actually choose from that menu?’
‘Sir, if you worked for the 110th, you’ll know that this is an active and open emergency channel. I’ll have to ask you to state your business immediately.’
‘I want to talk to your commanding officer.’
‘Concerning?’
‘A favour I need. Tell him to look me up in the files and call me back.’ Reacher read out the number from a label stuck to the console in front of him.
The guy on the other end hung up without a word.
Five to nine in the morning.
Forty-three hours to go.
ELEVEN
A T NINE THIRTY THE PHONE ON R EACHER’S BORROWED DESK rang, but the call was not for him. He stretched the cord and passed the handset to Peterson. Peterson gave his name and rank and then listened for the best part of a minute. He asked whoever it was on the other end to stay in touch, and then he passed the handset back. Reacher hung it up. Peterson said, ‘We need your information just as soon as you can get it.’
Reacher pointed at the console in front of him. ‘You know how it is with kids today. They never write, they never call.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘What changed?’
‘That was the DEA on the line. The actual Drug Enforcement Administration. The actual federal bureau. From Washington D.C. A courtesy call. Turns out they have a wiretap on a guy they think is a Russian dope dealer. New to the scene, trying to make a name, trawling for deals, out of Brooklyn, New York. A guy in Mexico called Plato just called him about a property for sale five miles west of a town called Bolton, in South Dakota.’
‘A property for sale?’
‘Those were the words they used.’
‘So what is this? Real estate or dope dealing?’
‘If there’s an underground lab out there, then it’s both, isn’t it? And that’s going to be the DEA’s next question. It’s a nobrainer. They’ll be building their file and they’ll call us to ask what exactly that place is.’
‘Tell them to call the Department of the Army direct. Quicker all around.’
‘But that would make us look like idiots. We can’t admit we’ve had a place next to us for fifty years and we don’t even know what it is.’
Reacher shrugged. Pointed at the phone again. ‘You’ll know as soon as I do. Which might be never.’
‘You were their commanding officer? An elite unit?’
Reacher nodded. ‘For a spell.’ Then he said: ‘Plato is a weird name for a Mexican, don’t you think? Sounds more like a Brazilian name to me.’
‘No, Yugoslavian,’ Peterson said. ‘Like that old dictator.’
‘That was Tito.’
‘I thought he was a South African bishop.’
‘That was Tutu.’
‘So who was Plato?’
‘An ancient Greek philosopher. The pupil of Socrates, the teacher of Aristotle.’
‘So what has Brazil got to do with all of that?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Reacher said.
Kapler and Lowell came back to the squad room. They distributed memos still hot and curled from the photocopier, one into every in-tray, and then they slouched out again. Peterson said, ‘That’s their day’s work done, right there. Now comes a five-hour lunch break, probably. What a waste.’
‘What did they do?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘That bad?’
‘No, not really.’
‘So what was it?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘OK, three days ago they were out of radio contact for an hour. Wouldn’t say why or how or what they were doing. We can’t allow that. Because of the prison plan.’
The phone rang again at twenty minutes to ten. Reacher picked it up and said, ‘Yes?’
A woman’s voice asked, ‘Major Reacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘You taught a class in your last year in the service.’
‘Did I?’
‘About integrating military and federal investigations. I took the class. Don’t you recognize my voice?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Right then Reacher wanted her to say plenty, because she had a great voice.
‘Sir, if you worked for the 110th, you’ll know that this is an active and open emergency channel. I’ll have to ask you to state your business immediately.’
‘I want to talk to your commanding officer.’
‘Concerning?’
‘A favour I need. Tell him to look me up in the files and call me back.’ Reacher read out the number from a label stuck to the console in front of him.
The guy on the other end hung up without a word.
Five to nine in the morning.
Forty-three hours to go.
ELEVEN
A T NINE THIRTY THE PHONE ON R EACHER’S BORROWED DESK rang, but the call was not for him. He stretched the cord and passed the handset to Peterson. Peterson gave his name and rank and then listened for the best part of a minute. He asked whoever it was on the other end to stay in touch, and then he passed the handset back. Reacher hung it up. Peterson said, ‘We need your information just as soon as you can get it.’
Reacher pointed at the console in front of him. ‘You know how it is with kids today. They never write, they never call.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘What changed?’
‘That was the DEA on the line. The actual Drug Enforcement Administration. The actual federal bureau. From Washington D.C. A courtesy call. Turns out they have a wiretap on a guy they think is a Russian dope dealer. New to the scene, trying to make a name, trawling for deals, out of Brooklyn, New York. A guy in Mexico called Plato just called him about a property for sale five miles west of a town called Bolton, in South Dakota.’
‘A property for sale?’
‘Those were the words they used.’
‘So what is this? Real estate or dope dealing?’
‘If there’s an underground lab out there, then it’s both, isn’t it? And that’s going to be the DEA’s next question. It’s a nobrainer. They’ll be building their file and they’ll call us to ask what exactly that place is.’
‘Tell them to call the Department of the Army direct. Quicker all around.’
‘But that would make us look like idiots. We can’t admit we’ve had a place next to us for fifty years and we don’t even know what it is.’
Reacher shrugged. Pointed at the phone again. ‘You’ll know as soon as I do. Which might be never.’
‘You were their commanding officer? An elite unit?’
Reacher nodded. ‘For a spell.’ Then he said: ‘Plato is a weird name for a Mexican, don’t you think? Sounds more like a Brazilian name to me.’
‘No, Yugoslavian,’ Peterson said. ‘Like that old dictator.’
‘That was Tito.’
‘I thought he was a South African bishop.’
‘That was Tutu.’
‘So who was Plato?’
‘An ancient Greek philosopher. The pupil of Socrates, the teacher of Aristotle.’
‘So what has Brazil got to do with all of that?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Reacher said.
Kapler and Lowell came back to the squad room. They distributed memos still hot and curled from the photocopier, one into every in-tray, and then they slouched out again. Peterson said, ‘That’s their day’s work done, right there. Now comes a five-hour lunch break, probably. What a waste.’
‘What did they do?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘That bad?’
‘No, not really.’
‘So what was it?’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘OK, three days ago they were out of radio contact for an hour. Wouldn’t say why or how or what they were doing. We can’t allow that. Because of the prison plan.’
The phone rang again at twenty minutes to ten. Reacher picked it up and said, ‘Yes?’
A woman’s voice asked, ‘Major Reacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘You taught a class in your last year in the service.’
‘Did I?’
‘About integrating military and federal investigations. I took the class. Don’t you recognize my voice?’
‘Keep talking.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Right then Reacher wanted her to say plenty, because she had a great voice.
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