I hung up and called Garber's office. He wasn't in. So I left a message detailing my travel plans and saying I would be out for seventy-two hours. I didn't give a reason. Then I hung up and sat at my desk, numb. Five minutes later Summer came in. She had a sheaf of motor-pool paper with her. I guess she planned on compiling her Humvee list there and then, right in front of me.
"I have to go to Paris," I said.
"Paris, Texas?" she said. "Or Paris, Kentucky, or Paris, Tennessee?"
"Paris, France," I said.
"Why?"
"My mother is sick."
"Your mother lives in France?"
"Paris," I said.
"Why?"
"Because she's French."
"Is it serious?"
"Being French?"
"No, whatever she's sick with."
I shrugged. "I don't really know. But I think so."
"I'm very sorry."
"I need a car," I said. "I need to get to Dulles, right now."
"I'll drive you," she said. "I like driving."
She left the paperwork on my desk and went to retrieve the Chevrolet we had used before. I went to my quarters and packed an army duffel with one of everything from my closet. Then I put on my long coat. It was cold, and I didn't expect Europe was going to be any warmer. Not in early January. Summer brought the car to my door. She kept it at thirty until we were off-post. Then she lit it up like a rocket and headed north. She was quiet for a spell. She was thinking. Her eyelids were moving.
"We should tell the Green Valley cops," she said. "If we think Mrs. Kramer was killed because of the briefcase."
I shook my head. "Telling them won't bring her back. And if she was killed because of the briefcase we'll find whoever did it from our end."
"What do you want me to do while you're gone?"
"Work the lists," I said. "Check the gate log. Find the woman, find the briefcase, put the agenda in a very safe place. Then check on who Vassell and Coomer called from the hotel. Maybe they sent an errand boy out into the night."
"You think that's possible?"
"Anything's possible."
"But they didn't know where Kramer was."
"That's why they tried the wrong place."
"Who would they have sent?"
"Bound to be someone who has their interests close to his heart."
"OK," she said.
"And find out who was driving them just now."
"OK," she said.
We didn't speak again, all the way to Dulles.
I met my brother Joe in the line at the Air France ticket desk. He had booked seats for both of us on the first morning flight. Now he was lining up to pay for them. I hadn't seen him for almost three years. The last time we had been together was at our father's funeral. Since then we had gone our separate ways.
"Good morning, little brother," he said.
He was wearing an overcoat and a suit and a tie, and he looked pretty good in them. He was two years older than me, and he always had been, and he always would be. As a kid I used to study him and think, That's how I'll look when I grow up. Now I found myself doing it again. From a distance we could have been mistaken for each other. Standing side by side it was obvious that he was an inch taller and a little slighter than me. But mostly it was obvious that he was a little older than me. It looked like we had started out together, but he had seen the future first, and it had aged him, and worn him down.
"How are you, Joe?" I said.
"Can't complain."
"Busy?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
I nodded and said nothing. Truth is, I didn't know exactly what he did for a living. He had probably told me. It wasn't a national secret or anything. It was something to do with the Treasury Department. He had probably told me all the details and I probably hadn't listened. Now it seemed too late to ask.
"You were in Panama," he said. "Operation Just Cause, right?"
"Operation Just Because," I said. "That's what we called it."
"Just because what?"
"Just because we could. Just because we all had to have something to do. Just because we've got a new Commander-in-Chief who wants to look tough."
"Is it going well?"
"It's like Notre Dame against the Tumble Tots. How else is it going to go?"
"You got Noriega yet?"
"Not yet."
"So why did they post you back here?"
"We took twenty-seven thousand guys," I said. "It wasn't down to me personally."
He smiled briefly and then got that narrow-eyed look I remembered from childhood. It meant he was figuring out some pedantic and convoluted line of reasoning. But we got to the head of the line before he had time to tell me about it. He took out his credit card and paid for the flights. Maybe he expected me to pay him back for mine, maybe he didn't. He didn't make it clear either way.
"Let's get coffee now," he said.
Joe was probably the only other human on the planet who liked coffee as much as I did. He started drinking it when he was six. I copied him immediately. I was four. Neither of us has stopped since. The Reacher brothers' need for caffeine makes heroin addiction look like an amusing little take-it-or-leave-it sideline.
We found a place with a W-shaped counter snaking through it. It was three-quarters empty. It was harshly lit with fluorescent tubes and the vinyl on the stools was sticky. We sat side by side and rested our forearms on the counter in the universal pose of early-morning travelers everywhere. A guy in an apron put mugs in front of us without asking. Then he filled them with coffee from a flask. The coffee smelled fresh. The place was changing over from the all-night service to the breakfast menu. I could hear eggs frying.
"What happened in Panama?" Joe asked.
"To me?" I said. "Nothing."
"What were your orders there?"
"Supervision."
"Of what?"
"Of the process," I said. "The Noriega thing is supposed to look judicial. He's supposed to stand trial here in the States. So we're supposed to grab him up with some kind of formality. Some way that will look acceptable when we get him in a courtroom."
"You were going to read him his Miranda rights?"
"Not exactly. But it had to be better than some cowboy thing."
