The Hard Way Part 38

"Tell me."

"You know any British private investigators? Is there an international brotherhood?"

"There might be a sisterhood. I've got some numbers."

"OK, then."

"Is that your plan? Hire a London PI?"

"Local knowledge," Reacher said. "It's always the key."

"We could have done that by phone."

"We didn't have time."

"London alone is eight million people," Pauling said. "Then there's Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds. And a whole lot of countryside. The Cotswolds. Stratford upon Avon. And Scotland and Wales. Taylor stepped out the door at Heathrow two days ago. He could be anywhere by now. We don't even know where he's from."

"We'll get by," Reacher said again.

Pauling took a pillow and a blanket from a stewardess and reclined her seat. Reacher watched her sleep for a while and then he lay down too, with his knees up and his head jammed against the bathtub wall. The cabin lighting was soft and blue and the hiss of the engines was restful. Reacher liked flying. Going to sleep in New York and waking up in London was a fantasy that could have been designed expressly for him.

The stewardess woke him to give him breakfast. Like being in the hospital, he thought. They wake you up to feed you. But the breakfast was good. Mugs of hot coffee and bacon rolls. He drank six and ate six. Pauling watched him, fascinated.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Five to five," he said. "In the morning. Which is five to ten in the morning in this time zone."

Then all kinds of muted bells went off and signs went on to announce the start of their approach into Heathrow Airport. London's northerly lat.i.tude meant that at ten in the morning in late summer the sun was high. The landscape below was lit up bright. There were small clouds in the sky that cast shadows on the fields. Reacher's sense of direction wasn't as good as his sense of time but he figured they had looped past the city and were approaching the airport from the east. Then the plane turned sharply and he realized they were in a holding pattern. Heathrow was notoriously busy. They were going to circle London at least once. Maybe twice.

He put his forehead against the window and stared down. Saw the Thames, glittering in the sun like polished lead. Saw Tower Bridge, white stone, recently cleaned, detailed with fresh paint on the ironwork. Then a gray warship moored in the river, some kind of a permanent exhibit. Then London Bridge. He craned his neck and looked for Saint Paul's Cathedral, north and west. Saw the big dome, crowded by ancient winding streets. London was a low-built city. Densely and chaotically packed near the dramatic curves of the Thames, spreading infinitely into the gray distance beyond.

He saw railroad tracks fanning out into Waterloo Station. Saw the Houses of Parliament. Saw Big Ben, shorter and stumpier than he remembered it. And Westminster Cathedral, white, bulky, a thousand years old. There was some kind of a giant Ferris wheel on the opposite bank of the river. A tourist thing, maybe. Green trees, everywhere. He saw Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park. He glanced north of where the palace gardens ended and found the Park Lane Hilton. A round tower, bristling with balconies. From above it looked like a squat wedding cake. Then he glanced a little farther north and found the American Emba.s.sy. Grosvenor Square. He had once used an office there, in a windowless bas.e.m.e.nt. Four weeks, for some big-deal army investigation he could barely recall. But he remembered the neighbourhood. He remembered it pretty well. Too rich for his blood, until you escaped east into SoHo.

He asked Pauling, "Have you been here before?"

"We did exchange training with Scotland Yard," she said.

"That could be useful."

"It was a million years ago."

"Where did you stay?"

"They put us up in a college dormitory."

"You know any hotels?"

"Do you?"

"Not the sort where they let you in wearing four hundred dollars' worth of clothes. Mostly the sort where you wear your shoes in bed."

"We can't stay anywhere close to Lane and his guys. We can't be a.s.sociated with him. Not if we're going to do something to him."

"That's for sure."

"What about somewhere really great? Like the Ritz?"

"That's the opposite problem. Four hundred dollars is too shabby for them. And we need to stay low-profile. We need the kind of place where they don't look at your pa.s.sport and they let you pay cash. Bayswater, maybe. West of downtown, a clear run back to the airport afterward."

Reacher turned to the window again and saw Windsor Castle slide by below. And a wide six-lane east-west highway with slow traffic driving on the left. Then suburbs, two-family houses, curving roads, tiny green back yards, garden sheds, and then acres of airport parking full of small cars, many of them red. Then the airport fence. Then the chevrons at the start of the runway. Close to the ground the plane seemed huge again after feeling cramped for seven hours. After being a narrow tube it became a two-hundred-ton monster doing two hundred miles an hour. It landed hard and roared and braked and then suddenly it was quiet and docile again, rolling slowly toward the terminal. The purser welcomed the pa.s.sengers to London over the public address system and Reacher turned and looked across the cabin at the exit door. Taylor's first few steps would be easy enough to follow. After baggage claim and the taxi rank the job would get a whole lot harder. Harder, but maybe not impossible.

"We'll get by," he said, even though Pauling hadn't spoken to him.

CHAPTER 57

THEY FILLED IN landing cards and had their pa.s.sports stamped by an official in a gray suit. My name on a piece of English paper, Reacher thought. Not good. But there was no alternative. And his name was already on the airline pa.s.senger manifest, which could apparently get faxed all over the place at the drop of a hat. They waited at the carousel for Pauling's bag and then Reacher got stopped in Customs not because he had suspicious luggage but because he had none at all. Which made the guy stopping him a Special Branch cop or an MI5 agent in disguise, Reacher thought, not a real Customs guy. Travelling light was clearly a red flag. The detention was brief and the questions were casual, but the guy got a good look at his face and was all over his pa.s.sport. Not good.

