Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  She lifted out the guy’s intestines.

  They made a shining, glistening pink mass about the size of a soft soccer ball. Coiled, sloppy, moving, wet and steaming.

  She laid the mass on the guy’s chest, quite gently.

  Then she slid off the rock and stepped out of the frame.

  The camera’s unblinking eye stared on.

  The taxi driver looked down in horror.

  Lila Hoth said, “Now it’s just a matter of time. The cut doesn’t kill them. We don’t sever any important vessels. The bleeding stops quite fast. It’s about pain and shock and infection. The strong ones resist all three. They die of hypothermia, we think. Their core temperature is compromised, obviously. It depends on the weather. Our record is eighteen hours. People say they’ve seen two full days, but I don’t believe them.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “That’s what Peter Molina said.”

  “He saw this?”

  “He’s on it. Keep watching. Fast forward, if you like. Without the sound it’s not so much fun anyway.”

  I checked all around the room again. Three people, working hard. I put the fat hand on the fast forward button and clicked. The picture leapt into fast motion. The taxi driver’s head moved back and forth through a tiny jerky arc.

  Lila Hoth said, “Normally we don’t do this one at a time. It’s better to have a sequence. The second guy waits until the first guy dies, and so on. It builds up the dread. You should see them, just willing the previous guy to live a minute longer. But eventually they die, and the spotlight moves on. That’s when they have heart attacks. You know, if they’re going to. If they’re susceptible. But we can’t always arrange a live sequence. That’s why we use the video now, for an approximation.”

  I wanted to tell her she was crazy again, but I didn’t, because she would have told me about Peter Molina again.

  “Keep watching,” she said.

  The picture spooled onward. The taxi driver’s arms and legs twitched. Strange brittle movements, at double speed. His head rolled left and right.

  Lila Hoth said, “Peter Molina saw all of this. He was willing the guy to hold on. Which was strange, because of course the guy died months ago. But that’s the effect. Like I told you, the video is a fair equivalent.”

  “You’re sick,” I said. “You’re also dead. You know that? Like you just stepped out in the road. The truck hasn’t hit you yet, but it’s going to.”

  “Are you the truck?”

  “You bet your ass.”

  “I’m glad. Keep watching.”

  I clicked the fast forward button again and again, and the picture sped up to four times normal speed, then eight, then sixteen, then thirty-two. Time rushed by. An hour. Ninety minutes. Then the image went perfectly still. The taxi driver stopped moving. He lay completely inert for a long time and then Lila Hoth rushed into the frame. I hit the play button to get back to normal speed. Lila bent near the guy’s head and felt for a pulse. Then she raised her head and smiled a happy smile.

  Straight at the camera.

  Straight at me.

  On the phone she asked, “Is it over yet?”

  I said, “Yes.”

  “A disappointment. He didn’t last long. He was sick. He had parasites. Worms. We could see them writhing in his guts the whole time. It was disgusting. I guess they died too. Parasites die if their host dies.”

  “Like you’re going to die.”

  “We’re all going to die, Reacher. The only questions are when and how.”

  Behind me one of the business executives got up and headed for the door. I turned in my chair and tried to keep my body between him and the screen. I don’t think I succeeded. He looked at me strangely and left the room.

  Or maybe he had heard my end of the phone conversation.

  “Keep watching,” Lila said in my ear.

  I hit fast forward again. The taxi driver lay dead near Kabul for a spell and then the picture shut down and was replaced by a flurry of video noise. Then it opened up on a new scene. I hit play. Normal speed. An interior. Same kind of harsh light. Impossible to say whether it was night or day. Impossible to say where it was. A basement, maybe. Floor and walls seemed to be painted white. There was a broad stone slab, like a table. Smaller than the Afghan rock. Rectangular, manufactured for a purpose. Part of an old kitchen, possibly.

  A huge young man was tied to the slab.

  He was maybe half my age and twenty percent bigger all around.

  He’s three hundred pounds of muscle, Jacob Mark had said. He’s going to the NFL.

  Lila Hoth asked, “Do you see him yet?”

  “I see him.”

  He was naked. Very white under the lights. Different in every way from the Kabul taxi driver. Pale skin, tousled fair hair. No beard. But he was moving just the same. His head was jerking back and forth and he was screaming words. No! and Please! are recognizable in any language. And this was English. I could lip read quite easily. I could even sense the tone. Disbelief, mainly. The kind of tone a person uses when what was assumed to be an empty threat or even a cruel joke turns out to have been deadly serious.

  I said, “I’m not going to watch this.”

  Lila Hoth said, “You should. Or you’ll never be sure. Maybe we let him go.”

  “When was this?”

  “We set a deadline and we kept it.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Watch it.”

  “No.”

  She said, “But I want you to watch it. I need you to watch it. It’s a question of maintaining the sequence. Because I think you’re going to be next.”

