by Lee Child
“Taylor was driving a Jaguar.”
“There you go. Their place must look like a luxury car lot by now.”
“Why are you so sure they’re going to call back?”
“Because of human nature. Right now they’re mad as hell. They’re kicking themselves. They know you, but maybe not all that well. They took a chance and asked for a million dollars in cash, and you bagged it up without a moment’s hesitation. You shouldn’t have done that. You should have gambled and stalled. Because now they’re saying, damn it, we should have asked for more. They’re saying, we should have tested the limits. So they’re going to get back on the phone and hit you up for another chunk. They’re going to feel out exactly how much cash you’ve got lying around. They’re going to bleed you dry.”
“Why wait so long?”
“Because it’s a significant change in strategy,” Reacher said. “Therefore they’re arguing about it. They’ve been arguing about it all day. That’s human nature, too. Three guys always argue, pro and con, stick to the plan or improvise, play it safe or take the risk.”
Nobody spoke.
“How much have you got in cash?” Reacher asked.
“I’m not going to tell you,” Lane said.
“Five million,” Reacher said. “That’s what they’ll ask for next. The phone is going to ring and they’re going to ask for another five million dollars.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned toward the phone. It didn’t ring.
“In another car,” Reacher said. “They must have a big barn.”
“Is Kate safe?” Lane asked.
“Right now, she’s as safe as houses,” Reacher said. “She’s their meal ticket. And you did the right thing, asking to hear her voice the first time. That set up a good pattern. They’ll have to repeat it. The problem will come after they’ve had the last payment. That’s the toughest part of any kidnap. Giving the money away is easy. Getting the person back is hard.”
The phone stayed silent.
“So should I stall?” Lane asked.
“I would,” Reacher said. “Parcel it out. Keep it going. Buy some time.”
The phone didn’t ring. No sound in the room except the hiss of cooled air and men breathing low. Reacher glanced around. Everyone was waiting patiently. Special Forces soldiers were good at waiting. For all the occasional spectacular action they saw, they spent a lot more time waiting, standing by, passing the time in readiness. And then nine times out of ten they were stood down, action canceled.
The phone didn’t ring.
“Good conclusions,” Lane said, to nobody in particular, through the silence. “Three guys, far away. Upstate. On a farm.”
But Reacher was completely wrong. Just four miles away through the electric city darkness, right there on the island of Manhattan, a lone man pushed open a door to a small, hot room. Then he stepped back. Kate Lane and her daughter Jade passed in front of him without meeting his eyes. They stepped inside the room and saw two beds. The beds looked hard and narrow. The room felt damp and unused. The window was draped with black cloth. The cloth was duct-taped to the walls, across the top, across the bottom, down both sides.
The lone man closed the door and walked away.
CHAPTER 5
The phone rang at exactly one o’clock in the morning. Lane snatched it out of the cradle and said, “Yes?” Reacher heard a faint voice from the earpiece, distorted twice, first by a machine and then again by a bad connection. Lane said, “What?” and there was a reply. Lane said, “Put Kate on the phone. You’ve got to do that first.” Then there was a pause, and then there was a different voice. A woman’s voice, distorted, panicked, breathy. It said just one word, possibly Lane’s name, and then it exploded in a scream. The scream died into silence and Lane screwed his eyes shut and the electronic robot voice came back and barked six short syllables. Lane said, “OK, OK, OK,” and Reacher heard the line go dead.
Lane sat in silence, his eyes clamped shut, his breathing fast and ragged. Then his eyes opened and moved from face to face and stopped on Reacher’s.
“Five million dollars,” he said. “You were right. How did you know?”
“It was the obvious next step,” Reacher said. “One, five, ten, twenty. That’s how people think.”
“You’ve got a crystal ball. You can see the future. I’m putting you on the payroll. Twenty-five grand a month, like all these guys.”
“This isn’t going to last a month,” Reacher said. “It can’t. It’s going to be all over in a couple of days.”
