Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  “Haven’t you tailed him?”

  “We’ve tried. He has bodyguards and drivers. They’re too good.”

  “For the DEA?”

  “For us. We’re on our own. The Justice Department disowned the operation when I screwed up.”

  “Even though there’s an agent missing?”

  “They don’t know there’s an agent missing. We put her in after they closed us down. She’s off the books.”

  I stared at her.

  “This whole thing is off the books,” she said.

  “So how are you working it?”

  “I’m a team leader. Nobody’s looking over my shoulder day to day. I’m pretending I’m working on something else. But I’m not. I’m working on this.”

  “So nobody knows this woman is missing?”

  “Just my team,” she said. “Seven of us. And now you.”

  I said nothing.

  “We came straight here,” she said. “We need a break. Why else would we fly up here on a Sunday?”

  The room went quiet. I looked from her to Eliot and back to her. They needed me. I needed them. And I liked them. I liked them a lot. They were honest, likable people. They were like the best of the people I used to work with.

  “I’ll trade,” I said. “Information for information. We’ll see how we get along. And then we’ll take it from there.”

  “What do you need?”

  I told her I needed ten-year-old hospital records from a place called Eureka in California. I told her what kind of a thing to look for. I told her I would stay in Boston until she got back to me. I told her not to put anything on paper. Then they left and that was it for day two. Nothing happened on day three. Or day four. I hung around. I find Boston acceptable for a couple of days. It’s what I call a forty-eight town. Anything more than forty-eight hours, and it starts to get tiresome. Of course, most places are like that for me. I’m a restless person. So by the start of day five I was going crazy. I was ready to assume they had forgotten all about me. I was ready to call it quits and get back on the road. I was thinking about Miami. It would be a lot warmer down there. But late in the morning the phone rang. It was her voice. It was nice to hear.

  “We’re on our way up,” she said. “Meet you by that big statue of whoever it is on a horse, halfway around the Freedom Trail, three o’clock.”

  It wasn’t a very precise rendezvous, but I knew what she meant. It was a place in the North End, near a church. It was springtime and too cold to want to go there without a purpose but I got there early anyway. I sat on a bench next to an old woman feeding house sparrows and rock doves with torn-up crusts of bread. She looked at me and moved to another bench. The birds swarmed around her feet, pecking at the grit. A watery sun was fighting rainclouds in the sky. It was Paul Revere on the horse.

  Duffy and Eliot showed up right on time. They were wearing black raincoats all covered in little loops and buckles and belts. They might as well have worn signs around their necks saying Federal Agents from Washington D.C. They sat down, Duffy on my left and Eliot on my right. I leaned back and they leaned forward with their elbows on their knees.

  “Paramedics fished a guy out of the Pacific surf,” Duffy said. “Ten years ago, just south of Eureka, California. White male, about forty. He had been shot twice in the head and once in the chest. Small-caliber, probably .22s. Then they figure he was thrown off a cliff into the ocean.”

  “He was alive when they fished him out?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

  “Barely,” she said. “He had a bullet lodged near his heart and his skull was broken. Plus one arm and both legs and his pelvis, from the fall. And he was half-drowned. They operated on him for fifteen straight hours. He was in intensive care for a month and in the hospital recuperating for another six.”

  “ID?”

  “Nothing on him. He’s in the records as a John Doe.”

  “Did they try to ID him?”

  “No fingerprint match,” she said. “Nothing on any missing-persons lists. Nobody came to claim him.”

  I nodded. Fingerprint computers tell you what they’re told to tell you.

  “What then?” I asked.

  “He recovered,” she said. “Six months had passed. They were trying to work out what to do with him when he suddenly discharged himself. They never saw him again.”

  “Did he tell them anything about who he was?”

  “They diagnosed amnesia, certainly about the trauma, because that’s almost inevitable. They figured he might be genuinely blank about the incident and the previous day or two. But they figured he must be able to remember things from before that, and they got the strong impression he was pretending not to. There’s a fairly extensive case file. Psychiatrists, everything. They interviewed him regularly. He was extremely resolute. Never said a word about himself.”

  “What was his physical condition when he left?”

  “Pretty fair. He had visible scars from the GSWs, that’s about all.”

  “OK,” I said. I leaned my head back and looked up at the sky.

  “Who was he?”

  “Your guess?” I said.

  “.22s to the head and chest?” Eliot said. “Dumped in the ocean? It was organized crime. An assassination. Some kind of hit man got to him.”

  I said nothing. Looked up at the sky.

  “Who was he?” Duffy said again.

  I kept on looking up at the sky and dragged myself ten years backward through time, to a whole different world.

  “You know anything about tanks?” I asked.

  “Military tanks? Tracks and guns? Not really.”

  “There’s nothing to them,” I said. “I mean, you like them to be able to move fast, you want some reliability, you don’t object to some fuel economy. But if I’ve got a tank and you’ve got a tank, what’s the only thing I really want to know?”

  “What?”

  “Can I shoot you before you can shoot me? That’s what I want to know. If we’re a mile apart, can my gun reach you? Or can your gun reach me?”

