The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  “That kind of question might work down at Guantanamo, but it won’t work with me.”

  The guy shrugged and used his fingertip and pulled the stick back into line, and then he moved the phony business card and Leonid’s cell phone both forward an inch, like he was moving pawns on a chessboard. He said, “You’ve been working for Lila Hoth. The card proves you were in communication with the crew she hired, and your phone proves she called you at least six times. The Four Seasons’s number is in the memory.”

  “It’s not my phone.”

  “We found it in your pocket.”

  “Lila Hoth didn’t stay at the Four Seasons, according to them.”

  “Only because we told them to cooperate. We both know she was there. You met her there twice, and then she broke the third rendezvous.”

  “Who is she, exactly?”

  “That’s a question you should have asked before you agreed to work for her.”

  “I wasn’t working for her.”

  “Your phone proves that you were. It’s not rocket science.”

  I didn’t answer.

  He asked, “Where is Lila Hoth now?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I assumed you scooped her up when she checked out. Before you started shooting darts at me.”

  The guy said nothing.

  I said, “You were there earlier in the day. You searched her room. I assumed you were watching her.”

  The guy said nothing.

  I said, “You missed her, right? She walked right past you. That’s terrific. You guys are an example to us all. A foreign national with some kind of weird Pentagon involvement, and you let her go?”

  “It’s a setback,” the guy said. He seemed a little embarrassed, but I figured he need not have been. Because leaving a hotel under surveillance is relatively easy to do. You do it by not doing it. By not leaving immediately. You send your bags down with the bellman in the service elevator, the agents cluster in the lobby, you leave the passenger elevator at a different floor and you hole up somewhere for two hours until the agents give up and leave. Then you walk out. It takes nerve, but it’s easy to do, especially if you have booked another room under another name, which Lila Hoth certainly had, for Leonid, at least.

  The guy asked, “Where is she now?”

  I asked, “Who is she?”

  “The most dangerous person you ever met.”

  “She didn’t look it.”

  “That’s why.”

  I said, “I have no idea where she is.”

  There was a long pause and then the guy moved the phony business card and the cell phone back into line and advanced Theresa Lee’s card in their place. He asked, “How much does the detective know?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “We have a fairly simple sequence of tasks in front of us. We need to find the Hoths, we need to recover the real memory stick, but above all we need to contain the leak. So we need to know how far it has spread. So we need to know who knows what.”

  “Nobody knows anything. Least of all me.”

  “This is not a contest. You don’t get points for resisting. We’re all on the same side here.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way to me.”

  “You need to take this seriously.”

  “Believe me, I am.”

  “Then tell us who knows what.”

  “I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know who knows what.”

  I heard the door on my left open again. The leader looked across and nodded some kind of consent. I turned in my seat and saw the guy from the left-hand chair. He had a gun in his hand. Not the Franchi 12. The dart gun. He raised it and fired. I spun away, but far too late. The dart caught me high in the upper arm.

  Chapter 44

  I woke up all over again, but I didn’t open my eyes immediately. I felt like the clock in my head was back on track, and I wanted to let it calibrate and settle in undisturbed. Right then it was showing six o’clock in the evening. Which meant I had been out about another eight hours. I was very hungry and very thirsty. My arm hurt the same way my leg had. A hot little bruise, right up there at the top. I could feel that I still had no shoes. But my wrists and my ankles were no longer fastened to the rails of the cot. Which was a relief. I stretched lazily and rubbed a palm across my face. More stubble. I was heading for a regular beard.

  I opened my eyes. Looked around. Discovered two things. One: Theresa Lee was in the cage to my right. Two: Jacob Mark was in the cage to my left.

  Both of them were cops.

  Neither one of them had shoes on.

  That was when I started to worry.

  If I was right and it was six o’clock in the evening, then Theresa Lee had been hauled in from home. And Jacob Mark had been brought in from work. They were both looking at me. Lee was standing behind her bars, about five feet away. She was wearing blue jeans and a white shirt. She had bare feet. Jake was sitting on his cot. He was wearing a police officer’s uniform, minus the belt and the gun and the radio and the shoes. I sat up on my cot and swung my feet to the floor and ran my hands through my hair. Then I stood up and stepped over to the sink and drank from the faucet. New York City, for sure. I recognized the taste of the water. I looked at Theresa Lee and asked her, “Do you know exactly where we are?”

  She said, “Don’t you?”

  I shook my head.

  She said, “We have to assume this place is wired for sound.”

  “I’m sure it is. But they already know where we are. So we won’t be giving them anything they don’t already have.”

  “I don’t think we should say anything.”

  “We can discuss geographic facts. I don’t think the Patriot Act prohibits street addresses, at least not yet.”

  Lee said nothing.

  I said, “What?”

  She looked uneasy.

  I said, “You think I’m playing games with you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I said, “You think I’m here to trap you into saying something on tape?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Those clubs on Bleecker are nearer Sixth Avenue than Broadway. You had the A train right there. Or the B or the C or the D. So why were you on the 6 train at all?”

