Never Go Back: (Jack Reacher 18) Page 36

  Reacher said, ‘A clean arrest needs probable cause.’

  ‘So should cutting their heads off with a butter knife.’

  ‘Why did Montague let Zadran go home to the mountains?’

  ‘Because of his history.’

  ‘I wish we knew more about him.’

  ‘We know all we’re going to know.’

  Reacher nodded. A meaningless peasant, forty-two years old, the youngest of five, the black sheep of the family, disreputable, tried his hand at a number of things, and failed at them all. He said, ‘The butter knife would be easier.’

  Then his phone rang. It was Edmonds. He said, ‘That was quick.’

  She said, ‘I figured I might get an hour’s sleep tonight if I was quick.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. What have you got?’

  ‘Dove Cottage is a private members’ club. It opened four years ago. Membership roll is confidential.’

  ‘Four years ago?’

  ‘We have no evidence.’

  ‘Four years ago we have Morgan at Bragg, building a team around Shrago.’

  ‘We can’t prove a connection.’

  ‘Are Scully and Montague members?’

  ‘Which part of confidential didn’t you get?’

  ‘Any rumours?’

  ‘The membership is said to be all-male. Including politicians, but it’s not a political salon, and military, and media, and business, but no deals seem to get done. Guys go there to enjoy themselves, that’s all. Sometimes they stay all night.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘How do you get to be a member?’

  ‘I don’t, if it’s all-male.’

  ‘How would I?’

  ‘Invitation only, I guess. You’d have to know a guy who knows a guy.’

  ‘And no one knows what they do in there?’

  ‘There are hundreds of private clubs in D.C. There’s no way of keeping track.’

  Reacher said, ‘Thank you, counsellor. For everything. You’ve done a fine job.’

  ‘That sounds like goodbye.’

  ‘It might be. Or not. Like flipping a coin.’

  The latitude and the season meant they had about ninety minutes before the sun came up. So they took what they needed and rode down to the street, where a man in a hat got them a cab. The cab went way north on 16th, to Scott Circle, where it took Mass Ave to Dupont, where it took P Street across the park and into Georgetown. They went as far as the corner with Wisconsin Avenue, where they got out. The cab drove away, and they walked two blocks, back the way they had come, and they made a left, and they headed for their target, which was another two blocks north, on the right, in what looked like the most expensive neighbourhood since money was invented. To the left were the landscaped grounds of some immense mansion. On the right were townhouses, gleaming in the dark, lustrous, burnished, each one substantial in its own right, each one proudly taking its place in line.

  Their target fit right in.

  ‘Some cottage,’ Turner said.

  It was a tall, handsome house, strictly symmetrical, restrained and discreet and unshowy in every way, but still gleaming with burnished lustre none the less. The brass plaque was small. There were lights on in some of the windows, most of which still had old wavy glass, which made the light look soft, like a candle. The door had been repainted about every election year, starting with James Madison. It was a big door, solidly made, and properly fitted. It was the kind of door that didn’t open, except voluntarily.

  No obvious way in.

  But they hadn’t been expecting miracles, and they had been expecting to watch and wait. Which was helped a little by the landscaped grounds of the immense mansion. The grounds had an iron fence set in a stone knee-wall, which was just wide enough for a small person to sit on, and Turner was a small person, and Reacher was used to being uncomfortable. Overhead was a tight lattice of bare branches. No leaves, and therefore no kind of total concealment, but maybe some kind of camouflage. The branches were tight enough to break up the street light. Like the new digital patterns, on the pyjamas.

  They waited, half hidden, and Turner said, ‘We don’t even know what they look like. They could come out and walk right past us.’ So she called Leach again, and asked for an alert if the phones moved. Which they hadn’t yet. They were still showing up on a bunch of towers, triangulated ruler-straight on the house in front of them. Reacher watched the windows, and the door. Guys go there to enjoy themselves. Sometimes they stay all night. In which case they would start leaving soon. Politicians and military and media and businessmen all had jobs to do. They would come staggering out, ready to head home and clean up ahead of their day.

