CHAPTER ONE
Friday, November 19
Abbot, Maine
4:15 p.m. Eastern Time
The Diplomat’s collar was flipped up against the raw wind that blew across the compound from the frigid ocean behind him. He pushed his gloved hands into his pockets and ducked deeper into the wool coat he’d bought for city streets, not for late November on the coast of Maine. Soon, darkness would envelop the compound.
He moved awkwardly down the long, straight driveway from the gray stone house toward the outbuilding closest to the gate, losing his footing several times as his leather-soled shoes slid on the slick pavement.
He sensed no threat or danger and expected none. The property rested within a high, granite wall topped with coiled razor wire. In the center of the wall was an iron gate. The gate opened only on the Diplomat’s orders when the man posted at the gatehouse made it so. One way in. One way out. Entry by invitation only. No unauthorized persons had entered since the Diplomat arrived two days ago.
He reached the gatehouse without falling on his ass, which was a minor miracle. When he was still attending the Russian Orthodox Church, he’d have offered thanks to God for safe passage. But that was a long time ago. He’d set aside the faith of his childhood and never looked back.
He reached up and dropped the heavy door knocker onto the thick oak door three times, then returned his gloved hand to his pocket and waited, stamping his feet against the cold.
The Diplomat was born in Siberia, so had known bone-chilling cold. He hadn’t missed it.
He had chosen this house on the coast between Kennebunkport and Portland because it was vacant, renovated after some prior damage to the main dining room and the roof, and perfectly suited to his needs. Locals called the compound Abbot Cape because the rocky finger it occupied jutted into the ocean.
Long after he’d settled his organization here, after it was too late to relocate, he’d learned the troubling history of the place.
The new man opened the gatehouse door. He was tall. Maybe six feet, five inches. Big, too. Maybe two-sixty. Not an ounce of visible fat anywhere. His hands were as big as baseball mitts. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and black wool blazer that stretched taut across his hulking body. Black jeans rode low on his hips. The work boots on his feet were immense, yet seemed too small to support the rest of him.
The gateman nodded and said nothing. He stood aside and the Diplomat, not a small man himself, felt dwarfed when he stepped across the threshold into a room that was marginally warmer than the outdoors, even though the house featured an adequate heating system. Perhaps the new guy’s body mass generated more heat than normal.
The Diplomat scanned the main living area’s open floor plan. Small kitchen, table with four chairs, a fireplace surrounded by a sofa, two recliners, and a television. No one else was present. “What’s your name again?”
“John Smith.” He didn’t smile.
The Diplomat shrugged. He could call himself Genghis Khan, as long as he did the job as required. “Where is she?”
“This way.” Smith moved toward the back of the one-story gatehouse toward the bedrooms.
The Diplomat followed.
The last renovation here had tripled the gatehouse’s size and added a private bath to each of the eight new bedrooms. Guests often preferred to entertain out here, away from the prying eyes and ears from the main house. Particularly if their desires were somewhat unsavory.
Tonight, the Diplomat was not entertaining guests. The extra bedrooms were empty.
At the end of the corridor was a doorway that led to a mudroom and beyond into an attached garage. Smith opened the door and stepped through, and the Diplomat followed.
The Diplomat shivered. He instinctively raised a gloved hand to cover his nose and filter the overwhelming stench of car exhaust.
One vehicle was idling here. A ten-year-old sedan, stolen from a shopping mall parking lot a hundred miles away. The sedan had spent its entire life driving snowy winter roads, wallowing in rock salt, and the rusted exhaust system had never been replaced. It vibrated loudly as if it might fall off its hangers. The gasses made a chuffing noise as they passed from the engine and escaped before they reached the rear of the car.
The Diplomat nodded, and Smith pushed a button, and the double garage door rolled itself up along an overhead track. The open maw displayed the low cloud ceiling and the roiling Atlantic Ocean beyond like a giant theater screen, to majestic and chilling effect. Harsh wind blew into the garage and the ocean’s roar collided with the running engine to combined ear-pounding decibel levels.
