“Did we get a location?” someone asked.
“We got a pretty good triangulation, but it’s a densely populated area. Every corner has a store. But it’s right where we thought they would be. Close to the center of the shape we marked out.”
“How close?”
“I say we forget the twelve blocks we figured before. We can squeeze it down to the middle four. Maybe the middle six, to be certain.”
“In a basement?”
“Or somewhere there’s no signal.”
“Maybe they took the battery out. And then put it back in.”
“To do what? I told you, they didn’t make or receive a call.”
“OK, a basement.”
“Or a building with a thick iron frame. Somewhere like that. Keep an open mind. Tell everyone to squeeze in tight. Really flood the area. Look for lights behind drapes. Look for cars and pedestrians. Knock on doors and ask questions if necessary.”
* * *
—
At that same moment Jetmir’s opposite number on the other side of Center Street was also in a meeting, also of his inner council, in the room in back of the taxi company, across from the pawn shop, next to the bail bond operation. But in his case his boss was present. Gregory was right there, as always, at the head of the table, presiding. He had called the meeting himself, right after he heard about one of his downtown guys getting stuck up by Aaron Shevick.
He said, “This latest incident feels completely different to me. There was no attempt at deception. He wasn’t expecting us to blame the Albanians for it. It was completely blatant, face to face. Apparently he has been instructed to abandon his earlier tactics. In favor of a new phase. I think a mistake. They have revealed more about themselves than they will discover about us.”
“The phone,” his right-hand man said.
“Precisely,” Gregory said. “Taking the gun was to be expected. Anyone would. But why the instruction to take the phone?”
“It’s a necessary component of their new strategy. They’re going to attempt to inflict electronic damage. To weaken us further. They’re going to try to get inside our operating system through our phones.”
“Who in the whole wide world would have the skills and the experience and the sheer confidence and the deluded arrogance to even hope to succeed with that?”
“Only the Russians,” his right-hand man said.
“Precisely,” Gregory said again. “Their new tactic has revealed their identity. Now we know. The Russians are moving in on us.”
“Not good.”
“I wonder if they took an Albanian phone, too.”
“Probably. The Russians don’t like sharing territory. I’m sure they plan to replace us both. This is going to be very tough. There are a lot of them.”
There was silence for a long moment.
Then Gregory asked, “Can we beat them?”
His right-hand man said, “They won’t get inside our operating system.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Well, whatever we bring to the fight, they bring twice the men, twice the money, and twice the material.”
“These are desperate times,” Gregory said.
“Truly.”
“They call for desperate measures.”
“Like what?”
“If the Russians are going to bring twice as much as we can, then we need to rebalance the scale. Simple as that. Just temporarily. Just for the time being. Until the present crisis has passed.”
“How?”
“We need to form a short-term defensive alliance.”
“Who with?”
“Our friends east of Center.”
“With the Albanians?”
“They’re in the same boat.”
“Would they do it?”
“Against the Russians, they’re going to need it just as much as we do. If we join forces, we might just match them. If we don’t, we can’t. United we stand, divided we fall.”
Silence again.
“It’s a big step to take,” someone said.
“I agree,” Gregory said. “Even weird and crazy. But necessary.”
No one spoke after that.
“OK,” Gregory said. “I’ll go talk to Dino again, first thing in the morning.”
* * *
—
Reacher woke up in the gray gloom of night, with the clock in his head showing ten minutes to four. He had heard a sound. A car, on the street, outside and below the round window. The bite and grind of brakes, the compression of springs, the stress of tires. A car, slowing to a stop.
He waited. Abby slept on beside him, warm, and soft, and comfortable. The old house creaked and ticked. There was a stripe of light under the door out to the hallway. The bulb over the stairs was still on. Maybe another fixture too, in a downstairs room. The kitchen or the parlor. Maybe Barton or Hogan was still up. Or both of them, shooting the shit. Ten to four in the morning. Musicians’ hours.
Out on the street the car’s engine idled quietly. The faint thrash of belts, the whir of a fan, the rustle of pistons slapping up and down, uselessly. Then a faint muted thump from under the hood, and a sensation of new permanence.
The transmission had been shoved forward into park.
The engine turned off.
Silence again.
A door opened.
A leather sole clapped down on the sidewalk. A seat spring clicked as weight was lifted off. A second shoe joined the first. Someone stood up straight, with a tiny huff of effort.
The door closed.
Reacher slid out of bed. He found his pants. He found his shirt. He found his socks. He laced his shoes. He slipped his jacket on. Reassuring weight in the pockets.
One floor below there was a loud knock at the street door. A booming, wooden sound. Ten to four in the morning. Reacher listened. Heard nothing. In fact less than nothing. Certainly less than before. Like a hole in the air. It was the negative sound of two guys previously shooting the shit, now dumbstruck and craning around and thinking what the hell? Barton and Hogan, still up. Musicians’ hours.
Reacher waited. Deal with it, he thought. Don’t make me come downstairs. He heard one of them get to his feet. A sideways shuffle. Looking out the window, probably, through a crack in the drapes, sideways, obliquely.