Lee Child - Night School

The messenger said, “Hello?”

Not Turkish or Italian. Pashtun, probably, from the Northwest Frontier. A tribe as old as time. Dutiful mapmakers drew lines and wrote India or Pakistan or Afghanistan, and the Pashtun smiled politely and went about their eternal business.

The messenger said, “Who are you?”

Reacher nodded beyond the half-open door and said, “Mr. Wiley is in here.”

The men hung back and let the messenger lead the way. Reacher watched their faces. He saw the truth dawning. An empty space. A dead man on the floor. A lake of drying blood. Three unexplained figures standing back from its edge.

Not right.

Reacher pulled his gun.

The two men and the woman turned to look.

Reacher said, “You’re under arrest.”

Their reactions differed by gender. Reacher saw a cascade of ancient, hopeless conclusions in the two men’s eyes. They were guest workers in a foreign nation. They had no status, no power, no leverage, no rights, no expectations. They were bottom of the pile. They were cannon fodder.

They had nothing to lose.

They went for their pockets. They scrabbled at puckered fabric, hitching and bending, ramming their hands in, hauling them out. Reacher yelled no in English and nein in German, but they didn’t stop. They had weird little sawed-off revolvers. Pale steel, pale pinewood grips. Barrels about an inch long, like stubs. Reacher thought Washington D.C. and New York and London would be top of the list. Then maybe Tel Aviv, and Amsterdam, and Madrid. Then Los Angeles and San Francisco. Maybe the Golden Gate Bridge itself. Like Helmsworth had said. Their orders were to strap it to a bridge support, set the timer, and run like hell .

He shot them center mass, a fast double tap, left to right, and when they were down he shot them again, in the head from the same range, to be completely sure and certain. The shattering noise died away to an ear-damaged hiss. On the side of the empty broken-down furniture truck the word Möbel was spattered with blood.

Reacher aimed at the messenger’s face.

The messenger raised her hands.

She said, “I surrender.”

No one answered.

She said, “I have good information. I know their bank accounts. I can give you their money.”

–

Sinclair took charge. She was the ranking officer, after all, in a NATO kind of a way. From a municipal perspective Griezman took it meekly enough, possibly because of realpolitik, which was a German word for knowing when you’re beat. She told him if the van hadn’t yet crossed the bridge he should pull all his men free from the mayor’s office and set up a solid perimeter. She sent Neagley to the phone booth, to get Bishop on the scene, and White, and Vanderbilt. Waterman and Landry could stay home and mind the store.

Within minutes Griezman had two cars on the bridge. The traffic cop was thanked and sent home. Then two more cars arrived. They funneled through the roadblock and set up ahead of the nearest buildings. Simply a question of numbers. A panel van was a substantial item. A long line of men walking shoulder to shoulder could hardly miss it.

Reacher looked at Wiley, and then at Sinclair. He asked her, “Did he tell you how he found the crate?”

She said, “Something his uncle Arnold told him.”

“What kind of something?”

“All about the atom bombs. Even Uncle Arnold thought it was crazy. Even though he was a paratrooper, and basically everything he was trained for was a suicide mission. He was going to be part of the first wave in the greatest land battle in history. But even so there was something weird about the atom bombs. Too much power for a single person. Then he told him the story about the missing crate. They all believed it was true. There was panic behind the scenes. Too much for a cover-your-ass. Uncle Arnold figured the natural ebb and flow would bring it to one particular storage depot. He was sure of it. But it wasn’t there. Apparently he took it as a lesson in humility.”

“What did Wiley take it as?”

“A lesson in something was labeled wrong.”

“How did he figure it out?”

“Something else Arnold told him. A different subject entirely. Arnold was there very early. Germany was still in ruins. People were starving. The army employed local civilians. Mostly women, because that’s about all there were. Like a kind of welfare, and it saved drafting GIs to do shorthand and typing. He put it together with something else Arnold said. The local women would do anything for money. Anything for a candy bar or a pack of Luckies. Arnold made hay while the sun shone. One time a girl gave him her sister’s address. She was game, too. But he couldn’t find the right house. The girl had written 11, and he thought it was 77. Because of her handwriting. Europeans put a long tick on the front of their ones. Like the opposite of a tail. A one looks like a seven. They put a little crossbar on the seven, to make it look different. Eventually Wiley wondered what would have happened if a German clerk made a handwritten note, and then an American clerk typed it up. Or the other way around. He figured mistakes could be made.”

“Was it that simple?”

“He figured surely the army would think of that. He figured they would make charts and tables and change ones for sevens and sevens for ones. But apparently Uncle Arnold’s stories were crazy. There was extreme bureaucracy going on. Eventually Wiley wondered what would happen if a number went through three steps, not two. As in, suppose a German clerk made a handwritten note, and then an American clerk typed it up, and then another German clerk made a handwritten note off the typed-up page? Or the other way around. Starting with either ones or sevens. He made charts and tables of his own. He figured it was a step the army wouldn’t take for itself. He figured the army would be blind to the faults of its own system. And he was right. The crate had been there all along. He found it on his third try.”

Reacher said nothing. Just nodded and walked away. The messenger caught his eye. She said, “I can help.”

He said, “I don’t want your money.”

She said, “Something else. The fat man is wrong. A van did cross the bridge. It was driving out as we drove in.”

Neagley carried Wiley’s bag to the trunk of Griezman’s car, and she set it down on the lid, and she unzipped it. Reacher called Griezman over, and asked him to search it. Griezman said, “Why me?”

Reacher said, “I would appreciate your opinion.”

Griezman did the kind of job Reacher expected. Like a veteran taking a test. Practiced, but suddenly cautious. As if he knew something must be wrong. A trap. Was he on trial about how fast he could find it? What was at stake? He didn’t know.

In the end only three items were worthy of comment. First was Wiley’s new passport, in the name of Isaac Herbert Kempner, because it was a thing of beauty. It was completely, utterly, entirely genuine. Second was the map they had seen in his kitchen, now neatly folded, because it was of limited cartographical utility, and therefore likely sentimental, which might bring a clue as to his state of mind.

Third item was a Mercedes-Benz key.

Probably not for a sedan. A little too large. Too much plastic. Too everyday. It was the kind of key that one day would be grimy. The kind of key that came in a panel van.

Griezman agreed.

Reacher said, “Can a brand-new Mercedes-Benz start without a key?”

Griezman said, “No.”

“Therefore the van was stolen with a duplicate.”

Griezman said, “Yes.”

“Hard to get.”

“Yes.”

“Your department has been very impressive. Since the first moment. Your performance has been excellent. Would you agree?”