61 Hours

been discussed all along. But privately he had budgeted for eighty-twenty. Eighty per cent of Plato’s business had been his aim. To get eighty-five per cent would be an unexpected bonus. A free gift. The colonel was a shallow, unambitious man. Limited in every way. Which was why he was a colonel, and not a general.
    The Russian said, ‘You drive a hard bargain.’
    The colonel said, ‘Take it or leave it.’
    ‘You make it sound like I don’t have a choice.’
    ‘You don’t.’
    A long silence, purely for effect.
    ‘OK,’ the Russian said. ‘You get fifteen per cent.’
    The colonel said, ‘Thank you.’
    The Russian hung up and dialled again, a number he knew belonged to an untraceable cell currently located on a night table in a Virginia bedroom. After three in the morning down there, the same as Brooklyn. The same time zone. The untraceable cell belonged to a tame DEA agent who belonged to the Russian’s cousin’s friend’s brother-in-law. The guy answered in Virginia and the Russian told him all was going exactly according to plan.
    The guy asked, ‘Do I have your word?’
    The Russian smiled to himself. Office politics at their very best. The cousin’s friend’s brother-in-law’s bent DEA guy had overruled Plato’s bent DEA guy and had agreed that the Russian could take over the rest of Plato’s U.S. operations just as long as he didn’t take the government meth out of the hole in the ground in South Dakota. In fact if the government meth could just disappear altogether, then so much the better. Too embarrassing all around. Embarrassing that it was still there, embarrassing that it had been forgotten about, embarrassing that it even existed at all. Even bent guys had departmental loyalties.
    The Russian said, ‘You have my word on that.’
    The guy in Virginia said, ‘Thank you.’
    The Russian smiled again at the absurdity of it all. But he would comply. Why wouldn’t he? It was a treasure trove, for sure, but he had longer-term goals. And he wouldn’t miss what he never had. And it wasn’t as if he had paid for it, anyway.
    He hung up again and composed a text message on another phone, and hit send.
    Seven miles above Nebraska, three rows behind Plato, in seat 4A, a silent phone vibrated once in a pocket, a solid mechanical thrill against the muscle of a thigh. The fifth of the six disposable Mexicans pulled out the phone and checked the screen. He was the guy who had driven Plato in the Range Rover to the airfield. He showed it to the man sitting next to him, in seat 4B, who was the sixth of the six, and who had sat with him earlier in the front of the truck. Both men nodded. Neither man spoke. Neither man even smiled. They were both way too tense.
    The text said:
Do it
.
    A minute later Reacher heard Holland’s car in the frozen stillness. He heard the low mutter of its engine and the soft crunch of its tyres on the ice. Then the sigh and the silence as it shut down, and the creak and slam of the door, and the sound of Holland’s boots on the snow. He heard the lobby door open and imagined he felt the pulse of cold air coming in from the lot. He heard Holland’s steps in the corridor and then he arrived and filled the doorway, stooped, bent, defeated, like he was right at the end of something.
    Holland said, ‘Are you sure?’
    Reacher nodded. ‘No doubt about it.’
    ‘Because sometimes they can still be alive.’
    ‘Not this time.’
    ‘Should we check?’
    ‘No point.’
    ‘What was it?’
    ‘Nine millimetre between the eyes. Same as the other two.’
    ‘Anything left behind?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘So we’re no closer. We still don’t know who it is.’
    Reacher nodded.
    ‘But I know how to find out,’ he said.

FORTY-ONE
    R EACHER SAID , ‘I T’S GOING TO SNOW AGAIN SOON . T HE RUNWAY is going to get covered again and the bikers aren’t there to plough it any more. Weather is unpredictable, therefore time is tight. Therefore Plato is on his way, probably right now. Because he needs to get his jewellery out before the sale goes through. He’s probably going to double-cross the Russian and take some of the meth, too. Maybe most of it. He’s got a big plane. So my guess is he told his guy to be there to help. So the guy will pull off the perimeter at some point and head up there. Maybe real soon. All we have to do is get there before him. We’ll hide out and see who shows up. He’ll walk straight into our arms.’
    Holland said, ‘You think?’
    ‘For