Page 70 of The Secret

Chapter27

An aged TV on atall stand had been wheeled into the meeting room at some point during the night. Christopher Baglin used it to get the task force’s final meeting under way with a VHS recording of the previous night’s press conference from the White House. A suitably somber spokesman announced Stamoran’s death. He spent a couple of minutes running through a bunch of weasel-worded platitudes, then signed off with the minimum of details.

Smith said, “They won’t get away with that for very long. Questions are going to be asked.”

“They’ll be hoping things heat up in Serbia soon,” Reacher said. “Nothing like bad news to hog the spotlight.”

Christopher Baglin switched off the TV. He said, “I spent most of the night ass deep in crime scene photos and the ME’s reports and all the physical evidence I could lay my hands on. What a messed-up situation. I guess we could frame it as one story of redemption. One of disgrace. And another of, well, I don’t know. Someone else can be the judge of that.”

Smith said, “Charles Stamoranwasa disgrace. The secret program he ran in India, and all those other places. The money he and Pritchard stole. The leak it caused, and the thousand lost souls that resulted. May he rot in hell.”

Reacher said, “And what value can we put on Morgan Sanson’s redemption?”

Baglin said, “His personnel file showed he was a good person. He was worried about safety, not pay or promotions. He was about to expose the corruption and was killed for it. He wasn’t a saboteur. He wasn’t a suicide. I for one am glad the world now knows.”

“And his daughters?” Reacher said. “What have they got to show for it?”

Smith said, “Some of the blame has to go to the scientists. If Owen Buck, for example, had acted at the time, instead of dithering for decades and then giving Roberta and Veronica partial information and provoking this crazy quest of theirs, how different would things have been?”

“Owen Buck,” Baglin said. “He wrote the original list of names, I guess. It was in Roberta’s pocket when she died. One strange detail about it. Six names were written in one person’s handwriting. And the other two in two different hands. Anyone have ideas why that should be?”

Walsh said, “Sorry.”

Smith shook her head.

Reacher said nothing.

“Never mind,” Baglin said. “It’s probably not important.”

—

Smith suggested adrink when the meeting wrapped up but Reacher didn’t see the point. The only unfinished business was Neilsen’s wake in a day or two and he wasn’t thrilled aboutattending. He figured how you treat people when they’re alive is what matters. No amount of drinking and storytelling is going to make a difference after they’re gone. So he went back to his hotel. He figured he would grab his things, drop his car keys at reception, and slip out of town without making a big fuss.

It took twice as long as usual for Reacher to pack because he had his Class A’s to square away. The pants were going to need some attention from a tailor after getting worn at the pumping station the day before. And the whole thing would need a thorough clean after getting doused with gasoline. He zipped up its garment bag and dropped it on the counter, ready to sweep his other clothes into his duffel, but he noticed something on the side next to the minibar. An envelope. The report Walsh had brought for him the other night. About Susan Kasluga’s career. He hadn’t read it. Events had overtaken him. And it would be moot now, anyway. The case was closed. Reacher picked up the envelope and started toward the trash can.

He stopped. He slid the contents out of the envelope and began to flick through them. He had time. He figured it would be good to get a sense of the woman whose life he’d saved. He wound up reading every word, and studying every picture. And when he was done, his travel plans were back on hold.

—

Reacher stepped intoSusan Kasluga’s outer office at a minute to nine in the morning, two days later.

Kasluga’s gray-haired assistant looked up from behind her giant computer and said, “Captain Reacher?” She gestured toward the door to the inner office. “Go ahead. She’s ready for you.” Then she lowered her voice. “You know, Ms. Kasluga is the backbone of AmeriChem. She’s the life and soul of the company. Everyone here is so grateful for what you did to save her.”

Reacher said, “Don’t thank me yet.” Then he gave the inner door a cursory knock and went through.

Susan Kasluga came out from behind her desk to greet him. She was wearing all black. She looked tired and there were dark circles under her eyes. She gave him a gentle hug and said, “I’m glad you’re here. Welcome to my sanctuary.”

Most of the furniture in the place was a blend of chrome and leather and pale Scandinavian wood. Exactly the kind of tone Reacher expected to find in a chief executive’s office. But along one wall there was a surprisingly personal collection of things. Almost sentimental. There was an old lab bench with a jumble of test tubes in wooden racks spread out all over it. There were tongs and Bunsen burners and round glass flasks in various sizes. And on the wall above it there were clusters of framed pictures of experiments in progress and people wearing white coats and safety goggles. There was also a group of five canvas facsimiles of handwritten chemical formulae, complete with crossings-out and scribbled annotations. Reacher guessed they were copies of Kasluga’s own work. Presumably milestones that were significant to her in some way.

Reacher shifted his focus back to Kasluga and said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Kasluga shrugged. “Thank you. It’s a complicated situation. I loved Charles. I still do. I always will, I guess. But I have to face facts. He was a murderer. Have you seen what they’re saying in the press? It’s like they’re trying to take away my right to mourn. To shame me. They don’t get that I’m a victim, too. Anyway, enough of them and their vindictiveness. Can I offer you some tea? I have orange hibiscus, peppermint leaf, lemon lavender, or huang ju hua. That’s yellow chrysanthemum flower. It’s delicious.” She moved across to a shelf that held a slim electric kettle, a set of mugs in contrasting pastel colors, and half a dozen cylindrical silver caddies.

Reacher said, “Thanks, but no. This won’t take long. I just have a couple of loose ends to tie up. Some of our paperwork got lost, unfortunately. A screwup by the admin guys.”

“After what you did for me, nothing is too much trouble,” she said. “Tell me what you need.”

She moved across and sat in a chair by a low coffee table in the center of the office. Reacher took the one opposite.

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