  But the first guy out didn’t stagger. The door opened about an hour before dawn, and a man in a suit stepped out, sleek, showered, hair brushed, shoes gleaming as deep as the door, and he turned left and set off down the sidewalk, not fast, not slow, relaxed, seemingly very serene and very satisfied and very content with his life. He was older than middle age. He headed for P Street, and after fifty yards he was lost in the dark.

  Reacher guessed subconsciously he had been expecting debauchery and disarray, with mussed hair and red eyes and undone ties, and lipstick on collars, and maybe bottles clutched by the neck below open shirt cuffs. But the guy had looked the exact opposite. Maybe the place was a spa. Maybe the guy had gotten an all-night hot-stone massage, or some other kind of deep-tissue physical therapy. In which case, it had worked very well. The guy had looked rubbery with well-being and satisfaction.

  ‘Weird,’ Turner said. ‘Not what I was expecting.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a literary society,’ Reacher said. ‘Maybe it’s a poetry club. The original Dove Cottage was where William Wordsworth lived. The English poet. I wandered lonely as a cloud, and a host of golden daffodils, and all that shit. A little lime-washed house, in England. In the English Lake District, which is a beautiful spot.’

  Turner said, ‘Who stays up all night reading poetry?’

  ‘Lots of people. Usually younger than that guy, I admit.’

  ‘To enjoy themselves?’

  ‘Poetry can be deeply satisfying. It was for the daffodil guy, anyway. He was talking about lying back and spacing out and remembering something good you saw.’

  Turner said nothing.

  ‘Better than Tennyson,’ Reacher said. ‘You have to give me that.’

  They watched and waited, another twenty minutes. The sky behind the house was lightening. Just a little. Another dawn, another day. Then a second guy came out. Similar to the first. Old, sleek, pink, besuited, serene, deeply satisfied. No sign of stress, no sign of rush. No angst, no embarrassment. He turned the same way as the first guy, towards P Street, and he walked with easy, relaxed strides, head up, half smiling, deep inside a bubble of contentment, like the master of a universe in which all was well.

  Reacher said, ‘Wait.’

  Turner said, ‘What?’

  Reacher said, ‘Montague.’

  ‘That was him? Leach didn’t call.’

  ‘No, this is Montague’s club. He owns it. Or he and Scully own it together.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because of the name. Dove Cottage is like Romeo. Deep down this guy is a poor intelligence officer. He’s way too clever by half. He just can’t resist.’

  ‘Resist what?’

  ‘Why did he let Zadran go home to the mountains?’

  ‘Because of his history.’

  ‘No, despite his history. Because of who he was. Because of who his brothers were. His brothers forgave him and took him back. Zadran didn’t rehabilitate himself and find a role. His brothers rehabilitated him and gave him a role. Part of their deal with Montague. It was a two-way street.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘People remember that William Wordsworth lived with his sister Dorothy, but they forget that both of them lived with his wife and his sister-in-law and a passel of kids. Three in four years, I thi
nk.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘More than two hundred years ago.’

  ‘So why are we even talking about it?’

  ‘The original Dove Cottage was a little lime-washed house. Too small for seven people. They moved out. It got a new tenant.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A guy named Thomas De Quincey. Another writer. It was wall-to-wall writers up there, at the time. They were all friends. But Wordsworth had stayed only six years. De Quincey stayed for eleven. Which makes Dove Cottage his, more than Wordsworth’s, in terms of how much time they each spent there. Even though Wordsworth is the one people remember. Probably because he was the better poet.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Wait,’ Reacher said. ‘Watch this.’

  The door was opening again, and a third guy was coming out. Grey hair, but thick and beautifully styled. A pink face, washed and shaved. A three-thousand-dollar suit, and a shirt as fresh as new snow. A silk tie, beautifully knotted. A politician, probably. The guy stood for a second and took a deep breath of the morning air, and then he started walking, just like the first two, relaxed, unconcerned, serenity coming off him in waves. He headed the same way, towards P Street, and eventually he was lost to sight.

  Reacher said, ‘Conclusions?’

