A Wanted Man, Page 32

  ‘That’s a little old-school,’ Reacher said. ‘Don’t you think? The forehead thing used to be considered cool. Flamboyant, even. But it was always completely unnecessary. Might as well make the second move first. If you’ve got a nine-inch blade up to the hilt in someone’s gut, does it really bother you that he’s still got 20-20 vision?’

  ‘Whatever, it was justifiable.’

  ‘I agree. No argument from me. Either way. What happened next?’

  ‘They ran for it. They didn’t like the red car. They figured either the local cops or the other group of bad guys would come looking for it. Or both. McQueen knew where I was. He always knew my whereabouts. So he drove up to Sin City, but like he didn’t really know where he was going, and he kind of pretended to spot my Chevy, and right away King agreed it would be a good car to steal.’

  ‘But they didn’t just steal it.’

  ‘They couldn’t get it open. It’s a late model. All kinds of security. They set the alarm off. I looked out the window in the ladies’ room. They were just standing there. So I figured if I went out back like I had just finished work they could rob me at gunpoint and take the key. That was what I was expecting. McQueen too, he said. Maybe a tap on the head, at worst. But King had other ideas. He didn’t want to leave a witness. So he went for the whole hijack thing. He took the cocktail waitress along for the ride. And so the act began.’

  ‘Did McQueen know the guy in the bunker?’

  ‘No. He told me he’d never seen him before.’

  ‘So you don’t know who he was either. And you weren’t getting a real-time news feed all night and all day. Not like we were. And Kansas City won’t have told you, because you’re nobody.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  Sorenson said, ‘As far as we know the dead guy was a CIA head of station.’

  Delfuenso was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘I need guidance on this.’ She opened her bible and took out the cell phone and the charger. She got everything plugged in. She held a button down for two long seconds. The screen lit up. With a text message already on it. All in capital letters.

  ‘Emergency,’ she said. ‘McQueen just dropped off the radar.’

  SIXTY-ONE

  DELFUENSO CALLED WHATEVER secret number was stored in her phone, and she got the latest update. To say McQueen had dropped off the radar was just a figure of speech. In reality his GPS signals had disappeared off a computer screen. He was carrying two chips, one in his phone, and one sewn in the back of his belt. For seven months they had recorded his every move. Now an hour ago they had blinked off and disappeared, never to return. Both of them. Seconds apart. The likelihood of two near-simultaneous failures was so remote it wasn’t even worth considering. McQueen was in trouble.

  Reacher asked, ‘Where was he last recorded?’

  Delfuenso said, ‘At his normal location.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘A Wadiah hideout.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Near Kansas City.’

  Reacher asked, ‘Do your people have a plan?’

  Delfuenso said, ‘We’re not going to involve the Kansas City boys. That was decided a long time ago. They’re walled off, as of this minute. Because they can’t help us with a problem like this. Their track record tells us they probably caused it.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘A SWAT team direct from Quantico.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Rapid deployment.’

  ‘How rapid?’

  ‘They’ll be in Kansas City in eight hours.’

  ‘That’s rapid?’

  ‘It’s a big country. There’s a lot to organize.’

  ‘Eight hours is way too long.’

  ‘I know it is.’

  ‘But we’re right here. The three of us. We’re a hundred miles from Kansas City. Which is two hours. Not eight.’

  There was no discussion. Not that Reacher expected there to be. An undercover agent was down, and he figured the FBI’s unwritten codes would be at least half as strong as the army’s. Undercover was the toughest job in the world, and the only way to make it bearable was to make it so the guy in the field knew he was watched over by people who would react instantly if he ran into trouble.

  They gave themselves three minutes to prepare. Reacher didn’t need them. He hadn’t unpacked. His toothbrush was still in his pocket. He was good to go. Delfuenso spent her time writing a note for Lucy. Sorenson spent her time getting out of her pant suit and into the free stuff from the piles on her bed. She said she felt it was going to be a denim kind of night.

  Then in a brief before-the-storm pause Delfuenso looked straight at Reacher and said, ‘Remember, Wadiah has your name and your description.’

  Reacher said, ‘I know.’

  ‘And McQueen has almost certainly told them it was you who killed King. Remember that too.’

  ‘What are you, my mother? Don’t worry about me.’

  At that point they had just one weapon between them, which was the Glock 19 from Delfuenso’s bible. She carried it in her right hand, with her ID wallet open and ready in her left. Her phone was in her pants pocket. First port of call was Trapattoni’s room. His light was still on. He answered Delfuenso’s knock within seconds. He was confused by her ID. Like the ground had suddenly shifted under his feet. Not a cocktail waitress. Not an innocent victim. Not any more. And apparently her ID was better than his. Higher up the food chain. Like an ace of trumps. Maybe because it had been issued by the Hoover Building, not by a regional field office. Reacher didn’t really understand the nuances. But the guy fell in line immediately. He grabbed his suit coat, no questions asked, and he hustled with them all the way over to Bale’s quarters.

