The Enemy by Lee Child Page A

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’Opéra at nine in the evening. Paris was dark and damp and cold and quiet. Cafés 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 Résistance 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’Université. 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 Époque 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