Smith pushed another button and ceiling fans whipped through the heavy air inside the garage at high speed, but the air was so thick it would take a while to clear it.
The setup was purposefully clumsy like a distraught woman bent on suicide had staged the scene herself. A flexible hose connected the tailpipe to the rear passenger window, which was open only wide enough to receive the hose. The interior of the car was obscured by smoky silver air as if the scene were a magician’s trick.
The gas tank had been full when Smith started the engine, but it had to be almost empty now. The Diplomat estimated twenty-four hours run-time on a full tank. More than enough to do the job.
Smith opened the driver’s door, reached in, and turned the engine off.
The Diplomat held his breath and pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket. He covered his mouth and nose to filter the air. He walked closer to the sedan and peered through the window into the back seat.
She looked waifish lying there, stretched out on her back, as if she were enjoying the sleep of the just. In life, she’d looked angelic, almost. Tall, lean, pale skin and blonde hair. She had been the perfect type for his needs. Now, her skin was mottled and cherry red and hideous.
Still, she looked peaceful. Dressed in the outfit she’d been wearing when she arrived here. Black workout clothes. Gloves. A red hoodie. One neon running shoe on her left foot, the other resting on the roof of the sedan, waiting.
Her right shoe had been expertly repaired after the Diplomat’s team took it apart and found the tracking device in the heel. She wasn’t able to communicate using the device, but she could be tracked. The device had been returned to its hiding place. Let her team believe she was still on the premises. As long as they could pinpoint her location, perhaps they’d stay away, assuming her still on the job.
When he was ready to let them find her body, they’d find the device exactly where it should be. They’d be reassured, perhaps.
She’d carried nothing else with her the day she approached the iron gate and asked to come inside. She claimed she’d been running and turned her ankle. She had no cell phone. No ID. Nothing. The prior gateman had judged her harmless and admitted her. He’d paid for his mistake and so had she.
The Diplomat stepped away from the sedan and nodded. “You gave her the valium first?”
“I added it to her food. She was already sleeping when I put her in there.” Smith’s voice was medium pitch, a baritone not a bass. The words were clipped and somewhat Midwestern. Ordinary.
The Diplomat wondered briefly where Smith had come from and what his real name might be. He looked and sounded completely American, which was useful. Locals tended to accept Americans more readily than Russians. All of his hired muscle met those same standards. There seemed to be an endless pool of them. They were similar in size. They dressed alike. They were indistinguishable from one another, like a computer-generated army.
“Get her out of there.”
The Diplomat stood aside while Smith made his way around the front of the sedan and opened the back door on the opposite side. He bent his heavy torso at the waist, slipped his big mitts under her arms, and pulled her out of the back seat.
“Check her pulse.” She certainly looked dead, given the condition of her skin, but from experience, the Diplomat knew that some suicides took longer than others.
Cradling her easily in one arm, Smith laid two fingers the size of hot dogs alongside her neck. He moved his fingers a couple of times, trying to feel her carotid pulse. After a moment or two, he shrugged. “Probably. If not, she will be soon enough.”
The Diplomat nodded. “Where’s the freezer?”
“This way.” Smith grabbed the neon running shoe off the roof of the sedan, set it upon the woman’s belly, turned and marched toward a closed door in the far corner of the garage. The Diplomat followed. Smith opened the door, reached inside and flipped a light switch before he carried her over the threshold.
When The Diplomat reached the open doorway, Smith was sliding the woman into a body bag on the cement floor. Her eyes remained closed.
Smith zipped the bag closed. He lifted the lid on the twenty-cubic-foot white chest freezer, which was seventy-two inches wide and twenty-nine inches deep—large enough to hold a butchered cow, according to the sales data for this unit. He laid her flat inside the body bag, which would make her easier to transport and to thaw, then lowered the freezer’s heavy lid and placed the shoe on top where it would be easy to find when they needed it.
The Diplomat handed him a padlock, which he passed through the freezer’s hasp and clicked the shackle into place. Smith stood aside. The Diplomat yanked on the padlock. It was secure. The padlock opened with the key he kept on a chain around his neck.
