Jack Reacher 28 - The Secret, page 15
Reacher squeezed through the gap he’d made in the fence and crossed to the portico. Smith and Neilsen followed. He continued to a pair of double doors. They were huge, made of dark wood, shot through with black metal studs and divided into panels covered with intricate carving. The workmanship had been high quality. That was clear, even though now the surface was dull and rough. The result of years of neglect and damp air, Reacher guessed.
Neilsen was staring at a padlock that secured one door to the other with a hasp and eye. It was a substantial item. Designed to exude strength, and discourage wannabe trespassers from wasting their time trying to pick it. But it was old. It was caked in rust. It couldn’t have been opened in years. Neilsen shook his head and turned to go. Reacher grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“What are you doing?” Neilsen whispered. “This is a waste of time. That lock’s seized solid. We’ll never get it open.”
“We don’t need to,” Reacher replied. “That’s not the way anyone gets in or out. Think about it. You can’t work a padlock from the inside.”
Reacher crouched down and inspected the doors’ lower panels. The bottom edges were in the worst shape. He figured that was due to rain splatter so he switched his attention to the next row up. He pressed one of them. It was solid. So was the next one he tried. But the third gave a tiny bit. He tried its opposite edge and it swung back, under tension from some kind of spring. It left a gap about six inches by eight. Reacher stretched his arm through. The surface was contoured and uneven. More carving, Reacher thought. Then his fingers brushed against something smooth and straight and narrow. A small plank. Reacher pushed and pulled and twisted until it came loose. He dropped it, pulled his arm out, and pressed on the next panel. This time a whole section swung inward. Nine panels by nine. Like a tiny door within a door.
It took a lot of squirming and wriggling and struggling but Reacher managed to squeeze his body through the hole. He stood up and stepped to the side, sliding his feet and stretching his arms into the empty darkness. Smith joined him. Then Neilsen. They all stood still and waited for their night vision to kick in. After a couple of minutes a few details started to emerge. The floor was covered with black and white tiles. They were submerged under a thick layer of dust. The cornice around the ceiling, high above them, was crusted with dirt and cobwebs. Hunks of plaster were hanging off the walls at random intervals. There was the indistinct outline of a piece of furniture ahead of them. Maybe a reception desk.
Smith said, “Close your eyes for a second.”
Reacher heard rustling, then a click. He opened one eye and saw Smith was holding a slim flashlight. She had pinched the beam down to a narrow shaft and was playing it around the space. A chandelier was hanging from the center of the ceiling. There was a pair of double doors on each side. Ahead was a wall of glass, now obscured by layers of grime. It felt like a grand hotel gone to seed. Reacher could imagine it with uniformed bellhops ferrying fancy luggage and gussied-up guests flitting between dining rooms and ballrooms and the formal gardens that lay outside. Though he knew in reality living there could hardly have been more different. Being forced to live there. There could have been few worse places in the country if Smith’s recollection was correct.
Smith lowered her flashlight beam to the floor. The extra illumination revealed multiple sets of footprints going back and forth along a path through the dust. She started to follow them.
Reacher said, “Stop.”
He was too late. He had seen a small break in the line of footprints. A narrow patch that hadn’t been stepped on. That meant one thing. There was a tripwire above it. Then the flashlight confirmed it. The line was colorless. As fine as a hair. It ran the whole width of the room. And Smith caught it with her right shin. Immediately the room filled with light from somewhere above them. It wasn’t harsh and bright, like it would be in the movies. It wasn’t enough to blind them. Or to blind the guy who stepped out from the doorway on the right. He was maybe six feet tall, but he was stooped. His hair was long and gray and thin and it hung down on either side of his face in no particular style. His skin was pale. His feet were bare. He was wearing jeans with huge bellbottoms. A bright paisley shirt with a massive collar. And he was holding a shotgun. An old one. A Winchester Model 97. A Trench Broom, as the infantry in the First World War used to call it. He was aiming it at Smith but Reacher and Neilsen were so close behind that they would get torn to shreds along with her if the guy pulled the trigger.
Chapter 16
The guy with the shotgun said, “Stop. Who are you? Why did you break into my home?”
Reacher drifted to his right. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the others. He kept his eyes on the guy’s trigger finger and raised his hands to shoulder height. He said, “We’re looking for Spencer Flemming. Is that you?”
“Stop moving. What do you want?”
“Are you Flemming?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Jack Reacher.”
“Are you police? FBI? CIA? What?”
“US Army.”
“For real?”
“For real. My ID’s in my pocket.” Reacher started to lower his right hand.
“No. Stay still. What’s the army doing here? You can’t operate on US soil.”
“We’re here to help you. If you’re Spencer Flemming.”
The guy didn’t reply.
Reacher said, “Come on. What’s the harm in telling us your name? You’re the one with the gun. Are you Flemming?”
The guy nodded. Just the tiniest of gestures. “Might be.”
“Then you’re in danger. Someone’s out to kill you. We’re looking to stop that from happening.”
“Kill me? Impossible. They’d have to find me first. No one knows I live here.”
“We know.”
“Yeah.” Flemming hitched the shotgun up a little higher. “You do. How come?”