  “So?”

  “Of course, physics being physics, the likely answer is if I can hit you at a mile, then you can hit me at a mile. So it comes down to ammunition. If I stand off another two hundred yards so your shell bounces off me without hurting me, can I develop a shell that doesn’t bounce off you? That’s what tanks are all about. The guy in the ocean was an army intelligence officer who had been blackmailing an army weapons specialist.”

  “Why was he in the ocean?”

  “Did you watch the Gulf War on TV?” I asked.

  “I did,” Eliot said.

  “Forget about the smart bombs,” I said. “The real star of the show was the M1A1 Abrams main battle tank. It scored about four hundred to zip against the Iraqis, who were using the best anybody ever had to give them. But having the war on TV meant that we’d shown our hand to the whole world, so we better get on with dreaming up some new stuff for the next time around. So we got on with it.”

  “And?” Duffy asked.

  “If you want a shell to fly farther and hit harder, you can stuff more propellant into it. Or make it lighter. Or both. Of course, if you’re stuffing more propellant into it, you’ve got to do something pretty radical elsewhere to make it lighter. Which is what they did. They took the explosive charge out of it. Which sounds weird, right? Like, what’s it going to do? Go clang and bounce off? But they changed the shape. They dreamed up this thing that looks like a giant lawn dart. Built-in fins and all. It’s cast from tungsten and depleted uranium. The densest metals you can find. It goes real fast and real far. They called it the long-rod penetrator.”

  Duffy glanced at me with her eyelids low and smiled and blushed all at the same time. I smiled back.

  “They changed the name,” I said. “Now it’s called the APFSDS. I told you they like initials. Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot. It’s powered by its own little rocket motor, basically. It hits the enemy tank with tremendous ki
netic energy. The kinetic energy changes to heat energy, just like they teach you in high school physics. It melts its way through in a split second and sprays the inside of the enemy tank with a jet of molten metal, which kills the tankers and blows up anything explosive or flammable. It’s a very neat trick. And either way, you shoot, you score, because if the enemy armor is too thick or you’ve fired from too far away, the thing just sticks partway in like a dart and spalls, which means it fragments the inner layer of the armor and throws scabs of scalding metal around inside like a hand grenade. The enemy crew come apart like frogs in a blender. It was a brilliant new weapon.”

  “What about the guy in the ocean?”

  “He got the blueprints from the guy he was blackmailing,” I said. “Piece by piece, over a long period of time. We were watching him. We knew exactly what he was doing. He was aiming to sell them to Iraqi Intelligence. The Iraqis wanted to level the playing field for the next time around. The U.S. Army didn’t want that to happen.”

  Eliot stared at me. “So they had the guy killed?”

  I shook my head. “We sent a couple of MPs down to arrest him. Standard operating procedure, all legal and aboveboard, believe me. But it went wrong. He got away. He was going to disappear. The U.S. Army really didn’t want that to happen.”

  “So then they had him killed?”

  I looked up at the sky again. Didn’t answer.

  “That wasn’t standard procedure,” Eliot said. “Was it?”

  I said nothing.

  “It was off the books,” he said. “Wasn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “But he didn’t die,” Duffy said. “What was his name?”

  “Quinn,” I said. “Turned out to be the single worst guy I ever met.”

  “And you saw him in Beck’s car on Saturday?”

  I nodded. “He was being chauffeured away from Symphony Hall.”

  I gave them all the details I had. But as I talked we all knew the information was useless. It was inconceivable that Quinn would be using his previous identity. So all I had to offer was a physical description of a plain-looking white man about fifty years old with two .22 GSW scars on his forehead. Better than nothing, but it didn’t really get them anywhere.

  “Why didn’t his prints match?” Eliot asked.

  “He was erased,” I said. “Like he never existed.”

  “Why didn’t he die?”

  “Silenced .22,” I said. “Our standard issue weapon for covert close work. But not a very powerful weapon.”

  “Is he still dangerous?”

  “Not to the army,” I said. “He’s ancient history. This all was ten years ago. The APFSDS will be in the museum soon. So will the Abrams tank.”

  “So why try to trace him?”

  “Because depending on exactly what he remembers he could be dangerous to the guy who went to take him out.”

  Eliot nodded. Said nothing.

  “Did he look important?” Duffy asked. “On Saturday? In Beck’s car?”

  “He looked wealthy,” I said. “Expensive cashmere overcoat, leather gloves, silk scarf. He looked like a guy who was accustomed to being chauffeured around. He just jumped right in, like he did it all the time.”

  “Did he greet the driver?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to place him,” she said. “We need context. How did he act? He was using Beck’s car, but did he look entitled? Or like somebody was doing him a favor?”

  “He looked entitled,” I said. “Like he uses it every day of the week.”

  “So is he Beck’s equal?”

  I shrugged. “He could be Beck’s boss.”

  “Partner at best,” Eliot said. “Our LA guy wouldn’t travel to meet with an underling.”

  “I don’t see Quinn as somebody’s partner,” I said.

  “What was he like?”