  Turner said, ‘Like we already figured before. It’s a sanctuary for refined older gentlemen with personal enthusiasms.’

  ‘What’s coming home in the ordnance shipments?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did Zadran’s brothers do for a living?’

  ‘They worked the family farm.’

  ‘Growing what?’

  Turner said, ‘Poppies.’

  ‘Exactly. And they gave Zadran a role. As their salesman. Because he had connections already in place. Like you said. What did Thomas De Quincey write?’

  ‘Poetry?’

  ‘His most famous work was an autobiographical book called Confessions of an English Opium-eater. That’s what he did in Dove Cottage, for eleven straight years. He eased away the tensions of the day. Then he wrote a memoir about it.’

  Turner said, ‘I wish we could get in there.’

  Reacher had been in the original Dove Cottage, in England. On a visit. He had paid his entrance money at the door, and he had ducked under the low lintel. Easy as that. Getting into the new Dove Cottage was going to be much harder. Penetrating a house was something Delta Force and Navy SEALs trained for all their careers. It was not a simple task.

  Reacher said, ‘Do you see cameras?’

  Turner said, ‘I don’t, but there have to be some, surely.’

  ‘Is there a doorbell?’

  ‘There’s no button. Just a knocker. Which is more authentic, of course. Maybe there are zoning laws.’

  ‘Then there must be cameras. A place like this can’t fling its door open every time there’s a knock. Not without knowing who it is.’

  ‘Which implies an operations room, with screens, and some kind of remote unlock function. One guy could run it. Will there be security?’

  ‘There have to be servants. Discreet little guys in dark suits. Like butlers or stewards. Who are also security. I guess the cameras are small. Maybe just fibre-optic lenses, poking out through the wall. There could be dozens of them. Which would make sense. Someone has to keep an eye open for what could go on, in a place like this.’

  ‘We need to see someone go in, not out. We need to see how the system works.’

  But they didn’t. No one went in. No one came out. The house just sat there, looking smug. The same lights stayed on. The first smears of morning came up over the roof.

  Turner said, ‘We’ve never met them.’

  Reacher said, ‘They’ve seen our photographs.’

  ‘Have they shown our photographs to their operations guy?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so. Because we’re talking about the top boy in charge of intelligence for the United States Army.’

  ‘Then the door will stay locked,’ Turner said. ‘That’s all. Costs us nothing.’

  ‘Does it alert them? Or are they alert already?’

  ‘You know they’re alert. They’re staring into the void.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t let women in.’

  ‘They would have to send someone down to explain that. If they don’t recognize us, then we could be anybody. City officials, or whatever. They’d have to talk to us.’

  ‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Knocking on the door is an option. How far up the list do you want to put it?’

  ‘In the middle,’ Turner said.

  Five minutes later Reacher asked, ‘Below what?’

  ‘I think we should call the DEA. Or Espin, at the 75th. Or the Metro PD. Or all of the above. The FBI too, probably. They can start work on the financial stuff.’

  ‘You’re the CO.’

  ‘I want a legal arrest.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Because you do.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘I like a legal arrest wherever possible. Every time. I’m not a barbarian.’

  ‘We can’t stay here anyway. It’s getting light.’

  And it was. The sun was on the far horizon, shooting level rays, backlighting the house, casting impossibly long shadows. A cone of sky was already blue. It was going to be a fine day.

  ‘Make the call,’ Reacher said.

  ‘Who first?’

  ‘Leach,’ Reacher said. ‘Better if she coordinates. Otherwise it will be like the Keystone Cops.’

  Turner emptied her pockets of phones, of which there were two, hers and Shrago’s. She checked she had the right one, and she opened it, and she turned away from the street, ready to dial. She was lit up from the back, warm and gold in the new dawn sun.

  And then Shrago’s phone rang. On the stone knee-wall, on the ledge below the fence. The crazy birdsong was switched off, but the grinding wasn’t. It was happening big time. The phone was squirming around, like it was trying to choose a direction. The screen was lit up as before, with Incoming Call, and Home.