  Bale put up more of a fight. Apparently he had a bigger ego. The visit started out the same way. Light still on, a fast answer to the knock, genuine surprise at the ID thrust under his nose. Then the guy started to argue. He said he knew nothing about any of this. He hadn’t been informed. He hadn’t been briefed. Delfuenso wasn’t in his chain of command. She was an agent of equal rank, that’s all, Hoover Building or no Hoover Building. She couldn’t tell him what to do.

  The guy was immovable. He was all the way up on his high horse.

  Which put Delfuenso on the spot. She couldn’t put the guy on the line with the mothership. The Hoover Building was not going to back her up. Not then. Too cautious. The suits were not going to approve a half-assed night-time guerrilla excursion by two women agents and a civilian. Too much risk, too much liability. Way outside the box. All that was left was the power of personal persuasion. Agent to agent. Face to face. And it wasn’t working.

  So Reacher hit the guy. Not hard. Just a pop to the solar plexus, left-handed. No big deal. Just enough to fold him up a little. Then it was easy to pin his arms behind his back while Sorenson took his gun out of his shoulder holster, and his spare magazine off his belt, and his cell phone out of one pocket, and his car key out of another. Trapattoni gave up the same four items voluntarily. And with a degree of haste and alacrity.

  Reacher put Bale in one armchair, and Trapattoni joined him in the other.

  Delfuenso said, ‘Your job is to stay here and attend to your duties. You still have two guests, one of which is my daughter. I expect her to be kept safe and treated well.’

  No answer.

  Reacher said, ‘You gave up your service weapons. Where I come from, that’s a real big no-no. I’m sure it’s the same with you. Do what you’re told, and no one will ever know about it. Step out of line, and I’ll make sure everyone knows about it. You’ll be a laughing stock. Robbed by two women? You’ll be a punchline. You won’t get a job as a dog catcher.’

  There was no answer, but Reacher sensed surrender.

  They checked both cars and chose the one with more gas, which was Bale’s. Delfuenso drove. Sorenson sat next to her in the front. Reacher sprawled in the back. A hundred yards later the motherly type in the office played it Trapattoni’
s way, not Bale’s. She undertook to look after Lucy, and she hit the button for the gate at the first time of asking. Delfuenso and Sorenson and Reacher got back in Bale’s car and drove away. Around the traffic circle, along the concrete roadway, and out through the gate.

  They turned right, north towards the Interstate.

  The gate closed again behind them.

  A car, three phones, a Glock 19, two Glock 17s, and eighty-eight rounds of nine-millimetre ammunition.

  Good to go.

  SIXTY-TWO

  THE TWENTY-PLUS MILES of dark rural two-lane was hard going at speed, so there was no meaningful conversation until they were through the cloverleaf and heading east on the highway. Bale’s car drove straight and steady, just like Sorenson’s, just like the Impala. Quiet and smooth and unburstable, even at close to a hundred miles an hour. Impressive, Reacher thought.

  Delfuenso asked, ‘What exactly does a CIA head of station do for a living?’

  Reacher said, ‘He’s responsible for a chunk of foreign territory. He lives near and works out of its biggest embassy. He deals with defectors and runs the local agents who work for us.’

  Then he said, ‘Or she.’

  Delfuenso asked, ‘Are there any women CIA heads of station?’

  ‘I have no idea. I was in the army.’

  ‘Did you have female superiors?’

  ‘Whenever fortune felt like smiling on me.’

  ‘Local agents who work for us? What kind?’

  ‘The usual kind. Foreign nationals who because of blackmail, bribes, or ideology betray their countries to us. Now and then the head of station meets with the most important of them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just like in the movies. A lonely café, a back street, a city park, packages on the shelf in a phone booth.’

  ‘Why do they meet?’

  ‘The blackmailed need to hear the threats over again, and the bribed need their bags of money, and the ideologues need to be stroked. And the heads of station need to collect their information.’

  ‘How often do they meet?’

  ‘Could be once a week, could be once a month, whatever the individual agent needs.’

  ‘And the rest of the time this guy is posing as a trade attaché?’

  ‘Or a cultural attaché. Or anything else that doesn’t sound like very much work.’

  ‘And this is Russia and the Middle East and Pakistan and places like that, right?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Reacher said.

  ‘So why would a guy like that try to kill an FBI agent in Nebraska?’

