No Plan B

Chapter 40

The coffee was strong, but it still couldn’t keep Lev Emerson awake long enough to reach the state line. He had no choice but to let Graeber drive for a while. He was counting on only napping for a couple of hours, just until he got his second wind, but when he woke up five hours had passed. The van was parked outside a square brick building, four miles north of Vicksburg, Mississippi. The building was the last in a line of three in a paved compound a stone’s throw from the river. It was surrounded by trees and a rusty chain-link fence. There was a single-width gate, which hadn’t been locked. Each building had two entrances. A vehicle door to the left, tall and wide enough for a van or small truck. And a personnel door to the right. Each had four windows in its second floor, square and dark beneath their crumbling concrete lintels.

Graeber waited for Emerson to get his bearings, then said, “Morning, boss.”

Emerson grunted and checked his mug for any last dregs of coffee.

Graeber said, “The other two buildings are deserted. This one doesn’t look much better but the locks are new. They’re solid. It’s in use.”

“Any sign of the guy?”

“Not yet.”

Emerson checked his watch. It was 8:30. He grunted again, a little louder this time.

Twenty minutes later a car appeared at the gate. A huge wallowing Cadillac coupe from the 1970s. It was burgundy. Its paint was shiny. It was well cared for. A guy climbed out. He could have been the same age as the car. He was a little under six feet tall, stocky, with a round face and brown curly hair. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans. He shoved the gate open. Drove through. Closed the gate. Continued to the last building in line, and swung in next to Emerson’s van.

Emerson worked on the principle that if something wasn’t broken there was no need to fix it. He waited for Graeber to jump out with a clipboard in his hand, approach the guy from the Cadillac, and say he needed a quote to get a special consignment delivered. Then Emerson slipped out through the passenger door, looped around the back of the van, and clamped a rag soaked in chloroform over the guy’s mouth and nose. He didn’t hold it in place as long as he had done in St. Louis, the day before. They didn’t have to move the guy very far. They just wanted to keep him compliant while they got set up. And because no one could notice what they were doing, there was no need for subtlety. So they let him fall to the ground when the chemical had done its job and dragged him toward the building.

Graeber took the keys from the guy’s pocket and found the one he needed to open the vehicle door. There were two vans inside. Both were black. One was a few years old and displayed the kind of dents and scuffs that accrue during a life spent earning a living. The other looked almost unused. The first was empty. The second had an air-conditioning unit on its roof and its cargo area was fitted out with full length roll-out racks on both sides.

The far end of the space was set up as a mechanical bay. There were three giant toolboxes on wheels along the wall. Oil stains on the floor. And a hoist attached to a girder on the ceiling with chains hanging down for removing engines. The cogs looked seized and rusty like they hadn’t seen much action for many years.

Graeber reversed both vans out into the courtyard and then watched the guy from the Cadillac while they waited for him to regain consciousness. Emerson searched the office, which was walled off in the remaining quarter of the building’s first floor. He found all the usual administrative stuff. A calendar on the wall. A computer on the desk. Paperwork and stationery items in the drawers. But nothing that gave any insights into the confidential side of the guy’s business. The only thing of interest was a pod-style coffee machine on a low file cabinet. Emerson used it to make a mug for himself and another for Graeber.

When the Cadillac guy woke up he was naked. He was on tiptoes in a pool of congealed oil. His arms were above his head, cable tied to the chains from the engine hoist. A barrel he had never seen before was standing in front of him, just too far away to kick. There was a ladle on top of it. The kind they use in restaurants. The guy was silent for a moment. He stayed still. Confusion creased his face. Then anger took over. He yelled. He yanked on the chains. He tugged them from side to side. He kicked out in all directions. But all he did was hurt his wrists and skin the balls of his feet.

Emerson heard the racket and came through from the office. He waited for the guy to settle down, then said, “You’ve probably figured this out for yourself by now, but we’re not interested in you delivering anything for us.”

The guy’s eyes opened wide. “What are you interested in?”

“Deliveries you made in the past.” Emerson opened the phone he had taken from the guy in St. Louis and called up the photograph of Carpenter. He held it out for the guy to see. “Specifically, deliveries you made for this man.”

“What about them? I picked up a container. Usually just one. Took it to a place in New Jersey.”

