61 Hours Part 13

'I volunteered this house, of course. I have plenty of s.p.a.ce here. But Chief Holland wouldn't hear of it. Not under the circ.u.mstances.'

'I think he was wise.'

'Because extra bodies in the house would have complicated his officers' operations?'

'No, because extra bodies in the house could have become collateral damage in the event of an attack.'

'Well, that's an honest answer, at least. But then, they tell me you're an expert. You were in the army. A commanding officer, I believe.'

'For a spell.'

'Of an elite unit.'

'So we told ourselves.'

'Do you think I am wise?' she asked. 'Or foolish?'

'Ma'am, in what respect?'

'In agreeing to testify at the trial.'

'It depends on what you saw.'

'In what way?'

'If you saw enough to nail the guy, then I think you're doing the right thing. But if what you saw was inconclusive, then I think it's an unnecessary risk.'

'I saw what I saw. I am a.s.sured by all concerned that it was sufficient to secure a conviction. Or to nail the guy, as you put it. I saw the conversation, I saw the inspection of the goods, I saw the counting and transfer of money.'

'At what distance?'

'Perhaps twenty yards.'

'Through a window?'

'From inside the restaurant, yes.'

'Was the gla.s.s clean? Steamed up?'

'Yes and no.'

'Direct line of sight?'

'Yes.'

'Weather?'

'Cool and clear.'

'Time?'

'It was the middle of the evening.'

'Was the lot lit up?'

'Brightly.'

'Is your eyesight OK?'

'I'm a little long-sighted. I sometimes wear spectacles to read. But never otherwise.'

'What were the goods?'

'A brick of white powder sealed tight in a wax paper wrap. The paper was slightly yellowed with age. There was a pictorial device stencilled on it, in the form of a crown, a headband with three points, and each point had a ball on it, presumably to represent a jewel.'

'You saw that from twenty yards?'

'It's a benefit of being long-sighted. And the device was large.'

'No doubts whatsoever? No interpretation, no gaps, no guesswork?'

'None.'

'I think you'll make a great witness.'

She brought lunch to the table. It was a salad in a wooden bowl. The bowl was dark with age and oil, and the salad was made of leaves and vegetables of various kinds, plus tuna from a can, and hard boiled eggs that were still faintly warm. Janet Salter's hands were small. Pale, papery skin. Trimmed nails, no jewellery at all.

Reacher asked her, 'How many other people were in the restaurant at the time?'

She said, 'Five, plus the waitress.'

'Did anyone else see what was happening?'

'I think they all did.'

'But?'

'Afterwards they pretended not to have. Those who dwell in the community to our west are well known here. They frighten people. Simply by being there, I think, and by being different. They are the other other. Which is inherently disturbing, apparently. In practice, they do us no overt harm. We exist together in an uneasy standoff. But I can't deny an undercurrent of menace.'

Reacher asked, 'Do you remember the army camp being built out there?'

Janet Salter shook her head. 'Chief Holland and Mr Peterson have asked me the same question endlessly. But I know no more than they do. I was away in school when it was built.'

'People say it took months to build. Longer than a semester, probably. Didn't you hear anything when you were back in town?'

'I went to school overseas. International travel was expensive. I didn't return during the vacations. In fact I didn't return for thirty years.'

'Where overseas?'

'Oxford University, in England.'

Reacher said nothing.

Janet Salter asked, 'Have I surprised you?'

Reacher shrugged. 'Peterson said you were a teacher and a librarian. I guess I pictured a local school.'

'Mr Peterson has any South Dakotan's aversion to grandeur. And he's quite right, anyway. I was a teacher and a librarian. I was Professor of Library Science at Oxford, and then I helped run the Bodleian Library there, and then I came back to the United States to run the library at Yale, and then I retired and came home to Bolton.'

'What's your favourite book?'

'I don't have one. What's yours?'

'I don't have one either.'

Janet Salter said, 'I know all about the crisis plan at the prison.'

'They tell me it has never been used.'

'But as with all things, one imagines there will be a first time, and that it will come sooner or later.'

Plato skipped lunch, which was unusual for him. Normally he liked the ritual and ceremony of three meals a day. His staff duly prepared a dish, but he didn't show up to eat it. Instead he walked on a serpentine path through the scrub on his property, moving fast, talking on his cell phone, his s.h.i.+rt going dark with sweat.

His guy in the American DEA had made a routine scan through all their wiretap transcripts and had called with a warning. Plato didn't like warnings. He liked solutions, not problems. His DEA guy knew that, and had already reached out to a colleague. No way to stop the hapless Russian getting busted, but things could be delayed until after the deal was done, so that the money could disappear safely into the ether and Plato could walk away enriched and unscathed. All it would cost was four years of college tuition. The colleague had a sixteen-year-old and no savings. Plato had asked how much college cost, and had been mildly shocked at the answer. A person could buy a decent car for that kind of money.

