Worth Dying For

Or late.

Mahmeini said, ‘I should have received my items a week ago.’

Safir couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry.

Mahmeini said, ‘Please look at it from my point of view. Those items are already allocated, to certain people in certain places, for certain date-specific uses. If they are not delivered in time, I’ll take a loss.’

‘I’ll make good,’ Safir said.

‘I know you will. That’s the purpose of my call. We have much to discuss. Because my loss won’t be a one-time thing. It will be ongoing. My reputation will be ruined. Why would my contacts trust me again? I’ll lose their business for ever. Which means you’ll have to compensate me for ever. In effect I will own you for the rest of your life. Do you see my point?’

All Safir could say was, ‘I believe the shipment is actually on its way, as of right now.’

‘A week late.’

‘I’m suffering too. And I’m trying to do something about it. I made my contact send two of his men up there. And then I sent two of my men over to him, to make sure he concentrates.’

‘Men?’ Mahmeini said. ‘You employ men? Or boys?’

‘They’re good people.’

‘You’re about to find out what men are. I’m sending two of mine. To you. To make sure you concentrate.’

Then the phone went dead, and Safir was left sitting there, awaiting the arrival of two Iranian tough guys in an office that had, just an hour ago, been stripped of the better half of its security.

Reacher made it to the two wooden buildings without further trouble, which was no big surprise to him. Six remaining football players and two out-of-towners made a total of just eight warm bodies, and he guessed the out-of-towners would be riding together, which made a total of just seven roving vehicles loose in a county that must have covered many hundreds of square miles. One random encounter had been fortuitous in the extreme. Two would be incalculably unlikely.

The old barn was still locked and listing, and the pick-up truck was still hidden in the smaller shelter. Undiscovered and undisturbed, as far as Reacher could tell. It was cold and inert. The air in the shelter was dry, and it smelled of dust and mouse droppings. The countryside all around was empty and silent.

Reacher opened up the tool locker in the pick-up’s load bed and took a look at the contents. The biggest thing left in there was an adjustable wrench about a foot long. Some kind of polished steel alloy. It weighed about a pound and a half. Made in the U.S.A. Not the greatest weapon in the world, but better than nothing. Reacher put it in his coat pocket and rooted around for more. He came up with two screwdrivers, one a stubby Phillips cross-head design with a rubber handle, and one a long slender thing with a regular blade for a regular slotted screw. He put them in his other pocket and closed the locker and climbed in the cab. He started up and backed out and then he followed the deep tractor ruts all the way east to the road, where he turned north and headed for the motel.

Safir’s two tough guys arrived in Rossi’s office carrying guns in shoulder holsters and black nylon bags in their hands. They unpacked the bags on Rossi’s desk, right in front of him. The first bag carried just one item, and the second bag carried two items. From the first bag came a belt sander, already loaded with a fresh loop of coarse-grain abrasive. From the second bag came a propane blowtorch and a roll of duct tape.

Tools of the trade.

And therefore an unmistakable message, to a guy in Rossi’s world. In Rossi’s world victims were taped naked to chairs, and belt sanders were fired up and applied to tender areas like knees or elbows or chests. Or faces, even. Then blowtorches were sparked to life for a little extra fun.

Nobody spoke.

Rossi dialled his phone. Three rings, and Roberto Cassano answered, in Nebraska. Rossi said, ‘What the hell is happening up there? This thing really can’t wait.’

Cassano said, ‘We’re chasing shadows.’

‘Chase them harder.’

‘What’s the point? Who knows whether this guy has anything to do with anything? You told us you figure he’s an excuse. So whatever happens to him isn’t going to make the shipment show up any faster.’

‘Have you ever told a lie?’

‘Not to you, boss.’

‘To anyone else?’

‘Sure.’

‘Then you know how it goes. You arrange things to make sure you don’t get caught out. And I think that’s what those Duncan bastards are going to do. They’re going to hold the shipment somewhere until the guy gets caught. To make it look like they were telling the truth all along. Like cause and effect. So whether we want to or not, we’re going to have to play their game their way. So find this asshole, will you? And fast. This thing can’t wait.’

Rossi clicked off the call. One of the Lebanese guys had been unrolling the belt sander’s cord. Now he bent down and plugged it in. He flicked the switch, just a blip, just a second, and the machine started and whirred and stopped.

A test.

A message.

Reacher drove to the motel and parked next to the doctor’s wrecked Subaru. It was still there, outside cabin six. He got out and squatted down front and rear and used the smaller screwdriver from his pocket to take the plates off the pick-up truck. Then he took the plates off the Subaru and put them on the pick-up. He tossed the pick-up’s plates into the load bed and put the screwdriver back in his pocket and headed for the lounge.

Vincent was in there, behind the bar, wiping it with a rag. He had a black eye and a thick lip and a swelling the size of a mouse’s back on his cheek. One of the mirrors behind him was broken. Pieces of glass the shape of lightning bolts had fallen out. Old wallboard was exposed, taped and yellowing, earthbound and prosaic. The room’s cheerful illusion was diminished.

Reacher said, ‘I’m sorry I got you in trouble.’

Vincent asked, ‘Did you spend the night here?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘No, I guess I don’t.’

Reacher checked himself in the broken mirror. One ear was scabbing over, where he had scraped it on the rock. His face had scratches from the thorns. His hands, too, and his back, where his coat and shirt and sweater had ridden up. He asked, ‘Did those guys have a list of places they were looking?’

Vincent said, ‘I imagine they’ll go house to house.’

‘What are they driving?’

‘A rental.’

‘Colour?’

‘It was something dark. Dark blue, maybe? A Chevrolet, I think.’

‘Did they say who they were?’

‘Just that they were representing the Duncans. That’s how they put it. I’m sorry I told them about Dorothy.’

‘She did OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Don’t worry about it. She’s had bigger troubles in her life.’

‘I know.’

‘You think the Duncans killed her kid?’

‘I would like to. It would fit with what we think we know about them.’

‘But?’

‘There was no evidence. Absolutely none at all. And it was a very thorough investigation. Lots of different agencies. Very professional. I doubt if they missed anything.’

‘So it was just a coincidence?’

‘It must have been.’

Reacher said nothing.

Vincent asked, ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘A couple of things,’ Reacher said. ‘Maybe three. Then I’m out of here. I’m going to Virginia.’

He walked back out to the lot and climbed into the pick-up truck. He fired it up and took off, out to the road, towards the doctor’s house.

TWENTY-THREE

MAHMEINI’S TWO TOUGH GUYS ARRIVED IN SAFIR’S LAS VEGAS office about an hour after Safir’s own two tough guys had left it. Mahmeini’s men were not physically impressive. No straining shirt collars, no bulging muscles. They were small and wiry, dark and dead-eyed, rumpled, and not very clean. Safir was Lebanese and he knew plenty of Iranians. Most of them were the nicest people in the world, especially when they lived somewhere else. But some of them were the worst. These two had brought nothing with them. No bags, no tools, no equipment. They didn’t need any. Safir knew they would have guns under their arms and knives in their pockets. It was the knives he was worried about. Guns were fast. Knives were slow. And these two Iranians could be very slow with knives. And very inventive. Safir knew that for a fact. He had seen one of their victims, out in the desert. A little decomposed, but even so the cops had taken longer than they should even to determine the sex of the corpse. Which was no surprise. There had been no external evidence of gender. None at all.