just fallen off. All four bullets had been recovered, and they broke the case. They were match-grade 168-grain jacketed boat tails. Not hollow points, because of the Geneva Convention. They were an American sniper's bullets, either Army or Marines. If Barr had used a battle rifle or a sub-machine gun or a sidearm, Reacher would have got nowhere. Every firearm in theatre except the sniper rifles used standard NATO rounds, which would have cast the net way too wide, because just about all of NATO was in country. But Barr's whole purpose had been to use his own specialist weapon, just for once, this time for real. And in the process, his four thirteen-cent bullets had nailed him.
But it had been a tough, tough case. Maybe Reacher's finest ever. He had used logic, deduction, paperwork, footwork, intuition, and ultimately elimination.
At the end of the trail was James Barr, a man who had finally seen the pink mist and was strangely at peace with his capture.
He had confessed.
The confession was voluntary, fast, and complete.
Reacher never laid a hand on him. Barr talked quite freely about the experience. Then he asked questions about the investigation, like he was fascinated by the process. Clearly he had not expected to be caught. Not in a million years. He was simultaneously aggrieved and admiring. He had even acted a little sympathetic when the political snafu eventually broke him loose. Like he was sorry that Reacher's fine efforts had come to nothing.
Fourteen years later he had not confessed.
There was another difference between this time and the last time, too. But Reacher couldn't pin it down.
Something to do with how hot Kuwait City had been.
Grigor Linsky used his cell phone and called the Zee.
The Zee was the man he worked for. It wasn't just Zee. It was the Zee. It was a question of respect.
The Zee was eighty years old, but he still broke arms if he smelled disrespect. He was like an old bull. He still had his strength and his attitude. He was eighty years old because of his strength and his attitude.
Without them he would have died at age twenty. Or later, at thirty, which was about when he went insane and his real name finally slipped his mind. 'The lawyer went back to her office,' Linsky said. 'Reacher turned east off First Street. I laid back and didn't follow him. But he turned away from the bus depot. Therefore we can assume he's staying in town. My guess is he checked into the Metropole Palace. There's nothing else in that direction.' The Zee made no reply.
'Should we do anything?' Linsky asked.
'How long is he here for?'
'That depends. Clearly he's on a mission of mercy.'
The Zee said nothing.
'Should we do anything?' Linsky asked again.
There was a pause. Cellular static, and an old man breathing.
"We should maybe distract him,' the Zee said. 'Or discourage him. I'm told he was a soldier. Therefore he will probably maintain a predictable pattern of behaviour. If he's at the Metropole, he won't stay in tonight. Not there. No fun for a soldier. He'll go out somewhere. Probably alone. So there could be an incident. Use your imagination. Make it a big scenario.
Don't use our own people. And make it look natural.'
'Damage?'
'Broken bones, at least. Maybe he gets a head injury.
Maybe he winds up in the coma ward along with his buddy James Barr.' 'What about the lawyer?'
'Leave her alone. For now. We'll open that can of worms later. If we need to.'
Helen Rodin spent an hour at her desk. She took three calls. The first was from Franklin. He was bailing out.
'I'm sorry, but you're going to lose,' he said. 'And I've got a business to run. I can't put in unbilled hours on this any more.' 'Nobody likes hopeless cases,' Helen said, diplomatically. She was going to need him again, in the future. No point in holding his feet to the fire. 'Not pro bono hopeless cases,' Franklin said.
'If I get a budget, will you come back on board?'
'Sure,' Franklin said. 'Just call me.'
Then they hung up, all
But it had been a tough, tough case. Maybe Reacher's finest ever. He had used logic, deduction, paperwork, footwork, intuition, and ultimately elimination.
At the end of the trail was James Barr, a man who had finally seen the pink mist and was strangely at peace with his capture.
He had confessed.
The confession was voluntary, fast, and complete.
Reacher never laid a hand on him. Barr talked quite freely about the experience. Then he asked questions about the investigation, like he was fascinated by the process. Clearly he had not expected to be caught. Not in a million years. He was simultaneously aggrieved and admiring. He had even acted a little sympathetic when the political snafu eventually broke him loose. Like he was sorry that Reacher's fine efforts had come to nothing.
Fourteen years later he had not confessed.
There was another difference between this time and the last time, too. But Reacher couldn't pin it down.
Something to do with how hot Kuwait City had been.
Grigor Linsky used his cell phone and called the Zee.
The Zee was the man he worked for. It wasn't just Zee. It was the Zee. It was a question of respect.
The Zee was eighty years old, but he still broke arms if he smelled disrespect. He was like an old bull. He still had his strength and his attitude. He was eighty years old because of his strength and his attitude.
Without them he would have died at age twenty. Or later, at thirty, which was about when he went insane and his real name finally slipped his mind. 'The lawyer went back to her office,' Linsky said. 'Reacher turned east off First Street. I laid back and didn't follow him. But he turned away from the bus depot. Therefore we can assume he's staying in town. My guess is he checked into the Metropole Palace. There's nothing else in that direction.' The Zee made no reply.
'Should we do anything?' Linsky asked.
'How long is he here for?'
'That depends. Clearly he's on a mission of mercy.'
The Zee said nothing.
'Should we do anything?' Linsky asked again.
There was a pause. Cellular static, and an old man breathing.
"We should maybe distract him,' the Zee said. 'Or discourage him. I'm told he was a soldier. Therefore he will probably maintain a predictable pattern of behaviour. If he's at the Metropole, he won't stay in tonight. Not there. No fun for a soldier. He'll go out somewhere. Probably alone. So there could be an incident. Use your imagination. Make it a big scenario.
Don't use our own people. And make it look natural.'
'Damage?'
'Broken bones, at least. Maybe he gets a head injury.
Maybe he winds up in the coma ward along with his buddy James Barr.' 'What about the lawyer?'
'Leave her alone. For now. We'll open that can of worms later. If we need to.'
Helen Rodin spent an hour at her desk. She took three calls. The first was from Franklin. He was bailing out.
'I'm sorry, but you're going to lose,' he said. 'And I've got a business to run. I can't put in unbilled hours on this any more.' 'Nobody likes hopeless cases,' Helen said, diplomatically. She was going to need him again, in the future. No point in holding his feet to the fire. 'Not pro bono hopeless cases,' Franklin said.
'If I get a budget, will you come back on board?'
'Sure,' Franklin said. 'Just call me.'
Then they hung up, all
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