CHAPTER 2

THE BLUE GERMAN sedan turned out to be a new BMW 7-series with OSC vanity plates on it. Gregory unlocked it from ten feet away with a key fob remote and Reacher got in the front passenger seat sideways and found the switch and moved the seat back for legroom. Gregory pulled out a small silver cell phone and dialed a number.

“Incoming with a witness,” he said, clipped and British. Then he closed the phone and fired up the engine and moved out into the midnight traffic.

The ten minutes turned out to be twenty. Gregory drove north on Sixth Avenue all the way through Midtown to 57th Street and then two blocks west. He turned north on Eighth, through Columbus Circle, onto Central Park West, and into 72nd Street. He stopped outside the Dakota.

“Nice digs,” Reacher said.

“Only the best for Mr. Lane,” Gregory said, nothing in his voice.

They got out together and stood on the sidewalk and another compact man in a gray suit stepped out of the shadows and into the car and drove it away. Gregory led Reacher into the building and up in the elevator. The lobbies and the hallways were as dark and baronial as the exterior.

“You ever seen Yoko?” Reacher asked.

“No,” Gregory said.

They got out on five and Gregory led the way around a corner and an apartment door opened for them. The lobby staff must have called ahead. The door that opened was heavy oak the color of honey and the warm light that spilled out into the corridor was the color of honey, too. The apartment was a tall solid space. There was a small square foyer open to a big square living room. The living room had cool air and yellow walls and low table lights and comfortable chairs and sofas all covered in printed fabric. It was full of six men. None of them was sitting down. They were all standing up, silent. Three wore gray suits similar to Gregory’s and three were in black jeans and black nylon warm-up jackets. Reacher knew immediately they were all ex-military. Just like Gregory. They all had the look. The apartment itself had the desperate quiet feel of a command bunker far from some distant point where a battle was right then turning to shit.

All six men turned and glanced at Reacher as he stepped inside. None of them spoke. But five men then glanced at the sixth, which Reacher guessed identified the sixth man as Mr. Lane. The boss. He was half a generation older than his men. He was in a gray suit. He had gray hair, buzzed close to his scalp. He was maybe an inch above average height, and slender. His face was pale and full of worry. He was standing absolutely straight, racked with tension, with his fingertips spread and touching the top of a table that held an old-fashioned telephone and a framed photograph of a pretty woman.

“This is the witness,” Gregory said.

No reply.

“He saw the driver,” Gregory said.

The man at the table glanced down at the phone and then moved away from it, toward Reacher, looking him up and down, assessing, evaluating. He stopped a yard away and offered his hand.

“Edward Lane,” he said. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.” His accent was American, originally from some hardscrabble place far from the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Arkansas, maybe, or rural Tennessee, but in either case overlaid by long exposure to the neutral tones of the military. Reacher said his own name and shook Lane’s hand. It was dry, not warm, not cold.

“Tell me what you saw,” Lane said.

“I saw a guy get in a car,” Reacher said. “He drove it away.”

“I need detail,” Lane said.

“Reacher is ex–U.S. Army CID,” Gregory said. “He described the Benz to perfection.”

“So describe the driver,” Lane said.

“I saw more of the car than the driver,” Reacher said.

“Where were you?”

“In a café. The car was a little north and east of me, across the width of Sixth Avenue. Maybe a twenty-degree angle, maybe ninety feet away.”

“Why were you looking at it?”

“It was badly parked. It looked out of place. I guessed it was on a fireplug.”

“It was,” Lane said. “Then what?”

“Then a guy crossed the street toward it. Not at a crosswalk. Through gaps in the traffic, at an angle. The angle was more or less the same as my line of sight, maybe twenty degrees. So most of what I saw was his back, all the way.”

“Then what?”

“He stuck the key in the door and got inside. Took off.”

“Going north, obviously, this being Sixth Avenue. Did he turn?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Blue jeans, blue shirt, blue baseball cap, white sneakers. The clothing was old and comfortable. The guy was average height, average weight.”

“Age?”

“I didn’t see his face. Most of what I saw was his back. But he didn’t move like a kid. He was at least in his thirties. Maybe forty.”

“How exactly did he move?”