  “Normal,” I said. “For an intelligence officer. In most ways.”

  “Except for the espionage,” Eliot said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Except for that.”

  “And whatever got him killed off the books.”

  “That too.”

  Duffy had gone quiet. She was thinking hard. I was pretty sure she was thinking of ways she could use me. And I didn’t mind at all.

  “Will you stay in Boston?” she asked. “Where we can find you?”

  I said I would, and they left, and that was the end of day five.

  I found a scalper in a sports bar and spent most of days six and seven at Fenway Park watching the Red Sox struggling through an early-season homestand. The Friday game went seventeen innings and ended very late. So I slept most of day eight and then went back to Symphony Hall at night to watch the crowd. Maybe Quinn had season tickets to a concert series. But he didn’t show. I replayed in my mind the way he had glanced at me. It might have been just that rueful crowded-sidewalk thing. But it might have been more.

  Susan Duffy called me again on the morning of day nine, Sunday. She sounded different. She sounded like a person who had done a lot more thinking. She sounded like a person with a plan.

  “Hotel lobby at noon,” she said.

  She showed up in a car. Alone. The car was a Taurus built down to a very plain specification. It was grimy inside. A government vehicle. She was wearing faded denim jeans with good shoes and a battered leather jacket. Her hair was newly washed and combed back from her forehead. I got in on the passenger side and she crossed six lanes of traffic and drove straight into the mouth of a tunnel that led to the Mass Pike.

  “Zachary Beck has a son,” she said.

  She took an underground curve fast and the tunnel ended and we came out into the weak midday April light, right behind Fenway.

  “He’s a college junior,” she said. “Some small no-account liberal-arts place, not too far from here, as it happens. We talked to a classmate in exchange for burying a cannabis problem. The son is called Richard Beck. Not a popular person, a little strange. Seems very traumatized by something that happened about five years ago.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “He was kidnapped.”

  I said nothing.

  “You see?” Duffy said. “You know how often regular people get kidnapped these days?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Doesn’t happen,” she said. “It’s an extinct crime. So it must have been a turf war thing. It’s practically proof his dad’s a racketeer.”

  “That’s a stretch.”

  “OK, but it’s very persuasive. And it was never reported. FBI has no record of it. Whatever happened was handled privately. And not very well. The classmate says Richard Beck is missing an ear.”

  “So?”

  She didn’t answer. She just drove west. I stretched out on the passenger seat and watched her out of the corner of my eye. She looked good. She was long and lean and pretty, and she had life in her eyes. She was wearing no makeup. She was one of those women who absolutely didn’t need to. I was very happy to let her drive me around. But she wasn’t just driving me around. She was taking me somewhere. That was clear. She had come with a plan.

  “I studied your whole service record,” she said. “In great detail. You’re an impressive guy.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “And you’ve got big feet,” she said. “That’s good, too.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see,” she said.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “We’re very alike,” she said. “You and me. We have something in common. I want to get close to Zachary Beck to get my agent back. You want to get close to him to find Quinn.”

  “Your agent is dead. Eight weeks now, it would be a miracle. You should face it.”

  She said nothing.

  “And I don’t care about Quinn.”

  She glanced right and shook her head.

  “You do,” she said. “You really do. I can see that from here. It’s eating you up. He’s unfinished business. And my
guess is you’re the sort of guy who hates unfinished business.” Then she paused for a second. “And I’m proceeding on the assumption that my agent is still alive, unless and until you supply definitive proof to the contrary.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “I can’t use one of my people,” she said. “You understand that, right? This whole thing is illegal as far as the Justice Department is concerned. So whatever I do next has to stay off the books. And my guess is you’re the sort of guy who understands off-the-books operations. And is comfortable with them. Even prefers them, maybe.”

  “So?”

  “I need to get somebody inside Beck’s place. And I’ve decided it’s going to be you. You’re going to be my very own long-rod penetrator.”

  “How?”

  “Richard Beck is going to take you there.”

  She came off the pike about forty miles west of Boston and turned north into the Massachusetts countryside. We passed through picture-perfect New England villages. Fire departments were out on the curbs polishing their trucks. Birds were singing. People were putting stuff on their lawns and pruning their bushes. There was the smell of woodsmoke in the air.

  We stopped at a motel in the middle of nowhere. It was an immaculate place with quiet brick facings and blinding white trim. There were five cars in the lot. They were blocking access to the five end rooms. They were all government vehicles. Steven Eliot was waiting in the middle room with five men. They had hauled their desk chairs in from their own rooms. They were sitting in a neat semicircle. Duffy led me inside and nodded to Eliot. I figured it was a nod that meant: I told him, and he hasn’t said no. Yet. She moved to the window and turned so that she faced the room. The daylight was bright behind her. It made her hard to see. She cleared her throat. The room went quiet.

  “OK, listen up, people,” she said. “One more time, this is off the books, this is not officially sanctioned, and this will be done on our own time and at our own risk. Anybody wants out, just leave now.”

  Nobody moved. Nobody left. It was a smart tactic. It showed me she and Eliot had at least five guys who would follow them to hell and back.