  “Think again.”

  “Watch it.”

  I watched it. Maybe we let him go. You’ll never be sure.

  They didn’t let him go.

  Chapter 64

  Afterward I hung up the phone and put the DVD in my pocket and made it to the lobby restroom and threw up in a stall. Not really because of the pictures. I have seen worse. But because of anger and fury and frustration. All those corrosive emotions boiled up inside me and had to find some release. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face and drank some water from the tap and stood for a moment in front of the mirror.

  Then I emptied my pockets. I kept my cash, and my passport, and my ATM card, and my subway card, and Theresa Lee’s NYPD business card. I kept my toothbrush. I kept the phone that had rung. I dumped the other two phones in the trash, with the emergency charger, and the business card from the four dead guys, and the notes Theresa Lee had made from her partner’s messages.

  I dumped the DVD, too.

  And the Radio Shack memory stick, pink sleeve and all.

  I didn’t need a decoy anymore.

  Then, cleansed, I headed out to see if Springfield was still around.

  He was. He was in the lobby bar, in a chair, with his back to a right-angle corner. He had a glass of water on the table in front of him. He was relaxed, but he was watching everything. You can take the man out of Special Forces, and so on and so forth. He saw me coming. I sat down next to him. He asked, “Was it folk music?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was folk music.”

  “On a DVD?”

  “There was some dancing, too.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve gone all pale. Afghan folk dancing is pretty bad, I know, but it ain’t that bad.”

  “It was two guys,” I said. “They had their bellies slit open and their guts lifted out.”

  “Live on camera?”

  “And then dead on camera.”

  “Soundtrack?”

  “Silent.”

  “Who were the guys?”

  “One was a taxi driver from Kabul and the other was Susan Mark’s son.”

  “I don’t take taxis in Kabul. I prefer my own transportation. But it sucks for USC. They’re down a defensive tackle. Hard to find. I checked him out. Great feet, they say.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Are the Hoths on the tape?
”

  I nodded. “Like a confession.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They know we’re going to kill them anyway. Doesn’t really matter what we kill them for.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Wise up, Reacher. That was the whole point of sending you the package. They want to make you mad and suck you in. They can’t find you. So they want you to come find them.”

  “Which I will.”

  “Your future plans are your business. But you need to take care. You need to understand. Because this has been their tactic for two hundred years. That’s why their abuse was always within earshot of the front lines. They wanted to bring out the rescue parties. Or provoke revenge attacks. They wanted a never-ending supply of prisoners. Ask the British. Or the Russians.”

  “I’ll take plenty of care.”

  “I’m sure you’ll try. But you’re not going anywhere until we’ve finished with you, about the train.”

  “Your guy saw what I saw.”

  “It’s in your interests to help us.”

  “Not so far. All I have is promises.”

  “All charges will be dropped when we have the memory stick in our possession.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “You want it in writing?”

  “No, I want the charges dropped now. I need some freedom of action here. I can’t be looking out for cops the whole time.”

  “Freedom of action for what?”

  “You know what.”

  “OK, I’ll do what I can.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “I can’t give you guarantees. All I can do is try.”

  “What are the chances you can succeed?”

  “None at all. But Sansom can.”

  “Are you authorized to speak for him?”

  “I’ll have to call him.”

  “Tell him no more bullshit, OK? We’re past that stage now.”

  “OK.”

  “And talk to him about Theresa Lee and Jacob Mark, too. And Docherty. I want a clean slate for all of them.”

  “OK.”

  “And Jacob Mark is going to need counseling. Especially if he sees a copy of that DVD.”

  “He won’t.”

  “But I want him looked after. The ex–husband, as well. Molina.”

  “OK.”

  “Two more things,” I said.

  “You drive a hard bargain, for a guy with nothing to offer.”

  “Homeland Security traced the Hoths coming in from Tajikistan with their crew. Three months ago. Some kind of a computer algorithm. I want to know how many people were in the party.”

  “To estimate the size of the opposing force?” “Exactly.” “And?”

  “I want to meet with Sansom again.” “Why?”

  “I want him to tell me what is on that memory stick.” “Not going to happen.”

  “Then he doesn’t get it back. I’ll keep it and take a look for myself.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You’ve actually got the stick?”

  “No,” I said. “But I know where it is.”

  Chapter 65

  Springfield asked, “Where is it?”

  I said, “I can’t volunteer information.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  I shook my head. “Not this time.”

  “You sure? You can take us there?”

  “I can get you within fifteen feet. The rest is up to you.”

  “Why? Is it buried? In a bank vault? In a house?”

  “None of the above.”

  “So where is it?”

  “Call Sansom,” I said. “Set up a meeting.”

  Springfield finished what was left of his water and a waiter came by with the check. Springfield paid with his platinum card, the same way he had for both of us at the Four Seasons. Which I had taken to be a good sign. It had indicated a positive dynamic. So I chose to push my luck a little further.

