The second crate was smaller. It was full of wood shavings and AKSU-74 submachine guns. They're AK-74 derivatives. Efficient, but clunky. They were used too, but well maintained. Not exciting. No better than a half-dozen Western equivalents. NATO hadn't lain awake at night worrying about them.
The third crate was full of nine-millimeter Makarov pistols. Most of them were scratched and old. It's a crude and lazy design, ripped off from the ancient Walther PP. The Soviet military was never much of a handgun culture. They thought using sidearms was right down there with throwing stones.
"This is all crap," I said. "Best thing to do with this stuff would be melt it down and use it for boat anchors."
We started on the second stack, and found something much more interesting in the very first crate. It was full of VAL Silent Sniper rifles. They were secret until 1994, when the Pentagon captured one. They're all black, all metal, with a skeleton stock. They fire special heavy nine-millimeter subsonic rounds. Tests showed they penetrated any body armor you chose to wear at a range of five hundred yards. I remember a fair amount of consternation at the time. There were twelve of them. The next crate held another twelve. They were quality weapons. And they looked good. They would go really well with the North Face jackets. Especially the black ones with the silver linings.
"Are they expensive?" Villanueva asked.
I shrugged. "Hard to say. Depends on what a person is willing to pay, I guess. But an equivalent Vaime or SIG bought new in the U.S. could cost over five grand."
"Then that's the whole invoice value right there."
I nodded. "They're serious weapons. But not a lot of use in south-central LA. So their street value might be much less."
"We should go," Duffy said.
I stepped back to line up the view through the glass and out the back office window. It was mid-afternoon. Gloomy, but still light.
"Soon," I said.
Villanueva opened the last crate in the second stack.
"What the hell is this?" he said.
I stepped over. Saw a nest of wood shavings. And a slim black tube with a short wooden section to act as a shoulder rest. A bulbous missile loaded ready in the muzzle. I had to look twice before I was sure.
"It's an RPG- 7," I said. "It's an anti-tank rocket launcher. An infantry weapon, shoulder-fired."
"RPG means rocket propelled grenade," he said.
"In English," I said. "In Russian it means Reaktivniy Protivotankovyi Granatomet, rocket anti-tank grenade launcher. But it uses a missile, not a grenade."
"Like the long-rod penetrator?" Duffy said.
"Sort of," I said. "But it's explosive."
"It blows up tanks?"
"That's the plan."
"So who's going to buy it from Beck?"
"I don't know."
"Drug dealers?"
"Conceivably. It would be very effective against a house. Or an armored limousine. If your rival bought a bulletproof BMW, you'd need one of these."
"Or terrorists," she said.
I nodded. "Or militia whackos."
"This is very serious."
"They're hard to aim," I said. "The missile is big and slow. Nine times out of ten even a slight crosswind will make you miss. But that's no consolation to whoever else gets hit by mistake."
Villanueva wrenched the next lid off.
"Another one," he said. "The same."
"We need to call ATF," Duffy said. "FBI too, probably. Right now."
"Soon," I said.
Villanueva opened the last two crates. Nails squealed and wood split.
"More weird stuff," he said.
I looked. Saw thick metal tubes painted bright yellow. Electronic modules bolted underneath. I looked away.
"Grails," I said. "SA-7 Grails. Russian surface-to-air missiles."
"Heat seekers?"
"You got it."
"For shooting down planes?" Duffy said.
I nodded. "And really good against helicopters."
"What kind of range?" Villanueva asked.
"Good up to nearly ten thousand feet," I said.
"That could take down an airliner."
I nodded.
"Near an airport," I said. "Soon after takeoff. You could use it from a boat in the East River. Imagine hitting a plane coming out of La Guardia. Imagine it crashing in Manhattan. It would be September 11 all over again."
Duffy stared at the yellow tubes.
"Unbelievable," she said.
"This is not about drug dealers anymore," I said. "They've expanded their market. This is about terrorism. It has to be. This one shipment alone would equip a whole terrorist cell. They could do practically anything with it."
"We need to know who's lining up to buy it. And why they want it."
Then I heard the sound of feet on the floor in the doorway. And the snick of a round seating itself in an automatic pistol's chamber. And a voice.
"We don't ask why they want it," it said. "We never do. We just take their damn money."
Chapter 14
It was Harley. His mouth was a ragged hole above his goatee. I could see his yellow teeth. He was holding a Para Ordnance P14 in his right hand. The P14 is a solid Canadian-made copy of the Colt 1911 and it was way too heavy for him. His wrists were thin and weak. He would have been better off with a Glock 19, like Duffy's.
"Saw the lights were on," he said. "Thought I'd come in and check."
Then he looked straight at me.
"I guess Paulie screwed up," he said. "And I guess you faked his voice when Mr. Xavier called you on the phone."
I looked at his trigger finger. It was in position. I spent half a second mad at myself for letting him walk in unannounced. Then I moved on to working out how to take him down. Thought: Villanueva is going to yell at me if I take him down before we ask about Teresa.
"You going to introduce me around?" he said.
"This is Harley," I said.
Nobody spoke.
"Who are these other people?" Harley asked me.
I said nothing.
"We're federal agents," Duffy said.
"So what are you all doing in here?" Harley asked.
He asked the question like he was genuinely interested. He was wearing a different suit. It was shiny black. He had a silver tie under it. He had showered and washed his hair. His pony tail was secured by a regular brown rubber band.
"We're working in here," Duffy said.
He nodded. "Reacher has seen what we do to government women. He's seen it with his own eyes."
"You should jump ship, Harley," I said. "It's all coming apart now."
"You think?"
"I know."
"See, we don't get that feeling from the computers. Your friend and mine in the body bag, she didn't tell them nothing yet. They're still waiting on her first report. Matter of fact, most days it seems like they've forgotten about her altogether."
"We've nothing to do with computers."
"Even better," he said. "You're freelance operators, nobody knows you're here, and I got you all covered."
"Paulie had me covered," I said.
"With a gun?"
"With two."
His eyes flicked down for a second. Then back up.
"I'm smarter than Paulie," he said. "Put your hands on your heads."
We put our hands on our heads.
"Reacher's got a Beretta," he said. "I know that for sure. I'm guessing there are two Glocks in the room as well. Most likely a 17 and a 19. I want to see them all on the floor, nice and slow, one at a time."