by Lee Child
“He hired them,” she said. “They’re delivering something today.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t say.”
“What kind of something?”
“Doesn’t say. Eighteen items at fifty-five dollars each. Almost a thousand dollars’ worth of something.”
“Where to now?” Villanueva said.
We were off the bridge and looping north and west, with the park on our left.
“Make the second right,” I said.
We pulled straight into Missionary House’s underground garage. There was a rent-a-cop in a fancy uniform in a booth. He logged us in without paying a whole lot of attention. Then Villanueva showed him his DEA badge and told him to sit tight and keep quiet. Told him not to call anybody. Behind him the garage was quiet. There were maybe eighty spaces and fewer than a dozen cars in them. But one of them was the gray Grand Marquis I had seen outside Beck’s warehouse that morning.
“This is where I took the photographs,” Duffy said.
We drove to the back of the garage and parked in a corner. Got out and took the elevator up one floor to the lobby. There was some tired marble decor and a building directory. The Xavier Export Company shared the fourth floor with a law firm called Lewis, Strange & Greville. We were happy about that. It meant there would be an interior hallway up there. We wouldn’t be stepping straight out of the elevator into Quinn’s offices.
We got back in the elevator and pressed 4. Faced front. The doors closed and the motor whined. We stopped on four. We heard voices. The elevator bell pinged. The doors opened. The hallway was full of lawyers. There was a mahogany door on the left with a brass plate marked Lewis, Strange & Greville, Attorneys at Law. It was open and three people had come out through it and were standing around waiting for one of them to close it. Two men, one woman. They were in casual clothes. They were all carrying briefcases. They all looked happy. They all turned and looked at us. We stepped out of the elevator. They smiled and nodded at us, like you do with strangers in a small hallway. Or maybe they thought we had come to consult with them on a legal matter. Villanueva smiled back and nodded toward Xavier Export’s door. It’s not you we’re looking for. It’s them. The woman lawyer looked away and squeezed past us into the elevator. Her partners locked up their office and joined her. The elevator doors closed on them and we heard the car whining down.
“Witnesses,” Duffy whispered. “Shit.”
Villanueva pointed at Xavier Export’s door. “And there’s someone in there. Those lawyers didn’t seem surprised that we should be up here at this time on a Saturday. So they must know there’s someone in there. Maybe they thought we’ve got an appointment or something.”
I nodded. “One of the cars in the garage was at Beck’s warehouse this morning.”
“Quinn?” Duffy said.
“I sincerely hope so.”
“We agreed, Teresa first,” Villanueva said. “Then Quinn.”
“I’m changing the plan,” I said. “I’m not walking away. Not if he’s in there. Not if he’s a target of opportunity.”
“But we can’t go in anyway,” Duffy said. “We’ve been seen.”
“You can’t go in,” I said. “I can.”
“What, alone?”
“That’s the way I want it. Him and me.”
“We left a trail.”
“So roll it up. Go back to the garage and drive away. The guard will log you out. Then call this office five minutes later. Between the garage log and the phone log it’ll be on record that nothing happened while you were here.”
“But what about you? It’ll be on record that we left you in here.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I don’t think the garage guy paid that much attention. I don’t think he counted heads or anything. He just wrote down the plate number.”
She said nothing.
“I don’t care anyway,” I said. “I’m a hard person to find. And I plan to get harder.”
She looked at the law firm’s door. Then at Xavier Export’s. Then at the elevator. Then at me.
“OK,” she said. “We’ll leave you to it. I really don’t want to, but I really have to, you understand?”
“Completely,” I said.
“Teresa might be in there with him,” Villanueva whispered.
I nodded. “If she is, I’ll bring her to you. Meet me at the end of the street. Ten minutes after you make the phone call.”
They both hesitated and then Duffy put her finger on the elevator call button. We heard noises in the shaft as the machinery started.
“Take care,” she said.
