The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  Turner said, “We’re your clients.”

  “I’m sorry. They didn’t tell me. It’s more money for couples.”

  “You’ve probably heard this before, or not, possibly, but all we want to do is talk. We’ll give you two thousand dollars for an hour of your time. Clothes on throughout, all three of us.”

  The kid came nearer, but not too close, and she lined herself up with the open window, and she stooped an inch, and she looked in and said, “What exactly is this about?”

  Reacher said, “An acting job.”

  * * *

  They talked out in the open, to keep it unthreatening, Reacher and Turner leaning on the side of the car, with Emily completing the triangle four feet away, where she was free to turn and run. But she didn’t. She ran Lozano’s Amex through a slot in her iPhone, and as soon as she saw an authorization number she said, “I don’t do porn.”

  Reacher said, “No porn.”

  “Then what kind of acting job?”

  “Are you an actor?”

  “I’m a call girl.”

  “Were you an actor first?”

  “I was an intending actor.”

  “Do you do role-play?”

  “I thought that’s what I was doing today. The naive young idealist, prepared very reluctantly to do whatever it takes to get extra funding for her school. Or possibly I want to borrow a lawnmower from one of the PTA dads. But normally it’s about interviewing for a job. How can I show I’m really committed to the company?”

  “In other words, you’re acting.”

  “All the time. Including now.”

  “I need you to go see a law firm receptionist and act your way into her good books.” Reacher told her what he wanted. She showed no curiosity as to why. He said, “If there’s a choice, pick a motherly type. She’ll be sympathetic. This is about a struggling mother getting some help. Tell her Ms. Dayton is a friend of your aunt, and she loaned you some money when you were in college, and it got you out of a hole, and now you can repay the favor. And you want to see her again anyway. Something like that. You can write your own script. But the receptionist is not supposed to give up the location. In fact she’s prohibited from doing so. So this is your Oscar moment.”

  “Who gets hurt here?”

  “No one gets hurt. The opposite.”

  “For two thousand dollars? I never heard of that before.”

  “If she’s for real, she gets helped. If she’s not for real, I don’t get hurt. It’s all good.”

  Emily said, “I don’t know if I want to do it.”

  “You took our money.”

  “For an hour of my time. I’m happy to stand here and talk. Or we could get in the car. I’ll get naked if you like. That’s what usually happens.”

  “How about an extra five hundred in cash? As a tip. When you get back.”

  “How about seven hundred?”

  “Six.”

  Emily said, “And the Oscar goes to, Emily.”

  She wouldn’t let them drive her. Smart girl. Words were cheap. The long preamble could have been nothing but a hot air fantasy, ahead of her unclothed body being found dead in a ditch three days later. So they gave her the address and twenty bucks and she caught a cab instead. They watched it out of sight, and then they turned back and got in the Range Rover and waited.

  Turner said, “Man up, Reacher. A.M. 3435 is Emal Zadran, who has a documented history of buying and selling United States ordnance in the hills of the tribal areas. Whereas Peter Lozano and Ronald Baldacci have a documented history of being part of a company tasked to get that very same United States ordnance in and out of those very same hills. Is that deafening noise I hear the sound of the pieces falling into place?”

  “He was buying and selling U.S. ordnance in the hills seven years ago.”

  “After which he fell off the radar. By getting better at it. He moved right up to the top of the tree. Now he’s the top boy and the go-to guy. He’s making a fortune for somebody. He has to be. Why else would they go to such lengths to hide him?”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “I need your serious input here. Not mindless agreement. You’re my executive officer.”

  “Is that a promotion?”

  “Just new orders.”

  “I mean it, you could be right. The informer called him a tribal elder. Which strikes me as a status-based label. Like an honorific. And a black sheep who sits around all day doing nothing productive wouldn’t be thought of as a person of status. More likely the village idiot. Certainly he wouldn’t be honored. So old Emal is doing something for somebody. And my only objection was having a team on standby in North Carolina, when all the action is in Afghanistan. But maybe there’s a legitimate role for them. Because if what you think is true, then there’s a lot of money coming home. Wagonloads, probably. A big, physical quantity. So yes, they need a team in North Carolina. Just not to handle weapons. To handle the money.”

  Romeo called Juliet and said, “It’s getting worse.”

  Juliet said, “How could it?”

  “They just used Lozano’s Amex. Two thousand dollars on an entertainer. Do you know what that means?”

  “They’re bored?”

  “There’s only one kind of entertainer who carries her own card reader, and that’s a prostitute. They’re taunting us. They’d be giving it to homeless people, if homeless people had card readers on their phones. Or phones at all, I suppose.”

  “Which they don’t.”

  “And Reacher’s lawyer got Zadran’s full jacket, about an hour ago. So it’s out there now.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “It’s an obvious connection. It won’t take a genius to work it out.”

  “Or maybe you worry too soon,” Juliet said. “You haven’t heard the good news yet.”

  “Is there any?”

  “Our boys just saw them drive past the lawyer’s office. In a twenty-year-old Range Rover, black. Hard to be sure, because it had dark windows, but the strong impression was there were two people inside, one large and one small.”

