The Essential Jack Reacher 10-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  Sansom said, “Broken jaws and elbows? How did that happen?”

  “They were out looking for me. They might be hot shit in the hills with grenade launchers, but scuffling on the street seems not to be their main strength.”

  “Did you write on their foreheads?”

  “One of them. Why?”

  “The FBI got a call from the Bellevue emergency room. Two unidentified foreigners were dumped there after a beating. One of them had writing on his forehead.”

  “Punishment,” I said. “The Hoths must have been displeased with their performance. So they gave them up, to encourage the others.”

  “Ruthless people.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Secure rooms in the hospital. Because one of them was there before. Some previous emergency at Penn Station. He’s not saying anything. The FBI is trying to work out who the hell he is.”

  “What’s taking them so long? I wrote Lila’s name on his head. I wrote, Lila, call me. How many people named Lila is the Bureau interested in right now?”

  Sansom shook his head. “Give them some credit. The part with the name had been skinned off with a knife.”

  I stepped over and opened the second bottle of eight-dollar water. Took a sip. It tasted good. But no better than two-dollar water. Or free water, from the tap.

  “Thirteen people,” I said.

  “Plus the Hoths themselves,” Springfield said.

  “OK, fifteen.”

  “Suicide mission.”

  “We’re all going to die,” I said. “The only questions are how and when.”

  “We can’t actively help you,” Sansom said. “You understand that, right? This is going to end with a minimum of one and a maximum of fifteen homicides on the streets of New York City. We can’t be a part of that. We can’t be within a million miles of it.”

  “Because of politics?”

  “Because of a lot of reasons.”

  “I’m not asking for help.”

  “You’re a maniac.”

  “They’re going to think so.”

  “You got a schedule in mind?”

  “Soon. No sense in waiting.”

  “The minimum one homicide would be you, of course. In which case I wouldn’t know where to look for my photograph.”

  “So keep your fingers crossed for me.”

  “The responsible thing would be for you to tell me now.”

  “No, the responsible thing would be for me to get a job as a school bus driver.”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “To survive?”

  “To keep your word.”

  “What did you learn in Officer Candidate School?”

  “That brother officers are to be trusted. Especially brother officers of equal rank.”

  “There you go, then.”

  “But we weren’t really brothers. We were in very different branches of the service.”

  “You got that right. I was working hard while you were flying all over the world kissing terrorist ass. You didn’t even get a Purple Heart.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Just kidding,” I said. “But you better hope I’m not the first homicide, or you might be hearing that kind of thing all the time.”

  “So tell me now.”

  “I need you watching my back.”

  He said, “I read your record.”

  “You told me that.”

  “You got your Purple Heart for being blown up by that truck bomb in Beirut. The Marine barracks.”

  “I remember it well.”

  “You got a disfiguring scar.”

  “Want to see it?”

  “No. But you need to remember, that wasn’t the Hoths.”

  “What are you, my therapist?”

  “No. But that doesn’t make my statement any the less true.”

  “I don’t know who it was in Beirut. Nobody does, for sure. But whoever, they were the Hoths’ brother officers.”

  “You’re motivated by revenge. And you still feel guilty about Susan Mark.”

  “So?”

  “So you might not be operating at peak efficiency.”

  “Worried about me?”

  “About myself, mainly. I want my photograph back.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “At least give me a clue where it is.”

  “You know what I know. I figured it out. So you’ll figure it out.”

  “You were a cop. Different skill set.”

  “So you’ll be slower. But it ain’t rocket science.”

  “So what kind of science is it?”

  “Think like a regular person for once. Not like a soldier or a politician.”

  He tried. He failed. He said, “At least tell me why I shouldn’t destroy it.”

  “You know what I know.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Or maybe you don’t know what I know. Because you’re too close to yourself. Me, I’m just a member of the public.”

  “So?”

  “I’m sure you’re a hell of a guy, Sansom. I’m sure you’d be a great senator. But at the end of the day any senator is just one out of a hundred. They’re all fairly interchangeable. Can you give me a name? Of one individual senator who truly made a difference to anything?”

  Sansom didn’t answer.

  “Can you tell me how you personally are going to screw Al Qaeda?”

  He started to talk about the Armed Services Committee, and Foreign Relations, and Intelligence, and budgets, and oversight. Like a boilerplate speech. Like he was out on the stump. I asked him, “What part of all that wouldn’t be done by whoever else might get the job, assuming you don’t?”

  He didn’t answer. I asked him, “Imagine a cave in the north west of Pakistan. Imagine the Al Qaeda brass sitting there, right now. Are they tearing their hair out and saying, holy shit, we better not let John Sansom make it to the U.S. Senate? Are you top of their agenda?”

  He said, “Probably not.”

  “So why do they want the photograph?”

  “Small victories,” he said. “Better than nothing.”

