stop. "And?"
"Head back to the house," he said. "Take care of my family."
I nodded. So maybe Richard had talked to him, after all. Maybe his ambivalence was swinging my way, just temporarily.
"OK," I said. "Whatever you need. You want me to pick you up again later?"
He shook his head.
"I'm sure I'll get a ride back," he said.
He slid out and headed for the weathered gray door. I took my foot off the brake and looped around the warehouse and rolled back south.
I used Route One instead of I-295 and drove straight to the new business park. Pulled in and cruised through the network of brand-new roads. There were maybe three dozen identical metal buildings. They were very plain. It wasn't the kind of place that depends on attracting casual passersby. Foot-traffic wasn't important. There were no retail places. No gaudy come-ons. No big billboards. Just discreet unit numbers with business names printed small next to them. There were lock-and-key people, ceramic tile merchants, a couple of print shops. There was a beauty products wholesaler. Unit 26 was an electric wheelchair distributor. And next to it was Unit 27: Xavier eXport Company. The Xs were much larger than the other letters. There was a main office address on the sign that didn't match the business park's location. I figured it referred to someplace in downtown Portland. So I rolled north again and recrossed the river and did some city driving.
I came in on Route One with a park on my left. Made a right onto a street full of office buildings. They were the wrong buildings. It was the wrong street. So I quartered the business district for five long minutes until I spotted a street sign with the right name on it. Then I watched the numbers and pulled up on a fireplug outside a tower that had stainless steel letters stretched across the whole of the frontage, spelling out a name: Missionary House. There was a parking garage under it. I looked at the vehicle entrance and was pretty sure Susan Duffy had walked through it eleven weeks earlier, with a camera in her hand. Then I recalled a high school history lesson, somewhere hot, somewhere Spanish, a quarter-century in the past, some old guy telling us about a Spanish Jesuit called Francisco Javier. I could even remember his dates: 1506 to 1552. Francisco Javier, Spanish missionary. Francis Xavier, Missionary House. Back in Boston at the start Eliot had accused Beck of making jokes. He had been wrong. It was Quinn with the twisted sense of humor.
I moved off the fireplug and found Route One again and headed south on it. I drove fast but it took me thirty whole minutes to reach the Kennebunk River. There were three Ford Tauruses parked outside the motel, all plain and identical apart from color, and even then there wasn't much variation between them. They were gray, gray blue, and blue. I put the Cadillac where I had put it before, behind the propane store. Walked back through the cold and knocked on Duffy's door. I saw the peephole black out for a second and then she opened up. We didn't hug. I saw Eliot and Villanueva in the room behind her.
"Why can't I find the second agent?" she said.
"Where did you look?"
"Everywhere," she said.
She was wearing jeans and a white Oxford shirt. Different jeans, different shirt. She must have had a large supply. She was wearing boat shoes over bare feet. She looked good, but there was worry in her eyes.
"Can I come in?" I said.
She paused a second, preoccupied. Then she moved out of the way and I followed her inside. Villanueva was in the desk chair. He had it tilted backward. I hoped the legs were strong. He wasn't a small guy. Eliot was on the end of the bed, like he had been in my room in Boston. Duffy had been sitting at the head of the bed. That was clear. The pillows were stacked vertically and the shape of her back was pressed into them.
"Where did you look?" I asked her again.
"The whole system," she said. "The whole Justice Department, front to back, which means FBI as well as DEA. And she's not there."
"Conclusion?"
"She was off the books too."
"Which begs a question," Eliot said. "Like, what the hell is going on?"
Duffy sat down at the head of the bed again and I sat down next to her. There was no other place for me to go. She wrestled a pillow out from behind her and shoved it in behind me. It was warm from her body.
"Nothing much is going on," I said. "Except all three of us started out two weeks ago just like the Keystone Cops."
"How?" Eliot said.
I made a face. "I was obsessed with Quinn, you guys were obsessed with Teresa Daniel. We were all so obsessed we went right ahead and built a house of cards."
"How?" he said again.
