The Reacher Code: Timestream 3, page 2
“Yes, sir. Very much so. I read all the manuals you gave me. I’m perfectly aware of what I’m getting into. It’s exactly the kind of challenge I’ve been looking for. And the compensation package is nice too. Especially the bonuses.”
“I’m going to make you very rich, young lady. And maybe even a little famous.”
“I’m ready to go to work.”
“Splendid. We’ll be sending a team of operatives on a mission to 1994 in a little while. Let’s head on over to the launch room, and I’ll get you started on some of the basic sequences.”
4
There was no immediate indication that it was 1994. Or any other year. The remote section of Colorado that Wahlman and Barbeau had landed in probably hadn’t changed much in the past millennium. Except for the two-lane blacktop, of course. And the passenger jet streaking across the sky. And the occasional roadside sign, the most recent of which said JONNERTON 4.7 MILES.
Barbeau had insisted on taking the machine that had originally been assigned to her, the one with the most recent updates, even though it hadn’t been properly inspected following the previous mission.
It hadn’t been properly inspected because most of the people who did the inspecting were dead now.
Wahlman wasn’t sure why Victor had allowed it to leave the hangar, just that he had. Barbeau seemed to have a way of getting what she wanted, even when some rules had to be broken.
She’d also insisted on driving the machine, which was fine with Wahlman. He was perfectly content to be a passenger at the moment. It allowed him to take in the sights, which were spectacular. Layer upon layer of grasses and bushes and trees to the left and right, enormous jagged mountain ranges straight ahead. Browns and greens and yellows and grays against a crystal blue sky. Like something you might see on a postcard.
The speed limit dropped from fifty-five to thirty-five about half a mile from a billboard that welcomed motorists to town. Barbeau eased off the throttle, and then she steered the bike into the parking lot of a place called the Jonnerton Diner. She found a spot in front, cut the engine and climbed off and removed her helmet.
Wahlman stayed on the back of the seat. He took his helmet off.
“Why are we stopping here?” he said.
“I thought you might like to get something to eat. We have about an hour.”
It was nice to have that kind of luxury for a change. According to Victor, The Reacher Code: Timestream 3 was stable for up to four weeks. It was one of the reasons Topple had chosen it to launch their attack. They didn’t have to worry about getting in and out in fifty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds, as was the case with most timestreams.
“How far away from here is our meeting?” Wahlman said.
“It’s right down the road. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to get there.”
“All right. Let’s eat.”
Wahlman climbed off the bike and followed Barbeau inside. There was a podium with nobody standing behind it and a chalkboard with today’s lunch special scribbled on it and some plastic ivy draped over some latticework partitions. Wahlman looked around. Didn’t see anyone. The place appeared to be deserted. Barbeau looked at her watch. A lady with red hair and a brown apron finally rounded the corner and asked if they wanted a booth or a table.
“A booth,” Barbeau said. “By the window over there.”
The lady led the way to the only clean booth on that side of the dining area. Only it wasn’t actually clean. There was an abandoned newspaper on Wahlman’s side of the booth. He shoved it out of the way as he slid into the seat. The lady’s nametag said CLARA. She was tall, and her arms and shoulders had some bulk to them, as if she might have been carrying trays of food for a living for quite some time. Her hairdo reminded Wahlman of pictures he’d seen from the 1970s. He glanced down at the newspaper to make sure he and Barbeau had traveled to the right time period.
“Can I get you guys something to drink?” Clara said.
“Iced tea with lemon,” Barbeau said. “And I think we’ll go ahead and order our food now too. I’ll take the special.”
The special was meatloaf with mashed potatoes and peas. Wahlman didn’t want the special. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The meatloaf and the potatoes and the peas had probably been on a steamtable since lunchtime. Maybe even longer than that. It was possible that the food had been cooked yesterday. Or the day before. Wahlman wanted something fresh.
“I’ll take a cheeseburger,” he said. “Well done. Onion rings. Coffee.”
Clara wrote it all down.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks,” she said, smilingly. She slid her receipt pad into her pocket as she walked away.
“I need to talk to you about something,” Barbeau said. “I wanted to make sure we were far away from any FCYYC ears.”
“I would say we’re pretty far away,” Wahlman said. “Since they’re in 2102, and we’re in 1994. What is it?”
“I have reason to believe that your life is in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know any of the details, just that Victor and his new lead technician have been talking. Victor wants you eliminated, and Brodmarkle has a plan to—”
“How do you know this?”
“I’m a spy,” Barbeau said. “Remember?”
“You’ve been spying on your own people?”
“I like to stay informed. It’s probably going to happen as soon as we get back from this mission. So you’ll need to act quickly.”
Wahlman laughed.
“You realize there’s a very good chance that neither of us will make it out of this time period alive, right?”
“Why do you say that?”
“We’re going to be outnumbered, for one thing. You were at the briefing. Topple’s operatives are already here in this timestream. Getting ready to carry out whatever kind of plan they’ve come up with. And since they know there was a mole relaying information not long ago—”
“We’ll make it,” Barbeau said. “I’m not exactly sure how, but we will make it out of here. Try not to be so negative.”
