Chapter 5

Reacher expected that the door Vidic pushed through would lead to some kind of concealed exit, but it just opened onto another room. A small one. Not much bigger than a generous closet. The air inside it was stale. It was heavy with cheap aftershave and a hint of secondhand cigar smoke. A blackout blind was pulled across its window so the only light in the place came from a computer monitor on a battered metal desk that was shoved against the wall. The monitor looked bigger than normal, Reacher thought. More like a modest TV screen. Its display was divided into rectangles. There were three rows of four. Each of the images showed part of a building. Nine were interior shots. Three were exterior. Nothing was moving in any of them. There was no sign of any people. No one to capture and interrogate. Reacher was disappointed.

Vidic leaned down and fiddled with the computer's mouse until the display rearranged itself. Ten of the rectangles disappeared. The remaining pair expanded until together they filled the screen. Both showed an external view. The one on the left covered a white Jeep sitting on a curved gravel driveway that was hemmed in by tall bushes with large pale leaves. The one on the right showed a formal garden. Reacher assumed it would have been immaculate at one time, but now the various plants were running wild with neglect.

Vidic gestured to an office chair near the desk. One arm was missing and its mesh seat was saggy and loose. He said, "Want to sit?"

Reacher shook his head.

"Smart choice." Vidic kept his gaze on the screen. "So you were right. I am trying to save my own ass. I can't have you anywhere near Fletcher or Kane. It's too big of a risk. If they find out I helped you, or if they figure it out, I'm dead meat. But there's something else you need to know." Vidic lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm going to disappear. Very soon."

"Why would I care?"

"Because when I do it won't matter what you tell Fletcher. It won't matter what conclusions he jumps to. So here's the deal. You sit tight for twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, tops. Then I'll give you Fletcher and Kane on a plate. With a cherry on top. They have a job planned. A big one. Not far from here. They're going to have to bring it forward now that we know the Feds are breathing down their necks. I'll find out when. Give you the address. You can catch them in the act. Deal with them yourself. Take the proceeds. Or not. Call the cops if you prefer. Lead the Feds there. Whatever you want to do. I won't care because I'll be in the wind. Nothing will be able to blow back on me."

Reacher nodded his head slowly, like he was considering a complex problem from every conceivable angle. "So it costs me a day or two, but I get Fletcher. And you get away."

"I get away. And maybe one other thing."

"Which is?"

"Fletcher has a stash of cash. I know where it is. I figured there was nothing I could do about it. No way to get my hands on it before I go. Not on my own. But together we could take it."

"Where is it?"

"Not far away. I could take you there. Then give you a ride afterward. Anywhere you want to go. Within reason."

"How do we get it?"

"It's in a safe. A…the model doesn't matter. The point is, the lock's impossible to pick. Pretty much. Maybe three people in the world could do it and neither of us is one of them. The door, the top, the sides, they're all too strong and too thick to cut or drill or blow a hole in with explosives. But it does have a weakness. The back. It's thinner. Thin enough to make it vulnerable to a shaped charge. The manufacturer was looking to save weight, I guess. Or money. I don't know. They figured they could get away with it because the safe is supposed to be attached to the wall and the floor. No one should ever be able to get to the back."

"But?"

"The safe isn't bolted down. Fletcher bought it cheap from someplace and just had it shoved against the wall. I can't move it. I've tried. It's too heavy. But Kane moved it. He installed it. And if Kane can move it, you can move it. Don't you think?"

Reacher looked at his wrist. He tried to flex it. A jolt of pain shot up his arm and down to his fingers. "How much is in it?"

"Two point two million."

"Split how?"

"Seventy/thirty."

"In my favor?"

"Nice try."

Reacher didn't reply.

"Sixty/forty. Sixty to me."

Reacher said nothing.

"OK. Split fifty/fifty. What do you say?"

"Normally I'd say you were crazy."

Vidic spread his arms out wide. "Does this look normal?"

"So what's the plan?"

"I take you somewhere safe. Get you squared away, out of sight. Bring in a guy I know, a medic, who you can trust. He'll take care of your wrist. Then I'll get you some food. Some books, magazines, movies, whatever you want to pass the time until we need to move."

"That could work. But I still need the full nine on Fletcher. And whatever kind of operation he's got going on."

"I'll give you chapter and verse. But not here, OK?" Vidic pointed at the screen. "We've pushed our luck far enough. The cops are bound to show up anytime now."

Reacher nodded and took a step toward the door, but Vidic didn't follow right away. He leaned down, took hold of the mouse, and started fiddling with it again. The screen switched back to its original twelve rectangles. Vidic selected the image of the driveway and then a box appeared, demanding a password. Vidic hit a bunch of keys—four letters, eight numbers, then four more letters—and the screen filled with tiny versions of the same scene. Each had a time and a date under it. Vidic selected the most recent, did something else with the mouse, and a cartoon trash can appeared. He did another thing and the mini picture vanished.

"People say you can't erase history." Vidic turned and flashed a smile. "Maybe that was true before we had computers."

Vidic took out his phone and tapped away at its screen for a moment. Reacher couldn't focus well enough to see exactly what he was doing. Vidic caught his eye and said, "Don't worry. Just sending a message to the medic." Then he moved the pointer to the top of the screen and a list of options appeared. He picked Engage Privacy Mode and selected Fifteen Minutes. "Now I was never here," he said. "And we can leave together without being seen."

Reacher said, "What about the kitchen? And the hallway? There are cameras there, too, right?"

"Right. But the internal ones only record when the system is armed, and the system is only armed when no one is here. The external cameras are live all the time, in case anyone comes snooping around. Unless they're paused, like they are now, for another few minutes. So don't worry. We can go and there'll be no trace."

