The Essential Jack Reacher 10-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  Brewer didn’t ask who his caller was. He didn’t need to. He knew Patti Joseph’s voice about as well as he knew anybody’s.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “There’s a new character on the scene.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t have a name for him yet.”

  “Description?”

  “Very tall, heavily built, like a real brawler. He’s in his late thirties or early forties. Short fair hair, blue eyes. He showed up late last night.”

  “One of them?” Brewer asked.

  “He doesn’t dress like them. And he’s much bigger than the rest. But he acts like them.”

  “Acts? What have you seen him do?”

  “The way he walks. The way he moves. The way he holds himself.”

  “So you think he’s ex-military, too?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “OK,” Brewer said. “Good work. Anything else?”

  “One thing,” Patti Joseph said. “I haven’t seen the wife or the daughter in a couple of days.”

  Inside the Dakota living room the phone rang at what Reacher figured was five o’clock exactly. Lane snatched the receiver out of the cradle and clamped it to his ear. Reacher heard the drone and squawk of the electronic machine, faint and muffled. Lane said, “Put Kate on,” and there was a long, long pause. Then a woman’s voice, loud and clear. But not calm. Lane closed his eyes. Then the electronic squawk came back and Lane opened his eyes again. The squawk droned on for a whole minute. Lane listened, his face working, his eyes moving. Then the call ended. Just cut off before Lane had a chance to say anything more.

  He put the receiver back in the cradle. His face was half-filled with hope, half-filled with despair.

  “They want more money,” he said. “Instructions in an hour.”

  “Maybe I should get down there right now,” Reacher said. “Maybe they’ll throw us a curveball by changing the time interval.”

  But Lane was already shaking his head. “They threw us a different kind of curveball. They said they’re changing the whole procedure. It’s not going to be the same as before.”

  Silence in the room.

  “Is Mrs. Lane OK?” Gregory asked.

  Lane said, “There was a lot of fear in her voice.”

  “What about the guy’s voice?” Reacher asked. “Anything?”

  “It was disguised. Same as always.”

  “But beyond the sound. Think about this call and all the other calls. Word choice, word order, cadence, rhythm, flow. Is it an American or a foreigner?”

  “Why would it be a foreigner?”

  “Your line of work, if you’ve got enemies, some of them might be foreign.”

  “It’s an American,” Lane said. “I think.” He closed his eyes again and concentrated. His lips moved like he was replaying conversations in his head. “Yes, American. Certainly a native speaker. No stumbles. Never any weird or unusual words. Just normal, like you would hear all the time.”

  “Same guy every time?”

  “I think so.”

  “What about this time? Anything different? Mood? Tension? Is he still in control or is he losing it?”

  “He sounded OK,” Lane said. “Relieved, even.” Then he paused. “Like this whole thing was nearly over. Like this might be the final installment.”

  “It’s too soon,” Reacher said. “We’re not even close yet.”

  “They’re calling the shots,” Lane said.

  Nobody spoke.

  “So what do we do now?” Gregory asked.

  “We wait,” Reacher said. “Fifty-six minutes.”

  “I’m sick of waiting,” Groom said.

  “It’s all we can do,” Lane said. “We wait for instructions and we obey them.”

  “How much money?” Reacher asked. “Ten?”

  Lane looked right at him. “Guess again.”

  “More?”

  “Four and a half,” Lane said. “That’s what they want. Four million five hundred thousand U.S. dollars. In a bag.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Reacher spent the remaining fifty-five minutes puzzling over the choice of amount. It was a bizarre figure. A bizarre progression. One, five, four and a half. Altogether ten and a half million dollars. It felt like a destination figure. Like the end of a road. But it was a bizarre total. Why stop there? It made no kind of sense at all. Or did it?

  “They know you,” he said to Lane. “But maybe not all that well. As it happens you could afford more, but maybe they don’t fully appreciate that. So was there a time when ten and a half million was all the cash you had?”