“A friend of yours told us. Maksim Sarbotskiy.”
Flemming was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Who?”
“Maksim Sarbotskiy. He said you were a journalist.”
“Oh. That guy. Short, skinny. Albanian. Remind me—which arm is his tattoo on?”
“He’s Russian. We didn’t see his arms. And he’s not short and skinny. He’s huge, like a wrestler.”
“He goes by a French name now. What is it?”
“It’s English. Or it’s supposed to be. Prince Sarb. But I doubt anyone takes it seriously.”
“OK.” Flemming paused. “Go on. Why does someone want to kill me? And why do you care?”
“Because of Project Typhon.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Not enough. Which is why we care. It’s why we’re here. We want you to tell us about it. That will help us stop the person who’s coming after you. But if you don’t want our help, fine. We’ll leave. We won’t bother you. We’ll just watch for your name in the obituary columns.”
Flemming didn’t respond.
Reacher lowered his hands and turned away. “Fine. See you. But you should know the person we’re talking about has already killed five people.”
Flemming said, “Random people?”
“Specific people. All scientists who worked on the project.”
“Then why should I worry? I’m not a scientist. I wasn’t on the project.”
“The killer wants information about Typhon. The only remaining scientist who has it is MIA. The only other person who knows about it is you. Go ahead. Do the math.”
Flemming took a step back. “I’m not leaving this place. I won’t run. I won’t hide.”
“Help us and you won’t have to.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
“How could it be a trap?”
“I’ve been here twenty-two years. You know why?”
“You have an eccentric taste in décor?”
“Because of the piece I wrote about Project 192. In ’69, going on ’70. I was a reporter back then. A damn good one. The article was dynamite. The best thing I ever did. It was locked and loaded, two days from going to press. We were all set for a big splash on a Sunday. Going for maximum impact. I was walking home from a date, happy, dreaming of promotions and Pulitzers and book deals. I saw a van waiting outside my building. A blue Ford. I thought nothing of it then. I’ll never forget it now. And I’ll never forget the smell of the hood they pulled over my head. My world went black. And it stayed black for what felt like weeks. It was actually three days. First I was in the back of the van. Then in a tiny room. I don’t know where it was. Somewhere cold. The floor and walls were hard concrete. There was no bed. No chair. No toilet. They gave me hardly any water. No food. Then finally a light came on. It hurt my eyes. A guy came in. He stood. I lay on the floor. I couldn’t move. He gave me a choice. Hand over all my notes and early drafts and photos and never tell a soul what I knew, or spend the rest of my life in a room like that. In the dark. Cold. Hungry. Alone.”
“And Sarbotskiy helped you with the article?”
“He was a source, sure. He thought he was using me, I expect. I thought I was using him. The truth? A bit of both, probably. But I never printed anything that wasn’t true. I triple-checked every detail. I wasn’t a Soviet asset. I’m no traitor.”
“So you gave this guy in the room what he wanted, then you came here?”
“Damn straight I gave him what he wanted. And I didn’t come here right away. I tried to go back to work. But it was no good. The guy said they’d be watching me. If I ever made a nuisance of myself, if I poked my nose where it didn’t belong, if I attracted attention in any way, all bets were off. He said they would keep the room ready for me, just in case. He said they had already hung a sign on the door with my name on it. I’ll be honest. That messed with my head. I couldn’t write a story without thinking about how it could be interpreted. Couldn’t walk down the street without having a heart attack every time I saw a van parked at the curb. I figured it would be best to disappear.”
“You think we’re here to test you. See if you’re ready to make waves again.”
“In my life, when people show up out of the blue it’s to hurt me, not help me. Why should this time be any different?”
“What if someone vouched for us?”
“Who?”
“Sarbotskiy. You know him. And he’s already done his deal with the government. He’s got what he wants. There’s no mileage for him in selling you out.”
Flemming took a moment to think, then said, “OK. I guess that could work.”
Reacher said, “We’ll take you to him. You guys talk. We’ll bring you right back.”
“I’m not leaving. I told you that. We’ll call him.”
“How?”
Flemming gestured to a door in the glass wall at the far end of the space. “You three go first. Don’t try anything.”
* * *
The door led into a square courtyard. It was totally enclosed by the four sides of the building except for a vehicle-sized gate that was now barricaded with old tires. Reacher figured the gate had originally been for deliveries, and the space for allowing light into the inner side of the wards. It could also have been a place for patients to exercise. Maybe there had been gardens and paths and benches. Maybe conscientiously maintained. But now there was nothing growing on the ground apart from a few weeds that peeped out from between hunks of rubble. The center of the area was empty. There was nothing against three of the walls apart from graffiti. But against the west wall there were three travel trailers tucked in close to the brickwork. Their skin was aluminum. It was dull, but Reacher guessed it would have been shiny when they were new.
Flemming pointed toward the one on the left. He said, “That one’s my office. The center one’s my living room. The other’s where I sleep.”
