Lee Child - Night School

Reacher turned back to the guy at the table. He was pale. He had a buzz cut growing low on his forehead, and old acne pits on his cheeks. His gaze was alternating between Reacher and his pal on the floor. Back and forth, like a metronome. Panic in his eyes.

Reacher said, “I’m going to take a wild-ass guess and say you’re not the brains of the operation. Which leaves you in a vulnerable position. But luck is on your side. I’m a reasonable man. The one-time special offer is still open. For you only. Minimum sentence in exchange for full disclosure. I’m going to count to three. Then it’s gone.”

More panic in the guy’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak. Not very bright. Not very verbal.

Reacher said, “Who told you to be here today?”

The guy pointed at his pal on the floor.

He said, “He did.”

Reacher said, “Why?”

“We sell things.”

“Where?”

“In the bar.”

“What kind of things?”

No answer.

Reacher said, “Big or small?”

“Small.”

“Handguns?”

The guy nodded.

“Beretta M9s?”

The guy nodded.

Reacher said, “Anything else?”

“No.”

“OK, you sell sidearms to skinheads. Congratulations. New or used?”

“Only old ones.”

“From where?”

“We take them from the scrap trucks.”

Reacher nodded. Retired U.S. Army inventory, listed as worn out or defective or destroyed, but never quite making it to the smelter. Not uncommon. He said, “Ammunition too?”

The guy said, “Yes.”

“In that same bar?”

The guy said, “Yes.”

“Where did you get the phony ID?”

“Same place. In that bar. There’s a German guy.”

“What else happens there?”

“All kinds of deals.”

“Do you go there a lot?”

The guy looked at his pal on the floor. He nodded. He said, “It’s where we sell things.”

Reacher took the police sketch from his pocket. The American. The brow, the cheek bones, the deep-set eyes. The floppy hair. He unfolded the drawing and flattened it out and reversed it on the table. He said, “Did you ever see this man in there?”

The guy took a look.

He said, “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

Neagley put the phone down and mimed a thank-you to the old lady and came back to the table. Reacher said, “This guy has seen our guy in the bar.”

Neagley said, “How many times?”

The guy said, “About three.”

“Over how long of a period?”

“About the last few months. Sometimes he wears a hat.”

“What kind of a hat?”

“A sports team, I think. The NFL, maybe. Something with a red star.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“What does he do in the bar?”

“Nothing much.”

“Is he army?”

“Last time I saw him he had no hat and his hair was too long.”

“When was that?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“What was he doing two weeks ago?”

“He was at a table near a window drinking beer by himself.”

–

At that moment the American was waiting to get on a city bus, to head into town. He had things to do. Last-minute errands to run, and a shopping list. Hamburg was a passenger port, with ferries and cruise ships in and out, so travel supplies were not hard to find. And suitable clothes, for a long journey. All cash purchases, all from different places. A strict timetable, but necessary. The clock was ticking.

The bus arrived, and the American got on.

–

Reacher hauled the guy up off the coffee shop floor and pushed him out to the sidewalk. Neagley took his partner. They checked Neagley’s map and headed down to a pocket park. The guy Neagley had hit limped and shuffled. His nose was broken, from her second knee. It didn’t make him any prettier. Or uglier.

They made it to the park and took two benches. Neagley and the dumb guy sat on one, and Reacher and the casualty sat on the other. They waited. The dumb guy kept very still. He seemed scared of Neagley. Maybe not so dumb. The damaged guy got slowly better. Reacher sensed him getting restless. Sensed him glancing around, calculating the angles, weighing up his chances. At one point a city bus roared slowly past, close and huge and loud, full of passengers heading into town, and Reacher sensed the guy stir, as if the noise and commotion presented an opportunity, so he put his hand on the back of the guy’s neck, like a friendly gesture, and he squeezed, and the guy yelped silently, and then the bus was gone.

They waited. The afternoon grew late. Then a blue car drew up at the curb. A big Opel sedan. A General Motors product. At the wheel was a guy in army battledress uniform. Beside him was another. Behind both of them was a floor-to-ceiling plastic screen. A cop car.

The passenger got out. Short, wide, and dark. Manuel Orozco. Late of the 110th. You don’t mess with the special investigators . His phrase. A good friend. He said, “I thought you were buried in a school somewhere.”

Reacher said, “Is that what you heard?”

“Everyone was talking about it, man. Like you died.”

“The NSC got us for a secret thing. We’re shaking a tree. A whole lot of extra crap is falling out. You’re going to have to clean it up for us. Without mentioning our involvement. You can claim them as your own, if you like. Get another medal. Start with these two. They’re selling scrap M9s to skinheads in a bar.”

“I won’t get a medal for that.”

“It’s really about the bar. Could be the tip of an iceberg.”

“What happened to his nose?”

“Neagley.”

“Outstanding.”

“We need background on the bar. Apparently all kinds of deals go down there. Write it up as a separate report, OK? And then feel free to go fishing. But not until we say. There’s one particular guy we’re looking at, and we don’t want to scare him away. Assuming he plans to come back anyway. Which he probably won’t.”

Orozco said, “You got it, boss.”

“I’m not your boss anymore.”

“I’m sure you’re still the boss of something.”

Orozco put the two guys in the back of the car, behind the plastic screen, and he climbed in next to his driver, and Reacher and Neagley waved them away. Then they walked back to their boutique hotel, where the clerk confirmed the consulate had indeed come through, and as a result they now had two upgraded rooms side by side on the top floor. They went to Neagley’s first, where they dialed McLean, Virginia, to check in with Sinclair.

–

At that moment the fingerprint technician in the police garage was on the phone with Chief of Detectives Griezman. He said he had taken an excellent print off the back of the chrome lever. Clear as a bell. By shape, to his practiced eye, it was a right-hand middle finger, and it was average size for a man, or large for a woman. It showed no hits in any of the federal databases. Therefore the perpetrator was almost certainly not German.

–

The upgraded rooms had fancy console telephones, and Neagley put hers on speaker and sat on the bed. Reacher sat in a chair. In McLean the phone was also on speaker. Reacher heard the spacey echo, and then he heard Sinclair say hello, and then Waterman, and then White. He guessed they were all in the office, at the conference table, in the leather chairs.

Sinclair said, “Are you getting anywhere?”

She sounded tired.

Reacher said, “The German witness was a man named Klopp, and we got a good description and a good sketch. Which was faxed to you. Klopp says he’s seen the guy twice. Since then we have another witness who has seen the guy three times. All in the same bar. Which seems to be partly a right-wing political hangout and partly an underground marketplace. All kinds of deals, apparently.”