Night School

Chapter 25

Griezman took off fast, his seat back yielding and groaning under the sudden acceleration. He said one of the cops in one of the unmarked cars parked at the bar earlier in the evening had been a night-shift guy, brought in early on overtime rates of pay, and therefore still on duty, still on his regular watch. Still with the sketch of Wiley on the seat beside him. He had been cruising the western edge of St. Pauli, and he had seen a guy he swore matched the sketch. Carrying a bottle-shaped carrier bag from an all-night wine store. Walking south toward the water.

Reacher said, “When?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“How sure is he?”

“I believe him. He’s a good cop.”

Traffic was light, but the road surface was slick, and most other drivers were heading home from bars, so Griezman wasn’t as fast as he might have been. But even so they got where they were going within ten minutes. They stopped between high buildings, twenty yards short of a crossroads. Griezman said the possible Wiley had been seen crossing the street, up ahead, walking right to left from the cop’s point of view. Now thirty minutes ago, in total. In that direction lay huge new apartment blocks. A brand-new residential development. Immense. On reclaimed land, from when the docks moved downriver, in search of more space. There were thousands and thousands of separate addresses.

Reacher said, “Rentals, right?”

Griezman said, “You think he lives there?”

“He was carrying a bottle of wine. Conceivably taking it to a party, but more likely taking it home. Given the late hour.” Reacher looked the other way, to his right. He said, “I bet I know what he bought. Let’s go find the store.”

–

The store was a clean, well lit place, with what looked like a fine selection of wines, red, white, rosé, and sparkling, including a shelf of lower-priced items, for folks who didn’t live in brand-new residential developments. The clerk was an amiable old guy of about sixty-something. Reacher took his copy of Wiley’s sketch from his pocket and the old guy confirmed it immediately. The man in the sketch had been in the store about forty minutes previously. He had bought a bottle of chilled champagne.

“He’s celebrating,” Reacher said.

“Credit card?” Griezman asked.

“He paid cash,” the clerk said.

Reacher looked at a plastic bubble on the ceiling above the clerk’s head. He said, “Is that a security camera?”

The clerk said it was, and it fed a VHS recorder in the back room. Griezman knew how to work it. It gave a decent black-and-white picture, looking down from behind the clerk’s shoulder. The angle was wide. It was a dual-purpose installation. Customers were clearly visible, but so was the register drawer. In case the clerk was skimming.

Griezman wound the tape back forty minutes and Wiley came in right on cue. No doubt about it. The hair, the brow, the cheek bones. The deep-set eyes. He looked dead-on average height, but scrawny, in a hardscrabble kind of a way. He moved with energy and purpose. And confidence. Almost a swagger. Physically he looked athletic. Not bouncy like a kid, but trained and mature. He was thirty-five years old, like Reacher himself. All grown up.

On the tape Wiley stepped over to a chiller and opened the glass door and took out a dark bottle with a thin neck.

“Dom Perignon,” Griezman said. “Not so cheap.”

Wiley carried the bottle to the register and took crumpled bills from his pocket. He counted them out and the clerk made change with coins. Then the clerk put the bottle in a bottle-shaped bag and Wiley carried it away. Thirty-seven seconds, beginning to end.

They watched it again.

The same things happened.

“Now show me the neighborhood,” Reacher said.

They got back in the car and Griezman drove south, pattering slowly over the cobblestones, following what must have been Wiley’s earlier route, past where the cop had seen him, between scarred brick warehouses, and eventually to a brand-new traffic circle that led left or right or straight ahead into the new development’s feeder roads.

Griezman stopped the car. The engine idled, and the wiper flopped back and forth about once a minute. Reacher looked ahead. He could see a hundred thousand windows. Most were dark, but a few were lit.

He said, “Are these places expensive?”

Griezman said, “All of Hamburg is expensive.”

“I’m wondering how Wiley pays the rent.”

“He doesn’t. No one named Wiley is registered here. We already checked.”

“We think he’s using a German name.”

“That would make a difference.”

“Possibly one he chose himself.”

“Does he offend you?”

“He’s betraying his country. Which is also mine.”

“Do you love your country, Mr. Reacher?”

“Major Reacher.”