  “Law of nature,” I said. “We’re hardwired. In our brains. Middle of the night, full dark, all mammals head east instinctively.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I just made that up. I had nowhere to go. I came out of a bar and turned left and walked. I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  Lee said nothing.

  I said, “What else?”

  She said, “You have no bags. I never saw a homeless person with nothing. Most of them haul more stuff around than I own. They use shopping carts.”

  “I’m different,” I said. “And I’m not a homeless person. Not like them.”

  She said nothing.

  I asked her, “Were you blindfolded when they brought you here?”

  She looked at me for a long moment and then she shook her head and sighed. She said, “We’re in a closed firehouse in Greenwich Village. On West 3rd. Street level and above is disused. We’re in the basement.”

  “Do you know exactly who these guys are?”

  She didn’t speak. Just glanced up at the camera. I said, “Same principle. They know who they are. At least I hope they do. Doesn’t hurt for them to know that we know, too.”

  “You think?”

  “That’s the point. They can’t stop us thinking. Do you know who they are?”

  “They didn’t show ID. Not today, and not that first night either, when they came to talk to you at the precinct.”

  “But?”

  “Not showing ID can be the same thing as showing it, if you’re the only bunch that never does. We’ve heard some stories.”

  “So who are they?”

  �
��They work directly for the Secretary of Defense.”

  “That figures,” I said. “The Secretary of Defense is usually the dumbest guy in the government.”

  Lee glanced up at the camera again, as if I had insulted it. As if she had caused it to be insulted. I said, “Don’t worry. These guys look ex-military to me, in which case they already know how dumb the Secretary of Defense is. But even so, Defense is a Cabinet position, which means ultimately these guys are working for the White House.”

  Lee paused a beat and asked, “Do you know what they want?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Don’t tell us.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  “But is it big enough for the White House?”

  “Potentially, I guess.”

  “Shit.”

  “When did they come for you?”

  “This afternoon. Two o’clock. I was still asleep.”

  “Did they have the NYPD with them?”

  Lee nodded, and a little hurt showed in her eyes.

  I asked, “Did you know the patrolmen?”

  She shook her head. “Hotshot counterterrorism guys. They write their own rules and keep themselves separate. They ride around in special cars all day long. Fake taxis, sometimes. One in the front, two in the back. Did you know that? Big circles, up on Tenth, down on Second. Like the B-52s used to patrol the skies.”

  “What time is it now? About six after six?”

  She looked at her watch, and looked surprised.

  “Dead-on,” she said.

  I turned the other way.

  “Jake?” I said. “What about you?”

  “They came for me first. I’ve been here since noon. Watching you sleep.”

  “Any word from Peter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You snore, you know that?”

  “I was full of gorilla tranquillizer. From a dart gun.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I showed him the bloodstain on my pants, and then the one on my shoulder.

  “That’s insane,” he said.

  “Were you at work?”

  He nodded. “The dispatcher called my car back to base, and they were waiting for me.”

  “So your department knows where you are?”

  “Not specifically,” he said. “But they know who took me away.”

  “That’s something,” I said.

  “Not really,” he said. “The department won’t do anything for me. Guys like these come for you, suddenly you’re tainted. You’re presumed guilty of something. People were already inching away from me.”

  Lee said, “Like when Internal Affairs comes calling.”

  I asked her, “Why isn’t Docherty here?”

  “He knows less than me. In fact he went out of his way to know less than me. Didn’t you notice that? He’s an old hand.”

  “He’s your partner.”

  “Today he is. By next week he’ll have forgotten he ever had a partner. You know how these things work.”

  Jake said, “There are only three cells here. Maybe Docherty is somewhere else.”

  I asked, “Have these guys talked to you yet?”

  Both of them shook their heads.

  I asked, “Are you worried?”

  Both of them nodded. Lee asked, “Are you?”

  “I’m sleeping well,” I said. “But I think that’s mostly because of the tranquillizers.”

  At six-thirty they brought us food. Deli sandwiches, in plastic clamshell packs that were turned sideways and pushed through the bars. Plus bottles of water. I drank my water first and refilled the bottle from the tap. My sandwich was salami and cheese. Finest meal I ever ate.

  At seven o’clock they took Jacob Mark away for questioning. No restraints. No chains. Theresa Lee and I sat on our cots, about eight feet apart, separated by bars. We didn’t talk much. Lee seemed depressed. At one point she said, “I lost some good friends when the towers came down. Not just cops. Firefighters, too. People that I had worked with. People that I had known for years.” She said it as if she thought those truths should insulate her from the craziness that came afterward. I didn’t answer her. Mostly I sat quiet and reran conversations in my head. All kinds of people had been talking at me. For hours. John Sansom, Lila Hoth, the guys in the next room. I was running through what they had all said, the same way a cabinet maker runs his palm over a length of planed wood, looking for the rough spots. There were a few. There were strange half-comments, odd nuances, little off-key implications. I didn’t know what any of them meant. Not then. But knowing that they were there was useful in itself.

