Frances Neagley at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Los Angeles, California. Get off your ass and call her back.” Then he hung up and turned to where Neagley was pacing and leaving the same kind of message for Tony Swan.
“Don’t you have home numbers for them?” he asked.
“They’re all unlisted. Which is only to be expected. Mine is, too. My guy in Chicago is working on it. But it’s not easy these days. Phone company computers have gotten a lot more secure.”
“They must be carrying cell phones,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone now?”
“I don’t have those numbers either.”
“But wherever they are they can call in and check their office voice mail remotely, can’t they?”
“Easily.”
“So why haven’t they? In three whole days?”
“I don’t know,” Neagley said.
“Swan must have a secretary. He’s an assistant director of something. He must have a whole staff.”
“All they’re saying is that he’s temporarily out of the office.”
“Let me try.” He took Swan’s number from her and hit nine for a line. Dialed. Heard the connection go through, heard Swan’s phone ringing on the other end.
And ringing, and ringing.
“No answer,” he said.
“Someone answered a minute ago,” Neagley said. “It’s his direct line.”
No answer. He held the phone at his ear and listened to the patient electronic purr. Ten times, fifteen, twenty. Thirty. He hung up. Checked the number and tried again. Same result.
“Weird,” he said. “Where the hell is he?”
He checked the paper again. Name and number. The address line was blank.
“Where is this place?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Does it have a name?”
“New Age Defense Systems. That’s how they’ve been answering.”
“What kind of a name is that for a weapons manufacturer? Like they kill you with kindness? They play Pan pipe music until you save them the trouble and slit your wrists?” He dialed information. Information told him there was no listing for New Age Defense Systems anywhere in the United States. He hung up.
“Can corporations be unlisted, too?” he asked.
Neagley said, “I guess so. In the defense business, certainly. And they’re new.”
“We have to find them. They must have a physical plant somewhere. At least an office, so Uncle Sam can send them checks.”
“OK, we’ll add that to the list. After the visit to Mrs. Franz.”
“No, before,” Reacher said. “Offices close. Widows are always around.”
So Neagley called her guy in Chicago and told him to track down a physical address for New Age Defense Systems. From the half of the conversation Reacher could hear it seemed like the best way to proceed was to hack into FedEx’s computer. Or UPS’s, or DHL’s. Everyone received packages, and couriers needed street addresses. They couldn’t use post office boxes. They had to hand stuff across the transom to actual people and get signatures in return.
“Get cell phone numbers, too,” Reacher called. “For the others.”
Neagley covered the phone. “He’s been on that for three days. It isn’t easy.” Then she hung up and walked to the window. Looked out and down at the people parking cars.
“So now we wait,” she said.
They waited less than twenty minutes and then one of Neagley’s laptops pinged to announce an e-mail incoming from Chicago.
10
The e-mail from Neagley’s guy in Chicago contained New Age’s address, courtesy of UPS. Or actually, two addresses. One in Colorado, one in East LA.
“Makes sense,” she said. “Distributed manufacture. Safer that way. In case of attack.”
“Bullshit,” Reacher said. “It’s about two lots of senators. Two lots of pork. Republicans up there, Democrats down here, they get their snouts in the trough both ways around.”
“Swan wouldn’t have gone there if that was all they were into.”
Reacher nodded. “Maybe not.”
Neagley opened a map and they checked the East LA address. It was out past Echo
“Don’t you have home numbers for them?” he asked.
“They’re all unlisted. Which is only to be expected. Mine is, too. My guy in Chicago is working on it. But it’s not easy these days. Phone company computers have gotten a lot more secure.”
“They must be carrying cell phones,” he said. “Doesn’t everyone now?”
“I don’t have those numbers either.”
“But wherever they are they can call in and check their office voice mail remotely, can’t they?”
“Easily.”
“So why haven’t they? In three whole days?”
“I don’t know,” Neagley said.
“Swan must have a secretary. He’s an assistant director of something. He must have a whole staff.”
“All they’re saying is that he’s temporarily out of the office.”
“Let me try.” He took Swan’s number from her and hit nine for a line. Dialed. Heard the connection go through, heard Swan’s phone ringing on the other end.
And ringing, and ringing.
“No answer,” he said.
“Someone answered a minute ago,” Neagley said. “It’s his direct line.”
No answer. He held the phone at his ear and listened to the patient electronic purr. Ten times, fifteen, twenty. Thirty. He hung up. Checked the number and tried again. Same result.
“Weird,” he said. “Where the hell is he?”
He checked the paper again. Name and number. The address line was blank.
“Where is this place?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Does it have a name?”
“New Age Defense Systems. That’s how they’ve been answering.”
“What kind of a name is that for a weapons manufacturer? Like they kill you with kindness? They play Pan pipe music until you save them the trouble and slit your wrists?” He dialed information. Information told him there was no listing for New Age Defense Systems anywhere in the United States. He hung up.
“Can corporations be unlisted, too?” he asked.
Neagley said, “I guess so. In the defense business, certainly. And they’re new.”
“We have to find them. They must have a physical plant somewhere. At least an office, so Uncle Sam can send them checks.”
“OK, we’ll add that to the list. After the visit to Mrs. Franz.”
“No, before,” Reacher said. “Offices close. Widows are always around.”
So Neagley called her guy in Chicago and told him to track down a physical address for New Age Defense Systems. From the half of the conversation Reacher could hear it seemed like the best way to proceed was to hack into FedEx’s computer. Or UPS’s, or DHL’s. Everyone received packages, and couriers needed street addresses. They couldn’t use post office boxes. They had to hand stuff across the transom to actual people and get signatures in return.
“Get cell phone numbers, too,” Reacher called. “For the others.”
Neagley covered the phone. “He’s been on that for three days. It isn’t easy.” Then she hung up and walked to the window. Looked out and down at the people parking cars.
“So now we wait,” she said.
They waited less than twenty minutes and then one of Neagley’s laptops pinged to announce an e-mail incoming from Chicago.
10
The e-mail from Neagley’s guy in Chicago contained New Age’s address, courtesy of UPS. Or actually, two addresses. One in Colorado, one in East LA.
“Makes sense,” she said. “Distributed manufacture. Safer that way. In case of attack.”
“Bullshit,” Reacher said. “It’s about two lots of senators. Two lots of pork. Republicans up there, Democrats down here, they get their snouts in the trough both ways around.”
“Swan wouldn’t have gone there if that was all they were into.”
Reacher nodded. “Maybe not.”
Neagley opened a map and they checked the East LA address. It was out past Echo
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