  Sorenson said, ‘He was an Arabic speaker. So maybe one of the Syrians from Wadiah had been one of his agents, back in Syria. Or maybe he still was. Maybe it was all to do with something they started overseas. But no Syrian came to that meet in the bunker, so maybe the CIA guy got suspicious. I mean, from his point of view everyone except his own guy is a bad guy, right?’

  ‘Except that the CIA isn’t allowed to operate inside America.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s super-covert. Maybe they were going to terminate the guy. Because of unfinished business or something. They’re not going to share that with us.’

  Delfuenso said, ‘But the guy could tell the difference between McQueen and his best Syrian buddy, right? Or what? If he couldn’t terminate the right guy, he might as well just go right ahead and terminate the wrong guy instead? Did I miss that on the CIA web site?’

  Reacher said, ‘They weren’t going to terminate anyone. They wouldn’t send a head of station to do that. They have specialists. They call them wet boys. That’s who they would have sent. And a wet boy wouldn’t have brought his Boy Scout knife. He’d have brought an altogether different kind of knife. And taken an altogether different kind of approach. We wouldn’t even have identified the dead guy yet. Not by fingerprints or face or dental work, anyway.’

  Sorenson said, ‘OK, so it was just a regular meet. No drama. The CIA head of station was running his agent.’

  ‘But his agent didn’t show. So why didn’t he just bullshit his way out of there? Why pull the knife?’

  ‘Maybe he’s not a good bullshitter.’

  ‘He’s a CIA head of station. There are no better bullshitters.’

  ‘Maybe he knew McQueen from somewhere.’

  ‘McQueen didn’t know him.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be a two-way street. So maybe the guy knew McQueen was FBI, and then he sees him inside a terrorist organization, in which case I guess most people are going think traitor well before they think undercover.’

  ‘So it was all an innocent accident? Mistaken identity?’

  ‘Some things are simpler than they appear.’

  Reacher nodded.

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  Delfuenso said, ‘But none of this explains why a CIA head of station showed up posing as a member of a terrorist group. That’s who King and McQueen were sent to meet, don’t forget.’

  ‘Maybe he was undercover too,’ Sorenson said.

  ‘The CIA isn’t allowed to operate inside America.’

  ‘This is the modern world, Karen.’

  ‘Two simultaneous undercover operations in the same place at the same time? What would be the odds?’

  ‘Not too long,’ Reacher said. ‘Not necessarily. All it takes is two people to get interested in the same interesting thing.’

  ‘Would they use a head of station for that kind of work?’

  ‘They might. He would be unknown back here. He’d have the skills. He’d be used to the life. He’d speak the language. As far as the paperwork goes, they might say he’s between postings.’

  Delfuenso said, ‘If they killed my guy, I’d burn their house down. So why haven’t we heard from them?’

  ‘You probably have,’ Reacher said. ‘But not personally. Right now it’s probably still one on one, in some back room in Washington. Two old white guys in suits. With cigars.’

  The clock in Reacher’s head and the mileage boards counting down towards Kansas City showed they were going to beat their two-hour target by a decent margin. The trip was going to take an hour forty, or an hour forty-five, max. Not that there wouldn’t be a few extra miles at the end. The bad guys were unlikely to be hiding out in whatever the highway people took to be the exact centre of the city. Reacher didn’t expect them to be holding their meetings in the lobby of a downtown hotel.

  ‘It’s a suburban house,’ Delfuenso said, like she could hear him thinking. ‘South of the city, and a little east.’

  ‘How far out of town?’

  ‘Maybe twelve miles.’

  An hour fifty-three, he thought, door to door.

  He said, ‘What kind of neighbourhood?’

  ‘Decent. And crowded.’

  ‘That’s awkward.’

  ‘Potentially.’

  ‘But well chosen, I suppose.’

  Delfuenso nodded at the wheel. ‘Wadiah is smarter than most of what we see.’

  The Paris of the Plains got a mile closer every forty seconds, and Sorenson asked, ‘What do you know about Peter King?’

  Delfuenso said, ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  ‘Reacher heard Alan King say it.’

  Delfuenso glanced at Reacher in the mirror and nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember that. And then he made the slip about a million and a half people living where he lived. Right after claiming he was based in Nebraska. Right after claiming he’d been driving three hours despite a full tank and bottles of cold water.’

  Sorenson said, ‘We know Peter King moved from Denver to Kansas City, seven months ago.’

  ‘You know more than you should.’

  ‘Was his move a coincidence?’

  ‘There are no coincidences. Not in law enforcement. You know that.’

  ‘Is he a cop or an agent?’

  ‘Why would he be?’