The Diplomat looked around the room to confirm that everything was in order. He didn’t expect to return to deal with her until after his business at the main house was concluded, probably not until next week or even the week after. Unfortunately. He’d prefer to return her thawed body to her personal vehicle waiting inside a garage in Houston now. Get her away from him and his operation. Knowing she was out here was an annoyance, felt like a loose end. But there was nothing for it.
Eventually, she would be found. No forensic evidence of freezing would exist.
Cause of death would be listed as carbon monoxide poisoning and manner of death would be suicide. Time of death would be established within appropriate recent parameters.
Her suicide would be lamented and mourned and not questioned. Her murder would go unnoticed and uninvestigated. The Diplomat and his business would remain off the radar.
But there was no time to ship the freezer to Houston. And while the woman remained missing, her agency colleagues might still come looking for her, which was less than ideal.
The Diplomat had considered all the reasonable alternatives. None was better than leaving her frozen until after his business was concluded. An imperfect solution that would have to suffice.
He turned and left the freezer room. John Smith followed. The Diplomat handed over another padlock. Smith used it to secure the room’s only entrance. Once again, he stepped aside to allow The Diplomat to check his work. After several hard yanks, he nodded at Smith and waved a gloved hand toward the sedan.
The Diplomat walked through the open garage door and made his way to the main house, leaving Smith to dismantle and dispose of the sedan as instructed.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday, November 24
Houston, Texas
11:06 a.m. Central Time
The assignment file FBI Special Agent Kim Otto received had dispatched them to Houston, Texas. Which was just fine with her. Houston was one of her favorite cities, particularly as late fall moved closer to early winter. Houston could be counted on for moderate weather. Kim hated the cold.
Her partner, FBI Special Agent Carlos Gaspar, parked the rental in the lot at the Houston Field Division of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives off North Sam Houston Parkway. It was a typical modern office building in what developers would call Class A office space in northwest Houston.
Three similar rectangular, multi-story granite buildings forming a U shape opening upon a retention pond, with a sidewalk around the site’s perimeter and a perpetual fountain in the middle. At the open end of the U, beyond the retention pond and opposite the building that housed the ATF office, was a carpet of green space showcasing a panoramic view of downtown Houston in the distance.
“Give me a minute.” Gaspar opened the sedan’s door and swung his left leg out. “I need to check in.” He was already placing the call as he stepped out of the vehicle.
They had been working the Reacher case off the books for twenty-three days. Kim had come to appreciate her new partner and accept his limitations. But she missed the Detroit field office where she was permanently posted.
She wondered what her supervisor had been told about her special assignment and where he thought she was. She hadn’t spoken to him since that first morning when the Boss had called her out at 4:00 a.m. and sent her to Margrave, Georgia, allegedly to complete a background check on a ghost.
The assignment had taken on a life of its own since then, and the search for Jack Reacher’s history had changed her at the molecular level. She was exceptionally good at chasing crime, but hunting intel on a man who deliberately stayed so far off the grid was a deadly pursuit far from her training.
She’d never return to what she now thought of as her previous self. The jury was still out on whether the new Kim Otto was better than the old.
Gaspar was pacing, talking to his wife on the phone a few feet away from the car, limping on his right leg as he usually did after a period of inactivity. He reached into his pocket for another Tylenol. Probably thought she wasn’t watching.
She’d never asked him about the Tylenol or the limping. He’d made it plain that the questions were intrusive and unwelcome. But she would ask him. When the time was right. Or when she was forced to. Respect for boundaries was something she appreciated and demanded. Gaspar was good on both counts. So was she.
Kim waited inside the car, reviewing the subject’s files again, giving Gaspar a bit of privacy. She had a large extended family, but no husband, no boyfriend, no children and no pets. Her work was her life, and she wanted it that way. Gaspar was fine, but she wasn’t used to being Velcroed to another human being 24/7. Every now and then, she needed some breathing room, too.
But Gaspar lived in a totally different world. He rarely had privacy of any kind. His wife, Marie, was very pregnant and due to deliver at any moment. In Miami. He’d been back to check on her twice since their assignment began.