"My fault more than yours," I said. "Think about it from the very beginning, eleven weeks ago."
"Eleven weeks ago was nothing to do with you. You weren't involved yet."
"Tell me exactly what happened."
He shrugged. Rehearsed it in his mind. "We got word from LA that a top boy just bought himself a first-class ticket to Portland, Maine."
I nodded. "So you tracked him to his rendezvous with Beck. And took pictures of him doing what?"
"Checking samples," Duffy said. "Doing a deal."
"In a private parking garage," I said. "And as an aside, if it was private enough to get you in trouble with the Fourth Amendment, maybe you should have wondered how Beck got himself in there."
She said nothing.
"Then what?" I said.
"We looked at Beck," Eliot said. "Concluded he was a major importer and a major distributor."
"Which he most definitely is," I said. "And you put Teresa in to nail him."
"Off the books," Eliot said.
"That's a minor detail," I said.
"So what went wrong?"
"It was a house of cards," I said. "You made one tiny error of judgment at the outset. It invalidated everything that came after it."
"What was it?"
"Something that I should have seen a hell of a lot earlier than I did."
"What?"
"Just ask yourself why you can't find a computer trail for the maid."
"She was off the books. That's the only explanation."
I shook my head. "She was as legal as can be. She was all over the damn books. I found some notes she made. There's no doubt about it."
Duffy looked straight at me. "Reacher, what exactly is going on?"
"Beck has a mechanic," I said. "Some kind of a technician. For what?"
"I don't know," she said.
"I never even asked myself," I said. "I should have. I shouldn't have needed to, actually, because I should have known before I even met the damn mechanic. But I was locked in a groove, just like you were."
"What groove?"
"Beck knew the retail on a Colt Anaconda," I said. "He knew how much it weighed. Duke had a Steyr SPP, which is a weird Austrian gun. Angel Doll had a PSM, which is a weird Russian gun. Paulie's got an NSV, probably the only one inside the United States. Beck was obsessed with the fact that we attacked with Uzis, not H and Ks. He knew enough to spec out a Beretta 92FS so it looked just like a regular military M9."
"So?"
"He's not what we thought he was."
"So what is he? You just agreed he's definitely a major importer and distributor."
"He is."
"So?"
"You looked in the wrong computer," I said. "The maid didn't work for the Justice Department. She worked for Treasury."
"Secret Service?"
I shook my head.
"ATF," I said. "The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
The room went quiet.
"Beck isn't a drug dealer," I said. "He's a gunrunner."
The room stayed quiet for a very long time. Duffy looked at Eliot. Eliot looked back at her. Then they both looked at Villanueva. Villanueva looked at me. Then he looked out the window. I waited for the tactical problem to dawn on them. But it didn't. Not right away.
"So what was the LA guy doing?" Duffy said.
"Looking at samples," I said. "In the Cadillac's trunk. Exactly like you thought. But they were samples of the weapons Beck was dealing. He as good as told me. He said dope dealers were driven by fashion. They like new and fancy things. They change weapons all the time, always looking for the latest thing."
"He told you?"
"I wasn't really listening," I said. "I was tired. And it was all mixed in with stuff about sneakers and cars and coats and watches."
"Duke went to Treasury," she said. "After he was a cop."
I nodded. "Beck probably met him on the job. Probably bought him off."
"Where does Quinn fit in?"
"I figure he was running a rival operation," I said. "He probably always was, ever since he got out of the hospital in California. He had six months to make his plans. And guns are a much better fit with a guy like Quinn than narcotics. I figure at some point he identified Beck's operation as a takeover target. Maybe he liked the way Beck was mining the dope dealer market. Or maybe he just liked the rug side of the business. It's great cover. So he moved in. He kidnapped Richard five years ago, to get Beck's signature on the dotted line."
"Beck told you the Hartford guys were his customers," Eliot said.
"They were," I said. "But for their guns, not for their dope. That's why he was puzzled about the Uzis. He'd probably just gotten through selling them a whole bunch of H and Ks, and now they're using Uzis? He couldn't understand it. He must have thought they had switched suppliers."