  The phone buzzed eight times, and then it stopped.

  ‘Dawn,’ Turner said. ‘Some kind of deadline. Either prearranged, or in their own minds. They must be getting plenty anxious by now. They’re going to give up on him soon.’

  They watched the house a minute more, and as they turned away an upstairs window lit up bright, just a brief yellow flash, like an old-fashioned camera, and they heard two muffled gunshots, almost simultaneous but not quite, a little ragged, too quick for a double tap from a single weapon, but just right for two old guys counting to three and pulling their triggers.

  SIXTY-NINE

  NOTHING HAPPENED FOR a long, eerie minute. then the black door was hauled open fast and a whole stream of guys started pouring out, in various states of readiness, some clean and dressed and ready to go, some almost, some still rumpled and creased, all of them white and old, maybe eight or nine of them in total, and mixed in with them were half a dozen younger men in uniform, like hotel pages, and a younger man in a black turtleneck sweater, who Turner thought could be the operations guy. They all slowed down on the sidewalk, and they composed themselves, and then they sauntered away, like nothing was anything to do with them. One guy in a suit walked right past Reacher, with a look on his face that said, Who, me?

  Then Reacher and Turner started moving against the fleeing tide, towards the house, towards the black door, and they were buffeted by a couple of late stragglers, and then they were inside, in a wide, cool hallway, done in a Colonial style, all pale yellow, and brass candlesticks, and clocks, and dark mahogany wood, and an oil portrait of George Washington.

  They went up the stairs, which were wide and thickly carpeted, and they checked an empty room, which had two elegant daybeds in it, next to two elegant coffee tables. The coffee tables held fine examples of the opium smoker’s needs. Lamps and bowls and long, long pipes, the heights all arranged so that a man ly
ing relaxed on his side would find the pipe exactly where he wanted it. There were pillows here and there, and a warm, dull weight in the air.

  They found Scully and Montague in the next room along. They were both around sixty years old, both grey, both trim, but not iron-hard like the kind of general who wants people to know he came from the infantry. These two were happy for folk to know they came from the back rooms. They were wearing dark pants and satin smoking jackets. Their pipes were made of silver and bone. They both had holes in both temples, through and through with jacketed bullets. Nine-millimetres, from the service Berettas that had fallen to the floor. The entry wounds were on the right. Reacher pictured them, the dawn call, as agreed, but no answer, so maybe a handshake, and then muzzles against skin, and elbows out, and one, two, three.

  And then the street was suddenly howling with sirens, and about a hundred people jumped out of cars.

  A guy from the DEA told them the story, in a front room off the wide, cool hallway. It turned out Shrago had spilled to Espin inside about a second and a half, which meant Morgan was in custody thirty minutes later, and Morgan had spilled inside a second and a half too, whereupon Espin had called three different agencies, and a raid had been planned. And executed. But five minutes late.

  ‘You weren’t late,’ Reacher said. ‘You could have come yesterday, and they would have done the same thing. It didn’t matter who was coming up the stairs. You or us or anybody, they were going down like gentlemen.’

  The guy said there were opium dens like Dove Cottage everywhere, all over the world, for the kind of civilized man who prefers fine wine over beer. Opium was the authentic product, heated to a vapour, the vapour inhaled, a gentleman’s relish, as sweet as organic honey. The real thing. The source. Not cut or altered or extracted or converted. Not in any way. Not sordid, not street, and unchanged for thousands of years. Archaeologists would tell you Stone Age had a double meaning.

  And like fine wine, all kinds of bullshit crept in. Terrain was held to be important. The best was held to be Afghan. Individual hillsides were examined. Like vineyards. Montague did a deal with the Zadran brothers. Their stuff was high grade. They branded it Z and talked it up, and pretty soon Dove Cottage was getting enormous membership fees. It all worked fine for four years. Then their in-country guy was seen heading north for the ritual pow-wow, and the whole thing unravelled, despite their best efforts. Espin came by and said their best efforts had been considerable. He said he was halfway through the financial stuff, and already he could see the hundred grand had come straight out of Montague’s own account.