Pauling changed a wad of the O-Town dollars at a Travelex booth and they found the fast train to Paddington Station. Paddington was a good first stop, Reacher figured. His kind of an area. Convenient for the Bayswater hotels, full of trash and hookers. Not that he expected to find Taylor there. Or anywhere close. But it would make a good anonymous base camp. The railroad company promised the ride into town would be fifteen minutes, but it turned out to be closer to twenty. They came out to the street in central London just before twelve noon. West 4th Street to Eastbourne Terrace in ten short hours. Planes, trains, and automobiles.

At street level that part of London was bright and fresh and cold and to a stranger's eyes it seemed full of trees. The buildings were low and had old cores and sagging roofs but most of them had new frontages tacked on to disguise age and disrepair. Most things were chains or franchises except for the ethnic take-out food stores and the town car services, which still seemed to be mom-and-pop operations. Or cousin-and-cousin. The roads had good smooth blacktop heavily printed with instructions for drivers and pedestrians. The pedestrians were warned to Look Left or Look Right at every possible curb and the drivers were guided by elaborate lines and arrows and crosshatching and Slow signs anywhere the direction deviated from absolutely straight, which was just about everywhere. In some places there was more white on the road than black. The welfare state, Reacher thought. It sure as h.e.l.l takes care of you.

He carried Pauling's bag for her and they walked south and east toward Suss.e.x Gardens. From previous trips he recalled groups of row houses joined together into cheap hotels, on Westbourne Terrace, Gloucester Terrace, Lancaster Gate. The kind of places that had thick crusted carpet in the hallways and thick scarred paint on the millwork and four meaningless symbols lit up above the front doors as if some responsible standards agency had evaluated the offered services and found them to be pleasing. Pauling rejected the first two places he found before understanding that there wasn't going to be anything better just around the next corner. So she gave up and agreed to the third, which was four neighbouring townhouses knocked through to make a single long sloping not-quite-aligned building with a name seemingly picked at random from a selection of London tourist-trade hot-b.u.t.ton buzzwords: Buckingham Suites. The desk guy was from Eastern Europe and was happy to take cash. The rate was cheap for London, if expensive for anyplace else in the world. There was no register. The Suites part of the name seemed to be justified by the presence of a small bathroom and a small table in each room. The bed was a queen with a green nylon counterpane. Beyond the bed and the bathroom and the table there wasn't a whole lot of s.p.a.ce left.

"We won't be here long," Reacher said.

"It's fine,' Pauling said.

She didn't unpack. Just propped her suitcase open on the floor and looked like she planned to live out of it. Reacher kept his toothbrush in his pocket. He sat on the bed while Pauling washed up. Then she came out of the bathroom and moved to the window and stood with her head tilted up, looking out over the rooftops and the chimneys opposite.

"Nearly ninety-five thousand square miles," she said. "That's what's out there."

"Smaller than Oregon," he said.

"Oregon has three and a half million people. The U.K. has sixty million."

"Harder to hide here, then. You've always got a nosy neighbour."

"Where do we start?"

"With a nap."

"You want to sleep?"

"Well, afterward."

She smiled. It was like the sun coming out.

"We'll always have Bayswater," she said. s.e.x and jet lag kept them asleep until four. Their one day's start, mostly gone.

"Let's get going," Reacher said. "Let's call on the sisterhood."

So Pauling got up and fetched her purse and took out a small device that Reacher hadn't seen her use before. An electronic organizer. A Palm Pilot. She called up a directory and scrolled down a screen and found a name and an address.

"Gray's Inn Road," she said. "Is that near here?"

"I don't think so," Reacher said. "I think it's east of here. Nearer the business district. Maybe where the lawyers are."

"That would make sense."

"Anyone closer?"

"These people are supposed to be good."

"We can get there on the subway, I guess. The Central Line, I think. To Chancery Lane. I should have bought a derby and an umbrella. I would have fit right in."

"I don't think you would have. Those City people are very civilized." She rolled over on the bed and dialled the phone on the night table. Reacher heard the foreign ring tone from the earpiece, a double purr instead of a single. Then he heard someone pick up and he listened to Pauling's end of the conversation. She explained who she was, temporarily in town, a New York private investigator, ex-FBI, a member of some kind of an international organization, and she gave a contact name, and she asked for a courtesy appointment. The person on the other end must have agreed readily enough because she asked, "How does six o'clock suit you?" and then said nothing more than "OK, thank you, six o'clock it is," and hung up.

Reacher said, "The sisterhood comes through."

"Brotherhood," Pauling said. "The woman whose name I had seems to have sold the business. But they were always going to agree. Like that ten-sixty-two thing you tried with the general. What if they have to come to New York? If we don't help each other, who will?"