"We were pretty dumb," Villanueva said.
"I was dumber than you," I said. "I was amazingly dumb. There was evidence all over the place. Beck isn't rich enough to be a dope dealer. He makes good money, for sure, but he doesn't make millions a week. He noticed the marks I scratched on the Colt cylinders. He knew the price and the weight of a laser sight to use on the Beretta he gave me. He put a couple of mint H amp;Ks in a bag when he needed to take care of some business down in Connecticut. Probably pulled them right out of stock. He's got a private collection of Thompson grease guns."
"What's the mechanic for?"
"He gets the guns ready for sale," I said. "That's my guess. He tweaks them, adjusts them, checks them out. Some of Beck's customers wouldn't react well to substandard merchandise."
"Not the ones we know," Duffy said.
"Beck talked about the M16 at dinner," I said. "He was conversing about an assault rifle, for God's sake. And he wanted to hear my opinion about Uzis versus H amp;Ks, like he was really fascinated. I thought he was just a gun nerd, you know, but it was actually professional interest. He has computer access to the Glock factory in Deutsch-Wagram in Austria."
Nobody spoke. I closed my eyes, then I opened them again.
"There was a smell in a basement room," I said. "I should have recognized it. It was the smell of gun oil on cardboard. It's what you get when you stack boxes of new weapons and leave them there for a week or so."
Nobody spoke.
"And the prices in the Bizarre Bazaar books," I said. "Low, medium, high. Low for ammunition, medium for handguns, high for long guns and exotics."
Duffy was looking at the wall. She was thinking hard.
"OK," Villanueva said. "I guess we were all a little dumb."
Duffy looked at him. Then she stared at me. The tactical problem was finally dawning on her.
"We have no jurisdiction," she said.
Nobody spoke.
"This is ATF business," she said. "Not DEA."
"It was an honest mistake," Eliot said.
She shook her head. "I don't mean then. I mean now. We can't be in there. We have to butt out, right now, immediately."
"I'm not butting out," I said.
"You have to. Because we have to. We have to fold our tents and leave. And you can't be in there on your own and unsupported."
A whole new definition of alone and undercover.
"I'm staying," I said.
I searched my soul for a whole year after it happened and concluded I wouldn't have answered any differently even if she hadn't been fragrant and naked under a thin T-shirt and sitting next to me in a bar when she asked the fateful question. Will you let me make the arrest? I would have said yes, whatever the circumstances. For sure. Even if she had been a big ugly guy from Texas or Minnesota standing at attention in my office, I would have said yes. She had done the work. She deserved the credit. I was vaguely interested in getting ahead back then, maybe a little less so than most people, but any structure that has a ranking system tempts you to try to climb it. So I was vaguely interested. But I wasn't a guy who hijacked subordinates' achievements in order to make myself look good. I never did that. If somebody performed well, did a good job, I was always happy to stand back and let them reap the rewards. It was a principle I adhered to throughout my career. I could always console myself by basking in their reflected glow. It was my company, after all. There was a certain amount of collective recognition. Sometimes.
But anyway, I really liked the idea of an MP noncom busting an intel light colonel. Because I knew a guy like Quinn would absolutely hate it. He would see it as the ultimate indignity. A guy who bought Lexuses and sailboats and wore golf shirts didn't want to be taken down by a damn sergeant.
"Will you let me make the arrest?" she asked again.
"I want you to," I said.
"It's a purely legal issue," Duffy said.
"Not to me," I said.
"We have no authority."
"I don't work for you."
"It's suicide," Eliot said.
"I survived so far."
"Only because she cut the phones."
"The phones are history," I said. "The bodyguard problem resolved itself. So I don't need backup anymore."
"Everybody needs backup. You can't go undercover without it."
"ATF backup did the maid a whole lot of good," I said.
"We lent you a car. We helped you every step of the way."
"I don't need cars anymore. Beck gave me my own set of keys. And a gun. And bullets. I'm his new right-hand man. He trusts me to protect his family."
They said nothing.