“I agreed to the money,” Lane said. “I couldn’t stall. They were hurting her.”
Reacher nodded. Said nothing.
Gregory asked, “Instructions later?”
“In an hour,” Lane said.
The room went quiet again. More waiting. All around the room men checked their watches and settled back imperceptibly. Lane put the silent handset back in the cradle and stared off into space. But Reacher leaned forward and tapped him on the knee.
“We need to talk,” he said, quietly.
“About what?”
“Background. We should try to figure out who these guys are.”
“OK,” Lane said, vaguely. “We’ll go to the office.”
He stood up slowly and led Reacher out of the living room and through a kitchen to a maid’s room in back. It was small and plain and square and had been fixed up as an office. Desk, computer, fax machine, phones, file cabinets, shelves.
“Tell me about Operational Security Consultants,” Reacher said.
Lane sat down in the desk chair and turned it to face the room.
“Not much to tell,” he said. “We’re just a bunch of ex-military trying to keep busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever people need. Bodyguarding, mostly. Corporate security. Like that.”
There were two framed photographs on the desk. One was a smaller reprint of Kate’s stunning picture from the living room. A seven-by-five instead of a fourteen-by-eleven, in a similar expensive gold frame. The other was of another woman, about the same age, blonde where Kate was dark, blue eyes instead of green. But just as beautiful, and photographed just as masterfully.
“Bodyguarding?” Reacher said.
“Mostly.”
“You’re not convincing me, Mr. Lane. Bodyguards don’t make twenty-five grand a month. Bodyguards are big dumb lumps lucky to make a tenth of that. And if you had guys trained for close personal protection you’d have sent one of them out with Kate and Jade yesterday morning. Taylor driving, maybe Gregory riding shotgun. But you didn’t, which suggests that bodyguarding isn’t exactly the business you’re in.”
“My business is confidential,” Lane said.
“Not anymore. Not if you want your wife and daughter back.”
No reply.
“A Jaguar, a Mercedes, and a BMW,” Reacher said. “Plus more where they came from, I’m sure. Plus a co-op in the Dakota. Plus lots of cash lying around. Plus half a dozen guys on twenty-five grand a month. Altogether big bucks.”
“All legal.”
“Except you don’t want the cops involved.”
Involuntarily Lane glanced at the photograph of the blonde woman.
“No connection,” he said. “That’s not the reason.”
Reacher followed Lane’s gaze.
“Who is she?” he asked.
“Was,” Lane said.
“Was what?”
“Anne,” Lane said. “She was my first wife.”
“And?”
Silence for a long moment.
“You see, I’ve been through this before,” Lane said. “Five years ago. Anne was taken from me. In just the same way. But back then I followed procedure. I called the cops, even though the men on the phone had been very clear that I shouldn’t. The cops called the FBI.”
“And what happened?”
“The FBI screwed up somehow,” Lane said. “They must have been spotted at the ransom drop. Anne died. They found her body a mon
th later in New Jersey.”
Reacher said nothing.
“That’s why there’s no cops this time,” Lane said.
CHAPTER 6
Reacher and Lane sat in silence for a long time. Then Reacher said, “Fifty-five minutes. You should be ready for the next call.”
“You’re not wearing a watch,” Lane said.
“I always know what time it is.”
Reacher followed him back to the living room. Lane stood by the table again, with his fingers spread on the surface. Reacher guessed he wanted to take the call with his men all around him. Maybe he needed the comfort. Or the support.
The phone rang right on time, at two o’clock in the morning exactly. Lane picked it up and listened. Reacher heard faint robot squawks from the earpiece. Lane said, “Put Kate on,” but his request must have been refused, because then he said, “Please don’t hurt her.” He listened for another minute and said, “OK.” Then he hung up.
“Five hours from now,” he said. “Seven o’clock in the morning. Same place, same routine. The blue BMW. One person only.”
“I’ll do it,” Gregory said.