  “When was this?”

  “Less than an hour ago.”

  “Just once?”

  “So far. Reconnaissance, obviously.”

  “Is there much activity there?”

  “It’s a strip mall. It’s like a Fourth of July parade.”

  “Where did they go after they cruised by?”

  “They took the freeway. Probably looped around. They’re probably holed up a few blocks to the north.”

  “Anything we can do?”

  “Yes, I think there is. They were super-cautious around that office. They must know the MPs and the FBI are all over it. And there’s nothing to be learned there. Not for them. It would be the worst kind of malpractice. So I don’t think they’ll go near that office again. In which case guarding it is a waste of personnel. We can’t miss them there, because they won’t go there. Simple as that. Therefore our boys would be better used elsewhere. Possibly in a more proactive role. Just a suggestion.”

  “I agree,” Romeo said. “Turn them loose.”

  Reacher and Turner passed the time by trying to figure what kind of ordnance would sell for a lot of money and fit in the back of a pick-up truck. Which was frustrating, because the two categories tended to be mutually exclusive. MOABs were sinister finned pear-shaped cylinders thirty feet long and four feet wide. Drones were worth thirty-seven million dollars a pop, but had a wingspan greater than sixty feet. And without the joystick controls they were just lumps of dumb metal. And the joystick controls were all in Texas or Florida. Conversely rifles and handguns and hand grenades weren’t worth much. A Beretta M9 was about six hundred bucks in a store. Maybe four hundred used, on the street, or in the hills, less overhead and expenses, which meant it would take three or four hundred sales just to cover the hundred grand risked in the Cayman Islands. And even the army would notice if it was losing handguns by the thousand.

  They got nowh
ere.

  And then Emily came back.

  Chapter 50

  Emily got out of a cab, just like the first time, still in character, all radiant and naive, and she hustled over and stood where she had before, about five feet from Turner’s window. Turner buzzed the glass down, and Emily said, “I felt bad doing that.”

  “Why?” Reacher said.

  “She was a nice woman. I manipulated her.”

  “Successfully?”

  “I got the location.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You owe me six hundred bucks.”

  “Not technically. It’s a tip, which means it’s a gift outside of the main contract. There’s no element of owing.”

  “Are you trying to get out of it now?”

  “No, I’m just naturally pedantic.”

  “Whichever, I still need six hundred bucks.”

  Which Ronald Baldacci paid, from the plank of twenties in his wallet. Reacher passed it to Turner, who passed it out the window to Emily, who glanced around and said, “This looks like a drug deal.”

  “What’s the location?” Reacher asked.

  She gave a street address, complete with a house number.

  Reacher said, “What is that? A vacant lot? A business with its own parking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was the mood in the office?”

  “Very busy. I don’t think Ms. Dayton is high on their list of priorities.”

  “OK, thank you, Emily,” Reacher said. “It was nice to meet you. Have a great day.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What else is there?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask what a nice girl like me is doing in a job like this? Aren’t you going to give me advice for the future?”

  “No,” Reacher said. “No one should listen to my advice. And you seem to be doing fine anyway. A thousand bucks an hour ain’t bad. I know people who get screwed for twenty.”

  “Who?”

  “People who wear uniforms, mostly.”

  Turner’s map showed the new location to be south of the Ventura Freeway, in a neighborhood without a name. Not really Universal City, not really West Toluca Lake, definitely not Griffith Park, and too far south to be North Hollywood. But Reacher figured it was the right kind of place. It would have a high turnover of people, all coming and going and incurious, and it would have ventures and operations starting up and shutting down. Therefore it would have empty buildings, and it would have staff-only lots in front of failed businesses. Best way to get there was south on Vineland again, past the law office, across the Ventura Freeway, and then the neighborhood lay waiting on the right.

  Turner said, “We have to assume the MPs and the FBI have this same information.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Reacher said. “So we’ll do it the same way we did the law office.”

  “One pass.”

  “Which might be the second pass for some of them, because I’m sure they’re rotating back and forth. Between there and the law office, I mean. They can’t let either scene get too static.”

  “What if it’s a little alley, or a one-way street?”

  “Then we’ll abort. We’ll find some other way.”

  “And best case, all we do is eyeball it. No meet and greet. We need a whole lot of long-range surveillance before we even think about that.”

  “Understood.”

  “Even if the cutest fourteen-year-old in the world runs out waving a home-made banner that says Welcome Home Daddy. Because it might be the wrong fourteen-year-old, with a different daddy.”

  “Understood,” Reacher said again.

  “Say it.”

  “No meet and greet,” Reacher said.

  “So let’s go.”

  They didn’t use Vineland Avenue. They figured rolling past the law office again would turn one pass into two, for some of the watchers, for no productive reason at all, and then the two could become three, if the rotation was timed just wrong. And three times was not a charm. Most people picked up on things the third time around. That was Reacher’s experience. Even if they didn’t know they were noticing. A stumble on a word while talking to a friend? You just saw the same guy for the third time, in the corner of your eye. Or the same car, or the same flower truck, or the same coat or dog or shoes or walk.