"I'm an inch away from nailing Quinn," I said. "I'm not butting out now."
They said nothing.
"And I can get Teresa Daniel back," I said.
"ATF can get Teresa Daniel back," Eliot said. "We go to ATF now, we're off the hook with our own people. The maid was theirs, not ours. No harm, no foul."
"ATF isn't up to speed," I said. "Teresa will be caught in the crossfire."
There was a long silence.
"Monday," Villanueva said. "We'll sit on it until Monday. We'll have to tell ATF by Monday at the latest."
"We should tell them right now," Eliot said.
Villanueva nodded. "But we won't. And if necessary I'll make sure that we don't. I say we give Reacher until Monday."
Eliot said nothing more. He just looked away. Duffy laid her head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
"Shit," she said.
"It'll be over by Monday," I said. "I'll bring Teresa back to you here and then you can head home and make all the calls you want."
She was quiet for a whole minute. Then she spoke.
"OK," she said. "You can go back. And you should probably go back right now. You've been gone a long time. That's suspicious in itself."
"OK," I said.
"But think first," she said. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"I'm not your responsibility," I said.
"I don't care," she said. "Just answer the question. Are you sure?"
"Yes," I said.
"Now think again. Still sure?"
"Yes," I said again.
"We'll be here," she said. "Call us if you need us."
"OK," I said.
"Still sure?"
"Yes," I said.
"So go."
She didn't get up. None of them did. I just eased myself off the bed and walked out through the silent room. I was halfway back to the Cadillac when Terry Villanueva came out after me. He waved me to wait and walked across to me. He moved stiff and slow, like the old guy he was.
"Bring me in," he said. "Any chance you get, I want to be there."
I said nothing.
"I could help you out," he said.
"You already did."
"I need to do more. For the kid."
"Duffy?"
He shook his head. "No, Teresa."
"You got a connection?"
"I got a responsibility," he said.
"How?"
"I was her mentor," he said. "It worked out that way. You know how that is?"
I nodded. I knew exactly, totally, and completely how that was.
"Teresa worked for me for a spell," he said. "I trained her. I broke her in, basically. Then she moved up. But ten weeks ago she came back to me and asked if I thought she should accept this mission. She had doubts."
"But you said yes."
He nodded. "Like a damn fool."
"Could you really have stopped her?"
"Probably. She would have listened to me if I had made a case why she shouldn't do it. She'd have made up her own mind, but she'd have listened."
"I understand," I said.
And I did, no question about it. I left him standing there in the motel lot and slid into the car and watched him watch me drive away.
I stayed on Route One all the way through Biddeford and Saco and Old Orchard Beach and then struck out east on the long lonely road out to the house. I checked my watch as I got close and figured I had been away two whole hours, of which only forty minutes were legitimate. Twenty minutes to the warehouse, twenty back. But I didn't expect to have to explain myself to anybody. Beck would never know I hadn't come straight home and the others would never know I had been supposed to. I figured I was right there in the endgame, freewheeling toward victory.
But I was wrong.
I knew it before Paulie got halfway through opening the gate. He came out of his house and stepped across to the latch. He was wearing his suit. No coat. He lifted the latch by butting it upward with his clenched fist. Everything was still normal. I had seen him open the gate a dozen times and he was doing nothing he hadn't done before. He wrapped his fists around the bars. Pulled the gate. But before he got halfway through opening it he stopped it dead. He just made enough space to squeeze his giant frame through. Then he stepped out to meet me. He walked around toward my window and when he got six feet from the car he stopped and smiled and took two guns out of his pockets. It happened in less than a second. Two pockets, two hands, two guns. They were my Colt Anacondas. The steel looked dull in the gray light. I could see they were both loaded. There were bright snub-nose copper jackets winking at me from every chamber I could see. Remington.44 Magnums, without a doubt. Full metal jacket. Eighteen bucks for a box of twenty. Plus tax. Ninety-five cents each. Twelve of them. Eleven dollars and forty cents' worth of precision ammunition, ready to go, five dollars and seventy cents in each hand. And he was holding those hands very steady. They were like rocks. The left was aimed a little ahead of the Cadillac's front tire. The right was aimed directly at my head. His fingers were tight on the triggers. The muzzles weren't moving at all. Not even a fraction. He was like a statue.
