by Child, Lee
Leach pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her pocket. It was a page from the yellow legal pad Reacher had seen. It was curled at the top, wide and generous, from several days of being rolled over. It was practically covered in black ink, from a ballpoint pen. There were shapes and whorls and boxes and machines and spirals, with occasional plain-text times and names and words, some of them heavily underlined, some of them boxed in and shaded over almost to the point of illegibility.
Leach put her fingertip on the first legible word, which was a little less than a third of the way down the page. The word was Kandahar. A proper noun. The name of a place. It had a vivid arrow sketched next to it. The arrow was pointing away from the word, emphatically. Leach said, ‘This is the last signal before the one that’s missing. This is Weeks and Edwards moving out of Kandahar, going back to Bagram on standby, as ordered. That all is still in the file room, exactly where it should be.’
Then she jumped her fingertip to the bottom third of the page, where two words stood out, separated by a dash: Hood – Days. The H of Hood was enhanced after the fact, with baroque curlicues. A man on the phone, bored. Leach said, ‘This is the next signal after the one that’s missing. It’s still in the file room too, immediately after the Kandahar thing. This is our guys checking in from Fort Hood in Texas, reporting that they expect to be all wrapped up in a matter of days.’
Then she moved her hand upward again and bracketed her fingers over the middle third of the page. She said, ‘So this part here is what corresponds to the gap in the record.’
The middle third of the page was a mass of bleak doodles, with shapes and whorls repeated endlessly, and boxes and mazes and spirals. But buried right in the centre of it all were the letters A and M, followed by a four-digit number. The whole thing had been first scrawled, and then gone over carefully, with more precise lines, squared up, and sharpened, and underlined, and then abandoned.
A.M. 3435.
Turner smiled and said, ‘He’s technically in the wrong, sergeant, but we’re going to overlook it this one time.’
A.M. 3435.
Which was a number that Reacher might have remembered pretty well, because it was mildly engaging, in the sense that 3 and 4 and 3 and 5, if raised to the powers of 3 and 4 and 3 and 5 respectively, would collectively add up to exactly 3435. Which was slightly interesting. Such numbers had been much discussed by a guy called Joseph Madachy, who once upon a time had been the owner, publisher and editor of a magazine called Recreational Mathematics. Reacher had read a stack of back issues, as a kid, in the library on a Marine base in the Pacific. He said, ‘Sergeant, what’s my best way of contacting Major Sullivan at JAG?’
‘Directly, sir?’
‘Person to person.’
‘When, sir?’
‘Right now.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘Right this minute.’
Leach pulled another piece of paper from her pocket. Smaller. A sheet from a scratch pad, torn in half. She said, ‘This is Major Sullivan’s personal cell. I’m sure right now it’s on her night table.’
‘How did you know I would need it?’
‘I figured that was how you were going to have to do it. Defence motions get pretty wide latitude. But permission to speak freely?’
‘Of course.’
Leach took a second slip of paper from her pocket. Another sheet from a scratch pad, torn in half, just the same. She said, ‘This is Captain Edmonds’ personal cell. Your other lawyer. I think she’s a better prospect. She’s more likely to pursue it with vigour. She likes to see the right thing done.’
‘Even after I busted myself out of jail?’
‘I think so.’
‘So she’s an idealist?’
‘Get it while you can. It won’t last. It didn’t with Major Sullivan.’
Reacher asked, ‘Is the FBI involved yet?’
Leach said, ‘They’ve been notified.’
‘Who is organizing the army’s efforts?’
‘The 75th MP. A team led by Warrant Officer Espin. Who you met. He was the one who brought you to Dyer. People say he’s taking it personally. He claims you abused his good nature. He claims he did you a favour, and thereby inadvertently set the whole thing in motion.’
‘What did he do for me?’
‘He kept you at Dyer. Detective Podolski wanted to take you downtown. Espin said no. And then on top of that, you asked him to go get the MP duty captain right away, which he did, which he’s counting as another favour exploited.’
