Карин Слотер: Cleaning the Gold

He called her from a pay phone in a diner.

She said, “I heard a rumor about a guy who knows a guy who wants to talk to you.”

He said, “Why me?”

“They need an ex-soldier.”

“There are plenty.”

“An ex-MP especially.”

“There are plenty of retired MPs.”

“This is the twenty-first century,” Neagley said. “Obviously they wrote a program and scraped the databases and the answer was you. Or someone like you.”

“Why would I be in a database?”

“This is the twenty-first century,” she said again.

Two days later he was inside the Pentagon. First in a general's office. An impressive guy, but he had nothing specific to say, except to vouch unreservedly for the colonel Reacher was about to meet next. Who had nothing specific to say either, except to vouch unreservedly for the kid in the suit Reacher was about to meet last in line. Seriously. The real deal. Some shadowy agency no one had ever heard of, or ever would. Where the true power was. The people the Pentagon turned to with problems.

The kid turned out to be thirty, and Reacher liked him a lot. A good age. Reacher remembered it well. The endless energy. The passion. Plus the guy was smart. And polite, but in a civilized way, not obsequious. He was from Georgia, Reacher figured, from his tones and his cadences. Metro Atlanta, maybe. Like blues music. The country rhythms, toughened up by the city. A nice guy, overall.

Plus he had a sense of humor.

He said, “One thing we need to get out of the way.”

“What?” Reacher said.

“The mission statement. It makes people laugh.”

“Why?”

“I want you to break into Fort Knox.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I want you to take a job there. Only half undercover. They want guys like you anyway. You're a shoo-in.”

“The real part or the Disney part?”

“The depository. I'm not real clear exactly what the job is. It sounds kind of ceremonial to me. Like a ritual. But that's not the point. As you say, there's more to Knox than the movies. Overall it's a decent-sized town. With all the usual problems. Including a network of loan sharks. Which like all such networks leads back to a kingpin. Not a very nice guy. A leg-breaker, in fact. But not the borrower's leg. Questions might be asked at sick call. Usually the wife's leg, or one of the kids. Complaints are never made. For two reasons. One, it's part of the deal. Two, because of who the kingpin is.”

“You know who it is?”

“Yes, we do.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It's a US Army major named David Baldani. He's a big piece of the chain of command down there. No one dares to say a word. Not even when their ten-year-old misses the soccer season.”

“So bust him.”

“You know how it is,” the guy said. “You were in the business. This has got to be tighter than a crab's asshole. We need to see him make a threat. We know he goes to the Burger King from time to time. Perfect place, to meet wives or children. We need to see it happen.”

“Why me?”

“Part of the algorithm was based on a note in the file that said it helps to be strong.”

“What the hell is this job?”

“Apparently to do with the bars of bullion themselves. Which are heavy. I believe it's some kind of ritual purification. The whole thing is theater anyway. It's a public enchantment. Literally, once. They had to open it up for display—1974, I think. Before I was born.”

“I was there,” Reacher said. “Some asshole started a rumor there was no gold. He said it was all a lie. People got uneasy. It was a visceral thing. Quiet, but kind of scary. You could see how it could turn ugly. So they started public tours. We were in D.C. very briefly. I was a kid. My dad knew a guy at the head of the line. It was awesome. People felt better after that.”

“Knox really hasn't moved on since then,” the guy said. “There's splendor and majesty and it's a very potent symbol, but it's still a totally, totally analog world down there.”

“Works for me,” Reacher said.

“The CO is mad as a box of frogs. She's a full bird named Stephanie Lukather. Baldani is her XO. She insists on calling him Dave in public. Local opinion is split whether that's disrespectful or analog.”

“How well does he take it? That's usually a clue.”

“Find out for yourself,” the guy said. “Baldani is the guy who hires the purification crews. That's his post. You'll be next to him all day long. Follow him to the Burger King. We need to see it happen.”

Which was how Reacher found himself cleaning gold, and shaking hands with the new guy, who he needed, because his previous guy had been pulled off the job, unexplained, no reason given, but hey, this was the Army. The job was not rocket surgery, but even so, it helped to have two people. The new guy looked acceptable. Maybe a little surprised. He was a tall guy meeting someone taller. Also a little tense. Maybe worried about something. He said his name was Jack Phineas Wolfe. Presumably ex-Army, a number of years ago, which seemed to be Baldani's fetish, when it came to hiring. His accent sounded a little like the kid in the suit, but older, so from longer ago. More country, less city.

He started with the usual thing about the weight. All the new guys did. About how heavy gold was. About how their gym time was wasted. Then Baldani gave a little lecture about troy weights. From a town called Troyes, in France, way back long ago. The way they measured precious metals. Different ounces, different pounds. Couldn't compare.

Overall, Wolfe learned the job fast enough. But then, so would a chimpanzee. It was not rewarding work. Tolerable as cover for a day or two, but so far Reacher had been there eleven. He was close to maxing out. Close to attracting attention. But Baldani had not yet been to the Burger King. Not one time.

Lunch break was approaching.

Reacher lived in hope.

And for once in his life was rewarded. For the first time Baldani turned away from his usual chow hall and headed for the on-base fast food. Where the families went. Like a decent-sized town. Including the crowds. Following Baldani was easy. On the one hand Reacher had expertise and experience, and on the other Baldani had a kind of smug, sweaty complacency, as if nothing could go wrong in his life.

Reacher wasn't complacent. Same as anyone who had served in West Berlin. The old hands had all kinds of nostrums. One of which was, just because you're following someone doesn't mean someone else isn't following you. Happened all the time.

It happened that lunch break. Reacher glanced back three separate times, and on each occasion he saw the new guy coming after him. He was good, but not the best in all of human history. Of course, it was not actually possible to tell who exactly he was tailing. It was all a straight line. Maybe he was after Baldani also. Maybe he was working a different angle. Tighter than a crab's asshole was a high bar to meet. The more evidence the merrier. Maybe the kid in the suit had sent him too.

Or maybe not. Maybe someone else had sent him. The guy didn't feel like a soldier. Certain words. He was totally willing to take instruction, but not unthinking reflex automatic. Not like the Army. He was a little closed up. He had a personal secret. Not possible, in the big green machine. It would have been beaten out of him long ago.

All in all, Reacher wasn't really sure who he was. Didn't really care, either. The more the merrier. All good. Except Jack Phineas Wolfe was a dumb name to make up. Not plausible. No parent who liked Phineas would put Jack in front of it. Human nature.

Up ahead, Baldani stepped into the Burger King. It was a double-wide store, with three obvious cameras, which meant at least two more not-so-obvious cameras, both of which were quickly identified, and both of which were avoided by keeping right, and then left, and then sitting on a shuttle bench, in line with a large trash can gaudily sponsored by a soda company.