Page 32 of The Secret

Roberta said, “I saw four cars watching.”

Veronica said, “Same. Four cars, but one way in. We’re going to need costumes. Props. And a different kind of vehicle.”

—

Reacher was awake,dressed, and sitting on his bed when Amber Smith knocked on his hotel room door. It was 8:00a.m. Right on time.

Reacher let Smith in. Her eyes were wide and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She said, “We’re getting somewhere. I had people working on it all night. They’ve hit on three possibilities. Three KGB defectors. I’m still waiting on the details.”

Reacher and Smith rode down in the elevator together. They took a detour via the breakfast room to pick up coffee and bagels, then Smith drove them the mile to the building the task force was using.She spent the remaining three-quarters of an hour in her office, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. Reacher was happy for his not to. He picked up a couple of pages that had spilled out of the fax machine, ran through the names listed on them so that he would have some ammunition for Christopher Baglin at the morning meeting, then settled back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let Magic Slim loose in his head.

—

Baglin was late.Not catastrophically, but enough to leave him red-faced and out of breath when he finally bustled into the boardroom. The other four were in their customary places, in silence. Reacher was on his second refill of coffee. They each handed over their next tranche of names, except for Walsh. He had drawn another blank. Reacher was beginning to wonder if the guy was trying to get returned to the Treasury. If that was really where he was from. He made a mental note to follow up with his brother, Joe.

No new information was forthcoming, and no new orders were issued, so Reacher was back in his office inside ten minutes. Five minutes after that Smith knocked on his door and rushed in without waiting for an answer. She said, “I’ve heard from my people. One option is a dead end. Literally. The guy got killed while he was training for a dogsled race up in Alaska. He should have known better, at his age. The other two leads are promising, though. One guy is based in Oregon. The other’s here, in D.C.”

Reacher said, “What do you know about the local guy?”

“He runs a Russian-themed café. And honestly, he sounds like a complete headcase. He was a KGB colonel. Defected in ’74. Declined the whole new name, relocation package in return for more money and the chance to stay in town and build his own fake identity. And earn a fortune feeding politicians weird shit they’d nevereat at home. He goes by—and I checked this to make sure I was getting it right—His Royal Highness the Prince Sarb of Windsor.”

“As in Windsor, England?”

“It’s a nod to a legend he supposedly created before he bailed on the Soviets. He claimed he was stationed in London in the late fifties and MI5 picked up his scent. They were closing in fast, his escape routes were blown, so he went to the Brits and pretended to be the illegitimate son of an aristocrat who had been living in Hungary. He said he was on the fringes of the intelligence community there and he had a line on the Russian spy they were chasing. Said the Brits took the fact that he knew who they were looking for as a sign he was legit, and they bought it. So effectively he got them to hire him to catch himself. Which he clearly did not do. If his story is true. Which I doubt.”

“What was his specialty?”

“His last two postings were in Southeast Asia. He had a lot to say about chemical and biological stuff when he was debriefed, post-defection.”

“Sounds like he’s worth a shot.”

“I guess. Although…Reacher, are we crazy? Is this guy really going to talk to us if we just show up on his doorstep? Normally this sort of thing takes months of negotiating to set up.”

“Oh, he’ll talk. Strangers always open up to me. I’m a people person. Haven’t you noticed?”

—

Eight pairs ofeyes watched the UPS truck as it dawdled along Neville Pritchard’s street. It was moving erratically, speeding up and slowing down like the driver was searching for an address. The agent in the lead car picked up the handset of the phone that was mounted between his front seats. He called a number at thePentagon. Asked his control to find out which UPS depot covered the area, then check whether the truck was one of theirs. The truck drew level with Pritchard’s driveway. It turned and crept toward the house. The agent’s phone rang. It was his control. He confirmed that the local UPS manager had vouched for the truck. The agent was happy with the news but not completely satisfied. Pritchard hadn’t received any other deliveries the whole time they’d been watching his house, and he wasn’t home now so it didn’t make sense for him to be expecting anything. The agent swapped the phone for his radio. He pressed the Transmit button and said, “Possible contact. Stand by. Over.”

The truck made it all the way to Pritchard’s garage, then stopped. It sat for a moment, shaking slightly and rattling and pumping exhaust fumes into the morning air. The driver didn’t get out. Then the truck began to turn around. It sawed back and forth, back and forth, lurching and swaying each time it changed direction. It paused when it had gotten halfway, perpendicular to the driveway, like the driver was taking a breath. Then it started moving again, even more abruptly, like the driver’s patience with the whole situation was wearing thin.

The truck finally got back to the road and turned so it was heading the same way as before. It drove another ten yards then stopped again. It was right in the line of sight of the third agents’ car. The only one with a view of Pritchard’s garage door. The agent in the driver’s seat wound down his window. He saw the UPS driver was a woman. He nudged his partner as if to say,that explains it, then waved and yelled at her to move. She may have said something back but it was hard to tell because the side of her face was covered with a large square of gauze bandage, like she’d recently been in anaccident. She did return his wave, though. Only she used fewer fingers than he had done.

—

Roberta Sanson crouchedinside Neville Pritchard’s garage and leaned against the door. She was wearing a balaclava that covered her ears as well as her face, but she could still hear the truck’s engine. She listened to it wheeze and groan and then run and stop and she pictured each step of its progress. Each step they had carefully mapped out. The truck was stationary out on the road for longer than she’d expected. She held her breath. Pictured agents from the watching cars swarming around it. Sliding back the door. Pulling Veronica out. Ripping off her disguise. She held her breath. Then the truck puttered away. It kept going this time. There was no sound of squealing tires. Nothing to suggest pursuit. She relaxed. Just a little. She could see the door that led into the house, but she had no idea what was waiting on the other side.

Roberta inched her way along the side of Pritchard’s car until she reached the connecting door. She took hold of the handle, gathered herself, then twisted, pushed, and dived through the gap. She rolled. Pushed back onto her feet. Spun around 360 degrees, fists raised, ready to block or strike. And saw no one. No sign of Pritchard. No sign of any agents.

Roberta moved forward, slowly, planting her feet carefully, making next to no sound. She didn’t know Pritchard. She wasn’t familiar with his habits but she figured it was probably too late for him to be asleep. There was no sound of water running so he wasn’t taking a shower. No sound of kitchen equipment being used so he probably wasn’t cooking. Based on the window configuration she’d seen from outside, she guessed the last door in the corridor wouldlead to the living room. She decided to start there. She kept moving. Passed the first door. Which opened. A man came out. Late twenties, cropped hair, stocky. Dressed in black. Holding a gun.

Not Pritchard.

The guy sneered at Roberta then took a radio from his belt and held it to his ear. He said, “Contact. You owe me fifty bucks. He did show up. Only get this—he’s a she. Hold your positions. We’ll bring her out in a minute.”

Roberta thought,Of course I showed up. Why would he think I wouldn’t? Because they’ve got Pritchard in custody?Then she punched the guy in the throat, knuckles extended. He fell back. His gun and his radio rattled against the shiny wooden floor and he grasped his neck, gurgling and gasping as he fought to suck air through his crushed windpipe.

Two more doors opened. Two more men appeared. Both young and fit. Both with guns.

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