I did all the usual things. I ran all the numbers. The Cadillac was a big car with long doors but he had put himself just far enough away that I couldn't jerk my door open and hit him with it. And the car was stationary. If I hit the gas he would fire both guns instantly. The bullet from the one in his right hand might well pass behind my head but the car's front tire would roll straight into the path of the one from his left. Then I would hit the gates hard and lose momentum and with a blown front tire and maybe with damaged steering I would be a sitting duck. He would fire ten more times and even if I wasn't killed outright I would be badly wounded and the car would be crippled. He could just step over and watch me bleed while he reloaded.
I could sneak it into reverse and howl away backward but reverse gear is pretty low on most cars and therefore I would be moving slowly. And I would be moving directly away from him in a perfectly straight line. No lateral displacement. None of the usual benefits of a moving target. And a Remington.44 Magnum leaves a gun barrel at more than eight hundred miles an hour. No easy way to outrun one.
I could try my Beretta. It would have to be a very fast snap shot through the window glass. But the window glass on a Cadillac is pretty thick. They make it that way to keep the interior quiet. Even if I got the gun out and fired before he did, it would be pure chance if I hit him. The glass would shatter for sure, but unless I took all the time I needed to make absolutely certain the trajectory was exactly perpendicular to the window the bullet would deflect. Perhaps radically. It could miss him altogether. And even if it hit him it would be pure chance if it hurt him. I remembered kicking him in the kidney. Unless I happened to hit him in the eye or straight through the heart he would think he had been stung by a bee.
I could buzz the window down. But it was very slow. And I could predict exactly what would happen. He would straighten his arm while the glass was moving and bring the right-hand Colt within three feet of my head. Even if I got the Beretta out real fast he would still have a hell of a jump on me. The odds were not good. Not good at all. Stay alive, Leon Garber used to say. Stay alive and see what the next minute brings.
Paulie dictated the next minute.
"Put it in Park," he yelled.
I heard him clearly, even through the thick glass. I moved the gearshift into Park.
"Right hand where I can see it," he yelled.
I put my right palm up against the window, fingers extended, just like when I signaled I see five people to Duke.
"Open the door with your left," he yelled.
I scrabbled blindly with my left hand and pulled the door release. Pushed on the glass with my right. The door swung open. Cold air came in. I felt it around my knees.
"Both hands where I can see them," he said. He spoke quieter, now the glass wasn't between us. He brought the left-hand Colt around on me, now the car was out of gear. I looked at the twin muzzles. It was like sitting on the foredeck of a battleship looking up at a pair of naval guns. I put both hands where he could see them.
"Feet out of the car," he said.
I swiveled on my butt, slowly on the leather. Got my feet out onto the blacktop. I felt like Terry Villanueva outside the college gate, early in the morning of day eleven.
"Stand up," he said. "Step away from the car."
I levered myself upright. Stepped away from the car. He pointed both guns directly at my chest. He was four feet away from me.
"Stand very still," he said.
I stood very still.
"Richard," he called.
Richard Beck came out of the gatehouse door. He was pale. I saw Elizabeth Beck behind him in the shadows. Her blouse was open at the front. She was clutching it tight around herself. Paulie grinned at me. A sudden, lunatic grin. But the guns didn't waver. Not even a fraction. They stayed rock steady.
"You came back a little too soon," he said. "I was about to make him have sex with his mother."
"Are you out of your mind?" I said. "What the hell is going on?"
"I got a call," he said. "That's what's going on."
I should have been back an hour and twenty minutes ago.
"Beck called you?"
"Not Beck," he said. "My boss."
"Xavier?" I said.
"Mr. Xavier," he said.
He stared at me, like a challenge. The guns didn't move.
"I went shopping," I said. Stay alive. See what the next minute brings.
"I don't care what you did."
"I couldn't find what I wanted. That's why I'm late."