  But Lane just said, “No.”

  “Could someone out there have that impression?”

  “No,” Lane said again. “I’ve had less and I’ve had more.”

  “But you’ve never had exactly ten and a half?”

  “No,” Lane said for the third time. “There’s absolutely no reason for anyone to believe that they’re cleaning me out at ten and a half.”

  So Reacher gave it up and just waited for the phone to ring.

  It rang right on time, at six in the evening. Lane picked it up and listened. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask for Kate. Reacher figured he had learned that the privilege of hearing his wife’s voice was reserved for the first call in any given sequence. The demand call. Not the instruction call.

  This instruction call lasted less than two minutes. Then the electronic squawk cut off abruptly and Lane put the receiver back in the cradle and gave a bitter little half-smile, like he was reluctantly admiring a hated opponent’s skill.

  “This is the final installment,” he said. “After this, it’s over. They promise I get her back.”

  Too soon, Reacher thought. Ain’t going to happen.

  Gregory asked, “What do we do?”

  “One hour from now,” Lane said. “One man leaves here alone with the money in the black BMW and cruises anywhere he wants. He’ll be carrying my cell phone and he’ll get a call anywhere between one and twenty minutes into the ride. He’ll be given a destination. He’s to keep the line open from that point on so they know he’s not conversing with anyone else in the car or on any other phones or on any kind of a radio net. He’ll drive to the destination he’s been given. He’ll find the Jaguar parked on the street there. The car that Taylor drove Kate in, the first morning. It’ll be unlocked. He’s to put the money on the back seat and drive away and not look back. Any chase cars, any coordination with anyone else, any tricks at all, and Kate dies.”

  “They’ve got your cell phone number?” Reacher asked.

  “Kate will have given it to them.”

  “I’ll be the driver,” Gregory said. “If you want.”

  “No,” Lane said. “I want you here.”

  “I’ll do it,” Burke said. The black guy.

  Lane nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Then what?” Reacher asked. “How do we get her back?”

  Lane said, “After they’ve counted the money, there’ll be another call.”

  “On the cell or here?”

  “Here,” Lane said. “It will take some time. Counting large sums is an arduous process. Not for me at this end. The money is already bricked and banded and labeled. But they won’t trust that. They’ll break the bands and examine the bills and count them by hand.”

  Reacher nodded. It was a problem he had never really considered before. If the money was in hundreds, that would give them forty-five thousand bills. If they could count to a hundred every sixty seconds, that would take them four hundred and fifty minutes, which was seven and a half hours. Maybe six hours drive time, and seven and a half counting time. A long night ahead, he thought. For them and for us.

  Lane said, “Why are they using the Jaguar?”

  “It’s a taunt,” Reacher said. “It’s to remind you.”

  Lane nodded.

  “Office,” he said. “Burke, and Reacher.”

  In the office Lane took a small silver Samsung p
hone out of a charging cradle and handed it to Burke. Then he disappeared, to his bedroom, maybe.

  “Gone to get the money,” Burke said.

  Reacher nodded. Gazed at the twin portraits on the desk. Two beautiful women, both equally stunning, roughly the same age, but with no real similarities. Anne Lane had been blonde and blue, somehow a child of the sixties even though she must have been born well after that decade was over. She had long straight hair parted in the middle, like a singer or a model or an actress. She had clear guileless eyes and an innocent smile. A flower child, even though house or hip hop or acid jazz would have been the thing when she got her first record player. Kate Lane was more a child of the eighties or nineties. More subtle, more worldly, more accomplished.

  “No kids with Anne, right?” Reacher asked.

  “No,” Burke said. “Thank God.”

  So maybe motherhood accounted for the difference. There was a weight to Kate, a gravity, a heft, not physical, but somewhere deep inside her. Choose one to spend the night with, you might well pick Anne. To spend the week with, you might want Kate.