“Where did you pick up these containers?”

“It varied. One of five locations. I got told which one the day before. They’re all within an hour of here.”

“You knew what was in the containers?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. They didn’t tell. But I’m not stupid. I guess I had a good idea.”

“Good. Now, Carpenter. How do I find him?”

“I don’t know.”

Emerson opened the barrel, took a ladleful of its contents, and poured it on the floor about eighteen inches from the guy’s feet.

The guy wriggled his toes farther away. “What’s that?”

“Something to focus your mind.” Emerson took out a box of matches, struck one, and lit the little creamy puddle on fire. “Another name for it is napalm.”

Emerson took another ladleful from the barrel and stepped toward the guy. Who started to hop on the toes of one foot. His other leg was raised, ready to kick if he got the chance. Emerson flung the gel. It landed and spread out across the guy’s crotch and thighs.

The guy screamed.

“What?” Emerson said. “I haven’t lit it, yet. Tell me how to find Carpenter.”

“You can’t find him. No one can. He disappeared, like a month ago. I tried to reach him myself but I couldn’t. He’s gone. History. No more.”

“Other contacts in his organization?”

“He was the only one. It was a security thing.”

“That’s a shame. It means you’re no use to me. You’re just a piece of annoying trash. And we all know the most environmentally friendly way to dispose of trash.” Emerson took out another match.

“Wait! Listen. Three weeks ago, maybe four, a new guy came on the scene. He only interacted remotely, and he said he represented a different supplier, but I think it was the same one.”

“Why?”

“The guy already knew the kind of bona fides I would want. They came through real quick. It was the same product. The same containers. The same destination. There’ve been two pickups so far. Both places the old organization used. A third pickup is scheduled, and that’s at another place they used. You tell me – coincidence?”

“This is just dawning on you now? You weren’t suspicious before?”

“Why would I care? I figured they must have a reason for this new name. New identity. Maybe someone was muscling in. Maybe they’d had quality issues in the past. Needed a fresh start. As long as there was regular work, good money, and no feds, I was happy.”

“The third pickup that’s scheduled. When is it?”

“Today.”

“Time? Place?”

“At 1:00 p.m. Abandoned paper mill ten miles southeast of a no-bit little town called Winson.”

“Any specific procedures or protocols when you show up?”

“I just drive in and wait. Another van comes in. Their guys open my doors, slide in the container, and off we all go. Two minutes, and I don’t even have to get out of the van.”

“You use the new-looking one?”

The guy nodded.

Emerson said, “The plans for the day have changed. We’re going in your place.”

“OK. That’s cool. What do you want me to do? Lie low for a while? Leave town for a couple of months? I can do that. And I can forget your faces. Anyone asks, you were never here. We never met. OK?”

Emerson crossed to the tool chests and rummaged through their drawers until he found a tray with three-inch sides. The kind of thing mechanics use to catch oil when they drain an engine. He said, “There’s something else you need to know. One of the consignments you transported for Carpenter was destined for my son.”

“So your kid got what he needed? That’s a good thing, right? Demand has to be met somehow. But if this is about the price you paid that’s not down to me. So how about this? I donate my fee. To him. To you. To whoever you want.”

Emerson plunged the tray into the barrel and pulled it out, full. “You think the price was high?”

“I don’t know the price. I was just thinking aloud.”

“I’ll tell you the price my son paid.” Emerson darted forward and dumped the gel from the tray on the floor around the guy’s feet. “He paid with his life.”

“No. Please. Stop. Your son died? That’s horrible. I’m sorry. But it’s not my fault.”

“I think it is.” Emerson struck another match. “And I think it’s fair you pay the same.”

Hannah kept her foot on the brake and the gear stick in neutral. “How can it be a trick? The company checked out. The letter’s genuine. If you don’t show up the guy who sent it could get spooked. He seemed twitchy enough already. We may never get another chance to meet him. To find out what Danny discovered. Which could be our only link to whoever killed Sam.”

Reacher said, “Have you still got the company information on your phone?”

Hannah nodded.

Reacher said, “Call the switchboard. Ask for Alan McInnes.”

Hannah shrugged, but she did as Reacher asked.

The switchboard operator said, “I’m sorry. Mr. McInnes isn’t in the office at present. Would you like his voicemail? But I should just let you know, Mr. McInnes is in Australia this week at a conference so it could be a while before he can respond.”

