Page 18 of The Secret

Reacher said, “Shoot.”

“What are you planning on wearing tonight?”

Reacher glanced down at his shirt and pants. “What I’m wearing now.”

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

“Is there a problem?”

“You might as well hang a sign around your neck sayingUndercover Cop. All right. This is what’s happening. If you have plans for the afternoon, cancel them. I’m taking you shopping.”

Chapter8

The phone in the Pentagonrang again at 1:02p.m.Eastern. Not a scheduled time for a call.

The guy who answered it listened, hung up, then moved to his outer office and dialed another number. It was for a cellular phone mounted in a car that was traveling southeast on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Charles Stamoran picked up after one ring. “Tell me Pritchard’s been found.”

“Sorry, sir,” the Pentagon guy said. “This is about Geoffrey Brown. He’s dead. The cause is pending confirmation from the lab, but a New Orleans PD officer who attended the scene was confident he recognized the symptoms. Brown suffered a fatal reaction to the venom of the Sonoran Desert toad. He smoked the dried secretions mixed with tobacco in a pipe that was found at his side. People do this for its psychedelic effect, and to combat psychological conditions such as PTSD. If Brown was new to the practice, he could have used too high a concentration. The source of the substance isbeing traced but is most likely one of the stores in the city that caters for pseudo-religious ceremonies. Brown had no visitors and received no deliveries. He called 911 himself, so the police think his death is likely an accident, but cold feet following a suicide attempt cannot be ruled out.”

Stamoran lowered the receiver to his lap and glanced out of the car window at the swarms of people rushing in and out of one office building after another. He felt himself getting angry. He could think of an explanation that couldn’t be ruled out. Toad venom? Seriously? Brown did smoke a pipe. Had smoked one for years. And after some of the things he’d done, it would be a miracle if he never had some kind of psychological reaction. But there was no way he would involve himself in New Age hippy designer-drug bullshit. Not voluntarily. A generous pour of bourbon and branch? Yes. Smoking secretions harvested from poisonous amphibians? No. Not in a million years. Someone was adding insult to injury.

Stamoran lifted the handset. “Waiting to catch this guy when he strikes isn’t working. We need to get proactive. Leave the agents watching Rymer and Adam in place but I want a task force set up, as well. By tomorrow. Reps from the army, CIA, FBI, Treasury, and any other agency this guy could be from based on his performance and obvious training. I want him identified. I want a focused suspect pool our people in the field can work with. And I want him stopped.”

—

At eight o’clockthat evening Reacher was in a bar in River North, Chicago. He was wearing the second set of new clothes he’d bought that day. A pair of black jeans, a dark green shirt, a leather jacket, and black ankle boots that were secured with straps. Agent Ottaway was sitting opposite him across a low, round table. She was wearing a plain black dress and her hair was curlier than it had been earlier.

The bar was fashioned out of an old factory. The walls were brick. They were pitted and stained and riddled with holes and sockets and brackets where all kinds of equipment must once have been secured. Like industrial petroglyphs, Reacher thought, telling the story of the people who spent their lives working there. He spent a few minutes trying to decipher them, then glanced across to a stage that was set up in the far corner. A three-piece band was midway through its set. The performance was competent from a technical standpoint but it was nothing Reacher would call exciting. Nothing that was going to knock Howlin’ Wolf or Magic Slim off his list of favorites.

Ottoway nudged Reacher’s foot with her own under the table and nodded almost imperceptibly toward the entrance. Sergeant Chapellier had walked in. He was wearing stained jeans and a Metallica tour shirt. He paused for a moment like he was looking for someone then made his way across to an empty table. It was six feet away from Reacher and Ottoway’s, in a section that was separated from the rest of the space by a line of vertical iron pipes. There were a dozen of them, three feet apart, four inches in diameter, rusted almost black. Ten were lit from above. They all should have been. But the lamps over two of them had failed and that left them lost in the gloom.

Reacher pretended to be watching the bartender prepare drinks but he kept one eye on Chapellier. He was fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, and glancing repeatedly at the door. No one came through. One of the waitstaff picked up a tray of drinks. He was aiming to deliver it to a table at the back. It was made out of an old beer keg with things that looked like upturned buckets as seats. Two twenty-something guys were perched there along with two women who looked a little younger.

One of the guys gestured for the waiter to hurry up. Maybe hewas thirsty. Maybe he was trying to show off. But whatever the reason, he wasn’t helping. The waiter was doing his best. The space was crowded. The furniture was jammed in at all kinds of crooked angles. There was no set path for him to get through. There was no point trying to make him go faster. A couple of times he nearly dropped the tray. Once he skidded on a wet patch on the floor. And finally, when he was almost at the right table, he knocked into another customer.

The man was hard to miss. He was six foot six with a huge beard, a baseball cap worn backward, baggy jeans, and a plaid shirt with buttons that were struggling to contain his gut. He glanced around. He was checking to see if anyone was looking. He saw that plenty of people were. So he shoved the waiter in the chest. Hard.

The waiter stumbled back a couple of steps then lost his balance. The tray slipped out of his hands. Four drinks hit the floor. Three beers and some kind of fancy cocktail with an umbrella in it. The waiter tumbled over backward and hit his head on the base of another table.

Chapellier paid no attention to the altercation. His gaze was now fixed on the door. No one came through. There were a couple dozen people already in the railed-off section of the bar. None of them lifted a finger to help the waiter. Not even to haul him back onto his feet. He finally rolled over then crawled forward to retrieve his tray. The fat guy pushed it farther away with his foot. Still no one did anything. Still no one came through the door.

The waiter came back a couple of minutes later with a mop and a broom and a bucket. He started to clean up the mess. The fat guy took every opportunity to nudge and jostle him. No one in the bar did anything to help. Then Reacher stopped watching the sideshow. Because someone had finally come in. A man, late thirties, loose shirt, baggy jeans, and a battered leather messenger bag slung overone shoulder. He was scrawny with lank, unwashed hair and a week’s stubble on his face. Reacher recognized the look. A dollar would get a dime that the guy was a former soldier. A drug habit had led to stealing had led to a dishonorable discharge. A pattern Reacher had seen play out a thousand times.

The scrawny guy hustled across to Chapellier’s table and sat down. The waiter appeared and Chapellier said something, then held up two fingers. The guys sat in silence until the waiter came back with two beers. They nodded, clinked glasses, and both drained their drinks in a single gulp. The scrawny guy belched, then set his bag down on the empty seat next to him. Chapellier picked it up. Glanced inside. Then took a vehicle key from his pocket and placed it on the table. The scrawny guy nodded again, took the key, got up, and headed for the door.

Ottoway turned away and took a radio from her purse. She held it close to her mouth and said, “He’s coming out. He’ll be heading for a vehicle. Wait till he’s in it, then take him.”

A minute passed then Ottoway’s radio crackled back into life. A man’s voice said, “We have him. The contraband, too. It’s a wrap.”

—

Susan Kasluga hungup the phone and closed her eyes. She breathed out slowly and felt the knots in her shoulders ease, just a little. She was sitting at her desk in her home office. It was a small room but it was quiet and its view over the pond and the trees made up for its lack of size.

“Trouble at work?” Charles Stamoran said.

Kasluga opened her eyes and saw her husband standing in the doorway. She said, “Are you spying on me?”

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