The bell pinged and the doors opened. They stepped in. Villanueva glanced out at me and hit the button for the lobby and the doors closed on them like theater curtains and they were gone. I stepped away and leaned on the wall on the far side of Quinn’s door. It felt good to be alone. I put my hand around the Beretta’s grip in my pocket and waited. I imagined Duffy and Villanueva stepping out of the elevator and walking to their car. Driving it out of the garage. Getting noticed by the guard. Parking around the corner and calling information. Getting Quinn’s number. I turned and stared at the door. Imagined Quinn on the other side of it, at his desk, with a phone in front of him. I stared at the door like I could see him right through it.
The first time I ever saw him was on the actual day of the bust. Frasconi had done well with the Syrian. The guy was all squared away. Frasconi was very adequate in a situation like that. Give him time and a clear objective and he could deliver. The Syrian brought cash money with him from inside his embassy and we all sat down together in front of the judge advocate and counted it. There was fifty thousand dollars. We figured it was the final installment of many. We marked each bill separately. We even marked the briefcase. We put the judge advocate’s initials on it with clear nail varnish, near one of the hinges. The judge advocate wrote up an affidavit for the file and Frasconi held on to the Syrian, and Kohl and I moved into position ready for the surveillance itself. Her photographer was already standing by in a second-floor window in a building across the street from the café and twenty yards south. The judge advocate joined us ten minutes later. We were using a utility truck parked at the curb. It had portholes with one-way glass. Kohl had borrowed it from the FBI. She had drafted three grunts to complete the illusion. They were wearing power company overalls and actually digging up the street.
We waited. There was no conversation. There wasn’t much air in the truck. The weather was warm again. Frasconi released the Syrian after forty minutes. He came strolling into view from the north. He had been warned what would happen if he gave us away. Kohl had written the script and Frasconi had delivered it. They were threats we probably wouldn’t have carried out. But he didn’t know that. I guess they were plausible, based on what happened to people in Syria.
He sat down at a sidewalk table. He was ten feet from us. He put his briefcase on the floor, level with the side of the table. It was like a second guest. The waiter came and took his order. Came back after a minute with an espresso. The Syrian lit a cigarette. Smoked it halfway down and crushed it out in the ashtray.
“The Syrian is waiting,” Kohl said, quietly. She had a tape recorder running. Her idea was to have a real-time audio record as a backup. She was wearing her dress greens, ready for the arrest. She looked real good in them.
“Check,” the judge said. “The Syrian is waiting.”
The Syrian finished his coffee and waved to the waiter for another. He lit another cigarette.
“Does he always smoke so much?” I asked.
“Why?” Kohl said.
“Is he warning Quinn off?”
“No, he always smokes,” Kohl said.
“OK,” I said. “But they’re bound to have an abort sign.”
“He won’t use it. Frasconi really put a fright in him.”
We waited. The Syrian finished his second cigarette. He put his hands flat on the table. He drummed his fingers. He looked OK. He looked
like a guy waiting for another guy who was maybe a little overdue. He lit another cigarette.
“I don’t like all this smoking,” I said.
“Relax, he’s always like this,” Kohl said.
“Makes him look nervous. Quinn could pick up on it.”
“It’s normal. He’s from the Middle East.”
We waited. I watched the crowd build up. It was close to lunch time.
“Now Quinn is approaching,” Kohl said.
“Check,” the judge replied. “Quinn is approaching now.”
I looked to the south. Saw a tidy-looking guy, neat and trim, maybe six feet one and a little under two hundred pounds. He looked a little younger than forty. He had black hair with a little gray in it in front of his ears. He was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a dull red tie. He looked just like everybody else in D.C. He moved fast, but he made it look slow. He was neat in his movements. Clearly fit and athletic. Almost certainly a jogger. He was carrying a Halliburton briefcase. It was the exact twin of the Syrian’s. It flashed slightly gold in the sunlight.