  “Want to get me a room?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s going to take time for Sansom to get me off the most-wanted list. And I’m tired. I was up all night. I want to take a nap.”

  Ten minutes later we were on a high floor, in a room with a queen-sized bed. A nice space, but tactically unsatisfactory. Like all high-floor hotel rooms it had a window that was no good to me and therefore only one way out. I could see that Springfield was thinking the same thing. He was thinking I was a lunatic to put myself in there.

  I asked him, “Can I trust you?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Give me your gun.”

  “I’m not armed.”

  “Answers like that don’t help with the trust thing.”

  “Why do you want it?”

  “You know why. So if you bring the wrong people to my door I can defend myself.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Reassure me.”

  He stood still for a long moment. I knew he would rather stick a needle in his eye than give up his weapon. But he ran some calculations in his head and reached around under his suit coat to the small of his back and came out with a nine-millimeter Steyr GB pistol. The Steyr GB had been the sidearm of choice for 1980s-era U.S. Special Forces. He reversed it and handed it to me butt-first. It was a fine old piece, well worn but well maintained. It had eighteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He didn’t reply. Just walked out of the room. I double-locked the door after him, and put the chain on, and propped a chair under the handle. I emptied my pockets on the night stand. I put my clothes under the mattress to press. I took a long hot shower.

  Then I lay down and went to sleep, with Springfield’s gun under the pillow.

  I was woken up four hours later by a knock at the door. I don’t like to look through spy holes in hotel doors. Too vulnerable. All an assailant in the corridor has to do is wait until the lens darkens and then fire a gun straight through it. Even a silenced .22 would be completely lethal. There is nothing very substantial between the cornea and the brain stem. But there was a full-length mirror on the wall inside the door. For last-minute clothing checks, I guessed, before going out. I took a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around my waist and collected the gun from under the pillow. I moved the chair and opened the door against the chain. Stood back on the hinge side and checked the view in the mirror.

  Springfield, and Sansom.

  It was a narrow crack and the image was reversed by the mirror and the corridor lighting was dim, but I recognized them easily enough. They were alone, as far as I could tell. And they were going to stay alone, unless they had brought more than nineteen people with them. No safety catch on the Steyr. Just a hefty double-action pull for the first shot, and then eighteen more. I took the slack out of the trigger and the chain off the door.

  They were alone.

  They came in, Sansom first, and then Springfield. Sansom looked the same as the morning I first saw him. Tanned, rich, powerful, full of energy and charisma. He was in a navy suit with a white shirt and a red tie and he looked as fresh as a daisy. He took the chair I had been using under the door handle and carried it back to the table near the window and sat down. Springfield closed the door and put the chain back on. I kept hold of the gun. I nudged the mattress off the box spring with my knee and pulled my clothes out one-handed.

  “Two minutes,” I said. “Talk among yourselves.”

  I dressed in the bathroom and came back out and Sansom asked, “Do you really know where that memory stick is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I really do.”

  “Why do you want to know what’s on it?”

  “Because I want to know how embarrassing it is.”

  “You don’t want me in the Senate?”

  “I don’t care how you spend your time. I’m curious, that’s all.”

  He asked, “Why won’t you te
ll me where it is right now?”

  “Because I have something else to do first. And I need you to keep the cops out of my hair while I’m doing it. So I need a way of keeping your mind on the job.”

  “You could be conning me.”

  “I could be, but I’m not.”

  He said nothing back.

  I asked, “Why do you want to be in the Senate anyway?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You were a good soldier and now you’re richer than God. Why not go live on the beach?”

  “These things are a way of keeping score. I’m sure you have your own way of keeping score.”

  I nodded. “I compare the number of answers I get to the number of questions I ask.”

  “And how are you doing with that?”

  “Lifetime average close to a thousand.”

  “Why ask at all? If you know where the stick is, just go get it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s going to take more resources than I could mobilize.”

  “Where is it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Is it here in New York?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He asked, “Is it secure?”

  I said, “It’s safe enough.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Plenty of people have.”

  “And?”

  “I think most of them would be willing to give me a character reference.”

  “And the others?”

  “There’s no pleasing some folks.”

  He said, “I saw your service record.”

  I said, “You told me that.”

  “It was mixed.”

  “I tried my best. But I had a mind of my own.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  “I got bored. You?”

  “I got old.”

  “What is on that stick?”

  He didn’t answer. Springfield was standing mute, in the lee of the TV cabinet, closer to the door than the window. Pure habit, I guessed. Simple reflex. He was invisible to a potential external sniper and close enough to the corridor to be all over an intruder the second the door swung open. Training stays with a person. Especially Delta training. I stepped over and gave him his gun back. He took it without a word and put it in his waistband.