  “It’s a lot of work for a small victory, don’t you think? Two agents plus nineteen men plus three months?”

  “The United States would be embarrassed.”

  “But not very. Look at the Rumsfeld photograph. Nobody cared. Times change, things move on. People understand that, if they even notice at all. Americans are either very mature and sensible, or very oblivious. I’m never quite sure which. But either way, that picture would be a damp squib. It might destroy you personally, but destroying one American at a time isn’t how Al Qaeda operates.”

  “It would hurt Reagan’s memory.”

  “Who cares? Most Americans don’t even remember him. Most Americans think Reagan is an airport in Washington.”

  “I think you’re underestimating.”

  “And I think you’re overestimating. You’re too close to the process.”

  “I think that photograph would hurt.”

  “But who would it hurt? What does the government think?”

  “You know that the Defense Department is trying like crazy to get it back.”

  “Is it? Then why did they give the job to their B-team?”

  “You think those guys were their B-team?”

  “I sincerely hope so. If that was their A-team, we should all move to Canada.”

  Sansom didn’t answer.

  I said, “The picture might do you some local damage in North Carolina. But apparently that’s all. We’re not seeing any kind of maximum effort from the DoD. Because there’s no real national downside.”

  “That’s not an accurate read.”

  “OK, it’s bad for us. It’s evidence of a strategic error. It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, and it’s going to put egg on our face. But that’s all. It’s not the end of the world. We’re not going to fall apart.”

  “So Al Qaeda’s expectations are too high? You’re saying they’re w
rong too? They don’t understand the American people the way you do?”

  “No, I’m saying this whole thing is a little lopsided. It’s slightly asymmetric. Al Qaeda fielded an A-team and we fielded a B-team. Therefore their desire to grab that photograph is just a little bit stronger than our desire to hold on to it.”

  Sansom said nothing.

  “And we have to ask, why wasn’t Susan Mark just told to copy it? If their aim was to embarrass us, then copying it would have been a better idea. Because when it came to light, and skeptics claimed it had been faked, which they would, then the original would still be on file, and we couldn’t have denied it with a straight face.”

  “OK.”

  “But Susan Mark wasn’t told to copy it. She was told to steal it, effectively. To take it away from us. With no trace left behind. Which added considerable risk and visibility.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means they want to have it, and equally they want us not to have it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You need to cast your mind back. You need to figure out exactly what that camera saw. Because Al Qaeda doesn’t want to publicize that photograph. They stole it because they want to suppress it.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Because however bad it is for you, there’s something in it that’s even worse for Osama bin Laden.”

  Chapter 69

  Sansom and Springfield went quiet, like I knew they would. They were casting their minds back a quarter of a century, to a dim tent above the Korengal Valley floor. They were stiffening and straightening, subconsciously repeating their formal poses. One on the left, one on the right, with their host between them. The camera lens, trained on them, aimed, zoomed, adjusted, focused. The strobe, charging, then popping, bathing the scene with light.

  What exactly did the camera see?

  Sansom said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Maybe it was us,” Springfield said. “Simple as that. Maybe meeting with Americans looks like bad karma now.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s good PR. It makes bin Laden look powerful and triumphant, and it makes us look like patsies. It has to be something else.”

  “It was a zoo in there. Chaos and mayhem.”

  “It has to be something fatally inappropriate. Little boys, little girls, animals.”

  Sansom said, “I don’t know what they would regard as inappropriate. They have a thousand rules over there. Could be something he was eating, even.”

  “Or smoking.”

  “Or drinking.”

  “There was no alcohol there,” Springfield said. “I remember that.”

  “Women?” I asked.

  “No women, either.”

  “Has to be something. Were there other visitors there?”

  “Only tribal.”

  “No foreigners?”

  “Only us.”

  “It has to be something that makes him look compromised, or weak, or deviant. Was he healthy?”

  “He seemed to be.”

  “So what else?”

  “Deviant from their laws or deviant like we mean it?”

  “Al Qaeda HQ,” I said. “Where the men are men and the goats are scared.”

  “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. We were tired. We had just walked a hundred miles through the front lines.”

  Sansom had gone quiet. Like I knew he would. Eventually he said, “This is a real bitch.”

  I said, “I know it is.”

  “I’m going to have to make a big decision.”

  “I know you are.”

  “If that picture hurts him more than it hurts me, I’m going to have to release it.”

  “No, if it hurts him at all, even a little bit, you’re going to have to release it. And then you’re going to have to suck it up and face the consequences.”

  “Where is it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “OK,” he said. “I have to watch your back. But I know what you know. And you figured it out. Which means I can figure it out. But slower. Because it ain’t rocket science. Which means the Hoths can figure it out too. Are they going to be slower? Maybe not. Maybe they’re picking it up right now.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Maybe they are.”

  “And if they’re going to suppress it, maybe I should just go ahead and let them.”

  “If they’re going to suppress it, that means it’s a valuable weapon that could be used against them.”