The Syrian laid his cigarette in the ashtray and sketched a wave. He looked a little uneasy, but I guessed that was appropriate. Big-time espionage in the heart of your enemy’s capital is not a game. Quinn saw him and moved toward him. The Syrian stood up and they shook hands across the table. I smiled. They had a smart system going. It was a tableau so familiar in Georgetown that it was almost invisible. An American in a suit shaking hands with a foreigner across a table loaded with coffee cups and ashtrays. They both sat down. Quinn shuffled on his chair and got comfortable and placed his briefcase tight alongside the one that was already there. At a casual glance the two cases looked like one in a larger size.
“Briefcases are adjacent,” Kohl said, into the microphone.
“Check,” the judge said. “The briefcases are adjacent.”
The waiter came back with the Syrian’s second espresso. Quinn said something to the waiter and he left again. The Syrian said something to Quinn. Quinn smiled. It was a smile of pure control. Pure satisfaction. The Syrian said something else. He was playing his part. He thought he was saving his life. Quinn craned his neck and looked for the waiter. The Syrian picked up his cigarette again and turned his head the other way and blew smoke directly at us. Then he put the cigarette out in the ashtray. The waiter came back with Quinn’s drink. A large cup. Probably white coffee. The Syrian sipped his espresso. Quinn drank his coffee. They didn’t talk.
“They’re nervous,” Kohl said.
“Excited,” I said. “They’re nearly through. This is the last meeting. The end is in sight. For both of them. They just want to get it done.”
“Watch the briefcases,” Kohl said.
“Watching them,” the judge replied.
Quinn put his cup down on the saucer. Scraped his chair back. Reached forward with his right hand. Picked up the Syrian’s case.
“Quinn has the Syrian’s case,” the judge said.
Quinn stood up. Said one last thing and turned around and walked away. There was a spring in his step. We watched him until he was out of sight. The Syrian was left with the check. He paid it and walked away north, until Frasconi stepped out of a doorway and took his arm and led him right back toward us. Kohl opened up the truck’s rear door and Frasconi pushed the guy inside. We didn’t have much space, with five people in the truck.
“Open the case,” the judge said.
Up close the Syrian looked a lot more nervous than he had through the glass. He was sweating and he didn’t smell too good. He laid the case flat on the floor and squatted in front of it. Glanced at each of us in turn and clicked the catches and lifted the lid.
The case was empty.
I heard the phone ring inside the Xavier Export Company’s office. The door was thick and heavy and the sound was muffled and far away. But it was a phone, and it was ringing exactly five minutes after Duffy and Villanueva must have left the garage. It rang twice and was answered. I didn’t hear any conversation. I guessed Duffy would make up some kind of a wrong-number story. I guessed she would keep it going just long enough to look significant in a phone log. I gave it a minute. Nobody keeps a bogus call going longer than sixty seconds.
I took the Beretta out of my pocket and pulled open the door. Stepped inside into a wide-open reception area. There was dark wood and carpet. An office to the left, closed up. An office to the right, closed up. A reception desk in front of me. A person at the desk, in the act of hanging up a phone. Not Quinn. It was a woman. She was maybe thirty years old. She had fair hair. Blue eyes. In front of her was an acetate plaque in a wooden holder. It said: Emily Smith. Behind her was a coat rack. There was a raincoat on it. And a black cocktail dress sheathed in dry-cleaner’s plastic hanging on a wire hanger. I fumbled behind my back left-handed and locked the hallway door. Watched Emily Smith’s eyes. They were staring straight at me. They didn’t move. They didn’t turn left or right toward either office door. So she was probably alone. And they didn’t drop toward a purse or a desk drawer. So she was probably unarmed.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” she said.
“Am I?”
She nodded, vaguely, like she couldn’t process what she was seeing.
“You’re Reacher,” she said. “Paulie told us he took you out.”
I nodded. “OK, I’m a ghost. Don’t touch the phone.”
