Lee Child - Night School

Hiding places.

He said, “We need a car.”

Bishop said, “You need a plan.”

The telex machine started up.

“Uncle Arnold’s service record,” Neagley said.

Reacher said, “The plan is Sergeant Neagley and I will conduct surveillance and gather intelligence.”

“Negative,” Bishop said. “CIA and the NSC must be represented. Dr. Sinclair and I will come with you. And the rules of engagement are no engagement at all. Strictly observation only. That’s a dealbreaker. Legally, this is a complex situation.”

“Bring a weapon,” Reacher said. “Wiley has one. And if it’s a farm, they’ll have a shotgun.”

“I said observation only.”

“Bring one anyway.”

White said, “You have to get the Iranian out. You’re saying one hour from now there could be a shooting war. At that exact moment their deal is dead and the Iranian won’t survive it. If you leave him there, you’ll kill him.”

Bishop said nothing.

The phone rang.

Griezman.

Who said, “Do you believe in coincidence?”

Reacher said, “Sometimes.”

“Our homicide victim was a regular patron of Helmut Klopp’s bar. He did his business there. Everyone’s lying, of course, but I think he was the one who sold the ID.”

“Why?”

“Whispers, from other people with other things to hide.”

“Do you have a suspect?”

“Someone preventing or avenging betrayal.”

“Was someone just betrayed?”

“No.”

“Preventing, then.”

“There are no written records in the victim’s apartment. There is however a space in an otherwise neat shelf of file folders.”

“Mission accomplished,” Reacher said.

Then he said, “Which could be ironic.”

Griezman said, “How?”

“It’s a question of timing. You buy ID and decide to kill the supplier and remove his records to prevent future betrayal. But when do you do it? That’s the question. Would a new client take that risk immediately after delivery? Or an old client at a time of maximum pressure, with his plan finally in motion, and maybe already going a little ragged at the edges?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty.”

“You think it’s Wiley.”

“No, I don’t. There could be any number of old clients under stress. And I think Wiley was driving a van at the time. But you’re a responsible copper. You’ll put him on your list. You’ll have to. Which means your temporary assistance just started up again.”

“I thought you gave up on that.”

“On what?”

“Driving the van. Muller told me you canceled your request.”

“When?”

“I spoke to him an hour ago.”

“No, when did I cancel?”

“He said you discussed specifics for a while and then suddenly changed your mind.”

“Last thing I said was I didn’t know exactly where Wiley was going. He said to tell him when I did. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he was waiting for me to call. Maybe he never even started.”

“He said you canceled.”

“Then he misunderstood, not me.”

“I agree, his English is not excellent.”

Bishop called across the room, “The car is here.”

Bishop’s CIA car was exactly the same as Orozco’s MP car, a big blue Opel sedan identical in every respect, except it had no bulletproof divider. Bishop drove, and Sinclair sat next to him in the front. Reacher and Neagley sat in the back. Neagley was comfortable and Reacher was not. Traffic was moving. The sky was gray.

Neagley read out loud the telex summary of Arnold Mason’s service career. He had been drafted at the age of twenty, in 1951, but sent to Germany, not Korea, where he stayed for twenty years, apart from stateside trips for training and maneuvers. He was airborne infantry throughout, trained for the Soviet conflict, and deployed with good but not elite units. He was honorably discharged at the age of forty, in 1971, terminal at staff sergeant.

Sinclair said, “Prior to which he married a German girl and had a kid. Who he returned to twenty years ago after just six years away. Yet Wiley feels connected. This is a weird relationship.”

By then the view out the window was agricultural, in a flat, perfect, close-to-the-city kind of a way. The fields were as neat as vegetable gardens, and not much larger. Every road and every street had a name, neatly lettered in gothic script, black on cream. The passing villages were very small. Not much more than crowded and crooked crossroads. There were barns and outbuildings here and there, but smaller and fewer than Reacher expected. It wasn’t what he had pictured. It was less private and more orderly. It was clean and tidy. Not densely but uniformly populated. Everything was pretty close to everything else.

Bishop said, “Next but one dot on the map and we’re there.”

The next but one dot was a little larger than previous versions. A little denser. They picked up the name of Arnold Mason’s road at a free-for-all five-way in the center of town. It hooked back west of north, away from Bremen in the distance. It was lined left and right with tiny pocket-handkerchief farms, no more than small and perfectly neat houses with a few immaculate acres. There were sheds, but no barns.

Each farm had a name. All appropriately modest. All no doubt picked out by the owners, with a measure of pride. Reacher watched for Gelb Bauernhof, and suddenly understood what it meant. It was German for Yellow Farm. Yellow in Spanish was Amarillo. Where Arnold Mason was born. Amarillo, Texas. The guy had named his farm for where he grew up.

They found it fifth on the right. They were going slow, to read the names. So they got a good look. Not much to see. Maybe four acres planted in perfect lines, growing something dark green, possibly cabbages, and a small neat house, and a small neat stand-alone garage, and a small neat stand-alone shed, set back a little ways. And that was it. The garage would take a Mercedes station wagon. The shed would take a small tractor or a ride-on machine. Neither one would take a stolen furniture truck.

Bishop stopped the car a mile down the road.

Reacher said, “I should go back and knock on the door.”

Sinclair said, “That’s a risk.”

“Wiley isn’t there. No new van. No old van, either.”

“That doesn’t prove Uncle Arnold isn’t involved somehow.”

“He won’t shoot me straight off the bat. He’ll play dumb. He’ll try to talk his way out of it. I’ll let him, if necessary. I agree, if the vans were here it would be different.”

“Wiley might arrive while you’re in there.”

“It’s a possibility. But unlikely. If it happens, I’m sure Sergeant Neagley will think of something.”

“We should all go.”

“Works for me,” Reacher said.

Bishop said nothing.

“Arnold Mason is an American citizen,” Sinclair said. “You’re from the consulate. You’re entitled to make contact.”

Bishop said, “We can’t afford to screw this up.”

“We’ll shut it down at the first sign of trouble.”

“Don’t stand close together,” Reacher said. “Not at first, anyway. Not until we’re sure.”

Bishop turned the car around on the narrow road.

–

Gelb Bauernhof was a property about a hundred yards wide by two hundred deep. Like a high-end suburban lot in America. But a farm nonetheless. Albeit in miniature. There was nothing yellow about it. The sky was gray, and the dirt was brown, and the cabbages were army green. Bishop turned in at the driveway. Which was dirt, hand scraped to a consistent camber. The big blue Opel hissed over it. The garage was dead ahead. The house was to the left. About eighty yards from the street.