61 Hours

sound came back dull and liquid. Reacher thought back to the fuel truck that had nearly creamed him in the snow at the bottom of the old county two-lane.
    ‘Great,’ he said. ‘We’re two hundred feet underground with five thousand gallons of jet fuel in a home-made tank.’
    ‘Why jet fuel? It smells like kerosene.’
    ‘Jet fuel is kerosene, basically. So it’s one or the other. And there’s way more here than they need for the heaters in the huts. And they just got it. After they already knew they were leaving. And after ploughing the runway. So a plane is comingin. Probably soon. It’s going to refuel. Holland needs to tell the DEA about that. They’re going to need to be fast.’
    ‘It won’t come in the dark. There are no runway lights.’
    ‘Even so. Time is tight. How far away is the nearest DEA field office?’
    Peterson didn’t answer. Instead he asked, ‘How did they fill a tank all the way down here?’
    ‘They backed the fuel truck to the door and dropped the hose down the air shaft.’
    ‘That would need a long hose.’
    ‘They have long hoses for houses with big yards.’
    Then Holland called out, ‘Guys, take a look at
this
.’
    His voice reached them with a strange hissing echo, all around the circular room, like a whispering gallery. He was in a tunnel directly opposite. Reacher scooted and Peterson stooped and scuffled and they made their way over to him. He was playing his flashlight beam close and then far, all the way down the hundred-foot length and back again.
    It was like something out of a fairy tale.
    Like Aladdin’s cave.

THIRTY-FOUR
    H OLLAND’S FLASHLIGHT BEAM THREW BACK BRIGHT REFLECTIONS off gold, off silver, off platinum. It set up glitter and refraction and sparkle off brilliant diamonds and deep green emeralds and rich red rubies and bright blue sapphires. It showed old muted colours, landscapes, portraits, oils on canvas, yellow gilt frames. There were chains and lockets and pins and necklaces and bracelets and rings. They were coiled and piled and tangled and tossed all the way along the shelf. Yellow gold, rose gold, white gold. Old things. New things. A hundred linear feet of loot. Paintings, jewellery, candlesticks, silver trays, watches. Small gold clocks, tiny suede bags with drawstrings, a cut-glass bowl entirely filled with wedding bands.
    ‘Unredeemed pledges,’ Peterson said. ‘In transit, from Plato’s pawn shops.’
    ‘Barter,’ Reacher said. ‘For his dope.’
    ‘Maybe both,’ Holland said. ‘Maybe both things are the same in the end.’
    They all shuffled down the tunnel. They were unable to resist.
    The shelf was a hundred feet long and maybe thirty-two inches wide. More than two hundred and fifty square feet of real estate. The size of a decent room. There was no space on it large enough to put a hand. It was more or less completely covered. Some of the jewellery was exquisite. Some of the paintings were fine. All of the items were sad. The fruits of desperation. The flotsam and jetsam of ruined lives. Hard times, addiction, burglary, loss. Under the triple flashlight beams the whole array flashed and danced and glittered and looked simultaneously fabulous and awful. Someone’s dreams, someone else’s nightmares, all secret and buried two hundred feet down.
    A hundred pounds’ weight, or a thousand.
    A million dollars’ worth, or ten.
    ‘Let’s go,’ Reacher said. ‘We’ve got better things to do. We shouldn’t waste time here.’
    The climb back to the surface was long and hard and tiring. Reacher counted the steps. There were two hundred and eighty of them. Like walking up a twenty-storey building. He had to take each step on his toes. Good exercise, he guessed, but right then he wasn’t looking for exercise. The air got colder all the way. It had been maybe thirty degrees underground. It was about minus twenty on the surface. A fifty-degree drop. One degree every five or six steps. Fast enough to notice, but no sudden shock. Reacher zipped his coat and put on his hat and his gloves about a third of the way up. Holland surrendered next. Peterson made it halfway up before he succumbed.
    They rested inside the stone building for a minute. Outside the moonlight was still bright. Peterson collected the flash-lights and shut them down. Holland stood with his hand on the stair rail. He was red in the face from exertion and breathing hard.
    Reacher said to him, ‘You need to make a call.’
    ‘Do I?’
    ‘The siren could