“When will they need it?”
“Obviously half of me wants it to be as soon as possible. And obviously the other half doesn’t.”
“You should do what is right medically. We’ll figure out the rest as we go along.”
“We can’t borrow it,” Maria said. “You would have to do it for us, because they think you’re Aaron Shevick. But now, for you, that would be a trap. Because you asked about Trulenko.”
“Aaron could borrow it under my name. Or any name. They’re new at this game. They have no system for checking. Not yet, anyway. It’s an option. If you need it fast.”
“You said you could find Trulenko. You said it used to be part of your job.”
“The question is when,” Reacher said. “I figured I had six chances before the week is over. Now maybe not so many. I need to work on a faster plan.”
“I apologize for my tone.”
“No need,” Reacher said.
“This is all very stressful.”
“I can only imagine,” Reacher said.
They hung up and Reacher passed the phone back to Abby.
Barton said, “This is crazy, man. I’m going to keep on saying it, because it’s going to keep on being true. I know those people. I play their clubs. I’ve seen what they do. One time, there was a piano player they didn’t like. They smashed his fingers with a hammer. The guy never played again. You can’t take them on.”
Reacher looked at Hogan and asked, “Do you play their clubs?”
“I’m a drummer,” Hogan said. “I play anywhere they pay me.”
“Have you seen what they do?”
“I agree with Frank. These are not pleasant people.”
“What would the Marine Corps do about them?”
“Nothing. The pointy-heads would hand them off to the SEALs. Much more glamorous. The Corps wouldn’t get a sniff.”
“What would the SEALs do?”
“A lot of planning first. With maps and blueprints. If we’re assuming a hardened bunker of some kind, they would look for emergency exits, or delivery bays, or incursions by ventilation shafts or water pipes or sewers, and places where they could gain access by demolition of walls between adjacent structures. Then they would plan simultaneous assaults from everywhere they could, at least three or four places, with three- or four-man teams in each location. Which would probably get the job done, except it might be hard to keep any single person of interest alive. There would be a lot of crossfire. It would depend on dimensions and visibility.”
Reacher asked, “What were you, in the Corps?”
“Infantry,” Hogan said. “Just a plain old jarhead.”
“Not a bandsman?”
“That would have been too logical for the Corps.”
“Were you always a drummer?”
“I was as a kid. Then I stopped. Then I took it up again in Iraq. Every big base had a kit lying around somewhere. I was advised I would enjoy creating patterns I alone controlled. I was advised I would find it helpful, since I could already play a bit anyway. Also I was advised it would get rid of aggression.”
“Who advised you?”
“Some old sawbones. I laughed it off at first. But then I found I was really enjoying it again. I realized I should have been doing it all my life. I’ve been playing catch-up ever since. Trying to learn. I missed a few years.”
“You sounded pretty good to me.”
“Now you’re blowing smoke. And trying to change the subject. You’re one guy. You’re not a SEAL team.”
“I’ll figure it out. By definition there must be a dozen better plans than what the navy would come up with. All I need to do is find the guy.”
“There can’t be many suitable locations,” Abby said again.
Reacher nodded and went quiet. The conversation bounced around him. The other three seemed to be good friends. They had worked together now and then, in the fluid world of clubs, and music, and dance, and men in suits on the door. They all had stories, some of them funny, and some of them not. They seemed to draw no distinction between the Ukrainians and the Albanians. They seemed to think that working east and west of Center was equally good and bad.
A kid in a car brought Chinese food. Reacher shared hot and sour soup with Abby and sweet and sour chicken with Barton. They drank wine. He drank coffee. When he finished, he said, “I’m going for a walk.”
Abby said, “Alone?”
“Nothing personal.”
“Where?”
“West of Center. I need to hurry this up. The Shevicks are about to get hit by another big bill. They can’t wait.”
“Crazy, man,” Barton said.
Hogan didn’t speak.
Reacher got up and stepped out the front door.
Chapter 24
Reacher walked west, toward the nighttime glow of the tall downtown buildings. The banks and the insurance companies and the local TV. And the chain hotels. All clustered astride Center Street, all penetrated by one faction or the other, all probably unaware of the fact, at management level, unless the manager was also the mole. Along the way he passed bars and clubs and storefront restaurants. Here and there he saw men in suits on the door. He ignored them. Wrong faction. He was still east of Center. He walked on.
If he had eyes in the back of his head, he would have seen one of the men in suits think hard for a second, and then send a text.
He walked on. He crossed Center Street three blocks north of the first tall building, into a neighborhood no different, with bars and clubs and storefront restaurants, some of them with men in suits on the door, just the same, except the suits were different, and the ties were silk, and the faces were paler. This time he watched them all carefully, from the shadows when he could, looking for the kind of guy he wanted. Which was alert, but not too alert, and tough, but not too tough. There were several candidates. In particular three looked good. Two were in wine bars, and one was in some kind of a lounge. Maybe a comedy club.
Reacher chose the one sitting nearest the street door. A tactical advantage. It was the lounge. The guy was right inside the glass. Reacher walked toward him, three-quarters in his field of vision. The guy noticed the movement. Turned his head. Reacher stopped walking. The guy stared. Reacher moved on again. Straight toward him. The guy remembered. Texts, descriptions, photographs, names. Aaron Shevick. Be on the lookout.
Reacher stopped again.