"We expected you to be late."
"Why?"
"We got new information."
I said nothing to that.
"Walk backward," he said. "Through the gate."
He kept both guns four feet from my chest and walked forward while I walked backward through the gate. He matched me pace for pace. I stopped twenty feet inside, in the middle of the driveway. He stepped to one side and half-turned so he could cover me on his left and Richard and Elizabeth on his right.
"Richard," he called. "Close the gate."
He kept the left-hand Colt aimed at me and swung the right-hand Colt toward Richard. Richard saw it coming around at him and stepped up and grabbed the gate and pushed it shut. It clanged into place, loud and metallic.
"Chain it."
Richard fumbled with the chain. I heard it ringing and rattling against the iron. I heard the Cadillac, idling quietly and obediently forty feet away on the wrong side of the gate. I heard the waves pounding on the shore behind me, slow and regular and distant. I saw Elizabeth Beck in the gatehouse doorway. She was ten feet away from the big machine gun hanging on its chain. It had no safety catch. But Paulie was in the blind spot. The back window couldn't see him.
"Lock it," Paulie called.
Richard snapped the padlock shut.
"Now you and your mom go stand behind Reacher."
They met near the gatehouse door. Walked toward me. Passed right by me. They were both white and trembling. Richard's hair was blowing. I saw his scar. Elizabeth had her arms crossed tight against her chest. I heard them both stop behind me. Heard their shoes on the blacktop as they shuffled around to face my back. Paulie stepped over to the center of the driveway. He was ten feet away. Both barrels were aimed at my chest, one to the left side, one to the right. Jacketed.44 Magnums would go straight through me and probably straight through Richard and Elizabeth, too. They might make it all the way to the house. Might break a couple of first-floor windows.
"Now Reacher holds his arms out by his sides," Paulie called.
I held them out, away from my body, stiff and straight, angled down.
"Now Richard takes Reacher's coat off," Paulie called. "He pulls it down, from the collar."
I felt Richard's hands on my neck. They were cold. They grasped my collar and peeled the coat down. It slid off my shoulders and came down my arms. It pulled past one wrist, then past the other.
"Ball it up," Paulie called.
I heard Richard balling it up.
"Bring it here," Paulie called.
Richard came out from behind me carrying the balled coat. He got within five feet of Paulie and stopped.
"Throw it over the gate," Paulie said. "Real far."
Richard threw it over the gate. Real far. The arms flapped in the air and it sailed up and then down and I heard the dull padded thump of the Beretta in the pocket landing hard on the Cadillac's hood.
"Same thing with the jacket," Paulie said.
My jacket landed next to the coat on the Cadillac's hood and slid down the shiny paint and ended up on the road in a crumpled heap. I was cold. The wind was blowing and my shirt was thin. I could hear Elizabeth breathing behind me, fast and shallow. Richard was just standing there, five feet from Paulie, waiting for his next instruction.
"Now you and your mom walk fifty paces," Paulie said to him. "Back toward the house."
Richard turned and walked back and passed by me again. I heard his mother get in step with him. Heard them walk away together. I turned my head and saw them stop about forty yards back and turn around and face front again. Paulie tracked backward toward the gate, one pace, two, three. He stopped five feet from it. His back was to it. He had me fifteen feet in front of him and I guessed he could see Richard and Elizabeth over my shoulder, maybe a hundred feet farther on in the distance. We were all in a perfect straight line on the driveway, Paulie near the gate and facing the house, Richard and Elizabeth halfway to the house and facing back at him, me in the middle, trying to stay alive to see what the next minute would bring, facing Paulie, looking him square in the eye.
He smiled.
"OK," he said. "Now watch carefully."
He stayed facing me the whole time. He maintained eye contact. He crouched down and placed both guns on the blacktop by his feet and then flipped them backward toward the base of the gate. I heard their steel frames scraping on the rough surface. Saw them come to rest a yard behind him. Saw his hands come back, empty. He stood up again and showed me his palms.
"No guns," he said. "I'm going to beat you to death."
