A Wanted Man

The white guy smiled.

The Arab smiled.

The white guy closed one eye and sighted down the three-inch barrel.

The Arab closed one eye.

Reacher kept both eyes open.

Their trigger fingers tightened.

No sound anywhere. Reacher willed McQueen to make it. Get to the garage. Hide in the sad old truck. Let the reinforcements move past you. Hit the button and close the door. Then run like hell.

Their trigger fingers tightened some more.

They tightened all the way.

Then: two shots. Very close and very loud. A ragged little volley. Like a loose double tap. The white guy fell to his knees. Then he pitched forward on his face. The Arab sprawled sideways. His face was all gone, replaced by a gaping exit wound. Shot in the back of the head.

And behind them both, suddenly revealed, still on her feet, a Glock 19 in her hand, was a small slender figure.

Karen Delfuenso.

EIGHTY

DELFUENSO HAD DRIVEN Bale’s Crown Vic all the way inside and parked it in the garage. McQueen was already in the front passenger seat. Delfuenso said it was her that Reacher had seen on the two-lane, driving back and forth, with her bright lights on. At first she had meant it just as moral support, but later she had realized the backlight might be useful. Hence the triple trip. She had seen Reacher’s muzzle flash on the roof. She had buzzed her windows down and heard the shots. When the subsequent long delay became unbearable she had found her way inside.

Reacher said, ‘Thank you.’

She said, ‘You’re welcome.’

She got a first-aid kit out of the trunk. Bureau issue. She said every unmarked car had one. Standard practice. A matter of policy. She cleaned the cut on his hand and bound it up. Then they got in the car. She backed up and turned around and rolled through into the entrance tu

Reacher asked her, ‘Do you have an ETA for Quantico?’

She said, ‘There was a delay. They’re still about three hours out.’

‘Would you drive me back to the cloverleaf?’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to get to Virginia.’

‘Quantico will want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t have time for that.’

‘They’ll need to know what you know.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Is that going to be your official position?’

‘It always is.’

‘And what’s your unofficial position?’

‘Same thing. I don’t know anything.’

‘Bullshit,’ McQueen said to her. ‘He told me he had it all worked out.’

‘I don’t believe him,’ Delfuenso said. ‘I don’t have it all worked out. Not yet. Not all of it, anyway. Obviously I saw the nuclear waste. So I assume they were pla

‘Not possible,’ Reacher said. ‘Those trailers aren’t going anywhere. Not now, not soon, not ever. They haven’t moved for twenty years. Their tyres are rotted and I bet their axles are rusted solid. It would take the Corps of Engineers a year just to get them out of the tu

‘Why are they in there at all? That place wasn’t built to house that kind of stuff.’

‘They had to put it somewhere. No one wants it in their own back yard. It was probably just temporary. But they never figured out a permanent solution. So I guess they just forgot about it. Out of sight, out of mind.’

‘But why would Wadiah want it, if it can’t be moved? If it can’t be moved, it can’t be used.’

‘They were never going to use it. It’s strictly window dressing. It’s purely for show.’

‘What show?’

‘I’m not saying another word,’ Reacher said. ‘Quantico will say I’m not allowed to know. They’ll call me a security risk. They’ll try to keep me in that motel in Kansas for the rest of my life. Which would drive me crazy. Which would give everyone a problem.’

‘Privately, then,’ Delfuenso said. ‘Strictly between us.’

Reacher said nothing.

‘You owe me,’ Delfuenso said.

‘Then I get a ride to the cloverleaf?’

‘Deal.’

‘It’s the law of unintended consequences,’ Reacher said.

‘In what way?’

‘It’s a bank,’ Reacher said.

‘Wadiah is a banking organization,’ Reacher said. ‘The United States has done a pretty good job of shutting down terrorist banking, all over the world. The bad guys can’t move money anywhere, and they can’t keep money anywhere. So they had to invent an alternative. A parallel system. I guess a bunch of entrepreneurs spotted an opening. Some Americans, some Syrians. Wadiah is the Arabic word for safekeeping. It also means a type of Islamic bank account. As in, you put money in it, and they keep that money safe for you.’

‘There’s money in that building?’ Delfuenso said. ‘Where?’

‘There’s no money in any bank. Not in yours, not in mine. Not really, apart from a few bucks in a drawer. Most money is purely theoretical. It’s all in computers, backed by trust and confidence. Sometimes they have gold in a vault downstairs, to make themselves look serious. You know, to suggest capital reserves, like in the Fed in New York, or Fort Knox.’

‘The nuclear waste?’ Delfuenso said. ‘It’s a capital reserve? Their version of the gold in Fort Knox? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Exactly,’ Reacher said. ‘It sits there and backs their currency. Which they invented. They don’t deal in dollars or pounds or euros or yen. Remember the on-line chatter? They were talking about gallons. That’s what they call their currency unit. They buy and sell in gallons. This bomb costs a hundred gallons, that bomb costs five hundred gallons. Wadiah keeps track of the deals. They take deposits, they process payments, they shuffle balances from one account to another, they make a profit from their fees. Like any bank. Except they don’t use computers, because we can hack computers. It’s all on paper. Which is why McQueen wouldn’t let me burn the place down. Because you guys need names and addresses. It’s like a regular terrorist encyclopedia in there.’

Delfuenso looked at McQueen. She said, ‘Is he right?’

McQueen said, ‘Apart from one minor point.’

‘Which is?’

‘Those tanks are empty. They’re completely harmless. They were built but never used. They’re surplus. That’s why they’re in there. Surplus equipment in a surplus building.’

‘Did Wadiah know they were empty?’

‘Sure,’ McQueen said. ‘Not that they ever admitted it to their clients.’

Delfuenso smiled, just briefly.

‘I’m living the dream,’ she said. ‘I just shot a couple of crooked bankers.’

Delfuenso started the car again and rolled slowly south. Reacher sprawled in the back. Delfuenso and McQueen talked in the front, professionally, one agent to another, assessing the operation, evaluating the result. They ran through all the details, from the inside perspective, and from the outside. She told him about Sorenson. They agreed her fate was the only item in the debit column. Other than that they agreed the outcome was more than satisfactory. Spectacular, even. A major score. A treasure trove of information, and a complex system dismantled. Then McQueen told her the only remaining loose end was the identity of the big boss. Not Peter King, as previously thought. Delfuenso blinked and stopped the car on a lonely kerb in the middle of nowhere.