  Lane came back awkwardly with a bulging leather bag. He dropped the bag on the floor and sat down at his desk.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Forty minutes,” Reacher said.

  Burke checked his watch.

  “Yes,” he said. “Forty minutes.”

  “Go wait in the other room,” Lane said. “Leave me alone.”

  Burke went for the bag but Reacher picked it up for him. It was heavy and wide, and easier for a big guy to manage. He carried it to the foyer and dropped it near the door where its predecessor had waited twelve hours before. It flopped and settled like the same dead animal. Reacher took a seat and started counting off the minutes. Burke paced. Carter Groom drummed his fingers on the arm of a chair, frustrated. The Recon Marine, beached. I’m all business, he had said. I’m nothing, away from the action. Next to him Gregory sat quiet, all British reserve. Next to him was Perez, the Latino, tiny. Next to him was Addison, with the scarred face. A knife, probably, Reacher thought. Then Kowalski, taller than the others but still small next to Reacher himself. Special Forces guys were usually small. They were usually lean, fast, and whippy. Built for endurance and stamina and full of smarts and cunning. Like foxes, not like bears.

  Nobody talked. There was nothing to talk about, except the fact that the end of a kidnap was always the period of greatest risk. What was there that compelled kidnappers to keep their word? Honor? A sense of business ethics? Why risk a complex transfer when a shallow grave and a bullet in the victim’s head were a whole lot safer and simpler? Humanity? Decency? Reacher glanced at Kate Lane’s picture next to the phone and went a little cold. She was closer to dead now than at any point in the last three days, and he knew it. He guessed they all knew it.

  “Time,” Burke said. “I’m going.”

  “I’ll carry the bag for you,” Reacher said. “You know, down to the car.”

  They rode down in the elevator. In the ground floor lobby a small dark woman in a long black coat swept past surrounded by tall men in suits, like staff or assistants or bodyguards.

  “Was that Yoko?” Reacher said.

  But Burke didn’t answer. He just walked past the doorman and out to the curb. The black BMW was waiting there. Burke opened the rear door.

  “Stick the bag on the back seat,” he said. “Easier for me that way, for a seat-to-seat transfer.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Reacher said.

  “That’s stupid, man.”

  “I’ll be on the floor in back. It’ll be safe enough.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “We have to do something. You know as well as I do there’s not going to be any cute little Checkpoint Charlie scene in this story. She’s not going to come tottering toward us through the mist and the fog, smiling bravely, with Jade holding her hand. That’s not going to happen. So we’re going to have to get proactive at some point.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “After you’ve switched the bag I’ll get out around the next corner. I’ll double back and see what I can see.”

  “Who says you’ll see anything?”

  “They’ll have four and a half million bucks sitting in an unlocked car. My guess is they won’t leave it there very long. So I’ll see something.”

  “Will it help us?”

  “A lot more than sitting upstairs doing nothing will help us.”

  “Lane will kill me.”

  “He doesn’t have to know anything about it. I’ll be back well after you. You’ll say you have no idea what happened to me. I’ll say I went for a walk.”

  “Lane will kill you if you screw it up.”

  “I’ll kill myself if I screw it up.”

  “I’m serious. He’ll kill you.”

  “My risk.”

  “Kate’s risk.”

  “You still banking on the Checkpoint Charlie scenario?”

  Burke paused. Ten seconds. Fifteen.

  “Get in,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Burke stuck Lane’s cell phone in a hands-free cradle mounted on the BMW’s dash and Reacher crawled into the rear footwell on his hands and knees. There was grit on the carpet. It was a rear-drive car and the transmission hump made it an uncomfortable location. Burke started up and waited for a hole in the traffic and then U-turned and headed south on Central Park West. Reacher squirmed around until the transmission tunnel was wedged above his hips and below his ribs.

  “Don’t hit any big bumps,” he said.

  “We’re not supposed to talk,” Burke said.

  “Only after they call.”

