Ли Чайлд - No Middle Name

‘Luck of the draw.’

‘Who died from War Plans?’

‘Caroline Crawford.’

‘So you’ll be investigating that.’

‘I expect someone will, eventually.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Shot on a lonely road.’

‘Who by?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘She was a big star,’ Joe said. ‘She was going all the way. Lieutenant General at least. The Joint Chiefs office, probably.’

‘Doing what exactly?’

‘There are three possible vectors for the Cold War. It could go hot, or it could stay the same, or the Soviet Union could fall apart under its own weight. Obviously a diligent planner looks at option three and asks, OK, what’s next? And small wars are next. Against half-assed nuisance countries, mostly in the Middle East. Caroline Crawford was working on Iraq. She was starting early and playing a real long game. A big gamble. But the payoff was huge. She would have owned the Middle East doctrine. That’s about as good as it gets, for a planner.’

Reacher said, ‘I assume all of that was behind closed doors. I assume I don’t need to go looking for Iraqi assassins.’

‘Conventional wisdom would say the Iraqis didn’t know who she was. As you say, it was behind closed doors, and there were many of them, and they were all closed tight, and she was too junior to attract attention anyway.’

‘Any other external enemies?’

‘External to what?’

‘The United States. Either the army or the general population.’

‘I can’t think of one.’

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Thanks. Are you well and happy?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘About what?’

‘Crawford.’

‘Nothing, probably. I’m sure there’s a jurisdiction thing. State Police will claim it. I think they opened a new mortuary, up in Atlanta. They’re proud of it. It’s like a new theatre getting the best plays.’

‘Yes, I’m well and happy. Do you have time to drive up and have dinner?’

‘It’s about a thousand miles.’

‘No, it’s about six hundred and ninety-three. That’s not far.’

‘Maybe I’ll get there for a weekend.’

‘Keep me in the loop about Crawford. If anything weird shows up, I mean. Part of my job.’

‘I will,’ Reacher said, and he hung up the phone. His sergeant knocked on the door and came in with a faxed report and a short stack of photographs. The guy put them neatly on the desk and said, ‘This all is from the MP XO at Smith. It’s everything they’ve got so far. We know what they know.’

‘Did you read it on the way in?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And?’

‘There are tyre tracks and footprints. Probably a second vehicle was deployed as a barrier. The perpetrator seems to be a tall man with a long stride and large feet. Also noteworthy is the fact that JAG lawyers went with the MPs to the scene. And there were three gunshot wounds. Two in the chest and one in the head.’

‘Good work, sergeant.’

The guy said, ‘Thank you,’ and walked out, and a minute later Frances Neagley walked in.

Neagley was about the size of a male flyweight boxer, and could have beaten one easily, unless the referee happened to be watching. She was in woodland-pattern BDUs, newly washed and pressed. She had dark hair cut short, and a solid tan. She had spent the winter overseas. That was clear. She said, ‘I heard about the dead pointy-head.’

Reacher smiled. The NCO grapevine . He said, ‘How are you?’

‘Grumpy. You pulled me out of an easy week at Fort Bragg. Practically a vacation.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Security for the special forces command. They don’t tend to need much. Not that it isn’t good to see you.’

‘What do you know about Fort Smith?’

‘It’s their version of pointy-heads. The theory and practice of irregular warfare. They call it a school.’

‘Why would they have JAG lawyers permanently on base?’

‘The theory, I suppose. Rules of engagement, and so forth. I imagine they’re pushing the envelope.’

‘My brother says the dead pointy-head was staking out a whole new doctrine for the Middle East. She wanted to own Plan B. If we don’t get the big war, we get a bunch of small wars instead. Starting with Iraq, maybe. She was rolling the dice. And I guess special forces were rolling them right along with her. They don’t fit well with the big war. Their only play is small. Was anyone talking about that at Bragg?’

Neagley shook her head. ‘That kind of thing would have to start at Smith. It’s like espionage. You have to infiltrate the intellectual heart. Or like a political campaign. You have to build a constituency. You need key endorsements.’

‘So if she wins, who loses?’

‘No one loses. She wouldn’t divert resources away from the big war. It would be extra spending. The president is a Republican.’

‘So she was a woman with no enemies.’

‘She was rich,’ Neagley said. ‘Did you know that?’

Reacher said, ‘No.’

‘People say it was family money. She bought a sports car to celebrate her promotion.’

‘What kind of sports car?’

‘German.’

‘A Volkswagen?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Reacher leafed through the faxed report.

‘A Porsche,’ he said. ‘The POV she was found in.’

He scanned the rest of the report. Words, maps, charts. And the photographs. Mud, marks, wounds. He passed it all to Neagley. She scanned it in turn, the same way, words, maps, charts, mud, marks, and wounds.

She said, ‘Two in the chest and one in the head. That’s an execution.’

Reacher nodded. ‘The woman with no enemies. But not exactly. Because it can’t have been random. It wasn’t a robbery. Not just some punk. Even a hillbilly would have taken the car. He’d have driven it hard all night and burned it in the morning.’

‘Two in the chest and one in the head is standard military practice. Under certain circumstances, in certain units. You can look it up.’

‘Is it exclusively military?’

‘Probably not.’

‘And there are plenty of vets in the state of Georgia. We shouldn’t narrow it down too much. We shouldn’t put the blinders on.’

Neagley turned to the last page of the written report. She said, ‘We might as well put blindfolds on. It isn’t our case. The State Police has got it.’

‘How many rich people are there in the army?’

‘Very few.’

‘How many are also smart enough to fast-track through one tough gig after another?’

‘Very few.’

‘So does this feel random to you?’

‘Not with the execution-style placement, no.’

‘So she was a specific target, deliberately ambushed.’

‘You can see the tyre marks in the mud. The guy parked across the road. Sawed back and forth a bit, to make it look good. Then he got out to wait. Big feet. That’s how to narrow it down. This guy wears size fifteen boots.’

Reacher took the paperwork back from her. He flipped forward to the maps. Not the kind of thing for sale at the gas station. Detailed government surveys, of woodland and streams and roads and tracks of every description and purpose, all Xeroxed and tiled together on slightly overlapping pages.

He said, ‘But that road doesn’t really go anywhere. Maybe it’s just a firebreak. There’s no logical reason to be on that road. You’d have to detour to get there, and then get yourself back on track again afterwards. Wherever you were going. Therefore there’s no logical way to predict she would use that road. The odds get worse and worse after the first big fork. She could have used any road. It’s ten to one at best. And who sets up a deliberate ambush on a ten-to-one chance? So it must have been random.’