‘The duty captain would have come anyway.’
‘But not so quickly. And your whole plan depended on getting everything done before late afternoon. So you had to start early. Which Espin feels he accidentally facilitated.’
‘Is he getting anywhere?’
‘Not so far. But not through lack of trying.’
‘Can you get a message to him?’
‘Probably.’
‘Tell him to get over himself. Ask him what he would have done in our situation.’
‘I will, sir. If I can.’
‘What’s your name, sergeant?’
‘Sir, it’s Leach.’
‘No, your first name.’
‘Sir, it’s Chris.’
‘As in Christine or Christina or something?’
‘Just Chris, sir. That’s what’s on my birth certificate.’
‘Well, Chris, if I was still CO of the 110th, I’d move heaven and earth to keep you there. That unit has had its share of great NCOs, and you’re right up there with the best of them.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No, thank you, sergeant.’
Leach left after that, in a hurry, facing a four-hour drive back, followed by a full day at the office. Reacher looked at Turner and said, ‘You must be a hell of a good commander, to inspire loyalty like that.’
‘No more than you were,’ she said. ‘You had Frances Neagley.’
‘You been reading her file too?’
‘I’ve been reading all the files. All the operational histories, too. I wanted to know the 110th inside out.’
‘Like I said, you’re a great commander.’ Reacher flattened the page from the legal pad against the top of the hotel desk, and he smoothed one of the torn halves of the scratch pad paper next to it. Then he picked up the phone and dialled Captain Tracy Edmonds’ private cell number.
FORTY-TWO
THERE WAS A lot of ring tone, but Reacher expected that. Cell networks can take eight seconds to route a call. And very few sleepers jump up like the movies. Most people wake up slow, and then blink and fumble.
But Edmonds answered eventually. She said, ‘Hello?’ Her tone was a little anxious, and the sound of her voice was a little plummy, as if her tongue was thick, or her mouth was full.
Reacher said, ‘Captain Edmonds?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Your client, Jack Reacher. Major, United States Army. Recently recommissioned. Currently manoeuvring with the 110th MP. Are you alone?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘We’re about to have a privileged conversation, counsellor. We have legal matters to discuss.’
‘You’re damn right we do.’
‘Calm down, captain.’
‘You broke out of jail.’
‘That’s not allowed any more?’
‘We have to talk.’
‘We are talking.’
‘Really talk, I mean.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes, I’m alone. So what?’
‘Got a pen?’
She paused a beat. ‘Now I have.’
‘Paper?’
‘Got it.’
‘OK, pay attention. To better mount an adequate defence, I need hard copies of everything anyone has on a citizen of Afghanistan known to us only as A.M. 3435.’
‘That’s probably secret.’
‘I’m entitled to due process. Courts take that shit very seriously.’
‘Whatever, it’s a big ask.’
‘Fair’s fair. They have their bullshit with the affidavit.’
‘Reacher, I’m representing you in a paternity suit. Not the Juan Rodriguez thing. That’s Major Sullivan. And to get hard copies of military intelligence out of Afghanistan would be huge even in a criminal case. You won’t get it in a paternity suit. I mean, why would you?’
Reacher said, ‘You told me the Uniform Code of Military Justice still lists adultery as a crime. What’s the penalty?’
‘Potentially substantial.’
‘So it’s not just a paternity suit. It’s a criminal case too.’
‘That’s tenuous.’
‘They can’t have it both ways, counsellor. They mentioned adultery as a crime. Either that means something or it doesn’t.’
‘Reacher, we have to talk.’
‘Is this where you tell me coming in from the cold would be the best thing to do?’
‘It would be.’
‘Perhaps. But I’ve chosen Plan B anyway. So I need that information.’
‘But how does it relate? Afghanistan hadn’t even started when you were in Korea. Or when you saw the Big Dog.’
Reacher said nothing.
Edmonds said, ‘Oh.’
