was picked up and a voice barked, “Yes?”
Reacher said, “I want to report illegal narcotics in the West Village.”
The voice said, “What?”
“There’s a storeroom full of drugs on Carmine just been bust open.”
“Any dead bodies?”
“No.”
“Anyone currently in the act of getting killed?”
“No.”
“Fire?”
“No.”
The voice said, “Then stop wasting my time,” and the phone went dead. Reacher hung up and hustled back, sweating, ninety degrees at one in the morning, and he relayed the news to Hemingway, who nodded in the dark and said, “We should have seen that coming. I guess they’re all hands on deck right now.”
“We might have to use your own people.”
“Forget it. They wouldn’t take my call.”
Reacher said, “Still got your little sister’s cassette recorder?”
“It’s my cassette recorder.”
“Still got it?”
“Why?”
“Maybe I can get him to boast on the tape.”
“You?”
“Same principle. You can’t let this look like a vendetta.”
“I can’t let you. You and him, face to face? I have a conscience.”
“What’s he going to do to me?”
“Beat you to death.”
“He’s a made man,” Reacher said. “He has soldiers. Which means he tells other people to do the heavy lifting. Which means he’s out of practice. He’s all hat and no cattle. He’s got nothing. We already saw that on Waverly. Any twelve-year-old in the Philippines could eat his lunch.”
“Is this a Marine Corps thing?”
“I’m not a Marine.”
“How would you get in?”
“I assume the church behind him is locked.”
“Tonight for sure. If not every night.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“How would the military do it?”
“Marines or army?”
“Army.”
“They’d call in artillery support. Or air-to-ground.”
“Marines?”
“They’d start a fire, probably. That usually brings them out real fast.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m not a Marine,” Reacher said again. He looked across the street. The second-story windows were dark, obviously. Which meant Croselli could be right there, watching. But without seeing much. A man in a dark room watching a lit street had an advantage. A man in a dark room watching a dark street might as well have saved himself the eyestrain.
Reacher crossed the dark street, to the double doors. He put his fingertips on them. They felt like sandpaper. Fifty-year-old paint, plus fifty years of smoke and grime and dust. He tapped, first with his fingernails, then gently with his knuckles. The wood felt old and thick and solid, like it had been shipped a hundred years before, from some ancient forest out west. He slid his palms across the surface, until he found the judas gate. Same paint, same grime, same wood. He felt for the hinges, and didn’t find any. He felt for the lock, and rubbed it with his thumb. It seemed to be a small round Yale, worn brass, probably as old as the paint.
He headed back to Hemingway. He said, “The doors are probably two or three inches thick, and the judas gate is all of a piece. All quality lumber, probably hard as a rock by now.”
“Then maybe the army way is the only way.”
“Maybe not. The judas gate opens inward. The lock is an old Yale, put in maybe fifty years ago. I’m guessing they didn’t chase out a void in the door. Not in wood that hard. Not back then. People weren’t so uptight about security. I bet the lock is surface-mounted on the back. Like an old house. The tongue is in a little surface-mounted box. Two screws, is all.”
“There will be another door. Out of the yard, into the building. Might have a newer lock.”
“Then I’ll knock and rely on charm.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“It’s the least I can do. I screwed you up before. You might have gotten something. You were going to take that slap and keep him talking.”
“He had already found the wire.”
“But he’s arrogant. He’s got an ego. He might have carried on
Reacher said, “I want to report illegal narcotics in the West Village.”
The voice said, “What?”
“There’s a storeroom full of drugs on Carmine just been bust open.”
“Any dead bodies?”
“No.”
“Anyone currently in the act of getting killed?”
“No.”
“Fire?”
“No.”
The voice said, “Then stop wasting my time,” and the phone went dead. Reacher hung up and hustled back, sweating, ninety degrees at one in the morning, and he relayed the news to Hemingway, who nodded in the dark and said, “We should have seen that coming. I guess they’re all hands on deck right now.”
“We might have to use your own people.”
“Forget it. They wouldn’t take my call.”
Reacher said, “Still got your little sister’s cassette recorder?”
“It’s my cassette recorder.”
“Still got it?”
“Why?”
“Maybe I can get him to boast on the tape.”
“You?”
“Same principle. You can’t let this look like a vendetta.”
“I can’t let you. You and him, face to face? I have a conscience.”
“What’s he going to do to me?”
“Beat you to death.”
“He’s a made man,” Reacher said. “He has soldiers. Which means he tells other people to do the heavy lifting. Which means he’s out of practice. He’s all hat and no cattle. He’s got nothing. We already saw that on Waverly. Any twelve-year-old in the Philippines could eat his lunch.”
“Is this a Marine Corps thing?”
“I’m not a Marine.”
“How would you get in?”
“I assume the church behind him is locked.”
“Tonight for sure. If not every night.”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“How would the military do it?”
“Marines or army?”
“Army.”
“They’d call in artillery support. Or air-to-ground.”
“Marines?”
“They’d start a fire, probably. That usually brings them out real fast.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m not a Marine,” Reacher said again. He looked across the street. The second-story windows were dark, obviously. Which meant Croselli could be right there, watching. But without seeing much. A man in a dark room watching a lit street had an advantage. A man in a dark room watching a dark street might as well have saved himself the eyestrain.
Reacher crossed the dark street, to the double doors. He put his fingertips on them. They felt like sandpaper. Fifty-year-old paint, plus fifty years of smoke and grime and dust. He tapped, first with his fingernails, then gently with his knuckles. The wood felt old and thick and solid, like it had been shipped a hundred years before, from some ancient forest out west. He slid his palms across the surface, until he found the judas gate. Same paint, same grime, same wood. He felt for the hinges, and didn’t find any. He felt for the lock, and rubbed it with his thumb. It seemed to be a small round Yale, worn brass, probably as old as the paint.
He headed back to Hemingway. He said, “The doors are probably two or three inches thick, and the judas gate is all of a piece. All quality lumber, probably hard as a rock by now.”
“Then maybe the army way is the only way.”
“Maybe not. The judas gate opens inward. The lock is an old Yale, put in maybe fifty years ago. I’m guessing they didn’t chase out a void in the door. Not in wood that hard. Not back then. People weren’t so uptight about security. I bet the lock is surface-mounted on the back. Like an old house. The tongue is in a little surface-mounted box. Two screws, is all.”
“There will be another door. Out of the yard, into the building. Might have a newer lock.”
“Then I’ll knock and rely on charm.”
“I can’t let you do this.”
“It’s the least I can do. I screwed you up before. You might have gotten something. You were going to take that slap and keep him talking.”
“He had already found the wire.”
“But he’s arrogant. He’s got an ego. He might have carried on
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