"Did you screw up?"
"I don't think so."
"Who replaced you?"
"Some other guy."
"Rank?"
"Same," I said.
"A rising star?"
I sipped my coffee. Shook my head. "I never met him before. But he seemed like a bit of an asshole to me."
Joe nodded and picked up his mug. Said nothing.
"What?" I said.
"Bird's not a small post," he said. "But it's not real big either, right? What are you working on?"
"Right now? Some two-star died and I can't find his briefcase."
"Homicide?"
I shook my head. "Heart attack."
"When?"
"Last night."
"After you got there?"
I said nothing.
"You sure you didn't screw up?" Joe said.
"I don't think so," I said again.
"So why did they pull you out of Panama? One day you're supervising the Noriega process, and the next day you're in North Carolina with nothing to do? And you'd still have nothing to do if the general hadn't died."
"I got orders," I said. "You know how it is. You have to assume they know what they're doing."
"Who signed the orders?"
"I don't know."
"You should find out. Find out who wanted you at Bird badly enough to pull you out of Panama and replace you with an asshole. And you should find out why."
The guy in the apron refilled our mugs. Shoved plastic menus in front of us.
"Eggs," Joe said. "Over well, bacon, toast."
"Pancakes," I said. "Egg on the top, bacon on the side, plenty of syrup."
The guy took the menus back and went away and Joe turned around on his stool and sat back-to with his legs stretched way out into the aisle.
"What exactly did her doctor say?" I asked him.
He shrugged. "Not very much. No details, no diagnosis. No real information. European doctors aren't very good with bad news. They hedge around it all the time. Plus, there's a privacy issue, obviously."
"But we're headed over there for a reason?"
He nodded. "He suggested we might want to come. And then he hinted that sooner might be better than later."
"What is she saying?"
"That it's all a lot of fuss about nothing. But that we're always welcome to visit."
We finished our breakfast and I paid for it. Then Joe gave me my ticket, like a transaction. I was sure he earned more than me, but probably not enough to make an airline ticket proportional to a plate of eggs and bacon with toast on the side. But I took the deal. We got off our stools and got our bearings and headed for the check-in counter.
"Take your coat off," he said.
"Why?"
"I want the clerk to see your medal ribbons," he said. "Military action going on overseas, we might get an upgrade."
"It's Air France," I said. "France isn't even a military member of NATO."
"The check-in clerk will be American," Joe said. "Try it."
I shrugged out of my coat. Folded it over my arm and walked sideways so the left of my chest stuck out forward.
"OK now?" I said.
"Perfect," he said, and smiled.
I smiled back. Left-to-right on the top row I wear the Silver Star, the Defense Superior Service Medal, and the Legion of Merit. Second row has the Soldier's Medal, the Bronze Star, and my Purple Heart. The bottom two rows are the junk awards. I won all of the good stuff purely by accident and none of it means very much to me. Using it to get an upgrade out of an airline clerk is about what it's good for. But Joe liked the top two rows. He served five years in Military Intelligence and didn't get past the junk.
We made it to the head of the line and he put his passport and ticket on the counter along with a Treasury Department ID. Then he stepped behind my shoulder. I put my own passport and ticket down. He nudged me in the back. I turned a little sideways and looked at the clerk.
"Can you find us something with legroom?" I asked him.
He was a small man, middle-aged, tired. He looked up at us. Together we measured almost thirteen feet tall and weighed about four hundred fifty pounds. He studied the Treasury ID and looked at my uniform and pattered on his keyboard and came up with a forced smile.
"We'll seat you gentlemen up front," he said.
Joe nudged me in the back again and I knew he was smiling.
We were in the last row of the first-class cabin. We were talking, but we were avoiding the obvious subject. We talked about music, and then politics. We had another breakfast. We drank coffee. Air France makes pretty good coffee in first class.
"Who was the general?" Joe asked.
"Guy called Kramer," I said. "An Armored commander in Europe."
"Armored? So why was he at Bird?"
"He wasn't on the post. He was at a motel thirty miles away. Rendezvous with a woman. We think she ran away with his briefcase."
"Civilian?"
I shook my head. "We think she was an officer from Bird. He was supposed to be overnighting in D.C. on his way to California for a conference."
"That's a three-hundred-mile detour."
"Two hundred and ninety-eight."
"But you don't know who she is."
"She's fairly senior. She drove her own Humvee out to the motel."
"She has to be fairly senior. Kramer's known her for a good spell, to make it worth driving a five-hundred-ninety-six-mile round-trip detour."
I smiled. Anyone else would have said a six-hundred-mile detour. But not my brother. Like me he has no middle name. But it should be Pedantic. Joe Pedantic Reacher.
"Bird is still all infantry, right?" he said. "Some Rangers, some Delta, but mostly grunts, as I recall. So have you got many senior women?"
"There's a Psy-Ops school now," I said. "Half the instructors are women."
"Rank?"
"Some captains, some majors, a couple of light colonels."
"What was in the briefcase?"
"The agenda for the California conference," I said. "Kramer's staffers are pretending there isn't one."
"There's always an agenda," Joe said.
"I know."