—

Vidic locked the heavy front door behind them and ushered Reacher over to the Jeep. It had protective mesh cages fixed over its rear lights, and a wide bull bar covering the whole of the front. Its bodywork was gleaming white but its hood was finished with some kind of matte black coating. Reacher had seen vehicles set up that way before. In the desert. So that the sun wouldn't reflect off the shiny paint and dazzle the driver. He was no expert but judging by the tires he guessed the Jeep had never been anywhere more challenging than a parking lot. He shrugged to himself. He was never going to understand car people.

Vidic drove fast but he had the vehicle well under control. The road was twisty and rough, with trees on both sides. They were tall and close together with few branches within reach of the ground. All the action was up high where the leaves had to compete for the sunlight. The air in the Jeep was set low and the stereo was playing acoustic rock uncomfortably loud until Vidic switched it off and said, "The place we were just in was built in the seventies by a guy named Arthur Grumann. He was a real estate developer from Manhattan. Crime was bad in the city back then, I guess, so he figured rich folk could be lured down here to the Ozarks, where it was safe and beautiful. He completed half a dozen mansions. All are within a couple of square miles of one another. They did OK at first. The idea didn't stick in the long term, though. By the two thousands people could hardly give the places away. We got ours for a song in '09, after the crash. Turned it into our studio."

"You're musicians?"

"Artists. Started out with four of us. Paris, Bowery, O'Connell, and Gibson. I joined later. Paris is great with computers so she handled the payments, that kind of thing. O'Connell dealt with the logistics. Art isn't easy to transport. You need special crates, things like that. They just did copies at first. Legitimate stuff. For collectors, mainly. People who don't want the real thing on their walls while they're on vacation or when they're having family with young kids to visit. But that morphed over time. They did a forgery for a gallery owner they met. Then they did a couple more. Then a lot more, until that was all they were doing."

"Enough to get the Feds on your case?"

"Not at all. They were discreet. And careful who they sold to. There were no real victims. The buyers were all crooks themselves. No. The problems started when Fletcher came on board. He wanted contacts in the art world. But not so he could sell to them. So he could steal from them. He was aggressive. Pushed us in a whole new direction. Got us involved in disputes. Violence. O'Connell got killed. So did some old dude. A retired cop working security at a place they hit. That's when he brought in Kane, as muscle. Now Bowery's gone missing and Gibson turned out to be a Fed. What a fiasco. It's not the organization I joined. Not even close. You can see why I'm jumping ship."

"You joined, when?"

"I kind of replaced O'Connell. So around the same time Kane joined. Only I'm not crazy and I'm not beholden to Fletcher. You can see why I'm leaving. It's not safe anymore."

"You're sure Gibson was a Fed? Those guys generally don't advertise."

"I'm sure."

"How come?"

"Kind of a fluke, I guess. He always used to disappear for a few hours, one day a week. I didn't think much about it, at first. But when Bowery disappeared, I don't know, I got suspicious. So when I saw Gibson sneaking off today, I followed him. He went to a motel just off a highway exit. A big place with a gas station and a diner. I saw him go to one of the motel rooms. He knocked on the door, kind of in a funky rhythm, then went in. I caught sight of a woman, waiting inside. I was relieved at first. I thought he was there to see a hooker. But I crept up close and listened at the door. It felt a bit dirty but I needed to be sure. And that's when I heard her say it."

"What?"

"Albatross."

"Like the bird?"

"Right. Albatross."

"So why's that such a big deal?"

"Because it's what she called him. Albatross. Not Gibson. It was a cover name, obviously. And who uses a cover name? An agent, when he's undercover. That's how those guys work."

"You're sure about that?"

"A hundred percent. Everyone knows."

"If you say so. And how did I end up in Agent Albatross's car?"

"He offered you a ride."

"Why would he do that?"

"To thank you, I guess."

"Thank me? For what?"

"Two punks tried to steal his Lincoln. You stopped them. Laid one of them out. He was leaving the motel room. Saw what happened. He offered you some money. Looked like you turned it down and asked for a ride instead."

"How do you know all that?"

"I was watching. From the diner. I was waiting to see him leave. You came in half an hour before. I heard you talking to the waitress."

"What did I order?"

"A burger. A slice of pie. And black coffee. You had three refills."

Reacher shrugged. He couldn't remember doing that, but it sounded about right. He said, "So we drove off. What did you do?"

"Waited to see what Gibson's handler did."

"And?"

"She hung back in the room for a couple of minutes. Maybe she was giving him time to get clear so no one saw them together. Maybe she was sanitizing the room. Or sending in some kind of report. I don't know for sure. Maybe all three things."

"Then what?"

"She came out. Checked that the door was locked. Walked to her car. Drove away, too."

"She didn't check out? Return the room key?"

Vidic shook his head. "Just left."

"What was she wearing?"

"She was dressed kind of casual. Jeans, white blouse, suit coat, flat shoes. Necklace, no earrings."

"Hair?"

"Blond. Shoulder length. Tied back in a ponytail."

"Age?"

Vidic shrugged. "Thirties?"

"Was she carrying anything?"

"A purse. Big enough to conceal a weapon. And a briefcase. Black leather. Slim."

"What kind of car?"

"A Charger. It was flat blue. Poverty spec. Two extra antennas. Parked on the opposite side of the lot, well away from the room they were using."

"What did you do after she left?"

"Got in my own car and headed to the house. Gibson's a slow driver. I'm not. I put my foot down, hoping to get there before him, knowing what I knew. But I caught up with him at the worst possible place. A switchback. A bad one. I startled him, I guess, and he lost control. The accident was my fault, if I'm honest. I stopped. Tried to help. But it was no good. Gibson was dead. I was able to pull you out alive, at least. That's something, right?"