The Russian said, 'You have my word on that.'
The guy in Virginia said, 'Thank you.'
The Russian smiled again at the absurdity of it all. But he would comply. Why wouldn't he? It was a treasure trove, for sure, but he had longer-term goals. And he wouldn't miss what he never had. And it wasn't as if he had paid for it, anyway.
He hung up again and composed a text message on another phone, and hit send.
Seven miles above Nebraska, three rows behind Plato, in seat 4A, a silent phone vibrated once in a pocket, a solid mechanical thrill against the muscle of a thigh. The fifth of the six disposable Mexicans pulled out the phone and checked the screen. He was the guy who had driven Plato in the Range Rover to the airfield. He showed it to the man sitting next to him, in seat 4B, who was the sixth of the six, and who had sat with him earlier in the front of the truck. Both men nodded. Neither man spoke. Neither man even smiled. They were both way too tense.
The text said: Do it.
A minute later Reacher heard Holland's car in the frozen stillness. He heard the low mutter of its engine and the soft crunch of its tyres on the ice. Then the sigh and the silence as it shut down, and the creak and slam of the door, and the sound of Holland's boots on the snow. He heard the lobby door open and imagined he felt the pulse of cold air coming in from the lot. He heard Holland's steps in the corridor and then he arrived and filled the doorway, stooped, bent, defeated, like he was right at the end of something.
Holland said, 'Are you sure?'
Reacher nodded. 'No doubt about it.'
'Because sometimes they can still be alive.'
'Not this time.'
'Should we check?'
'No point.'
'What was it?'
'Nine millimetre between the eyes. Same as the other two.'
'Anything left behind?'
'Nothing.'
'So we're no closer. We still don't know who it is.'
Reacher nodded.
'But I know how to find out,' he said.
Chapter Forty-One
REACHER SAID, 'IT'S GOING TO SNOW AGAIN SOON. THE RUNWAY is going to get covered again and the bikers aren't there to plough it any more. Weather is unpredictable, therefore time is tight. Therefore Plato is on his way, probably right now. Because he needs to get his jewellery out before the sale goes through. He's probably going to double-cross the Russian and take some of the meth, too. Maybe most of it. He's got a big plane. So my guess is he told his guy to be there to help. So the guy will pull off the perimeter at some point and head up there. Maybe real soon. All we have to do is get there before him. We'll hide out and see who shows up. He'll walk straight into our arms.'
Holland said, 'You think?'
'For sure.'
'We could be waiting there for hours.'
'I don't think so. Plato needs to get in and get out. He can't afford to get trapped in a storm. A big plane on the ground, no proper facilities, he could be stuck until the start of summer.'
'What kind of help would he need, anyway?'
'Got to be something.'
'He'll bring people with him. It's just walking up and down a staircase.'
'You don't buy a dog and bark yourself.'
'You sure?'
'They're going to land a big plane in the middle of nowhere. Someone might hear it. Anything might happen. A local cop is always useful.'
'We have to hide out up there? It's very cold.'
'Cold?' Reacher said. 'This is nothing.'
Holland thought about it for a minute. Reacher watched him carefully. Holland's mouth worked silently and his eyes danced left and right. He started out reluctant, and then he got right into it.
'OK,' he said. 'Let's do it.'
Five minutes to three in the morning.
One hour to go.
Holland drove. His unmarked car was still warm inside. The roads were still frozen and empty. The middle of the night, in the middle of winter, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing was moving, except the wind. They passed the end of Janet Salter's street. It was deserted. Holland was sitting close to the wheel, belted in his seat, his parka still zipped, its material stiff and awkward against him. Reacher was sprawled in the passenger seat, no belt, his coat open, its tails hauled around into his lap, his gloves off, his hands in his pockets. The ruts on the road were worn and wizened by the cold. The front tyres hopped left and right, just a little. The chains on the back whirred and clattered. There was a moon high in the sky, close to full, pale and wan, behind thin tattered ribbons of frozen cloud.
Reacher asked, 'How long are you guys supposed to stay deployed on the perimeter?'
Holland said, 'There's no set time. It will be a gut call by the warden.'
'Best guess?'
'Another hour.'
'So any cop we see before then is our boy.'
'If we see one at all.'
'I think we will,' Reacher said.
They made the turn on the old county two-lane parallel with the highway and headed west. Five miles, not fast, not slow. Wind and ice in the air. Then they turned again, north, on the narrow wandering ribbon, eight long miles. Then the runway loomed up, spectacular as always, imposing, massive, wide, flat, infinitely long in the headlight beams, still clear and dry. Holland didn't slow down. He just thumped straight up on the moonlit concrete and held his line and held his speed. There was nothing but grey darkness ahead. No lights. No activity. Nothing moving. No one there. The wooden huts looked black in the distance, and behind them loomed the stone building, larger and blacker still.
Two hundred yards out Holland took his foot off the gas and coasted. He was still upright, still close to the wheel, still belted in, still trapped and mummified by the stiff nylon of his coat.
'Where should I put the car?' he asked.
'Doesn't matter,' Reacher said. He was still sprawled out, no belt, his hands in his pockets.
'We should hide it. The guy will see it. If he comes.'
Reacher said, 'He's already here.'
'What?'
'He just arrived.'
The car coasted and slowed. It rolled to a stop thirty yards from the first line of huts. Holland kept his foot on the floor. Not on the brake. The lever was still in gear. The engine's idle speed was not enough to push through the resistance of the snow chains. The whole car just hung there, trembling a little, not quite moving, not quite inert, right on the cusp.
Holland asked, 'How long have you known?'
Reacher said, 'For sure, about three minutes. Beyond a reasonable doubt, about thirty minutes. Retrospectively, about thirty-one hours. But back then I didn't know I knew.'
'Something I said?'
'Stuff you didn't say. Stuff you didn't do.'
'Like what?'
'Most recently you didn't slow down and kill your headlights when we hit the runway. The guy could have been here already. But you knew he wasn't. Because you're the guy.'
Holland said, 'You're wrong.'
Reacher said, 'I'm afraid not. We spent an hour underground earlier tonight, and the first thing you should have done when we got back to the surface was call the Salter house. But you didn't. I had to remind you. Turned out she was OK, because the guy hadn't gotten to her during that hour. And you knew that in advance, because you're the guy. Which is why you didn't think to call. You should have faked it better.'
Holland said nothing.
Reacher said, 'I had a conversation with Peterson last night. He came over at eight o'clock, when we thought the head count at the jail was going to come up one short. We were worried. We were tense. He took me to one side and asked me, was I armed? I said yes. I told him Mrs Salter was, too. Obvious questions, in a situation like that. You didn't ask those questions the night before. You should have.'
Holland said, 'Maybe I assumed. I knew Mrs Salter had guns in the house. She asked me for advice about ammunition.'
'And it was good advice you gave. But you should have made absolutely sure those guns weren't still in the box that night. Verbally at least, if not visually. Anyone would have done that, except a guy who knew for sure they weren't going to be needed.'