  At seven-thirty they brought Jacob Mark back and took Theresa Lee away in his place. No restraints. No chains. Jake got on his cot and sat cross-legged with his back to the camera. I looked at him. An inquiry. He gave a millimetric shrug and rolled his eyes. Then he kept his hands in his lap, out of sight of the camera, and made a gun with his right thumb and forefinger. He tapped his thigh and looked at mine. I nodded. The dart gun. He put two fingers down between his knees and held a third in front and to the left. I nodded again. Two guys behind the table, and the third to the left with the gun. Probably in the doorway to the third room. On guard. Hence no restraints and no chains. I massaged my temples and while my hands were still up I mouthed, “Where are our shoes?” Jake mouthed back, “I don’t know.”

  After that we sat in silence. I didn’t know what Jake was thinking about. His sister, probably. Or Peter. I was considering a binary choice. There are two ways to fight something. From the inside, or from the outside. I was an outside type of guy. Always had been.

  At eight o’clock they brought Theresa Lee back and took me away again.

  Chapter 45

  No restraints. No chains. Clearly they thought I was afraid of the dart gun. Which I was, to a degree. Not because I fear small puncture wounds. And not because I have anything against sleep, in and of itself. I like sleep as much as the next guy. But I didn’t want to waste any more time. I felt like I couldn’t afford another eight hours on my back.

  The room was populated exactly as Jacob Mark had semaphored it. The main guy was already sitting in the center chair. The guy who had fitted the chains that morning was the one who had brought me in, and he left me in the middle of the room and went to take his place at the table on the main guy’s right. The guy who had wielded the Franchi was standing off to the left with the dart gun in his hands. My possessions were still on the table. Or, they were back on the table. I doubted that they had been there while Jake or Lee had been in the room. No point. No reason. No relevance. They had been laid out all over again, especially for me. Cash, passport, bank card, toothbrush, Metrocard, Lee’s business card, the phony business card, the memory stick, and the cell phone. Nine items. All present and correct. Which was good, because I needed to take at least seven of them with me.

  The guy in the center chair said, “Sit down, Mr. Reacher.”

  I moved toward my chair and I felt all three of them relax. They had been working all night and all day. Now they were into their third straight hour of interrogation. And interrogation is heavy work. It demands close attention and mental flexibility. It wears you out. So the three guys were tired. Tired enough to have lost their edge. As soon as I headed for my chair, they moved out of the present and into the future. They thought their troubles were over. They started thinking about their approach. Their first question. They assumed I would get to my chair and sit down and be ready to hear it. Be ready to answer it.

  They were wrong.

  Half a step short of my destination I raised my foot to the edge of the table and straightened my leg and shoved. Shoved, not kicked, because I had no shoes on. The table jerked back and the far edge hit the two seated guys in the stomach and pinned them against their chair backs. By that point I was already moving to my left. I came up from a crouch at the third guy and tore the dart gun up and out of his hands and while he was all straight and exp
osed I kneed him hard in the groin. He gave up on the gun and folded forward and I high-stepped and changed feet and kneed him in the face. Like a folk dance from Ireland. I spun away and leveled the gun and pulled the trigger and shot the main guy in the chest. Then I went over the table and battered the other guy in the head with the dart gun’s butt, once, twice, three times, hard and vicious, until he went quiet and stopped moving.

  Four noisy violent seconds, from beginning to end. Four discrete units of action and time, separately packaged, separately unleashed. The table, the dart gun, the main guy, the second guy. One, two, three, four. Smooth and easy. The two guys I had hit were unconscious and bleeding. The guy on the floor from a shattered nose, and the guy at the table from a gash to his scalp. Next to him the main guy was on his way under, chemically assisted, the same way I had been twice before. It was interesting to watch. There was some kind of muscle paralysis involved. The guy was sliding down in his chair, helpless, but his eyes were moving like he was still aware of things. I remembered the whirling shapes, and I wondered if he was seeing them too.

  Then I turned and watched the door to the third room. There was still the medical technician unaccounted for. Maybe others. Maybe lots of others. But the door stayed closed. The third room stayed quiet. I knelt and checked under the third guy’s jacket. No Glock. He had a shoulder holster but it was empty. Standard procedure, probably. No firearms in any closed room with a prisoner present. I checked the other two guys. Same result. Government-issue nylon shoulder rigs, both of them empty.

  The third room stayed quiet.

  I checked pockets. They were all empty. All sanitized. Nothing there at all, except neutral items like tissues and lonely dimes and pennies trapped down in the seams. No house keys, no car keys, no phones. Certainly no wallets, no badge holders, and no IDs.

  I picked up the dart gun again and held it one-handed, out and ready. Moved to the third room’s door. Swung it open and raised the gun and pretended to aim. A gun is a gun, even if it’s empty and the wrong kind. It’s all about first impressions and subliminal reactions.