The other men in the room stirred with frustration. “We should all be there,” one of them said. He was a small dark American who looked like an accountant, except for his eyes, which were as flat and dead as a hammerhead shark’s. “Ten minutes later we would know where she is. I can promise you that.”
“One man,” Lane said. “That was the instruction.”
“This is New York City,” the guy with the shark’s eyes said. “There are always people around. They can’t be expecting deserted streets.”
“Apparently they know us,” Lane said. “They would recognize you.”
“I could go,” Reacher said. “They wouldn’t recognize me.”
“You came in with Gregory. They might be watching the building.”
“Conceivable,” Reacher said. “But unlikely.”
Lane said nothing.
“Your call,” Reacher said.
“I’ll think about it,” Lane said.
“Think fast. Better if I leave here well in advance.”
“Decision in one hour,” Lane said. He moved away from the phone and headed back toward the office. Gone to count out the money, Reacher thought. He wondered briefly what five million dollars looked like. The same as one million, he guessed. But with hundreds instead of twenties.
“How much money has he got?” Reacher asked.
“A lot,” Gregory said.
“He’s down six million in two days.”
The guy with the shark’s eyes smiled.
“We’ll get it back,” he said. “You can count on that. As soon as Kate’s home safe we’ll make our move. Then we’ll see who’s down and who’s up. Someone poked a stick in the wrong hornets’ nest this time, that’s for damn sure. And they wasted Taylor. He was one of us. They’ll be sorry they were ever born.”
Reacher glanced into the guy’s empty eyes and believed every word he said. Then the guy stuck out his hand, abruptly. And a little warily. “I’m Carter Groom,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you. I think. I mean, as much as I can be, given the circumstances.”
The four other men introduced themselves with a quiet cascade of names and handshakes. Each man was polite, nothing more. Each was full of reserve in front of a stranger. Reacher tried to tie the names to faces. Gregory he already knew. A guy with a big scar over his eye was called Addison. The shortest guy among them was a Latino called Perez. The tallest was called Kowalski. There was a black guy called Burke.
“Lane told me you do bodyguarding and corporate security,” Reacher said.
Sudden silence. No reply.
“Don’t worry,” Reacher said. “I wasn’t convinced anyway. My guess is you guys were all operational noncoms. Fighting men. So I think your Mr. Lane is into something else entirely.”
“Like what?” Gregory asked.
“I think he’s pimping mercenaries,” Reacher said.
The guy called Groom shook his head. “Wrong choice of words, pal.”
“What would be the right choice?”
“We’re a private military corporation,” Groom said. “You got a problem with that?”
“I don’t really have an opinion.”
“Well, you better get one, and it better be a good one. We’re legal. We work for the Pentagon, just like we always did, and just like you did, back in the day.”
“Privatization,” Burke said. “The Pentagon loves it. It’s more efficient. The era of big government is over.”
“How many guys have you got?” Reacher asked. “Just what’s here?”
Groom shook his head again. “We’re the A-team. Like senior NCOs. Then there’s a Rolodex full of B-team squad members. We took a hundred guys to Iraq.”
“Is that where you’ve been? Iraq?”
“And Colombia and Panama and Afghanistan. We go anywhere Uncle Sam needs us.”
“What about where Uncle Sam doesn’t need you?”
Nobody spoke.
“My guess is the Pentagon pays by check,” Reacher said. “But there seems to be an awful lot of cash around here, too.”
No response.
“Africa?” Reacher said.
No response.
“Whatever,” Reacher said. “Not my business where you’ve been. All I need to know is where Mrs. Lane has been. For the last couple of weeks.”
“What difference does that make?” Kowalski asked.
“There was some surveillance,” Reacher said. “Don’t you think? I don’t suppose the bad guys were just hanging out at Bloomingdale’s every day on the off chance.”
“Mrs. Lane was in the Hamptons,” Gregory said. “With Jade, most of the summer. They only came back three days ago.”
“Who drove them back?”
“Taylor.”
“And then they were based here?”
“Correct.”