“He was focused. He headed straight for the car. Not fast, but there was no doubt where he was going. The way he held his head, I think he was looking directly at the car the whole way. Like a definite destination. Like a target. And the way he held his shoulder, I think he might have had the key out in front of him, horizontally. Like a tiny lance. Focused, and intent. And urgent. That’s how he moved.”

“Where did he come from?”

“From behind my shoulder, more or less. He could have been walking north, and then stepped off the sidewalk at the café, north and east through the traffic.”

“Would you recognize him again?”

“Maybe,” Reacher said. “But only by his clothes and his walk and his posture. Nothing that would convince anyone.”

“If he crossed through the traffic he must have glanced south to see what was coming at him. At least once. So you should have seen the right side of his face. Then when he was behind the wheel, you should have seen the left side.”

“Narrow angles,” Reacher said. “And the light wasn’t great.”

“There must have been headlight beams on him.”

“He was white,” Reacher said. “No facial hair. That’s all I saw.”

“White male,” Lane said. “Thirty-five to forty-five. I guess that eliminates about eighty percent of the population, maybe more, but it’s not good enough.”

“Didn’t you have insurance?” Reacher asked.

“This is not about the car,” Lane said.

“It was empty,” Reacher said.

“It wasn’t empty,” Lane said.

“So what was in it?”

“Thank you, Mr. Reacher,” Lane said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

He turned and walked back to where he had started, next to the table with the phone and the photograph. He stood erect beside it and spread his fingers again and laid the tips lightly on the polished wood, right next to the telephone, like his touch might detect an incoming call before the electronic pulse started the bell.

“You need help,” Reacher said. “Don’t you?”

“Why would you care?” Lane asked.

“Habit,” Reacher said. “Reflex. Professional curiosity.”

“I’ve got help,” Lane said. He gestured with his free hand around the room. “Navy SEALs, Delta Force, Recon Marines, Green Berets, SAS from Britain. The best in the world.”

“You need a different kind of help. The guy who took your car, these folks can start a war against him, that’s for sure. But first you need to find him.”

No reply.

“What was in the car?” Reacher asked.

“Tell me about your career,” Lane said.

“It’s been over a long time. That’s its main feature.”

“Final rank?”

“Major.”

“Army CID?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Investigator?”

“Basically.”

“A good one?”

“Good enough.”

“110th Special Unit?”

“Some of the time. You?”

“Rangers and Delta. Started in Vietnam, ended in the Gulf the first time around. Started a second lieutenant, finished a full colonel.”

“What was in the car?”

Lane looked away. Held still and quiet for a long, long time. Then he looked back, like a decision had been made.

“You need to give me your word about something,” he said.

“Like what?”

“No cops. That’s going to be your first piece of advice, go to the cops. But I’ll refuse to do it, and I need your word that you won’t go behind my back.”

Reacher shrugged.

“OK,” he said.

“Say it.”

“No cops.”

“Say it again.”

“No cops,” Reacher said again.

“You got an ethical problem with that?”

“No,” Reacher said.

“No FBI, no nobody,” Lane said. “We handle this ourselves. Understand? You break your word, I’ll put your eyes out. I’ll have you blinded.”

“You’ve got a funny way of making friends.”

“I’m looking for help here, not friends.”

“My word is good,” Reacher said.

“Say you understand what I’ll do if you break it.”

Reacher looked around the room. Took it all in. A quiet desperate atmosphere and six Special Forces veterans, all full of subdued menace, all as hard as nails, all looking right back at him, all full of unit loyalty and hostile suspicion of the outsider.

“You’ll have me blinded,” Reacher said.

“You better believe it,” Lane said.

“What was in the car?”

Lane moved his hand away from the phone. He picked up the framed photograph. He held it two-handed, flat against his chest, high up, so that Reacher felt he had two people staring back at him. Above, Lane’s pale and worried features. Below, under glass, a woman of breathtaking classical beauty. Dark hair, green eyes, high cheekbones, a bud of a mouth, photographed with passion and expertise and printed by a master.

“This is my wife,” Lane said.

Reacher nodded. Said nothing.

“Her name is Kate,” Lane said.

Nobody spoke.

“Kate disappeared late yesterday morning,” Lane said. “I got a call in the afternoon. From her kidnappers. They wanted money. That’s what was in the car. You watched one of my wife’s kidnappers collect their ransom.”

Nobody spoke.

“They promised to release her,” Lane said. “And it’s been twenty-four hours. And they haven’t called back.”