Plato had only one remaining problem. The place in South Dakota was a multipurpose facility. Most of its contents could be sold, but not all of them. Some of them had to be moved out first. Like selling a house. You left the stove, you took the sofa.

He trusted no one. Which helped, most of the time. But at other times it gave him difficulties. Like now. Who could he ask to pack and s.h.i.+p? He couldn't call Allied Van Lines. FedEx or UPS were no good.

His reluctant conclusion was that if you wanted something done properly, you had to do it yourself.

Janet Salter patted the air to make Reacher stay where he was and started to clear the table around him. She asked, 'How much do you know about methamphetamine?'

Reacher said, 'Less than you, probably.'

'I'm not that kind of girl.'

'But you're that kind of librarian. I'm sure you've researched it extensively.'

'You first.'

'I was in the military.'

'Which implies?'

'Certain situations and certain operations called for what the field manuals described as alertness, focus, motivation, and mental clarity, for extended periods. The doctors had all kinds of pep pills available. Straight meth was on its way out when I came on the job, but it had been around before that, for decades.'

Janet Salter nodded. 'It was called Pervitin. A German refinement of a j.a.panese discovery. It was in widespread use during World War Two. It was baked into candy bars. Fliegerschokolade Fliegerschokolade, which means flyers' chocolate, and Panzerschokolade Panzerschokolade, which means tankers' chocolate. The Allies had it, also. Just as much, actually. Maybe more. They called it Desoxyn. I'm surprised anyone ever slept.'

'They had morphine for sleeping.'

'But now it's controlled. Because it causes terrible damage to those who abuse it. So it has to be manufactured illegally. Which is relatively easy to do, in small home laboratories. But the manufacture of anything requires raw materials. For methamphetamine you need ephedrine or pseudoephedrine. You can buy it in bulk, if you can get past the regulations. Or you can extract it from over-the-counter decongestant medicines. To do that you need red phosphorus and iodine. Or lithium, from certain types of batteries. That's an alternative method, called the Birch reduction.'

'You can get it direct from acacia trees in west Texas,' Reacher said. 'Plus mescaline and nicotine. A wonderful tree, the acacia.'

'But this is not west Texas,' Janet Salter said. 'This is South Dakota. My point is, you can't make bricks without straw. If they're s.h.i.+pping out vast quant.i.ties of finished product, they must be s.h.i.+pping in vast quant.i.ties of raw materials. Which must be visible. There must be truckloads involved. Why can't Chief Holland get at them that way, without involving me?'

'I don't know.'

'I think Chief Holland has gotten lazy.'

'Peterson claimed they gave you the option of backing out.'

'But don't you see? That's no option at all. I couldn't live with myself. It's a matter of principle.'

'Peterson claims you were offered federal protection.'

'And perhaps I should have accepted it. But I much preferred to stay in my own home. The justice system is supposed to penalize perpetrators, not witnesses. That's a matter of principle, too.'

Reacher glanced at the kitchen door. A cop in the hallway, a cop at the rear window, two more sleeping upstairs ready for the night watch, a car outside, another car one block over, a third at the end of the street. Plus alert townsfolk, and a paranoid police HQ. Plus snow all over the place.

All good, unless the siren sounded.

Reacher asked, 'Are you a grandmother?'

Janet Salter shook her head. 'We didn't have children. We waited, and then my husband died. He was English, and much older than me. Why do you ask?'

'Peterson was talking about your credibility on the stand. He said you look like a storybook grandma.'

'Do I?'

'I don't know. I guess I didn't have those storybooks.'

'Where were you raised?'

'On Marine Corps bases.'

'Which ones?'

'It felt like all of them.'

'I was raised here in South Dakota. My father was the last in a long line of robber barons. We traded, we bought land from the native inhabitants at twelve cents an acre, we bought thousands of government stakes through surrogates, we mined gold, we invested in the railroad. At insider rates, of course.'

Reacher said, 'Hence this house.'

Janet Salter smiled. 'No, this is where we came when we hit hard times.'

Out in the hallway the bell chimed once, quiet and civilized. Reacher stood up and stepped to the door and watched. The policewoman on duty was sitting on the bottom stair. She got up and crossed the dim s.p.a.ce and opened the front door. Chief Holland came in, with a soft flurry of snow and a cloud of cold air. He stamped his feet on the mat and s.h.i.+vered as the warmth hit him. He took off his parka. The policewoman hung it up for him, right on top of Reacher's borrowed coat.