Page 43 of The Secret

“Help us and you won’t have to.”

“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“How could it be a trap?”

“I’ve been here twenty-two years. You know why?”

“You have an eccentric taste in décor?”

“Because of the piece I wrote about Project 192. In ’69, going on ’70. I was a reporter back then. A damn good one. The article was dynamite. The best thing I ever did. It was locked and loaded, two days from going to press. We were all set for a big splash on a Sunday. Going for maximum impact. I was walking home from a date, happy, dreaming of promotions and Pulitzers and book deals. I saw a van waiting outside my building. A blue Ford. I thought nothing of it then. I’ll never forget it now. And I’ll never forget the smell of the hood they pulled over my head. My world went black. And it stayed black for what felt like weeks. It was actually three days. First I was in the back of the van. Then in a tiny room. I don’t know where it was. Somewhere cold. The floor and walls were hardconcrete. There was no bed. No chair. No toilet. They gave me hardly any water. No food. Then finally a light came on. It hurt my eyes. A guy came in. He stood. I lay on the floor. I couldn’t move. He gave me a choice. Hand over all my notes and early drafts and photos and never tell a soul what I knew, or spend the rest of my life in a room like that. In the dark. Cold. Hungry. Alone.”

“And Sarbotskiy helped you with the article?”

“He was a source, sure. He thought he was using me, I expect. I thought I was using him. The truth? A bit of both, probably. But I never printed anything that wasn’t true. I triple-checked every detail. I wasn’t a Soviet asset. I’m no traitor.”

“So you gave this guy in the room what he wanted, then you came here?”

“Damn straight I gave him what he wanted. And I didn’t come here right away. I tried to go back to work. But it was no good. The guy said they’d be watching me. If I ever made a nuisance of myself, if I poked my nose where it didn’t belong, if I attracted attention in any way, all bets were off. He said they would keep the room ready for me, just in case. He said they had already hung a sign on the door with my name on it. I’ll be honest. That messed with my head. I couldn’t write a story without thinking about how it could be interpreted. Couldn’t walk down the street without having a heart attack every time I saw a van parked at the curb. I figured it would be best to disappear.”

“You think we’re here to test you. See if you’re ready to make waves again.”

“In my life, when people show up out of the blue it’s to hurt me, not help me. Why should this time be any different?”

“What if someone vouched for us?”

“Who?”

“Sarbotskiy. You know him. And he’s already done his deal with the government. He’s got what he wants. There’s no mileage for him in selling you out.”

Flemming took a moment to think, then said, “OK. I guess that could work.”

Reacher said, “We’ll take you to him. You guys talk. We’ll bring you right back.”

“I’m not leaving. I told you that. We’ll call him.”

“How?”

Flemming gestured to a door in the glass wall at the far end of the space. “You three go first. Don’t try anything.”

—

The door ledinto a square courtyard. It was totally enclosed by the four sides of the building except for a vehicle-sized gate that was now barricaded with old tires. Reacher figured the gate had originally been for deliveries, and the space for allowing light into the inner side of the wards. It could also have been a place for patients to exercise. Maybe there had been gardens and paths and benches. Maybe conscientiously maintained. But now there was nothing growing on the ground apart from a few weeds that peeped out from between hunks of rubble. The center of the area was empty. There was nothing against three of the walls apart from graffiti. But against the west wall there were three travel trailers tucked in close to the brickwork. Their skin was aluminum. It was dull, but Reacher guessed it would have been shiny when they were new.

Flemming pointed toward the one on the left. He said, “That one’s my office. The center one’s my living room. The other’s where I sleep.”

He folded back the office trailer’s door and latched it open. He leaned in, flicked a switch, and a light came on. He gestured for theothers to climb in ahead of him. There was a desk under the window. It was plain and utilitarian, with a metal frame and plain wood surfaces. A chair on wheels, which had seen better days. Its fabric was torn in multiple places and stuffing was spilling out in dirty orange clumps. And a leather armchair which wasn’t in much better shape. The rest of the area was stuffed with shelves. They looked homemade. They were crammed with books and files and sheafs of papers and piles of magazines. One wall was covered with things in frames. Diplomas. Awards. Reprints of articles. And a single picture. It was of Flemming when he was a much younger man. He was thinner and his hair was dark brown. He was on a boat crossing a river in a jungle. It looked like Vietnam.

Reacher nodded toward the heap of papers on the desk and said, “You still working?”

Flemming shrugged. He said, “I keep busy. I don’t write anymore. Not under my own name. That’s too risky. But I help a few folks out with things. Research. Copyediting. Like that.” He moved some papers around on the desk, uncovered a phone, and lifted the receiver.

Smith said, “That thing works?”

Flemming said, “You think I’m going to have a pretend conversation? Of course it works. Everything works. You spend as much time as I did working in some countries I could tell you about, you get pretty good at borrowing things. A little power here. Some water there. A bit of dial tone in between. I’ve got cable hooked up in the other two vans.”

Flemming kept hold of the shotgun, wedged the phone between his shoulder and his chin, and dialed a number from memory. Reacher could hear the slow, lazy ringtone. Then a deep rumbling voice. He couldn’t make out the words.

Flemming said, “Sorry, man. Yes, I do know what time it is. But this is an emergency. I’ve got three guys here who say you sentthem.” He described Reacher, Smith, and Neilsen, then listened for a few moments. Then he said, “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

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