I stepped forward and looked at her desk. No weapons on it. The phone was a complicated multi-line console. It was all covered in buttons. I leaned down left-handed and ripped its cord out of its socket.
“Stand up,” I said.
She stood up. Just pushed her chair back and levered herself upright.
“Let’s check the other rooms,” I said.
“There’s nobody here,” she said. There was fear in her voice, so she was probably telling me the truth.
“Let’s check anyway,” I said.
She came out from behind her desk. She was a foot shorter than me. She was wearing a dark skirt and a dark shirt. Smart shoes, which I figured would go equally well later with her cocktail dress. I put the Beretta’s muzzle against her spine and bunched the back of her shirt collar in my left hand and moved her forward. She felt small and fragile. Her hair fell over my hand. It smelled clean. We checked the left-hand office first. She opened the door for me and I pushed her all the way inside and stepped sideways and moved out of the doorway. I didn’t want to get shot in the back from across the reception area.
It was just an office. A decent-sized space. Nobody in it. There was an Oriental carpet, and a desk. There was a bathroom. Just a small cubicle with a toilet and a sink. Nobody in it. So I spun her around and moved her all the way across the reception area and into the right-hand office. Same decor. Same type of carpet, same type of desk. It was unoccupied. Nobody in it. No bathroom. I kept tight hold of her collar and pushed her back to the center of the reception area. Stopped her right next to her desk.
“Nobody here,” I said.
“I told you,” she said.
“So where is everybody?”
She didn’t answer. And I felt her stiffen, like she was going to make a big point out of not answering.
“Specifically, where is Teresa Daniel?” I said.
No reply.
“Where’s Xavier?” I said.
No reply.
“How do you know my name?”
“Beck told Xavier. He asked his permission to employ you.”
“Xavier checked me out?”
“As far as he could.”
“And he gave Beck his OK?”
“Obviously.”
“So why did he set Paulie on me this morning?”
She stiffened again. “The situation changed.”
“This morning? Why?”
“He got new information.”
“What information?”
“I don’t know exactly,” she said. “Something about a car.”
The Saab? The m
aid’s missing notes?
“He made certain deductions,” Emily Smith said. “Now he knows all about you.”
“Figure of speech,” I said. “Nobody knows all about me.”
“He knows you were talking to ATF.”
“Like I said, nobody really knows anything.”
“He knows what you’ve been doing here.”
“Does he? Do you?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Where do you fit in?”
“I’m his operations manager.”
I wrapped her shirt collar tighter in my left fist and moved the Beretta’s muzzle and used it to itch my cheek where the bruising was tightening the skin. I thought about Angel Doll, and John Chapman Duke, and two bodyguards whose names I didn’t even know, and Paulie. I figured adding Emily Smith to the casualty list wasn’t going to cost me much, in a cosmic sense. I put the gun to her head. I heard a plane in the distance, leaving from the airport. It roared through the sky, less than a mile away. I figured I could just wait for the next one and pull the trigger. Nobody would hear a thing. And she probably deserved it.
Or, maybe she didn’t.
“Where is he?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
“You know what he did ten years ago?”
Live or die, Emily. If she knew, she would say so. For sure. Out of pride, or inclusion, or self-importance. She wouldn’t be able to keep it in. And if she knew, she deserved to die. Because to know and to still work with the guy made it that way.
“No, he never told me,” she said. “I didn’t know him ten years ago.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I believed her.
“You know what happened to Beck’s maid?” I said.
A truthful person is perfectly capable of saying no, but generally they stop and think about it first. Maybe they come out with some questions of their own. It’s human nature.
“Who?” she said. “No, what?”
I breathed out.
“OK,” I said.
I put the Beretta back in my pocket and let go of her collar and turned her around and trapped both her wrists together in my left hand. Picked up the electrical cord from the phone with my right. Then I straight-armed her into the left-hand office and all the way through to the bathroom. Shoved her inside.
