He found the module. It was a simple tin can, square and small, cheap and basic, all caked in dry dirt, with wires coming out of it. He took out his knife and used the butt end of the handle and banged hard on the module. Dirt flaked off, but nothing else happened. He thought the dirt was maybe insulating the force of the blow, so he popped the blade on his knife and scraped the front of the module clean. Then he closed the blade and tried again. Nothing happened. He tried a third time, hard enough to worry about the noise he was making, bang, and the message got through. The Cadillac's dim electronic brain thought it had just suffered a minor frontal impact, not serious enough for the airbags, but serious enough to consider the first responders. There were four ragged thumps from above, and the doors unlocked.
Technology. A wonderful thing.
Mahmeini's man scrambled out and stood up. A minute later his bag was on the back seat and he was in the driver's seat. It was set way back. There was enough leg room for a giant. More proof, as if he needed any. Like he had told Rossi's guy, American peasants were all huge. He found the button and buzzed the cushion forward, on and on, about a foot, and then he jacked the seat back upright and got to work.
He used the tip of his blade to force the steering lock, and then he pulled off the column shroud and stripped the wires he needed with the knife and touched them together. The engine started and a chime told him he didn't have his seat belt on. He buckled up and backed out and turned around and waited in the narrow lane parallel to the long side of the H, the engine idling silently, the climate control already warming.
Then he pulled out his phone and went through the Marriott switchboard, first to Safir's guys, then to Rossi's, in both cases following Mahmeini's script exactly, telling them that plans had changed, that the party was starting early, that he and Asghar were leaving for the north immediately, and that they had five minutes to get their asses in gear, no more, or they would be left behind.
The SUV was a GMC Yukon, metallic gold in colour, equipped to a high standard with a couple of option packs. It had beige leather inside. It was a nice truck. Certainly the kid called John seemed proud of it, and Reacher could see why. He was looking forward to owning it for the next twelve hours, or however long his remaining business in Nebraska might take.
He said, 'Got a cell phone, John?'
The guy paused a fatal beat and said, 'No.'
Reacher said, 'And you were doing so well. But now you're screwing up. Of course you've got a cell phone. You're part of an organization. You were on sentry duty. And you're under thirty, which means you were probably born with a minutes plan.'
The guy said, 'You're going to do to me what you did to the others.'
'What did I do?'
'You crippled them.'
'What were they going to do to me?'
The guy didn't answer that. They were on the two-lane road, north of the motel, well out in featureless farm country, rolling steadily along, nothing to see beyond the headlight beams. Reacher was half turned in his seat, his left hand on his knee, his right wrist resting on his left forearm, the Glock held easy in his right hand.
Reacher said, 'Give me your cell phone, John.' He saw movement in the guy's eyes, a flash of speculation, a narrowing of the lids. Fair warning. The guy jacked his butt off the seat and took one hand off the wheel and dug in his pants pocket. He came out with a phone, slim and black, like a candy bar. He went to hand it over, but he lost his grip on it for a moment and juggled it and dropped it in the passenger foot well.
'Shit,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'
Reacher smiled. 'Good try, John,' he said. 'Now I bend over to pick it up, right? And you cave the back of my skull in with your right fist. I wasn't born yesterday, you know.'
The guy said nothing.
Reacher said, 'So I guess we'll leave it right where it is. If it rings, we'll let it go to voice mail.'
'I had to try.'
'Is that an apology? You promised me.'
'You're going to break my legs and dump me on the side of the road.'
'That's a little pessimistic. Why would I break both of them?'
'It's not a joke. Those four guys you hurt will never work again.'
'They'll never work for the Duncans again. But there are other things to do in life. Better things.'
'Like what?'
'You could shovel shit on a chicken farm. You could whore yourself out in Tijuana. With a donkey. Either thing would be better than working for the Duncans.'
The guy said nothing. Just drove.
Reacher asked, 'How much do the Duncans pay you?'
'More than I could get back in Kentucky.'
'In exchange for what, precisely?'
'Just being around, mostly.'
Reacher asked, 'Who are those Italian guys in the overcoats?'
'I don't know.'
'What do they want?'
'I don't know.'
'Where are they now?'
'I don't know.'
They were in the blue Impala, already ten miles north of the Marriott, Roberto Cassano at the wheel, Angelo Mancini sitting right beside him. Cassano was working hard to stay behind Safir's boys in their red Ford, and both drivers were working hard to keep Mahmeini's guys in sight. The big black Cadillac was really hustling. It was doing more than eighty miles an hour. It was way far outside of its comfort zone. It was bouncing and wallowing and floating. It was quite a sight. Angelo Mancini was staring ahead at it. He was obsessed with it.
He asked, 'Is it a rental?'
Cassano was much quieter. Occupied by driving, certainly, concentrating on the crazy high-speed dash up the road, definitely, but thinking, too. Thinking hard.
He said, 'I don't think it's a rental.'
'So what is it? I mean, what? Those guys have their own cars standing by in every state? Just in case? How is that possible?'
'I don't know,' Cassano said.
'I thought at first maybe it's a limo. You know, like a car service. But it isn't. I saw the little squirt driving it himself. Not a car service driver. Just a glimpse, but it was him. The one who mouthed off at you.'
Cassano said, 'I didn't like him.'
'Me either. And even less now. They're way bigger than we are. Way bigger than we thought. I mean, they have their own cars on standby in every state? They fly in on the casino plane, and there's a car there for them, wherever? What's that about?'
'I don't know,' Cassano said again.
'Is it a funeral car? Do the Iranians run funeral parlours now? That could work, right? Mahmeini could call the nearest parlour and say, send us one of your cars.'
'I don't think the Iranians took over the funeral business.'
'So what else? I mean, how many states are there? Fifty, right? That's at least fifty cars standing by.'
'Not even Mahmeini can be active in all fifty states.'
'Maybe not Alaska and Hawaii. But he's got cars in Nebraska, apparently. How far up the list is Nebraska likely to be?'
'I don't know,' Cassano said again.
'OK,' Mancini said. 'You're right. It has to be a rental.'
'I told you it's not a rental,' Cassano said. 'It can't be. It's not a current model.'
'Times are tough. Maybe they rent older cars now.'
'It's not even last year's model. Or the year before. That's practically an antique. That's an old-guy car. That's your neighbour's granddad's Cadillac.'
'Maybe they have rent-a-wreck here.'
'Why would Mahmeini need that?'
'So what is it?'
'It doesn't really matter what it is. You're not looking at the big picture. You're missing the point.'
'Which is what?'
'That car was already at the hotel. We parked right next to it, remember? Late afternoon, when we got back. Those guys were there before us. And you know what that means? It means they were on their way before Mahmeini was even asked to send them. Something really weird is going on here.'