"Check the majors and the light colonels," he said. "That would be my advice."
"Thank you," I said.
"And find out who wanted you at Bird," he said. "And why. This Kramer thing wasn't the reason. We know that for sure. Kramer was alive and well when your orders were cut."
We read day-old copies of Le Matin and Le Monde. About halfway through the flight we started talking in French. We were pretty rusty, but we got by. Once learned, never forgotten. He asked me about girlfriends. I guess he figured it was an appropriate subject for discussion in the French language. I told him I had been seeing a girl in Korea but since then I had been moved to the Philippines and then Panama and now to North Carolina so I didn't expect to see her again. I told him about Lieutenant Summer. He seemed interested in her. He told me he wasn't seeing anyone.
Then he switched back to English and asked when I had last been in Germany.
"Six months ago," I said.
"It's the end of an era," he said. "Germany will reunify. France will renew its nuclear testing because a reunified Germany will bring back bad memories. Then it will propose a common currency for the EC as a way of keeping the new Germany inside the tent. Ten years from now Poland will be in NATO and the USSR won't exist anymore. There'll be some rump nation. Maybe it will be in NATO too."
"Maybe," I said.
"So Kramer chose a good time to check out. Everything will be different in the future."
"Probably."
"What are you going to do?"
"When?"
He turned in his seat and looked at me. "There's going to be force reduction, Jack. You should face it. They're not going to keep a million-man army going, not when the other guy has fallen apart."
"He hasn't fallen apart yet."
"But he will. It'll be over within a year. Gorbachev won't last. There'll be a coup. The old communists will make one last play, but it won't stick. Then the reformers will be back forever. Yeltsin, probably. He's OK. So in D.C. the temptation to save money will be irresistible. It'll be like a hundred Christmases coming all at once. Never forget your Commander-in-Chief is primarily a politician."
I thought back to the sergeant with the baby son.
"It'll happen slowly," I said.
Joe shook his head. "It'll happen faster than you think."
"We'll always have enemies," I said.
"No question," he said. "But they'll be different kinds of enemies. They won't have ten thousand tanks lined up across the plains of Germany."
I said nothing.
"You should find out why you're at Bird," Joe said. "Either nothing much is happening there, and therefore you're on the way down, or something is happening there, and they want you around to deal with it, in which case you're on the way up."
I said nothing.
"You need to know either way," he said. "Force reduction is coming, and you need to know if you're up or down right now."
"They'll always need cops," I said. "They bring it down to a two-man army, one of them better be an MP."
"You should make a plan," he said.
"I never make plans."
"You need to."
I traced my fingertips across the ribbons on my chest.
"They got me a seat in the front of the plane," I said. "Maybe they'll keep me in a job."
"Maybe they will," Joe said. "But even if they do, will it be a job you want? Everything's going to get horribly second-rate."
I noticed his shirt cuffs. They were clean and crisp and secured by discreet cuff links made from silver and black onyx. His tie was a plain somber item made from silk. He had shaved carefully. The bottom of his sideburn was cut exactly square. My brother was a man horrified by anything less than the best.
"A job's a job," I said. "I'm not choosy."
We slept the rest of the way. We were woken by the pilot on the PA telling us we were about to start our descent into Roissy-Charles de Gaulle. Local time was eight o'clock in the evening. Nearly the whole of the second day of the new decade had disappeared like a mirage as we slid through one Atlantic time zone after another.
We changed some money and hiked over to the taxi line. It was a mile long, full of people and luggage. It was hardly moving. So we found a navette instead, which is what the French call an airport shuttle bus. We had to stand all the way through the dreary northern suburbs and into the center of Paris. We got out at the Place de l'Opera at nine in the evening. Paris was dark and damp and cold and quiet. Cafes and restaurants had warm lights burning behind closed doors and fogged windows. The streets were wet and lined with small parked cars. The cars were all misted over with nighttime dew. We walked together south and west and crossed the Seine at the Pont de la Concorde. Turned west again along the Quai d'Orsay. The river was dark and sluggish. Nothing was moving on it. The streets were empty. Nobody was out and about.
"Should we get flowers?" I asked.
"Too late," Joe said. "Everything's closed."
We turned left at the Place de la Resistance and walked into the Avenue Rapp, side by side. We saw the Eiffel Tower on our right as we passed the mouth of the Rue de l'Universite. It was lit up in gold. Our heels sounded like rifle shots on the silent sidewalk. We arrived at my mother's building. It was a modest six-story stone apartment house trapped between two gaudier Belle epoque facades. Joe took his hand out of his pocket and unlocked the street door.
"You have a key?" I said.
He nodded. "I've always had a key."
Inside the street door was a cobbled alley that led through to the center courtyard. The concierge's room was on the left. Beyond it was a small alcove with a small, slow elevator. We rode it up to the fifth floor. Stepped out into a high, wide hallway. It was dimly lit. It had dark decorative tiles on the floor. The right-hand apartment had tall oak double doors with a discreet brass plaque engraved: M. amp; Mme. Girard. The left-hand doors were painted off-white and labeled: Mme. Reacher.
We knocked and waited.
