‘Thai’s my security, Mr Stone,’ he said. ‘But like you just told me, I’m sure there won’t be a problem.’
Chester Stone said nothing. Just stood up and threaded his way through all the furniture and over to the door. Through the reception area and into the corridor and into the elevator. Down eighty-eight floors and back outside, where the bright morning sun hit him in the face like a blow.
THREE
That same sun was on the back of Reacher’s neck as he made his way into Manhattan in the rear seat of a gypsy cab. He preferred to use unlicensed operators, given the choice. It suited his covert habit. No reason at all why anyone should ever want to trace his movements by checking with cab drivers, but a cab driver who couldn’t admit to being one was the safest kind there was. And it gave the opportunity for a little negotiation about the fare. Not much negotiating to be done with the meter in a yellow taxi.
They came in over the Triborough Bridge and entered Manhattan on 125th Street. Drove west through traffic as far as Roosevelt Square. Reacher had the guy pull over there while he scanned around and thought for a moment. He was thinking about a cheap hotel, but he wanted one with working phones. And intact phone books. His judgement was he couldn’t meet all three requirements in that neighbourhood. But he got out anyway, and paid the guy off. Wherever he was going, he’d walk the last part. A cut-out period, on his own. It suited his habit.
The two young men in the crumpled thousand-dollar suits waited until Chester Stone was well clear. Then they went into the inner office and threaded through the furniture and stood quietly in front of the desk. Hobie looked up at them and rolled open a drawer. Put the signed agreements away with the photographs and took out a new pad of yellow paper. Then he laid his hook on the desktop and turned in his chair so the dim light from the window caught the good side of his face.
‘Well?’
‘We just got back,’ the first guy said.
‘You get the information I asked for?’
The second guy nodded. Sat down on the sofa.
‘He was looking for a guy called Jack Reacher.’
Hobie made a note of the name on the yellow pad. ‘Who’s he?’
There was a short silence.
‘We don’t know,’ the first guy said.
Hobie nodded, slowly. ‘Who was Costello’s client?’
Another short silence.
‘We don’t know that either,’ the guy said.
‘Those are fairly basic questions,’ Hobie said.
The guy just looked at him through the silence, uneasy.
‘You didn’t think to ask those fairly basic questions?’
The second guy nodded. ‘We asked them. We were asking them like crazy.’
‘But Costello wouldn’t answer?’
‘He was going to,’ the first guy said.
‘But?’
‘He died on us,’ the second guy said. ‘He just upped and died. He was old, overweight. It was maybe a heart attack, I think. I’m very sorry, sir. We both are.’
Hobie nodded again, slowly. ‘Exposure?’
‘Nil,’ the first guy said. ‘He’s unidentifiable.’
Hobie glanced down at the fingertips of his left hand. ‘Where’s the knife?’
‘In the sea,’ the second guy said.
Hobie moved his arm and tapped a little rhythm on the desktop with the point of his hook. Thought hard, and nodded again, decisively.
‘OK, not your fault, I guess. Weak heart, what can you do?’
The first guy relaxed and joined his partner on the sofa. They were off the hook, and that had a special meaning in this office.
‘We need to find the client,’ Hobie said into the silence.
The two guys nodded and waited.
‘Costello must have had a secretary, right?’ Hobie said. ‘She’ll know who the client was. Bring her to me.’
The two guys stayed on the sofa.
‘What?’
‘This Jack Reacher,’ the first guy said. ‘Supposed to be a big guy, three months in the Keys. Costello told us people were talking about a big guy, been there three months, worked nights in a bar. We went to see him. Big tough guy, but he said he wasn’t Jack Reacher.’