  “Believe it,” Burke said. “You see this?”

  Reacher struggled a little more upright and saw Burke pointing at a small black bud on the driver’s-side A-pillar up near the sun visor.

  “Microphone,” Burke said. “For the cell. Real sensitive. You sneeze back there, they’ll hear you.”

  “Will I hear them? On a speaker?”

  “On ten speakers,” Burke said. “The phone is wired through the audio system. It cuts in automatically.”

  Reacher lay down and Burke drove on, slowly. Then he made a tight right turn.

  “Where are we now?” Reacher asked.

  “Fifty-seventh Street,” Burke said. “Traffic is murder. I’m going to get on the West Side Highway and head south. My guess is they’ll want us downtown somewhere. That’s where they’ve got to be. Street parking for the Jaguar would be impossible anyplace else right now. I can come back north on the East River Drive if they don’t call before we get to the Battery.”

  Reacher felt the car stop and start, stop and start. Above him the money bag rolled one way and then the other.

  “You serious that this could be just one guy?” Burke asked.

  “Minimum of one,” Reacher said.

  “Everything’s a minimum of one.”

  “Therefore it’s possible.”

  “Therefore we should take him down. Make him talk. Solve the whole problem right there.”

  “But suppose it’s not just one guy.”

  “Maybe we should gamble.”

  “What were you?” Reacher asked. “Back in the day?”

  “Delta,” Burke said.

  “Did you know Lane in the service?”

  “I’ve known him forever.”

  “How would you have done the thing outside Bloomingdale’s?”

  “Quick and dirty inside the car. As soon as Taylor stopped.”

  “That’s what Groom said.”

  “Groom’s a smart guy, for a jarhead. You disagree with him?”

  “No.”

  “It would be the only way. This isn’t Mexico City or Bogotá or Rio de Janeiro. This is New York. You couldn’t survive a fuss on the sidewalk. You’ve got eight beat cops right there, two on each corner, armed and dangerous, worried about terrorists. No, quick and dirty inside the car would be the only w
ay at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “But why would you have been at Bloomingdale’s at all?”

  “It’s the obvious place. It’s Mrs. Lane’s favorite store. She gets all her stuff there. She loves that big brown bag.”

  “But who would have known that?”

  Burke was quiet for a spell.

  “That’s a very good question,” he said.

  Then the phone rang.

  CHAPTER 15

  The ring tone sounded weird, coming in over ten high-quality automobile speakers. It filled the whole car. It sounded very loud and rich and full and precise. The cellular network’s harsh electronic edge was taken right off it. It purred.

  “Shut up now,” Burke said.

  He leaned to his right and hit a button on the Samsung.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Good evening,” a voice said back, so slowly and carefully and mechanically that it made four separate words out of two. Like: Good-Eve-Ven-Ing.

  It was a hell of a voice. It was completely amazing. It was so heavily processed that there would be no chance of recognizing it again without the electronic machine. The machines were commercial items sold in spy stores. Reacher had seen them. They clamped over the telephone mouthpiece. On one side was a microphone, which was backed by circuit boards, and then came a small crude loudspeaker. Battery powered. There were rotary dials that shaped the sound. Zero to ten, for various different parameters. The dials on this machine must have been cranked all the way to eleven. The high frequencies were entirely missing. The low tones had been scooped out and turned around and reconstituted. They boomed and thumped like an irregular heartbeat. There was a phase effect that hissed and roared on every drawn breath and made the voice sound like it was hurtling through outer space. There was a metallic pulse that came and went. It sounded like a sheet of heavy steel being hit with a hammer. The volume was set very high. Over the BMW’s ten speakers the voice sounded huge and alien. Gigantic. Like a direct connection to a nightmare.

  “Who am I speaking with?” it asked, slowly.

  “The driver,” Burke said. “The guy with the money.”

  “I want your name,” the voice said.

  Burke said, “My name is Burke.”