Lee Child - Night School

–

Muller closed his office door and called Dremmler on his desk phone. He said, “The man in the sketch has left town in a truck. We just got a request for assistance from Griezman’s division. We’re putting an APB on the plate number. Starting fifteen kilometers out, going national if we need to.”

“He’s delivering,” Dremmler said. “We missed it.”

“No, the truck is clearly empty. He just picked it up from a rental franchise.”

“Then he’s collecting something from somewhere else. Which is much more interesting. Keep me informed. Make sure I’m the first to know.”

“I will.”

“I’m afraid the other thing didn’t work out.”

“Reacher?”

“He predicted it. He brought people with him. He ambushed the ambush. A squad of twelve, my guys said. All armed with military weapons. Plus him. My guys didn’t stand a chance.”

–

Wiley was on a ninety-six-hour pass the night the truck was stolen. Whereabouts unknown. That was the first thing his movement orders revealed. His immediately previous location had been his regular billet, on a post some miles north and east of the mom-and-pop furniture store. But not many miles, Reacher thought. Dozens, not hundreds. He knew the area. He had been there many times. It was all reasonably local. Like Sugar Land to downtown Houston. A bus ride.

Beginning to end, the orders showed Wiley arriving in-country, and then bouncing back and forth between what used to be a forward position in the battle area, to a rearward position in a maintenance depot. Which was the post north and east of Frankfurt. There were also regular voluntary detachments to a storage lager thirty miles west. What was once a supply depot was by then a dump for stuff no one needed anymore. Members of Wiley’s unit could volunteer to go cannibalize parts from retired machines. The XO called it hands-on training in on-the-field maintenance. Which Reacher agreed sounded better than the guy admitting he had to scavenge retreads to keep his unit limping along. But despite the hard sell it was not popular duty. There had been four opportunities. No one had volunteered more than once.

Except Wiley.

Wiley had volunteered three times.

The first three.

But not the fourth.

Neagley said, “That’s where he saw it, obviously. Whatever it is. In the storage lager. Has to be. Maybe the first time, he searched for it. The second time, he found it. The third time, he planned it. Then he stole it, seven months ago. Which meant he didn’t have to go back the fourth time. The thing was gone by then. He already had it.”

“Hidden nearby, according to you. We need to confirm it. We need eyes on the road. Four guys with binoculars, like a visual trap. Maybe on the autobahn south of Hanover. He can’t have gotten that far yet.”

He dialed Griezman, who said he would take care of it.

Sinclair said, “He’s very helpful.”

Reacher said, “So far.”

“Are you blackmailing him?”

“I said I wouldn’t, but I’m not sure he believes me. So I guess I am, in a way. The end result is the same.”

“Long may it continue.”

“It won’t,” Reacher said. “Griezman will dump us as soon as he gets a bigger problem.”

“Is there a bigger problem than this?”

“He doesn’t know how bad it is.”

“Should we tell him?” Sinclair said. “Should we make an official request for assistance?”

White said, “That would be a political disaster. It would project weakness. Russia is practically next door. We can’t wash our dirty linen in public.”

Waterman said, “And it’s too late anyway. The Germans would take half a day even to respond. It would take a whole day to brief them in properly. Maybe more, because they’re starting from cold. Which means Wiley would get at least a thirty-six-hour start. By then he could be anywhere. This is a big country now.”

–

Dremmler’s office was on the fourth floor of a building wholly owned by him. He rode down in the elevator, which was the original 1950s item. Reliable, but slow. It took twenty seconds to reach the lobby. During which time Dremmler imported and sold thirty-three pairs of Brazilian shoes. Which was a comforting statistic. A million pairs a week. More than fifty million pairs a year.

He left his building and walked through the weak midday sun, a block, two, three, to the bar with the varnished wood front. Once upon a time it would have been considered early for a lunch break, but the place was already crowded. Because new staggered office hours meant lunch breaks happened throughout the day, in a ceaseless ongoing relay.

Dremmler pushed through the crowd, nodding and greeting, until he saw Wolfgang Schlupp on a stool at the bar. Not an impressive specimen. Dark hair, dark eyes, lean dark face, built like a shivering dog. But useful. About to be more useful. Dremmler elbowed in next to him, shoulder first, his back to the room. He said, “How’s business, Herr Schlupp?”

Schlupp said, “What do you need?”

“Information,” Dremmler said. “For the cause. The new Germany depends on it.”

A barman in a heavy canvas apron came over and Dremmler ordered a liter of beer.

Schlupp said, “What kind of information?”

“You made a driver’s license and maybe a passport for an American gentleman.”

“Hold it right there. I didn’t make nothing.”

“OK, you passed a customer’s order to your partners in Berlin. They made it. All you did was keep half the money.”

“So what?”

Dremmler squeezed himself some extra space and took out the drawing. He smoothed it on the bar.

He said, “This guy.”

The hair, the brow, the cheek bones. The deep-set eyes.

Schlupp said, “I don’t remember him.”

“I think you do.”

“What of it?”

“It’s important to the cause.”

“What is?”

“What new name did this man take?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“We want to find him.”

Schlupp said, “You know I can’t tell you. What kind of business would I have? No one would trust me.”

“This is one time only. No one will ever know. This guy is in trouble already. But we want him first. Right now he’s heading somewhere in an empty panel van. To pick something up. Presumably a heavy load. Given the size of the van. Could be weapons. Could be Nazi gold from a salt mine.”

“And you want it.”

“For all of us. For the cause. It would make a huge difference.”

Schlupp didn’t answer.

Dremmler said, “There would be a finder’s fee, of course. Or a consultation agreement. Or a straight commission, if you like.”

Schlupp said, “I would be taking a risk. It’s like being a priest. It’s understood I won’t talk.”

“The size of the fee would of course reflect the size of the risk.”

Schlupp looked at the sketch.

He said, “I think I remember him. I’ve done a lot of Americans. I think this guy chose three separate names. The first two were identity cards and driver’s licenses only. But I think the third had a passport.”

“What were the names?”

“It was months ago. I would have to look it up.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I hear hundreds of names.”

“When can you do it?”

“When I get home.”

“Call me at once, will you? It’s very important. To the cause.”

“OK,” Schlupp said.

Dremmler nodded in satisfaction and left the way he had come, leading with the other shoulder, pushing through the crowd, nodding and greeting, back to the weak midday sun beyond the open door.

The barman who had served his liter of beer picked up the phone.

–

The phone rang in the consulate room. Vanderbilt picked it up and gave it to Reacher. It was Orozco. He said, “Are we in trouble?”