CHAPTER 52

PAULING STEPPED OVER next to the twin beds and bent to examine the pillows. “Long dark hairs,” she said. “A woman’s and a girl’s. They were tossing and turning all night.”

“I bet they were,” Reacher said.

“Maybe two nights.”

Reacher walked back to the living room and checked the desk. The handyman watched him from the doorway. The desk was as neatly organized as the closet, but there wasn’t much in it. Some personal papers, some financial papers, some lease papers for the apartment. Taylor’s first name was Graham. He was a U.K. citizen and a resident alien. He had a Social Security number. And a life insurance policy, and a retirement plan. There was a console telephone on the desk. A stylish thing, made by Siemens. It looked brand new and recently installed. It had ten speed-dial buttons with paper strips next to them under plastic. The paper strips were marked with initials only. At the top was L. For Lane, Reacher guessed. He hit the corresponding button and a 212 number lit up in neat alphanumeric script in a gray LCD window. Manhattan. The Dakota, presumably. He hit the other nine buttons one after the other. The gray window showed three 212 numbers, three 917 numbers, two 718s, and a long number with 01144 at the beginning. The 212s would all be Manhattan. Buddies, probably, maybe including Gregory, because there was a G on the paper strip. The 917s would be cell phones. Maybe for the same set of guys, for when they were on the road, or for people who didn’t have landlines. The 718s would be for Brooklyn. Probably buddies who weren’t up for Manhattan rents. The long 01144 number would be for Great Britain. Family, maybe. The corresponding initial was S. A mom or a dad, possibly.

Reacher kept on pressing buttons on the phone for a while and then he finished up at the desk and went back to the second bedroom. Pauling was standing at the window, half turned away, looking through the narrow slot.

“Weird,” she said. “Isn’t it? They were right here in this room. This view was maybe the last thing they ever saw.”

“They weren’t killed here. Too difficult to get the bodies out.”

“Not literally the last view. Just the last normal thing from their old lives.”

Reacher said nothing.

“Can you feel them in here?”

Reacher said, “No.”

He tapped the wall with his knuckles and then knelt and tapped the floor. The walls felt thick and solid and the floor felt like concrete under hardwood. An apartment building was an odd place to keep people prisoner but this one felt safe enough. Terrorize your captives into silence and adjacent residents wouldn’t know much. If anything. Ever. Like Patti Joseph had said: This city is incredibly anonymous. You can go years without ever laying eyes on your neighbor.

Or his guests, Reacher thought.

“You think there are doormen here twenty-four hours?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Pauling said. “Not this far downtown. Mine aren’t. They’re probably part-time here. Maybe until eight.”

“Then that might explain the delays. He couldn’t bring them in past a doorman. Not kicking and struggling. The first day, he would have had to wait hours. Then he kept the intervals going for consistency.”

“And to create an impression of distance.”

“That was Gregory’s guess. He was right and I was wrong. I said the Catskills.”

“It was a reasonable assumption.”

Reacher said nothing.

Pauling asked, “What next?”

“I’d like to meet with your Pentagon buddy again.”

“I’m not sure if he’ll agree to. I don’t think he likes you.”

“I’m not crazy about him, either. But this is business. Make him an offer.”

“What can we offer him?”

“Tell him we’ll take Lane’s crew off the board if he helps us out with one small piece of information. He’ll take that deal. Ten minutes with us in a coffee shop will get him more than ten years of talking at the U.N. One whole band of real live mercenaries out of action forever.”

“Can we deliver that?”

“We’ll have to anyway. Sooner or later it’s going to be them or us.”

They walked back to Pauling’s office by their previous route in reverse. Saint Luke’s Place, Seventh Avenue, Cornelia Street, West 4th. Then Reacher lounged in one of Pauling’s visitor chairs while she played phone tag around the U.N. Building, looking for her friend. She got him after about an hour of trying. He was reluctant but he agreed to meet in the same coffee shop as before, at three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Time is moving on,” Pauling said.

“It always does. Try Brewer again. We need to hear from him.”

But Brewer wasn’t back at his desk and his cell was switched off. Reacher leaned back and closed his eyes. No use fretting about what you can’t control.

At two o’clock they went out to find a cab, well ahead of time, just in case. But they got one right away and were in the Second Avenue coffee shop forty minutes early. Pauling tried Brewer again. Still no answer. She closed her phone and put it on the table and spun it like a top. It came to rest with its antenna pointing straight at Reacher’s chest.

“You’ve got a theory,” she said to him. “Haven’t you? Like a physicist. A unified theory of everything.”

“No,” Reacher said. “Not everything. Not even close. It’s only partial. I’m missing a big component. But I’ve got a name for Lane.”

“What name?”

“Let’s wait for Brewer,” Reacher said. He waved to the waitress. The same one as before. He ordered coffee. Same brown mugs, same Bunn flask. Same hot, strong, generic taste.

Pauling’s phone buzzed with thirty minutes to go before the Pentagon guy was due to show. She answered it and said her name and listened for a spell and then she gave their current location. A coffee shop, east side of Second between 44th and 45th, booth in the back. Then she hung up.

“Brewer,” she said. “Finally. He’s meeting us here. Wants to talk face-to-face.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s leaving the morgue.”

“It’s going to be crowded in here. He’s going to arrive at the same time as your guy.”

“My guy’s not going to like that. I don’t think he likes crowds.”

“If I see him balking I’ll talk to him outside.”

But Pauling’s Pentagon friend showed up a little early. Presumably to scope out the situation ahead of the rendezvous. Reacher saw him out on the sidewalk, looking in, checking the clientele one face at a time. He was patient about it. Thorough. But eventually he was satisfied and he pulled the door. Walked quickly through the room and slid into the booth. He was wearing the same blue suit. Same tie. Probably a fresh shirt, although there was no real way of telling. One white button-down Oxford looks pretty much the same as another.

“I’m concerned about your offer,” he said. “I can’t condone illegality.”

Take the poker out of your ass, Reacher thought. Be grateful for once in your miserable life. You might be a general now but you know how things are. But he said, “I understand your concern, sir. Completely. And you have my word that no cop or prosecutor anywhere in America will think twice about anything that I do.”

“I have your word?”

“As an officer.”

The guy smiled. “And as a gentleman?”

Reacher didn’t smile back. “I can’t claim that distinction.”

“No cop or prosecutor anywhere in America?”

“I guarantee it.”

“You can do that, realistically?”

“I can do that absolutely.”

The guy paused. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Get me confirmation of something so I don’t waste my time or money.”

“Confirmation of what?”

“I need you to check a passenger name against flight manifests out of this area during the last forty-eight hours.”

“Military?”

“No, commercial.”

“That’s a Homeland Security issue.”

Reacher nodded. “Which is why I need you to do it for me. I don’t know who to call. Not anymore. But I’m guessing you do.”

“Which airport? What flight?”

“I’m not sure. You’ll have to go fishing. I’d start with JFK. British Airways, United, or American to London, England. I’d start with late evening the day before yesterday. Failing that, try flights out of Newark. No hits, try JFK again yesterday morning.”

“Definitely transatlantic?”

“That’s my assumption right now.”

“OK,” the guy said, slowly, like he was taking mental notes. Then he asked, “Who am I looking for? One of Edward Lane’s crew?”

Reacher nodded. “A recent ex-member.”

“Name?”

Reacher said, “Taylor. Graham Taylor. He’s a U.K. citizen.”