CHAPTER 56

PAULING HAD BOOKED them business class on the same flight that Taylor had taken forty-eight hours previously. It was maybe even the same plane, assuming it flew a round-trip every day. But neither one of them could have been in Taylor’s actual seat. They were in a window-and-aisle pair, and the Homeland Security manifest had shown that Taylor had been in the first of a block of four in the center.

The seats themselves were strange bathtub-shaped cocoons that faced alternating directions. Reacher’s window seat faced aft and next to him Pauling faced forward. The seats were advertised as reclining into fully flat beds, which might have been true for her but was about twelve inches shy of being true for him. But the seats had compensations. The face-to-face thing meant that he was going to spend seven hours looking directly at her, which was no kind of a hardship.

“What’s the strategy?” she asked.

“We’ll find Taylor, Lane will take care of him, and then I’ll take care of Lane.”

“How?”

“I’ll think of something. Like Hobart said, everything in war is improvisation.”

“What about the others?”

“That will be a snap decision. If I think the crew will fall apart with Lane gone, then I’ll leave the others alone and let it. But if one of them wants to step up to the officer class and take over, I’ll do him, too. And so on and so forth, until the crew really does fall apart.”

“Brutal.”

“Compared to what?”

“Taylor won’t be easy to find,” she said.

“England’s a small country,” he said.

“Not that small.”

“We found Hobart.”

“With help. We were given his address.”

“We’ll get by.”

“How?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“Tell me.”

“You know any British private investigators? Is there an international brotherhood?”

“There might be a sisterhood. I’ve got some numbers.”

“OK, then.”

“Is that your plan? Hire a London PI?”

“Local knowledge,” Reacher said. “It’s always the key.”

“We could have done that by phone.”

“We didn’t have time.”

“London alone is eight million people,” Pauling said. “Then there’s Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds. And a whole lot of countryside. The Cotswolds. Stratford upon Avon. And Scotland and Wales. Taylor stepped out the door at Heathrow two days ago. He could be anywhere by now. We don’t even know where he’s from.”

“We’ll get by,” Reacher said again.

Pauling took a pillow and a blanket from a stewardess and reclined her seat. Reacher watched her sleep for a while and then he lay down too, with his knees up and his head jammed against the bathtub wall. The cabin lighting was soft and blue and the hiss of the engines was restful. Reacher liked flying. Going to sleep in New York and waking up in London was a fantasy that could have been designed expressly for him.

The stewardess woke him to give him breakfast. Like being in the hospital, he thought. They wake you up to feed you. But the breakfast was good. Mugs of hot coffee and bacon rolls. He drank six and ate six. Pauling watched him, fascinated.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Five to five,” he said. “In the morning. Which is five to ten in the morning in this time zone.”

Then all kinds of muted bells went off and signs went on to announce the start of their approach into Heathrow Airport. London’s northerly latitude meant that at ten in the morning in late summer the sun was high. The landscape below was lit up bright. There were small clouds in the sky that cast shadows on the fields. Reacher’s sense of direction wasn’t as good as his sense of time but he figured they had looped past the city and were approaching the airport from the east. Then the plane turned sharply and he realized they were in a holding pattern. Heathrow was notoriously busy. They were going to circle London at least once. Maybe twice.

He put his forehead against the window and stared down. Saw the Thames, glittering in the sun like polished lead. Saw Tower Bridge, white stone, recently cleaned, detailed with fresh paint on the ironwork. Then a gray warship moored in the river, some kind of a permanent exhibit. Then London Bridge. He craned his neck and looked for Saint Paul’s Cathedral, north and west. Saw the big dome, crowded by ancient winding streets. London was a low-built city. Densely and chaotically packed near the dramatic curves of the Thames, spreading infinitely into the gray distance beyond.

He saw railroad tracks fanning out into Waterloo Station. Saw the Houses of Parliament. Saw Big Ben, shorter and stumpier than he remembered it. And Westminster Cathedral, white, bulky, a thousand years old. There was some kind of a giant Ferris wheel on the opposite bank of the river. A tourist thing, maybe. Green trees, everywhere. He saw Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park. He glanced north of where the palace gardens ended and found the Park Lane Hilton. A round tower, bristling with balconies. From above it looked like a squat wedding cake. Then he glanced a little farther north and found the American Embassy. Grosvenor Square. He had once used an office there, in a windowless basement. Four weeks, for some big-deal army investigation he could barely recall. But he remembered the neighborhood. He remembered it pretty well. Too rich for his blood, until you escaped east into SoHo.

He asked Pauling, “Have you been here before?”

“We did exchange training with Scotland Yard,” she said.

“That could be useful.”

“It was a million years ago.”

“Where did you stay?”

“They put us up in a college dormitory.”

“You know any hotels?”

“Do you?”

“Not the sort where they let you in wearing four hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. Mostly the sort where you wear your shoes in bed.”

“We can’t stay anywhere close to Lane and his guys. We can’t be associated with him. Not if we’re going to do something to him.”

“That’s for sure.”

“What about somewhere really great? Like the Ritz?”

“That’s the opposite problem. Four hundred dollars is too shabby for them. And we need to stay low-profile. We need the kind of place where they don’t look at your passport and they let you pay cash. Bayswater, maybe. West of downtown, a clear run back to the airport afterward.”

Reacher turned to the window again and saw Windsor Castle slide by below. And a wide six-lane east-west highway with slow traffic driving on the left. Then suburbs, two-family houses, curving roads, tiny green back yards, garden sheds, and then acres of airport parking full of small cars, many of them red. Then the airport fence. Then the chevrons at the start of the runway. Close to the ground the plane seemed huge again after feeling cramped for seven hours. After being a narrow tube it became a two-hundred-ton monster doing two hundred miles an hour. It landed hard and roared and braked and then suddenly it was quiet and docile again, rolling slowly toward the terminal. The purser welcomed the passengers to London over the public address system and Reacher turned and looked across the cabin at the exit door. Taylor’s first few steps would be easy enough to follow. After baggage claim and the taxi rank the job would get a whole lot harder. Harder, but maybe not impossible.

“We’ll get by,” he said, even though Pauling hadn’t spoken to him.