  So they looped clockwise, east first, and then south, and they crossed the freeway a little to the right of a straight line. Then they pulled over. The target neighborhood was ahead on the right. It was a low-rise warren with concrete curbs and dry grass shoulders, with tarred poles carrying dozens of wires, some of them as thick as Reacher’s wrist, and behind them were small buildings, some of them bungalows, some of them garden apartments, some of them stores or bodegas. There was one nail salon and one pick-up truck clearly visible. There were basketball hoops and ice hockey goals and satellite dishes as big as hot tubs, and parked cars everywhere.

  “Not good,” Turner said.

  Reacher nodded, because it wasn’t. It was tight-packed and close-quarters, and rolling through would mean stopping and starting and maneuvering around one obstacle after another. Walking speed would be a luxury.

  He said, “You’re the CO.”

  She said, “You’re the XO.”

  “I say go for it. But it’s your decision.”

  “Why do you say go for it?”

  “The negatives look bad, but they’re actually positives. Things could work out in our favor. The MPs and the FBI don’t know what we’re driving. As far as they’re concerned, this is just an old truck with dark windows. They’re not looking for it.”

  “But the two guys from the dented car might be. They’re getting good intelligence. Worst case, someone saw the credit card and knows what we’re driving.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Reacher said. “They can’t do anything to us. Not here. Not in front of government witnesses. They must know the MPs and the FBI are right there with them. It’s a perfect Catch-22. They’ll just have to sit there and take it.”

  “They might follow us. The MPs and the FBI wouldn’t see anything wrong with that. Just another car leaving the neighborhood.”

  “I agree. But like I said. That would be things working out in our favor. That would be two birds with one stone. We eyeball the location, and we lure the guys out to a place of our choosing. All in all, I would call that a good day’s work. Speaking as an XO, that is. But it’s your decision. That’s why you get the big bucks. Almost as many as some high school teachers.”

  Turner said nothing.

  Reacher said, “Two front burners, remember.”

  Turner said, “OK, go for it.”

  They checked the map and Reacher rehearsed the turns. A right, a left, a right, and that was her street, apparently. Her lot number looked to be about halfway between one end and the other. Turner said, “Remember, eyeballs only. No meet and greet.”

  “Got it,” Reacher said.

  “No exceptions.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He eased off the curb and rolled down to the first turn and swung the wheel, and then he was in the neighborhood. The first street was a mess. Mixed-use zoning, with a bakery truck stopped outside a grocery, and a kid’s bike dumped in the gutter, and a car with no wheels up on blocks. The second street was better. It was no wider, but it was straight and less cluttered. The tone of the neighborhood rose through its first fifty yards. There were little houses on the left and the right. Not prosperous, but solid. Some had new roofs, and some had painted stucco, and some had parched plants in concrete tubs. Regular people, doing their best, making ends meet.

  Then came the final right turn, and the tone rose some more. But not to dizzying heights. Reacher saw a long straight street, with the 101 plainly visible at the far end, behind hurricane fencing. The street had tract housing on both sides, built for GIs in the late 1940s, and still there more than sixty years later. The houses were all cared for, but to varying degrees, some of them well maintained, some of them ref
urbished, and some of them extended, but others more marginal. Most had cars on their driveways, and most had extra cars on the curb. Overall so many it was effectively a one-lane road.

  Slow, and awkward.

  Turner said, “FBI ahead on the right, for sure.”

  Reacher nodded and said nothing. One of the cars on the curb was a Chevy Malibu, about sixty feet away, plain silver, base specification, with plastic where there should have been chrome, with two stubby antennas glued to the back glass, with a guy behind the wheel wearing a white collared shirt. An unmarked car, but no real attempt at deception. Therefore possibly a supervisor, just stopping by for a moment, to check on morale and spread good cheer. To the guy he was parked right behind, maybe.

  Reacher said, “Check out the thing in front of him.”

  It was a civilian Hummer H2, wide, tall, gigantic, all waxed black paint and chrome accents, with huge wheels and thin tires, like black rubber bands.

  “So eight years ago,” Turner said. A legal seizure, possibly, because of coke in the door pocket, or because it was charged to a scam business, or it had carried stolen goods in the back, first confiscated and then reissued as an undercover surveillance vehicle, slightly tone-deaf in terms of credibility, like the government usually was.

  And sixty feet in front of the Hummer was a small white compact, parked on the other curb, facing toward them, clean and bland, barely used, not personalized in any way. An airport rental, almost certainly. The 75th MP. Some unfortunate guy, coach class to LAX, and then a bare-bones government account with Hertz or Avis. The worst car on the lot, and no upgrade.

  “See it?” Reacher asked.

  Turner nodded beside him. “And now we know where the address is. Exactly halfway between the Hummer’s front bumper and that thing’s, I would say. Subtle, aren’t they?”

  “As always.” Reacher had been checking house numbers, and the lot they were looking for was going to be on the left, about ninety feet ahead, if the government’s triangulation was dead-on accurate. He said, “Do you see anyone else?”

  “Hard to tell,” Turner said. “Any one of these cars could have people in it.”