‘Correct,’ Reacher said. ‘You’re pretty quick, for a lawyer. This is about Major Turner, not me. Or maybe it’s about Major Turner and me, because what we’ve got here is someone laying down a challenge to two COs of the 110th Special Unit. Which means there are going to be winners and losers, and the smart money says you need to be with the winners, because being on the right side of history brings bounty beyond imagining, in this man’s army.’
‘Are you going to be the winners?’
‘Count on it. We’re going to beat them like rented mules. And we need to, captain. They killed two of our own in Afghanistan. And beat one of your colleagues half to death.’
Edmonds said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Turner was still in her robe, and she was showing no signs of going back to bed. Reacher asked her, ‘What was in the envelope?’
‘The other thing I asked Sergeant Leach for.’
‘Evidently. But what was it?’
‘We’re going to Los Angeles next.’
‘Are we?’
She nodded. ‘You need to take care of the Samantha situation.’
‘I’ll get to it.’
‘Worst case, we’re going to fail here, and they’re going to lock us up and throw away the key. I can’t let that happen to you. Not before you’ve met your daughter. You’d think about nothing else, for the rest of your life. So you can put my problem on the back burner for a spell, and you can move yours to the front.’
‘When did you make this plan?’
‘Some time ago. As I was entitled to. You’re in my unit, apparently. Therefore I’m your CO. We’re going to Los Angeles next.’
‘What was in the envelope?’
She answered by spilling the contents on the bed.
Two credit cards.
And two driver’s licences.
She paired them up and kept one of each for herself, and she passed the others to Reacher. A New York State driver’s licence, and a Visa credit card. The licence was made out to a guy named Michael Dennis Kehoe, forty-five years old, at a Queens address. Male, blue eyes, height six-six. He was an organ donor. The picture showed a square face and a wide neck. The Visa card was in the same name, Michael D. Kehoe.
Reacher said, ‘Are they real?’
‘Mine are.’
‘And mine aren’t?’
‘They’re kind of real. They’re from the undercover locker.’
Reacher nodded. The 110th sent people undercover all the time. They needed documents. The government supplied them, authentic in every way, except for never having been issued to an actual person.
He asked, ‘Where are yours from?’
‘A friend of Leach’s. She said she knew someone who looked like me.’
‘So what’s your name now?’
Turner answered by flipping the licence into his lap, like a card trick. Illinois, Margaret Vega, five-seven, brown eyes, thirty-one years old. Not an organ donor. The photograph showed a light-skinned Hispanic woman. At first glance a little like Turner, but not a whole lot.
Reacher flipped the licence back.
‘And Ms Vega was happy to give up her DL?’ he said. ‘Just like that? And her credit card too?’
‘We have to return them. And we have to pay back any charges we make. Obviously I had to promise. But Billy Bob’s money can take care of that.’
‘That’s not the point. Ms Vega is way out on a limb now.’
‘I guess Leach can be persuasive.’
‘Only because she thinks you’re worth it.’
‘She had no friends who looked like you. Not even close. Which is why we had to use the locker. Probably Mr Kehoe was the target in a training scenario. He looks like the guy with the chainsaw in a slasher movie.’
‘Should work fine, then. When are we leaving?’
‘As soon as possible,’ Turner said. ‘We’ll catch an early flight.’
They showered and dressed, and then packing was nothing more than jamming their new toothbrushes in their pockets, and putting on their coats. They left the drapes closed and the lights off, and Reacher hung the Do Not Disturb card on the outside handle, and then they hustled down the corridor to the elevator. It was just after five in the morning, and Turner figured the long-hauls to the West Coast would start around six. Not an infinite choice of carriers out of Pittsburgh International, but there would be at least several. Worst case, they could connect through San Francisco, or Phoenix, or Las Vegas.
