by Lee Child
“He sure left in a hurry. There’s soup on the stove.”
“You think he should have washed the dishes?”
“Most people do.”
“Most people with no hands?”
“So how was he cooking soup at all?”
“With help,” Reacher said. “Don’t you think? Some welfare person, probably. The ambulance comes for Hobart, loads him up, you think some minimum-wage government housekeeper is going to stick around afterward and clean up? Because I don’t.”
Addison shrugged and closed the kitchen door.
“So where’s the bathroom?” he said.
Reacher said, “Go home and use yours.”
“What?”
“One day Hobart’s going to come back here with the kind of metal hands that can unzip his fly and he’s not going to want to think about you pissing in the same bowl as him.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not fit to piss in the same bowl as him. You left him behind.”
“You weren’t there.”
“For which you can thank your lucky stars. I’d have kicked your ass and dragged you up the line by your ears.”
Edward Lane took a step forward. “The sacrifice was necessary to save the unit.”
Reacher looked straight at him. “Sacrificing and saving are two different things.”
“Don’t question my orders.”
“Don’t question mine,” Reacher said. “Get these runts out of here. Let them piss in the gutter.”
Silence for a long moment. Nothing in Perez’s face, a scowl on Addison’s, shrewd judgment in Lane’s eyes.
“The name,” Lane said. “Tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” Reacher said.
Lane nodded to his men and they trooped out in the same order they had come in. First Perez, then Addison, with Lane bringing up the rear. Reacher listened to their feet on the stairs and waited for the street door to bang and then he stepped back to the bedroom. Watched them climb into the black Range Rover and take off north. He let a minute pass and when he judged they were through the light at Houston he walked back to the foyer and knocked on the bathroom door.
“They’re gone,” he said.
Reacher carried Hobart back to the sofa and sat him up like a rag doll. Dee Marie stepped into the kitchen and Pauling looked down at the floor and said, “We heard everything.”
Dee Marie said, “The soup is still warm. Lucky that guy didn’t get any closer.”
“Lucky for him,” Reacher said.
Hobart shifted his position on the sofa and said, “Don’t kid yourself. These are not pussycats. You were minutes away from getting hurt bad. Lane doesn’t hire nice people.”
“He hired you.”
“Yes, he did.”
“So?”
“I’m not a nice person,” Hobart said. “I fit right in.”
“You seem OK.”
“That’s just the sympathy vote.”
“So how bad are you?”
“I was dishonorably discharged. Kicked out of the Corps.”
“Why?”
“I refused an order. Then I beat the shit out of the guy who gave it to me.”
“What was the order?”
“To fire on a civilian vehicle. In Bosnia.”
“Sounds like an illegal order.”
Hobart shook his head. “No, my lieutenant was right. The car was full of bad guys. They wounded two of our own later that day. I screwed up.”
Reacher asked, “Suppose it had been Perez and Addison in those forward OPs in Africa? Would you have left them there?”
“A Marine’s job is to obey orders,” Hobart said. “And I had learned the hard way that sometimes officers know better.”
“Bottom line? No bullshit?”
Hobart stared into space. “I wouldn’t have left them there. No way on earth. I don’t see how anyone could. I sure as hell don’t see how they could have left me there. And I wish to God they hadn’t.”
“Soup,” Dee Marie said. “Time to stop talking and start eating.”
Pauling said, “We should move you first.”
“No need now,” Dee Marie said. “They won’t come back. Right now this is the safest place in the city.”
“It would be easier on you.”
“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for right.”
Then the buzzer from the street sounded and they heard a Russian accent on the intercom. The Soviet super from Sixth Avenue, come to fix the broken door. Reacher met him in the hallway. He was carrying a bag of tools and a length of spare lumber.
“Now we’re definitely OK,” Dee Marie said.
So Pauling just paid the Russian and she and Reacher walked down the stairs to the street.
Pauling was quiet and faintly hostile as they walked. She kept her distance and looked straight ahead. Avoided looking even close to Reacher’s direction.
“What?” he asked.
“We heard everything from the bathroom,” she said.
“And?”
“You signed on with Lane. You sold out. You’re working for him now.”
“I’m working for Kate and Jade.”
“You could do that for free.”
“I wanted to test him,” Reacher said. “I still need proof it’s for real this time. If it wasn’t, he’d have backed off. He’d have said the money was off the table because I was too late. But he didn’t. He wants the guy. Therefore there is a guy.”
“I don’t believe you. It’s a meaningless test. Like Patti Joseph said, Lane’s gambling. He’s putting on a show for his men and gambling that he’s smarter than you are.”
“But he had just found out that he’s not smarter than I am. I found Hobart before he did.”
“Whatever, this is about the money, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Reacher said. “It is.”
“At least you might try to deny it.”
Reacher smiled and kept on walking.