Marie was managing the late stages of pregnancy, and parenting four daughters alone at the same time, much more effectively than Kim would have. Gaspar was worried about his family, and he wanted to get home.
Which made total sense to Kim, even though dealing with kids made her itchy. Four kids constantly underfoot would make her break out in hives worse than the time she ate five pounds of strawberries.
Unlike her, Gaspar’s worldview was not influenced by unbridled ambition and unquenchable desire to succeed.
Kim returned her attention to the assignment files. Photos of their interview subject, ATF Special Agent in Charge, Hector Alvarez, were included. Her first brief pass through the documents showed no mention of Reacher or any clues about why the Boss had sent them here. Which was annoyingly normal for this assignment.
Gaspar rapped hard on the side window, sending Kim jumping high enough into the air that she hit her head on the sedan’s roof. She could hear him laughing through the glass and tossed him a vicious scowl.
Trying with no success to hide his amusement, he opened her door and bowed like an old-fashioned limo driver. “A thousand pardons, Madame Butterfly, but I have completed my call. How may I be of service to you?”
“Very funny, Cheech. You should take that act on the road.” She shoved the files into her bag, got out of the car and steamed off toward the front of the building, rubbing the rising knot on her head and leaving Gaspar to keep up as best he could. “Come on,” she called back. “We’ve got work to do.”
She heard him press the electronic door locks and chuckle again behind her.
She’d left her electronics in the car except for the cell phones. With each new set of orders, the Boss delivered new disposable cell phones to each of them, and they spent too much time attempting to evade oversight. Not today. There was no point in attempting to thwart his constant tracking. The effort would be futile. Every government building in the country was completely submerged in surveillance.
When Gaspar caught up, he still looked awfully pleased with himself.
“You know it occurs to me,” she said, “you get all this entertainment value from me, and I get nothing for it.”
He grinned. “You’re right. Next time, black coffee’s on me.”
“You are such a prince.” But she smiled. He was totally likable, even if he was also maddening. “Everything okay at home?”
Once Gaspar worked out the tightness in his muscles, he easily kept up with her. “Marie is doing okay. I’d like to get back for Thanksgiving tomorrow, but it’s not crucial. The doc says the baby could be two weeks late.”
“You believe him?”
“Our other kids were late, so he might be right.” His tone put an end to the conversation about his family. Maybe he was worried or maybe he just wanted to get on with things and get home.
She nodded and changed the subject. “So the file we got on Alvarez is sparse. I’m sure there’s more to it.”
“There always is.” He was wearing aviator sunglasses that shielded his eyes, but she recognized the tone. She was not an optimist, but he was a cynic. Which was not the same as being wrong. The Boss had been withholding information from them since this assignment began. Of course, the materials he supplied for the Alvarez interview wouldn’t be any more complete than the others.
Gaspar’s long legs carried him at her pace without too much struggle. “You read the file and I didn’t. Give me the highlights. What do I need to know before the interview?”
“Not much to tell. Alvarez has been with ATF his entire career. He’s an Army vet. One way or another, he’s been employed by Uncle Sam forever.” She shook her head before he had a chance to ask. “Not likely he knew Reacher when they were both soldiers, but possible.”
He glanced toward the buildings and scanned the area. There were a few other pedestrians on the sidewalk around the pond and a few more in the parking lot. It was midday. Office workers headed to and from lunch, probably.
Kim wasn’t worried about being watched at the moment. The Reacher assignment was off the books, but she wasn’t undercover. No need for covert ops out here in the open. There were several cameras visible from the sidewalk, and she noted the locations, just in case. She never worried about things she could see. It was the unseen, unexpected, unrecognized things that made her nervous. “One curious thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Looks like he might be Susan Duffy’s boss.”
Gaspar’s right eyebrow popped up in the comical way that meant he was surprised.
“The timing, as far as we know it, is right. Her paper trail says she’s assigned to this field office.”
“We’ve been trying to find Susan Duffy for days. You think it’s likely we’ll just show up and see her walking the halls? Surprise her at work?”
Kim shook her head. “As usual, I think the Boss is up to something. Keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”
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