Page 56 of The Secret

Reacher nodded.

Walsh said, “Safe to assume it’s the same for Neilsen, then. So I think someone called his fax machine by mistake. Then hung up right away.”

Reacher said, “Why would they do that?”

“If Neilsen left a message, he could have given the wrong number. Or the caller could have misdialed.”

Smith picked up the phone list and the fax log. “The timing works. Neilsen called the number from the hotel right after we’d been to see Sarbotskiy. He’d sucked down all that vodka, remember? Easy to get one digit wrong when you leave a message and you can hardly stand up straight. And the call back came that evening, when we were at the bar.”

“So Neilsen leaves a provocative message. The recipient tries to reach him, but can’t. And does what? Escalates? And whoever’s above him sends someone to take care of the problem?”

Whoeverbeing Stamoran, Smith thought, but she didn’t say it out loud.

“It’s plausible,” Reacher said. “Worth following up. But why did you say the guy would hang up right away?”

Walsh said, “You’ve never called a fax machine by mistake?”

“How would I know?”

Walsh pointed to Neilsen’s phone. “Try it. Call yours, now.”

Reacher punched in the number. The call connected. And his ear was instantly assaulted by a howling, screeching electronic cacophony. He slammed the handset down. “The hell was that?”

Walsh smirked. “Sorry, Reacher. That’s how fax machines talk to each other. You can see why the guy wouldn’t stay on the line.”

Smith leaned over and picked the handset back up. She dialed and when she was answered she reeled off the same succession of acronyms she’d used earlier and requested a list of any other calls the number that had tried to reach Neilsen had made. Then she asked to be transferred and gave instructions for the number to be run through a reverse directory. She was silent for a few seconds, then shook her head and hung up. She said, “The list of calls will be faxed to me later. The number’s registered to a John Smith. No relation.”

Chapter21

The reception area at AmeriChem’sheadquarters was an opulent space full of high-end materials and museum quality art, but boil it down to its bones and it was there to do one thing: Keep people out. Unless they had a pass to operate one of the turnstiles. Staff members had them. Legitimate visitors could get them. Veronica Sanson was neither. So her first step toward gaining access to the building started next door, in a Starbucks. She got in line and while she waited she took a lanyard out of her pocket. She’d bought it years ago in a tourist store in Tel Aviv. It was yellow with cartoon monkeys printed all over it. She slung it around her neck and tucked its clip inside her jacket as if she had a pass card but didn’t want to display it to the world on her commute to work. She reached the counter and ordered four venti lattes. That was the largest size of drink available. She asked for a cardboard carrier, wedged the giant cups into the cutouts in each corner, and loaded a bunch of sugar packets and stirring sticks into the space in the center.

Veronica made her way out of the coffee shop and through oneof AmeriChem’s revolving doors. She was holding the drink tray out in front and moving cautiously, as if the whole thing was about to collapse and scald her. She crept all the way to the nearest turnstile. And then she was stuck. She couldn’t hold the drinks with one hand. She couldn’t free her lanyard with no hands. People were coming up behind her, pinning her in. She was getting flustered. She tried to rebalance her load and almost dropped it. She tried to hold it level and lean down close enough to the sensor to activate the machine without undoing her jacket. Three packets of sugar slid off and hit the floor. She tried to wriggle one forearm under the tray and one of the cups almost fell. Her face turned scarlet. She looked like she was close to tears. Then a guy in a suit with silver hair and a mustache stepped up alongside her. He leaned down and used his own pass to release the turnstile. She tiptoed through and made for the elevators.

“Thank you so much,” she said when the guy caught up to her. “I thought I was going to die of embarrassment back there. It’s only my second day. I won’t forget to have my card ready ever again.” She lowered her voice. “You couldn’t hit the button for me when we get in, could you? I don’t want a repeat of that debacle. I need Ms. Kasluga’s floor.”

—

Susan Kasluga hadthe largest corner office on the twentieth floor. A perk of being the big boss, Veronica figured. She figured another perk would be having the most qualified assistant so she ditched the milky coffees in the women’s bathroom near the elevator lobby, rushed down the corridor, and burst into Kasluga’s outer office. A woman in a sleek black pantsuit looked up from behind a wide antique desk, alarmed. She had gray hair pulled back from her face, fine bones, and stern blue eyes.

Veronica said, “You’re the one they meant, right? You know CPR?”

The gray-haired woman was on her feet immediately. “Someone’s having an arrest?”

“Downstairs. One floor. By the elevators. Someone called 911, but you know how long those guys can take to come.”

—

Veronica made asif to follow, but as soon as the older woman was through the door she turned back. She looped around the desk. A computer monitor took up almost half the real estate. It was beige, hulking, bowed at the front, with a thick tangle of wires hanging down at the back. There was a telephone. A big, complicated thing with all kinds of lights and buttons. A leather desk pad. A pair of trolls, three inches high, with wild fluorescent hair. A gift from a grandchild, Veronica thought. There was a pad of paper and a pen. A Rolodex. Veronica wondered how much she could get for some of the names and numbers it must contain. And at the side, on its own, a leather-bound executive diary. Veronica opened it. Flicked through to the current week. Looked at the following day’s entries. Saw they started at 6:00a.m.withSerge, Press Conference Prep, Boardroom,and ran through to 6:00p.m.without a break.

Sorry, Serge,Veronica thought.You’re going to be getting up early for nothing.

—

Reacher and Walshfollowed Smith out of Neilsen’s office. Smith used her picks to relock his door then led the way to her own office. That felt less ghoulish than hanging out in a dead person’s space, and it meant they were near Smith’s fax machine. The one the information about the phone calls she’d requested would be sent to.

Reacher and Walsh ducked out briefly to fetch the chairs from their offices, then the three of them sat in a loose triangle and waited. The fax machine became the center of attention, despite being completely inert. Smith made a couple of attempts to kick-start a conversation. Walsh offered a few snippets about his take on the country’s financial prospects. Reacher said nothing.

After forty minutes the display on the fax machine began to flash and a few moments later a single piece of paper slid into its output tray. Smith grabbed it, took a look, then held it up for the others to see.

---