“Just trying to keep it real,” Wahlman said.
“What’s real is that the FCYYC is planning to assassinate you when you get back to The Lab.”
“Why would they want to kill me? Why now? They need me to keep working for them. At least until they can get a few more operatives trained for time travel.”
“I’m guessing you know something that could hurt them,” Barbeau said. “Something that could cause irreparable harm to the organization.”
“Every operative on the payroll knows things that could hurt them. That’s why every operative on the payroll had to sign non-disclosure agreements before touring the facility. It’s pretty much understood that any sort of leak—”
“You must have been exposed to some information that nobody’s supposed to know about. Nobody but Victor and his top administrators and the President. Or maybe not the President. She might be in the dark on some of the things that go on at the FCYYC.”
“I think McDaniels did something to my memory after the Ramstein mission,” Wahlman said. “I think they’ve been lying to me about some things since then.”
“They’ve probably been sweating it for a while,” Barbeau said. “Weighing your current usefulness against the potential catastrophic liability you present.”
“Hoping my memory doesn’t come back anytime soon.”
“Exactly. And of course there’s only one way to make absolutely certain that it doesn’t.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” Wahlman said.
“The same thing you were planning to do after the last mission.”
“Steal your bike and travel to 1959? Disappear with my wife and stepdaughter and live happily ever after?”
“When you put it like that, it makes me wonder why you didn’t go through with it. Anyway, you can chain me to the U-bolt out there behind the building again. Only this time you won’t be coming back to let me loose.”
Clara brought the iced tea and the coffee. Said the food would be out shortly. Smiled again and walked away again.
“My wife talked me out of it last time,” Wahlman said. “I finally came to my senses and realized she was right. But if what you’re saying is true—”
“It’s true. And I’m sure your wife will support you on the decision this time. You really don’t have a choice.”
Wahlman laced his fingers together, sat there and stared at his thumbs for a few seconds.
“We haven’t known each other very long,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re telling me this stuff, why you’re willing to go out on a limb for me. What’s in it for you?”
“Does something have to be in it for me?”
“Not necessarily. But I have a feeling that something is.”
Barbeau nodded, turned her head and stared out the window for a few seconds.
“You’re very perceptive,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I’m going to hate losing you as a fellow operative.”
“Well?”
“I don’t like Victor. I never have. I don’t think he’s an effective leader. If you escape, it’ll be a big fat failure on his part. There’s a good chance that he will be replaced. If I play my cards right—”
“You want to be the director of the FCYYC?”
“I think I would be good at it. But this conversation never happened. You understand that, right?”
“Of course.”
Barbeau took a sip of her tea. There was a fierce intensity in her eyes. She didn’t need to say the words. Wahlman understood, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever said anything to anyone about any of this, she would kill him herself.
Clara stepped up with a plate in each hand. She set the one with the special on it in front of Barbeau, and the one with the cheeseburger on it in front of Wahlman.
The special looked about like Wahlman had thought it would look. The peas had faded to an olive drab, and the meatloaf was swimming in a reddish puddle of grease. The potatoes looked lumpy. They probably hadn’t been very good even when they were fresh.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” Clara said.
“You should be embarrassed to serve that,” Wahlman said, gesturing toward the food on Barbeau’s plate.
“Pardon me?”
“Did you even look at it before you brought it out? It’s disgusting.”
“It’s fine,” Barbeau said.
“Are you sure?” Wahlman said.
“I’m sure.”
Wahlman shrugged. He knew it wasn’t really fine. He knew that Barbeau was simply trying to avoid any sort of confrontation. Which was smart. It was the right way to handle the situation under the circumstances. Government operatives from another century didn’t need to be drawing any attention to themselves.
Clara tore the guest check from the top of her pad and set it on the table. Walked away without saying another word.
“Want half my burger?” Wahlman said.
“I’m really not that hungry,” Barbeau said. “You go ahead and eat. I’ll be all right.”
“Sorry I got kind of loud. I’ve had some anger management issues lately. I was ready to pick that plate up and sling it across the room.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“You shouldn’t have to pay for that. We’ll get it taken off the check.”
“Forget about it. Just go ahead and eat, so we can get out of here.”
Wahlman went ahead and ate. The burger was a little dry, but it was okay. The onion rings were some of the best he’d ever tasted.
“These are really good,” he said. “Want the last one?”
“Okay.”
Barbeau reached over and picked up the last onion ring.
“Be right back,” Wahlman said.
“You got some cash? I’ll go ahead and pay while you’re gone.”
Wahlman pulled out his wallet and tossed it onto the table.
“Take whatever you need,” he said.