“Perhaps that answers my question.”

“I prefer to think of it as healthy yet skeptical respect.”

“Not very patriotic.”

“Exactly patriotic. My country, right or wrong. Which means nothing, unless you admit your country is wrong sometimes. Loving a country that was right all the time would be common sense, not patriotism.”

Griezman said, “I’m sorry your country is having these troubles.”

Reacher said, “Do you love your country?”

“It’s too early to say. It was only fifty years ago. We changed more than any other country has ever changed. I think we were doing OK. But the people from the east have set us back. Economically, of course. And politically. We’re seeing things we haven’t seen before.”

“Like the bar Helmut Klopp called you from.”

“We have to bide our time. We can’t arrest them for thought crimes. We need actual crimes.”

Reacher said, “There was a guy watching my hotel. He left when you showed up.”

“Not one of mine,” Griezman said.

“Federal?”

“No reason. I haven’t reported Dr. Sinclair’s visit. Not yet. No one knows she’s here. She’s registered under a different name.”

Reacher said nothing.

Griezman said, “Did you run the fingerprint?”

Reacher said, “Yes, I did.”

“And?”

“You can call it a cold case now. It will never be solved.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know who it was, and I won’t tell anyone.”

“But I helped you.”

“I know you did. And I thank you.”

“Do I get nothing in return?”

“She was a very expensive hooker. Her client list was therefore of interest. But I won’t tell anyone about that, either.”

Griezman was quiet a beat.

Then he said, “The CIA? I was of interest?”

Reacher nodded. “To the part that was trained under the previous system.”

“You’re going to blackmail me.”

“Not my style. I already said I won’t tell anyone. No strings attached. Whether you choose to keep on helping me is entirely up to you. If you do, I’ll take it as two simple detectives getting along, nothing more.”

Griezman paused again.

“I wish to apologize,” he said. “I’m not the man you thought I was.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Reacher said.

“I don’t know why I did it.”

“I’m not your shrink.”

“But I would like to know why.”

“Was she cute?”

“Incredible.”

“There you go.”

“You think it’s that simple?”

“I’m a military cop.”

Griezman said, “I’ll help you if I can.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you need?”

“You could tell your night-shift guy to spend the rest of his watch right here. It’s a bottleneck. Wiley might come through again. If so, arrest him for walking while foreign. Keep him in the car until I get here.”

“There are many other ways out of the complex. There are cycle paths and footbridges at the back. And a big bridge to the bus stop on the main road.”

“We might get lucky. He might want more champagne.”

“Tell me one thing, about the man whose identity you are concealing. Will he be punished?”

“Yes,” Reacher said. “He will.”

“That’s good.”

“You liked her, right?”

Griezman said, “I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

–

Wiley gave the champagne thirty more minutes in the refrigerator, and then he peeled off the foil wrap and eased out the cork, with his thumbs, slowly and gently, until it made a polite little pock and fell to the floor.

He poured a glass, which had also gotten thirty minutes in the refrigerator, and he carried it to his table, where his map of Argentina was spread out. The outline of his ranch was rubbed greasy by his fingertips. Truly his ranch now. Or soon, when the money reached Zurich and left again. Or more precisely when some of it left again. Not all of it. He had liked the girl they sent with the message. Sir, what I am permitted to know is, we accept your price. She was polite. Kind of deferential. Like when she popped the third button. There would be girls like that in Argentina. Dark, like her. Shy, but with no other choice.

He got up and refilled his glass. He held it high, as if toasting a cheering crowd of thousands. Horace Wiley, from Sugar Land, Texas. King of the world.

–

Reacher listened at Sinclair’s door and heard talking, so he knocked, and she said, “Come in.” Neagley was there, and Bishop, from the consulate. The head of station. Sinclair was sitting on the bed, and Bishop and Neagley were in the green velvet armchairs. Neagley had handwritten notes in her lap.

Reacher said, “Progress?”

“You?”

“I think he lives in an apartment complex near the waterfront. One of Griezman’s guys got a glimpse of him. He was out buying champagne.”

“Celebrating,” Bishop said.

Reacher nodded. “We should assume the negotiation is over. We should assume they agreed to the price. The wheels are in motion.”