“You ever seen a million dollars in cash?” he asked. “Ever held a million dollars in your hands? I did, today. It’s a hell of a feeling. The weight, the density. The power. It felt warm. Like a little atom bomb.”
“I’m sure it was very impressive.”
“I wanted it, Pauling. I really did. And I can get it. I’m going to find the guy anyway. For Kate and Jade. I might as well sell his name to Lane. Doesn’t change the basic proposition.”
“It does. It makes you a mercenary. Just like them.”
“Money is a great enabler.”
“What are you going to do with a million dollars anyway? Buy a house? A car? A new shirt? I just don’t see it.”
“I’m often misunderstood,” he said.
“The misunderstanding was all mine. I liked you. I thought you were better than this.”
“You work for money.”
“But I choose who I work for, very carefully.”
“It’s a lot of money.”
“It’s dirty money.”
“It’ll spend just the same.”
“Well, enjoy it.”
“I will.”
She said nothing.
He said, “Pauling, give me a break.”
“Why would I?”
“Because first I’m going to pay you for your time and your services and your expenses, and then I’m going to send Hobart down to Birmingham or Nashville and get him fixed up right. I’m going to buy him a lifetime’s supply of spare parts and I’m going to rent him a place to live and I’m going to give him some walking-around money because my guess is he’s not very employable right now. At least not in his old trade. And then if there’s anything left, then sure, I’ll buy myself a new shirt.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. I need a new shirt.”
“No, about Hobart?”
“Dead serious. He needs it. He deserves it. That’s for damn sure. And it’s only right that Lane should pay for it.”
Pauling stopped walkin
g. Grabbed Reacher’s arm and stopped him, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I apologize.”
“Then make it up to me.”
“How?”
“Work with me. We’ve got a lot to do.”
“You told Lane you’d give him a name tomorrow.”
“I had to say something. I had to get him out of there.”
“Can we do it by tomorrow?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Where are we going to start?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
CHAPTER 48
They started in Lauren Pauling’s apartment. She lived in a small co-op on Barrow Street, near West 4th. The building had once been a factory and had vaulted brick ceilings and walls two feet thick. Her apartment was painted mostly yellow and felt warm and friendly. There was an alcove bedroom with no window, and a bathroom, and a kitchen, and a room with a sofa and a chair and a television set and a lot of books. There were muted rugs and soft textures and dark woods. It was a single woman’s place. That was clear. One mind had conceived it and decorated it. There were small framed photographs of children, but Reacher knew without asking that they were nephews and nieces.
He sat on the sofa and rested his head back on the cushion and stared up at the vaulted brick above. He believed that anything could be reverse-engineered. If one human or group of humans put something together, then another human or group of humans could take it apart again. It was a basic principle. All that was required was empathy and thought and imagination. And he liked pressure. He liked deadlines. He liked a short and finite time to crack a problem. He liked a quiet space to work in. And he liked a similar mind to work with. He started out with no doubt at all that he and Pauling could get the whole thing figured before morning.
That feeling lasted about thirty minutes.
Pauling dimmed the lights and lit a candle and called out for Indian food. The clock in Reacher’s head crawled around to nine-thirty. The sky outside the window turned from navy blue to black and the city lights burned bright. Barrow Street itself was quiet but the cabs on West 4th used their horns a lot. Occasionally an ambulance would scream by a couple of blocks over, heading up to Saint Vincent’s. The room felt like part of the city but a little detached, too. A little insulated. A partial sanctuary.
“Do that thing again,” Reacher said.
“What thing?”
“The brainstorming thing. Ask me questions.”
“OK, what have we got?”
“We’ve got an impossible takedown and a guy that can’t speak.”
“And the tongue thing is culturally unrelated to Africa.”
“But the money is related to Africa, because it’s exactly half.”
Silence in the room. Nothing but a faraway siren burning past, going south on Seventh Avenue.
“Start at the very beginning,” Pauling said. “What was the very first false note? The first red flag? Anything at all, however trivial or random.”
So Reacher closed his eyes and recalled the beginning: the granular feel of the foam espresso cup in his hand, textured, temperature-neutral, neither warm nor cold. He recalled Gregory’s walk in from the curb, alert, economical. His manner while questioning the waiter, watchful, aware, like the elite veteran he was. His direct approach to the sidewalk table.
Reacher said, “Gregory asked me about the car I had seen the night before and I told him it drove away before eleven forty-five, and he said no, it must have been closer to midnight.”
“A dispute about timing?”
“Not really a dispute. Just a trivial thing, like you said.”
“What would it mean?”
“That I was wrong or he was.”
Pauling said, “You don’t wear a watch.”
“I used to. I broke it. I threw it away.”
“So he was more likely to be right.”
“Except I’m usually pretty sure what time it is.”
“Keep your eyes closed, OK?”
“OK.”
“What time is it now?”
“Nine thirty-six.”