He slid out of the booth and walked to the men’s room, which was located in the very back corner of the dining area, behind some more of the latticework and some more of the fake vegetation. He pushed his way through the door, stood at the sink and splashed some water on his face, and then he started washing his hands. The soap was some kind of powdered stuff. Gritty. Not a lot of lather. It was in a chrome dispenser bolted to the wall. You were supposed to put your hand under the dispenser and punch a little plunger mechanism, and then half a teaspoon or so of the powder was supposed to fall down into your palm. Then you were supposed to put a little water on the powder and begin washing. There was a series of cartoon panels tacked over the dispenser that explained the procedure. Wahlman had never seen anything quite like it. He guessed it was some kind of retro setup, antiquated even in 1994. Or maybe it was a Colorado thing. Maybe they still used powdered soap in public restrooms in 2102. Maybe they still posted instructions for uninitiated tourists. Wahlman didn’t know. He’d never spent any time in Colorado. He’d driven through the state a couple of times, but had never stopped for a meal or anything.
He grabbed some paper towels, dried his face and hands. The door swung open and two guys walked in. Both of them had been working in the kitchen. You could tell by the stained white aprons they were wearing and the hair nets and the sweaty unshaved faces. Not exactly what you would call presentable. Wahlman figured they were supposed to remain hidden amongst the steamtables and the ovens and the flattops and the deep sinks. He figured the customers at the restaurant were never supposed to see them. Which made him wonder why they’d chosen to walk into the men’s room out in the dining area.
And why one of them was carrying a rolling pin.
And why the other one reached over and locked the door.
“You made Clara cry,” the guy on the right said. He was about six and a half feet tall, and almost that wide. You could tell that he liked to eat. A lot. He probably could have been a professional football player. He probably could have been two of them.
The guy on the left was average height, average weight. He had a gold hoop in his left ear and dark circles under his eyes. He was the one with the rolling pin.
“I didn’t mean to make anyone cry,” Wahlman said. “But the food delivered to my friend out there was unacceptable.”
“You got a problem with the food, talk to us,” Big Eater said.
“Okay. I’m talking to you now. The food on my friend’s plate never should have left the kitchen. It should have been scraped into the garbage hours ago.”
“You owe Clara an apology,” Gold Hoop said. “So march on out there and give her one.”
“The way I see it, she owes us an apology,” Wahlman said. “And so does everyone in the kitchen. And the manager. And the owner. There’s just no excuse for—”
A gargantuan pair of hands grabbed Wahlman by the shirt and started pushing him backwards, toward the toilet stall.
Wahlman knew that walking away would have been the most intelligent and appropriate way to handle this particular situation in this particular time and place. It was what he’d planned to do. He and Barbeau were supposed to be at a meeting in a little while. Maybe the most important meeting of their lives. Maybe the most important meeting in the history of the world. But there would be no walking away now. Big Eater was possibly the largest and most powerful man Wahlman had ever encountered. Big Eater had put his hands on Wahlman, and obviously intended to do him harm. Maybe even kill him. Which meant that Wahlman had no choice but to defend himself. He didn’t want to lace his fingers together and bring his fists down on the bridge of Big Eater’s nose like a club, and he didn’t want to follow that up with a bone-crunching elbow to the jaw, and he didn’t want to stomp on Big Eater’s left kneecap after he collapsed to the floor, ensuring that he wouldn’t be able to shove Wahlman or anyone else toward any toilet stalls for a very long time. And he certainly didn’t want to snatch the rolling pin out of Gold Hoop’s hand and drive it into his solar plexus hard enough so that the handle broke off on that end, and he didn’t want to give Gold Hoop a kick in the ribs for good measure once he was down there gasping and writhing on top of his gigantic coworker. He didn’t want to do any of those thing, but he did all of them, and then he unlocked the door and exited the restroom and walked back to the table.
“We should go now,” he said.
Barbeau nodded. She slid out of the booth and followed Wahlman to the exit, probably wondering why he was walking so fast.
5
You’d expect a man who’d recently attained the rank of colonel in the United States Air Force to have a nice big office and a state-of-the-art computer system and some flags on poles and some framed photographs on the walls. You’d expect an anteroom and a secretary and some potted plants and the smell of fresh paint and floor wax. So Wahlman was somewhat surprised when he followed Barbeau into an enclosure that might have once been a broom closet and sat next to her at the front of a scarred battleship-gray barracks desk, a surplus relic that—in the confines of the super-cramped space—a man of Wahlman’s size couldn’t help from banging his knees against. There was a manual typewriter and a neon-green plastic tumbler with some pens and pencils sticking out of it and several disheveled stacks of paper and a beige touchtone telephone and a coffee mug that looked like it had never been washed. Colonel Miller, the man on the other side of the clutter, pulled the document he’d been working on out of the typewriter and slid it on top of one of the stacks.
“This is highly unusual,” he said. “Of course I’ll need to see your paperwork.”
Barbeau handed him a 9 x 12 envelope. The contents—each individual page stamped with the official seal of the Secretary of the Department of Defense—had been prepared by one of Victor’s best forgers.
“Highly unusual?” Barbeau said. “For the DoD to send a pair of agents in to inspect the security at your facility?”
“It is when we just had an inspection a few weeks ago,” Miller said. “Which we passed with flying colors, by the way. But I guess you already know that.”