“How big is the apartment complex?”

“Huge.”

“Paper trail?”

“Nothing in the name of Wiley.”

“Is he in there now?”

“Almost certainly.”

“We should lock the place down.”

“There’s an unmarked car at the main exit. That’s the best Griezman can do. He was already paying overtime earlier in the day.”

Neagley said, “It appears Wiley has no uncles. The witness who mentioned one has been ordered here for further questioning. Landry is working on possible great-uncles and the mother’s possible boyfriends. The latter could take some time.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

“And I spoke to his COs from Benning and Sill. The guy from Benning doesn’t remember him at all. The guy from Sill does. He said it was clear Wiley wanted to do his tour in Germany. He was fixated on it. He aimed for it. Every qualification he took narrowed his choices.”

“The guy remembers all that, three years later?”

“Because they had a long conversation at the time. The CO pointed out the consequences of the drawdown. A dead end, a black hole, and so on and so forth. Wiley said he wanted to go anyway. He wanted to serve in Germany.”

“So it was a long game,” Sinclair said, from the bed. “Now we’re trying to figure out what.”

Reacher said, “There was a guy watching this hotel. An hour ago. He disappeared when Griezman showed up.”

“Not one of mine,” Bishop said.

–

Muller called Dremmler at home again, and woke him up. It was very late. Or very early, depending on which direction a person was facing. Dremmler composed himself and Muller said, “Reacher got back to the hotel just before one in the morning. But Griezman came by and picked him up before he went inside. I got out of there real quick, in case Griezman recognized me.”

“What did Griezman want?”

“One of my traffic cars heard it on the radio. The American they’re looking for was seen in St. Pauli. His name is Wiley. Griezman’s men have Klopp’s police sketch in their cars.”

“Any other details?”

“One of my guys just checked a car in a no-parking zone near the water. Near some new apartments. It was one of Griezman’s detectives, in an unmarked unit, watching for Wiley. My guy asked why, and they talked for a minute. Just blue-to-blue gossip. Griezman’s guy didn’t know the details, but he said it was obviously some heavy duty thing. His orders came through flagged red.”

“What does that mean?”

“It used to mean organized crime, but now it means terrorism. The guy wasn’t clear whether it was supposed to be an old red or a new red. There’s some confusion at the moment. But I think it was a new red, because they were also watching an apartment near Reacher’s hotel. Earlier in the day. There was supposed to be a Saudi guy coming out. But it didn’t happen. I checked the city records and there’s an apartment in that building with three Saudis and an Iranian. All young men. I think this is some kind of Middle East thing.”

“Is Wiley in the city records?”

“No trace.”

“Klopp says he saw him in the bar more than once. Maybe someone there knows him.”

“Maybe,” Muller said.

Dremmler said, “We need you to get us a copy of Klopp’s police sketch.”

–

Neagley left, and then Bishop. Reacher took an armchair. Sinclair stayed on the bed. She said, “Waterman and White will be here tomorrow morning. And Landry and Vanderbilt. I relocated the whole operation. This is where the action is. We’ll work out of the consulate.”

“OK,” Reacher said.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Work life or personal life?”

“You can think about both at once?”

“Most of the time.”

“OK, work first.”

“Wiley’s hair.”

“What about it?”

“It’s a way in. Possibly. He didn’t cut it. He let it grow.”

“Maybe he was worried a barber would remember.”

“He could have done it himself. He shaved the sides every day. He could have shaved it all and started over. But he didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I think there’s a vanity to him. A kind of flamboyance. He likes Davy Crockett. Maybe he’s growing his hair long so he can buy a fringed suede jacket and be the king of the wild frontier. The way he moved on the tape was interesting. He’s a small guy, but he swaggers. He’s got it going on. And he bought expensive champagne. I think he likes grand gestures. Which combined with the hundred million dollars doesn’t make me feel good. It makes me feel like something huge is coming.”

Sinclair was quiet for a moment.

Then she said, “What about personal life?”

Reacher smiled.

He said, “You walked right into that one.”

“Which one?”

“Same exact answer,” he said. “I feel like something huge is coming.”

“I’m counting on it,” she said.