Reacher said, "I hope Edward Lane doesn't have a Palm Pilot full of London numbers." They showered and dressed again and walked down to the subway stop at Lancaster Gate. Or, in London English, to the tube station. It had a dirty tiled lobby that looked like a ballpark toilet, except for a flower seller. But the platform was clean and the train itself was new. And futuristic. Somehow, like its name, it was more tubular than its New York counterparts. The tunnels were rounded, like they had been sucked down to an exact fit for the cars. Like the whole system could be powered by compressed air, not electricity.

It was a crowded six-stop ride through stations with famous and romantic names. Marble Arch, Bond Street, Oxford Circus, Tottenham Court Road, Holborn. The names reminded Reacher of the cards in a British Monopoly set he had found abandoned on a NATO base as a kid. Mayfair and Park Lane had been the prize properties. Where the Park Lane Hilton was. Where Lane and his six guys were due in about eighteen hours.

They came up out of the Chancery Lane station at a quarter to six into full daylight and narrow streets that were choked with traffic. Black cabs, red buses, white vans, diesel fumes, small five-door sedans that Reacher didn't recognize. Motorbikes, pedal bikes, sidewalks thick with people. Boldly striped pedestrian crossings, blinking lights, beeping signals. It was fairly cold but people were walking in shirtsleeves with jackets folded over their arms as if it was warm to them. There were no horns and no sirens. It was like the oldest parts of downtown Manhattan lopped off at the fifth floor and compressed in size and therefore heated up in speed but also somehow cooled down in temper and made more polite. Reacher smiled. Certainly he loved the open road and miles to go but he loved the crush of the worlds great cities just as much. New York yesterday, London today. Life was good.

So far.

They walked north on Gray's Inn Road, which looked longer than they had antic.i.p.ated. There were old buildings left and right, modernized on the ground floors, ancient above. A sign said that the house where Charles d.i.c.kens had lived was ahead and on the left. But for all that London was a historic city d.i.c.kens wouldn't have recognized the place. No way. Not close. Even Reacher felt that things had changed a lot in the ten or so years since he had last been in town. He remembered red phone boxes and polite unarmed coppers in pointed hats. Now most of the phone boxes he saw were plain gla.s.s cabins and everyone was using cell phones anyway. And the cops he saw were patrolling in pairs, blank-faced, dressed in flak jackets and carrying Uzi machine pistols in the ready position. There were surveillance cameras on poles everywhere.

Pauling said, "Big brother is watching you."

"I see that," Reacher said. "We're going to have to take Lane out of town. Can't do anything to him here."

Pauling didn't answer. She was checking doors for numbers. She spotted the one she wanted across the street on the right. It was a narrow maroon door with a gla.s.s fanlight. Through it Reacher could see a staircase that led to suites of rooms upstairs. Not dissimilar to Pauling's own place three thousand miles away. They crossed the street between standing traffic and checked the bra.s.s plates on the stonework. One was engraved: Investigative Services. Plain script, plain message. Reacher pulled the door and thought it was locked until he remembered that British doors worked the other way around. So he pushed and found that it was open. The staircase was old but it was covered in new linoleum. They walked up two flights until they found the right door. It was standing open onto a small square room with a desk set at a forty-five-degree angle so that its occupant could see out the door and the window at the same time.

The occupant was a small man with thin hair. He was maybe fifty years old. He was wearing a sleeveless sweater over a shirt and a tie.

"You must be the Americans," he said. For a second Reacher wondered how exactly he had known. Clothes? Teeth? Smell? A deduction, like Sherlock Holmes? But then the guy said, "I stayed open especially for you. I would have been on my way home by now if you hadn't telephoned. I didn't have any other appointments."

Pauling said, "Sorry to hold you up."

"Not a problem," the guy said. "Always happy to help a fellow professional."

"We're looking for someone," Pauling said. "He arrived from New York two days ago. He's English, and his name is Taylor."

The guy glanced up.

"Twice in one day," he said. "Your Mr. Taylor is a popular person."

"What do you mean?"

"A man telephoned directly from New York with the same inquiry. Wouldn't give his name. I imagined he was trying all the London agencies one by one."

"Was he American?"

"Absolutely."

Pauling turned to Reacher and mouthed, Lane.

Reacher nodded. "Trying to go it alone. Trying to bilk me out of my fee."

Pauling turned back to the desk. "What did you tell the guy on the phone?"

"That there are sixty million people in Great Britain and that possibly several hundred thousand of them are called Taylor. It's a fairly common name. I told him that without better information I couldn't really help him."

"Can you help us?"

"That depends on what extra information you have."

"We have photographs."

"They might help eventually. But not at the outset. How long was Mr. Taylor in America?"

"Many years, I think."

"So he has no base here? No home?"

"I'm sure he doesn't."

"Then it's hopeless," the guy said. "Don't you see? I work with databases. Surely you do the same in New York? Bills, electoral registers, council tax, court records, credit reports, insurance policies, things like that. If your Mr. Taylor hasn't lived here for many years he simply won't show up anywhere."

Pauling said nothing.

"I'm very sorry," the guy said. "But surely you understand?".

Pauling shot Reacher a look that said: Great plan.

Reacher said, "I've got a phone number for his closest relative."