“Anything happen out in the Hamptons?”
“Like what?” Groom asked.
“Like anything unusual,” Reacher said. “Anything out of the ordinary.”
“Not really,” Groom said.
“A woman showed up at the door one day,” Gregory said.
“What kind of a woman?”
“Just a woman. She was fat.”
“Fat?”
“Kind of heavyset. About forty. Long hair, center part. Mrs. Lane took her walking on the beach. Then the woman left. I figured it was a friend on a visit.”
“Ever saw her before?”
Gregory shook his head. “Maybe an old friend. From the past.”
“What did Mrs. Lane and Jade do after they got back here to the city?”
“I don’t think they did anything yet.”
“No, she went out once,” Groom said. “Mrs. Lane, I mean. Not Jade. On her own, shopping. I drove her.”
“Where?” Reacher asked.
“Staples.”
“The office supply store?” Reacher had seen them all over. A big chain, red and white décor, huge places full of stuff he had no need of. “What did she buy?”
“Nothing,” Groom said. “I waited twenty minutes on the curb, and she didn’t bring anything out.”
“Maybe she arranged a delivery,” Gregory said.
“She could have done that on-line. No need to drag me out in the car.”
“So maybe she was just browsing,” Gregory said.
“Weird place to browse,” Reacher said. “Who does that?”
“School is back soon,” Groom said. “Maybe Jade needed stuff.”
“In which case she’d have gone along,” Reacher said. “Don’t you think? And she’d have bought something.”
“Did she take something in?” Gregory asked. “Maybe she was returning something.”
“She had her tote,” Groom said. “It’s possible.” Then he looked up, beyond Reacher’s shoulder. Edward Lane was back in the room. He was carrying a large leather duffel
, and struggling with its bulk. Five million dollars, Reacher thought. So that’s what it looks like. Lane dropped the bag on the floor at the entrance to the foyer. It thumped down on the hardwood and settled like the carcass of a small fat animal.
“I need to see a picture of Jade,” Reacher said.
“Why?” Lane asked.
“Because you want me to pretend I’m a cop. And pictures are the first things cops want to see.”
“Bedroom,” Lane said.
So Reacher fell in behind him and followed him to a bedroom. It was another tall square space, painted a chalky off-white, as serene as a monastery and as quiet as a tomb. There was a cherrywood king-sized bed with pencil posts at the corners. Matching tables at each side. A matching armoire that might have held a television set. A matching desk, with a chair standing in front of it and a framed photograph sitting on it. The photograph was a ten-by-eight, rectangular, set horizontal, not vertical, on the axis that photographers call landscape, not portrait. But it was a portrait. That was for sure. It was a portrait of two people. On the right was Kate Lane. It was the same shot as in the living room print. The same pose, the same eyes, the same developing smile. But the living room print had been cropped to exclude the object of her affection, which was her daughter Jade. Jade was on the left of the bedroom picture. Her pose was a mirror-image of her mother’s. They were about to look at each other, love in their eyes, smiles about to break out on their faces like they were sharing a private joke. In the picture Jade was maybe seven years old. She had long dark hair, slightly wavy, as fine as silk. She had green eyes and porcelain skin. She was a beautiful kid. It was a beautiful photograph.
“May I?” Reacher asked.
Lane nodded. Said nothing. Reacher picked the picture up and looked closer. The photographer had caught the bond between mother and child perfectly and completely. Quite apart from the similarity in appearance there was no doubt about their relationship. No doubt at all. They were mother and daughter. But they were also friends. They looked like they shared a lot. It was a great picture.
“Who took this?” Reacher asked.
“I found a guy downtown,” Lane said. “Quite famous. Very expensive.”
Reacher nodded. Whoever the guy was, he was worth his fee. Although the print quality wasn’t quite as good as the living room copy. The colors were a little less subtle and the contours of the faces were a little plastic. Maybe it was a machine print. Maybe Lane’s budget hadn’t run to a custom hand-print where his stepdaughter was concerned.