Hannah hung up the call. She said, “How did you know?”

Jed Starmer wanted the bike to be safe until it was time to return it to the messenger so he lifted it over a little stone wall at the side of the road, a hundred yards short of the prison, and covered the rest of the ground on foot.

Jed had never seen a place like the prison before. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. The metal fence with its rolls of razor wire scared him. He imagined being trapped behind it. He imagined the guards in the watchtowers shooting at him. The cameras panning from side to side on their poles, tracking him if he tried to run. The floodlights shining on him if he tried to hide. He shivered, despite the warmth of the morning sun.

Jed threaded his way through a bunch of folding chairs and wandered across to a temporary fence. It had been set up with a semicircle of sawhorses around the edge of the curved road that bulged out from the front of the prison. He picked a spot in line with a little outdoor stage. He guessed that was where the action would be. It was to the side of a building he thought might be the prison’s main entrance. It was hard to be sure because a kind of tent had been set up around it. On the other side of the stage there was a car. A BMW. Black, and very shiny. It was the only vehicle he could see. It was facing a platform with two TV cameras on it. A large one on a tripod, and a small one that someone had set on the floor. The only other people who were around were wearing uniforms. They were gray with yellow trim and peaked caps, like the private cops Jed had once seen at a mall.

Jed was tired and his mind started to drift. He thought about his dad. Inside the prison. Stuck there for years even though he had done nothing wrong. Desperate to get out. Jed couldn’t imagine how awful that would feel. How badly it could mess a person up. He began to wonder if the woman in the old VW had been right. Maybe it was a mistake to just show up.

Reacher said, “I found a book in the garage where Danny kept records of car things. The handwriting was the same as the address on the envelope I saw in Angela’s purse.”

Hannah said, “So Danny sent that letter to himself?”

Reacher nodded.

“Why?”

“To keep it safe. He found something out that he shouldn’t have. He realized he was in danger. Maybe he went to the police and picked up the same vibe you did, yesterday. Anyway, he figured if the proof was in the mail no one could find it. And take it. I bet it was a constant recurring thing. Every time it was delivered, I bet he mailed it straight back out.”

“Then one day he gave it to Angela? Why change his routine?”

“He didn’t give it to her. She found it.”

“Where?”

“In Danny’s mailbox. On Saturday morning. She heard about the fire and came by when he didn’t answer his phone. I looked, myself, just now. There’s some junk mail, loose, and an elastic band. The whole bunch came bundled together. Someone separated it. Took something. I thought it was Minerva, taking the letter we just opened. I was wrong. It was Angela.”

“Why would Angela look in Danny’s mailbox?”

“The same reason you looked in Sam’s. A friend was gone. She was checking to see if there was anything important that needed to be handled. She recognized his handwriting. Figured there was something fishy. Maybe he’d mentioned finding something out to her, before. Maybe she made the connection herself. We’ll never know.”

Hannah was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “The timing fits, I guess. She got the envelope Saturday morning. Emailed Sam Saturday afternoon. Left Winson Sunday, because she needed to find someone to watch her kid. It was maybe late-ish in the day when she got on the road. And because she was one person, traveling on her own with no one to share the driving, she needed an extra overnight stop. Which got her to Gerrardsville Tuesday morning.”

Reacher nodded. “It fits.”

“And someone from Minerva knew you looked in the envelope Angela had before they got it back. They tried to stop you getting here. They failed. So they used another envelope addressed to Danny to trick you into leaving again. They probably figured if you looked in one, you’d look in another.”

“It almost worked.”

“That part’s fine. But here’s what I don’t get. The first envelope was full of stuff about this Begovic guy’s successful appeal. Which appears to be legit. Now, Angela told Sam the thing she was into had to do with accounting. What’s the connection between accounting and Begovic?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

“Maybe we should try and figure that out instead of going to the ceremony.”

“I’m going to the ceremony. You don’t have to.”

“What could we possibly learn there? And it could be dangerous. Minerva people are bound to recognize us.”

“That would be dangerous. For them.”

“How about this? We could watch it online. Minerva has its own YouTube channel. There’s no need to go in person.”

“There is.”

“What?”

“Someone tried very hard to stop me.”