He folded back the office trailer’s door and latched it open. He leaned in, flicked a switch, and a light came on. He gestured for the others to climb in ahead of him. There was a desk under the window. It was plain and utilitarian, with a metal frame and plain wood surfaces. A chair on wheels, which had seen better days. Its fabric was torn in multiple places and stuffing was spilling out in dirty orange clumps. And a leather armchair which wasn’t in much better shape. The rest of the area was stuffed with shelves. They looked homemade. They were crammed with books and files and sheafs of papers and piles of magazines. One wall was covered with things in frames. Diplomas. Awards. Reprints of articles. And a single picture. It was of Flemming when he was a much younger man. He was thinner and his hair was dark brown. He was on a boat crossing a river in a jungle. It looked like Vietnam.
Reacher nodded toward the heap of papers on the desk and said, “You still working?”
Flemming shrugged. He said, “I keep busy. I don’t write anymore. Not under my own name. That’s too risky. But I help a few folks out with things. Research. Copyediting. Like that.” He moved some papers around on the desk, uncovered a phone, and lifted the receiver.
Smith said, “That thing works?”
Flemming said, “You think I’m going to have a pretend conversation? Of course it works. Everything works. You spend as much time as I did working in some countries I could tell you about, you get pretty good at borrowing things. A little power here. Some water there. A bit of dial tone in between. I’ve got cable hooked up in the other two vans.”
Flemming kept hold of the shotgun, wedged the phone between his shoulder and his chin, and dialed a number from memory. Reacher could hear the slow, lazy ringtone. Then a deep rumbling voice. He couldn’t make out the words.
Flemming said, “Sorry, man. Yes, I do know what time it is. But this is an emergency. I’ve got three guys here who say you sent them.” He described Reacher, Smith, and Neilsen, then listened for a few moments. Then he said, “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Flemming dropped the receiver back into its cradle and lifted the gun. He braced it against his shoulder, pointed it at Reacher, and said, “Sarbotskiy doesn’t know you.”
Reacher said, “Call him back. Remind him about the fire. I was very specific about where he’s going to be when I start it.”
Flemming lowered the gun. A tiny hint of a smile flashed across his face and he said, “Sarbotskiy told me if you came back with that, you’re OK. So. What do you want to know?”
Reacher moved closer. He said, “Is it true that there was a program running parallel with Project 192? One that created offensive bioweapons? Project Typhon?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Although that name came from the KGB. It was never official.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Research. I was good, once, remember. I put in the hard yards. Here, and in India. I know partly because of the facts I pieced together. The kind of chemicals that were shipped to the site. The equipment that was used. The protective clothing that was brought in. The precautions that were taken. Snippets I picked up from lab techs and cleaners. But mainly because of the bodies.”
“People died?”
Flemming nodded. “ ’Fraid so.”
“They were experimented on?”
“No. There was an accident. A leak. One night in December ’69.”
Reacher said, “An accident? Are you sure? Because I hear about an accident and I know the CIA was involved, and my bullshit meter goes off the scale. No offense, Neilsen.”
Neilsen said, “None taken. I was thinking the same thing.”
Flemming paused. “Let me back up a minute. I’m not explaining this right. The incident that caused the deaths was sabotage. One hundred percent. There’s no doubt about it. But it was aimed at Mason Chemical Industries. The civilian corporation that was used to shelter the covert operation. The guy who did it was just a disgruntled employee. Morgan Sanson, he was called. He had no idea Project 192 even existed. Let alone a parallel project to produce offensive weapons. He impacted those by accident.”
“So what was his story?”
“It was sad, really. He had all kind of beefs. You name it. Pay. Conditions. Not enough vacation days. Lack of opportunities for promotion. No one in management would listen to him. There was no union so he couldn’t get any traction as an individual. So he had the genius idea to mess up some equipment. Cost the company some money. Get attention that way. One night he switched off the water supply that fed a cooling system. He thought it was something minor. It was actually totally critical to 192 and Typhon, but obviously there were no signs saying so. Nothing in the site manual about it. The increase in temperature caused an over-pressurization in a storage tank, which burst, and a bunch of gas leaked out. A lot of people died. Civilians. Locals. It wasn’t pretty. I was there. I took pictures.”
“How many casualties are we talking about?”
Flemming held up his finger. “This is where it gets interesting.” He crossed to one of his shelves and stared at all the stuff piled up there for a second. Then he pulled out a binder, blew some dust off it, leafed through until he found the right page, and handed it to Reacher. Smith and Neilsen closed up on either side and together all three read the article. It was from The New York Times. Its date was January 13, 1970. The paper was yellow and it looked thin and fragile inside its protective plastic sleeve. There was a photograph of a woman in a lab coat at the top of the page. Her hair was tied back. She was wearing glasses. She looked young and earnest and pretty. The text that surrounded her picture reflected some of what Flemming had said. It told of a radical employee. Vandalism. A gas leak. An experimental disinfectant that would bring major benefits to underprivileged communities as soon as it gained regulatory approval. It mentioned seven fatalities, and stressed that the toll would have been much worse if not for the rapid response from the company’s emergency team. A second photograph showed the bodies. They were lying in a field of long grass and flowers. They were dressed in clean, pale-colored clothes. Their faces looked calm. Almost serene. It was like they were returning home from a stroll in the countryside and had decided to take a nap in the afternoon sun.