“Not bad,” Pauling said. “My watch says nine thirty-eight.”
“Your watch is fast.”
“Are you serious?”
Reacher opened his eyes. “Absolutely.”
Pauling rooted around on her coffee table and came up with the TV remote. Turned on the Weather Channel. The time was displayed in the corner of the screen, piped in from some official meteorological source, accurate to the second. Pauling checked her watch again.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m two minutes fast.”
Reacher said nothing.
“How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it was twenty-four hours after the event that Gregory asked you about it. How precise could you have been?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What would it mean if Gregory was wrong and you were right?”
“Something,” Reacher said. “But I’m not sure what exactly.”
“What was the next thing?”
Right now more likely death than life, Gregory had said. That had been the next thing. Reacher had checked his cup again and seen less than a lukewarm eighth-inch of espresso left, all thick and scummy. He had put it down and said OK, so let’s go.
He said, “Something about getting into Gregory’s car. The blue BMW. Something rang a bell. Not right then, but afterward. In retrospect.”
“You don’t know what?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then we arrived at the Dakota and it was off to the races.” The photograph, Reacher thought. After that, everything was about the photograph.
Pauling said, “We need to take a break. We can’t force these things.”
“You got beer in the refrigerator?”
“I’ve got white wine. You want some?”
“I’m being selfish. You didn’t blow it five years ago. You did everything right. We should take a minute to celebrate that.”
Pauling was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.
“We should,” she said. “Because to be honest it feels really good.”
Reacher went with her to the kitchen and she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and he opened it with a corkscrew from a drawer. She took two glasses from a cupboard and set them side by side on the counter. He filled them. They picked them up and clinked them together.
“Living well is the best revenge,” he said.
They each took a sip and moved back to the sofa. Sat close together. He asked, “Did you quit because of Anne Lane?”
She said, “Not directly. I mean, not right away. But ultimately, yes. You know how these things are. It’s like a naval convoy where one of the battleships gets holed below the waterline. No visible damage, but it falls a little behind, and then a little more, and it drifts a little off course, and then when the next big engagement comes along it’s completely out of sight. That was me.”
He said nothing.
She said, “But maybe I was maxed out anyway. I love the city and I didn’t want to move, and head of the New York office is an Assistant Director’s job. It was always a long shot.”
She took another sip of wine and pulled her legs up under her and turned a little sideways so she could see him better. He turned a little too, until they were more or less facing each other from a foot away.
“Why did you quit?” she asked him.
He said, “Because they told me I could.”
“You were looking to get out?”
“No, I was looking to stay in. But as soon as they said that leaving was an option it kind of broke the spell. Made me realize I wasn’t personally essential to their plans. I guess they’d have been happy enough if I stayed, but clearly it wasn’t going to break their hearts if I went.”
“You need to be needed?”
“Not really. It just broke the spell, is all. I can’t reall
y explain it.” He stopped talking and watched her, silent. She looked great in the candlelight. Liquid eyes, soft skin. Reacher liked women as much as any guy and more than most but he was always ready to find something wrong with them. The shape of an ear, the thickness of an ankle, height, size, weight. Any random thing could ruin it for him. But there was nothing wrong with Lauren Pauling. Nothing at all. That was for sure.
“Anyway, congratulations,” he said. “Sleep well tonight.”
“Maybe I will,” she said.
Then she said, “Maybe I won’t get the chance.”
He could smell her fragrance. Subtle perfume, soap, clean skin, clean cotton. Her hair fell to her collarbones. The shoulder seams on her T-shirt stood up a little and made enticing shadowy tunnels. She was slim and toned, except where she shouldn’t be.
He said, “Won’t get the chance why?”
She said, “Maybe we’ll be working all night.”
He said, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
“You’re not a dull boy,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, and leaned forward and kissed her, just lightly, on the lips. Her mouth was open a little and was cool and sweet from the wine. He slid his free hand under her hair to the back of her neck. Pulled her closer and kissed her harder. She did the same thing with her free hand. They held the clinch for a whole minute, kissing, two wine glasses held approximately level in midair. Then they parted and put their glasses down on the table and Pauling asked, “What time is it?”
“Nine fifty-one.”
“How do you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
She held the pause for another beat and then leaned in and kissed him again. Used both her hands, one behind his head, the other behind his back. He did the same thing, symmetrically. Her tongue was cool and quick. Her back was narrow. Her skin was warm. He slid his hand under her shirt. Felt her hand bunching into a tiny fist and dragging his shirt out of his waistband. Felt her nails against his skin.
“I don’t usually do this,” she said, her mouth hard against his. “Not to people I work with.”
“We’re not working,” he said. “We’re taking a break.”
“We’re celebrating.”
“That’s for sure.”
She said, “We’re celebrating the fact that we’re not Hobart, aren’t we? Or Kate Lane.”