  Sansom said nothing.

  I said, “Remember Officer Candidate School? Something about all enemies, foreign and domestic?”

  “We take the same oath in Congress.”

  “So should you let the Hoths suppress the picture?”

  He was quiet for a very long time.

  Then he spoke.

  “Go,” he said. “Go get the Hoths before they get the picture.”

  I didn’t go. Not right then. Not immediately. I had things to think about, and plans to make. And deficiencies to overcome. I wasn’t equipped. I was wearing rubber gardening clogs and blue pants. I was unarmed. None of those things was good. I wanted to go in the dead of night, properly dressed in black. With proper shoes. And weapons. The more the merrier.

  The outfit would be easy.

  The weapons, not so much. New York City is not the best place on the planet to get hold of a private arsenal at the drop of a hat. There were probably places in the outer boroughs selling overpriced junk under the counter, but there were places in the outer boroughs selling used cars too, and fastidious drivers were well advised to stay away from them.

  Problem.

  I looked at Sansom and said, “You can’t actively help me, right?”

  He said, “No.”

  I looked at Springfield and said, “I’m heading out to a clothing store now. I figure on getting black pants and a black T-shirt and black shoes. With a black windbreaker, maybe triple-XL, kind of baggy. What do you think?”

  Springfield said, “We don’t care. We’ll be gone when you get back.”

  I went to the store on Broadway where I bought the khaki shirt prior to Elspeth Sansom’s visit. It was doing a little business and had plenty of items in stock. I found everything I needed there apart from socks and shoes. Black jeans, plain black T-shirt, and a black cotton zip-up windbreaker made for a guy with a much bigger gut than mine. I tried it on and as expected it fit OK in the arms and the shoulders and ballooned way out in front like a maternity smock.

  Perfect, if Springfield had taken the hint.

  I dressed in the changing cubicle and trashed my old stuff and paid the clerk fifty-nine dollars. Then I took her recommendation and moved on three blocks to a shoe store. I bought a pair of sturdy black lace-ups and a pair of black socks. Close to a hundred bucks. I heard my mother’s voice in my head, from long ago: At a price like that, you better make them last. Don’t scuff them up. I stepped out of the store and stamped down on the sidewalk a couple of times to settle the fit. I stopped in at a drugstore and bought a pair of generic white boxers. I figured that since everything else was new I should complete the ensemble.

  Then I started back to the hotel.

  Three paces later the phone in my pocket started to vibrate.

  Chapter 70

  I backed up against a building on the corner of 55th Street and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Restricted Call. I opened the phone and raised it to my ear.

  Lila Hoth said, “Reacher?”

  I said, “Yes?”

  “I’m still standing out in the road. I’m still waiting for the truck to hit me.”

  “It’s coming.”

  “But when will it arrive?”

  “You can sweat a spell. I’ll be with you inside a couple of days.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “I know where you are.”

  “Good. That will simplify things.”

  “And I know where the memory stick is, too.”

  “Again, good. We�
�ll keep you alive long enough for you to tell us. And then maybe a few more hours, just for the fun of it.”

  “You’re a babe in the woods, Lila. You should have stayed home and tended your goats. You’re going to die and that photograph is going all around the world.”

  “We have a fresh blank DVD,” she said. “The camera is charged up and ready for your starring role.”

  “You talk too much, Lila.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I closed the phone and headed back through the gathering evening darkness to the hotel. I went up in the elevator and unlocked my room and sat down on the bed to wait. I waited for a long time. Close to four hours. I thought I was waiting for Springfield. But in the end it was Theresa Lee who showed up.

  She knocked on the door eight minutes before midnight. I did the thing with the chain and the mirror again and let her in. She was dressed in a version of the first outfit I had ever seen her in. Pants, and a silk short-sleeve shirt. Untucked. Dark gray, not mid-gray. Less silvery. More serious.

  She was carrying a black gymnasium bag. Ballistic nylon. The way it hung from her hand I guessed it held heavy items. The way the heavy items moved and clinked I guessed they were made of metal. She put the bag on the floor near the bathroom and asked, “Are you OK?”

  “Are you?”

  She nodded. “It’s like nothing ever happened. We’re all back on the job.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “I have no idea. A man I never saw before delivered it to the precinct.”

  “Springfield?”

  “No, the name he gave was Browning. He gave me the bag and said in the interests of crime prevention I should make sure you never got your hands on it.”

  “But you brought it anyway?”

  “I’m guarding it personally. Safer than leaving it around.”

  “OK.”

  “You would have to overpower me. And assaulting police officers is against the law.”

  “True.”

  She sat down on the bed. A yard from me. Maybe less.

  She said, “We raided those three old buildings on 58th Street.”

  “Springfield told you about them?”

  “He said his name was Browning. Our counterterrorism people went in two hours ago. The Hoths aren’t there.”