The elevator reached the lobby and they stepped out to a deserted scene. There was no one at the desk. No one anywhere. So Reacher dropped their key cards in the trash, and they headed for the door, where they got straight into a hesitant after-you-no-after-you thing with a lone guy who had chosen that exact moment to come in from the dark sidewalk outside. He was a compact man in a navy suit and a white shirt and a navy tie. He had a fresh haircut, short and conservative, and a pink face, recently shaved. Eventually they worked out a three-way pecking order. The guy held the door for Turner, who stepped out, and then Reacher hung back, and the guy stepped in, and finally Reacher stepped out.
There were no taxis at the kerb. But there was a hotel shuttle bus, with its engine running and its door open. No driver at the wheel. Inside, maybe, taking a leak.
Ten yards farther on a Crown Vic was parked in the fire lane. Dark blue, clean and shiny, with antennas on the trunk lid. Reacher turned and looked back at the hotel door. Deep in the lobby the guy who had come in was waiting for service at the desk. Navy suit. White shirt. Navy tie. Short hair, pink face, clean shave.
Reacher said, ‘FBI.’
Turner said, ‘They were tracking those names. Sullivan and Temple.’
‘He walked right past us. How long till his brain kicks in?’
‘He’s FBI, so it won’t be instantaneous.’
‘We could head back to the truck and drive ourselves.’
‘No, the truck should stay here. We need to keep breaking the chain. Get on the bus. The driver will be back in a minute. Got to be. He left it running.’
Reacher said, ‘We’ll be sitting ducks.’
‘We’ll be invisible,’ Turner said. ‘Just folks on a bus.’
Reacher glanced around. The guy was still at the counter. No one behind it. The shuttle bus was all done up in chrome and a corporate style. It had black windows. Like a movie star’s limousine. A touch of glamour, for the everyday traveller.
Black windows. Just folks on a bus. Predator and prey, motion and stillness. An old evolutionary legacy. Reacher said, ‘OK, we’ll get on the bus.’
They climbed aboard, and the suspension dipped under their weight, and they shuffled along a low narrow aisle and took seats on the far side, halfway to the b
ack.
And then they sat still and waited.
Not a great feeling.
The view out was not great either, because of the distance and the window tint and the multiple layers of glass, but Reacher could still see the guy. He was getting impatient. He had turned around to face the empty lobby, and he had stepped a yard away from the desk. Claiming the wider space, expressing his resentment, but staying close enough to the help to remain definitively first in line. Not that he had any competition. Nor would he for an hour or so. Red-eye arrivals would start about six, too.
Then the guy suddenly moved forward, a long pace, eager, as if he was about to greet someone. Or accost someone. On the right of the frame a second figure stepped into view. A man, in a black uniform with a short jacket. A bellboy, maybe. The FBI guy asked a question, accompanied by a sweeping gesture with his arm, like where the hell is everybody, and the guy in the short jacket paused, uncomfortable, as if obliged to venture outside his accustomed territory, and then he squeezed behind the counter and rapped on a door, with no result, so he opened the door a crack and called through, enquiringly, and fifteen seconds later a young woman came out, running her fingers through her hair. The FBI guy turned back to the desk, and the young woman moved up face to face with him, and the guy in the short black jacket walked out of the lobby.
Not a bellboy.
The bus driver.
He climbed aboard, and saw that he had customers, and he glanced back at the lobby, to see if he was about to get more, and he must have concluded not, because he asked, ‘Domestic or international?’
Turner said, ‘Domestic.’
So the guy dumped himself down in his seat, and unspooled a long seat belt, and clipped it tight, and the door closed with a wheezing sigh, and the guy put the bus in gear.
And then he waited, because he had to, because an arriving car was manoeuvring around the parked Crown Vic, and thereby blocking his exit.
It was the car with the dented doors.
FORTY-THREE
THE CAR WITH the dented doors squeezed around the parked Crown Vic, and then it slowed to a walk and prepared to pull up just short of the hotel entrance. The bus moved off into the vacated space, grinding slow and heavy, and it passed the car close by, flank to flank. Reacher got up off his seat and stared out the window. All four guys were in the car. The two he had met on the first night, and the third guy, and the big guy with the tiny ears. The whole crew was there.
