Diane Capri - Don't Know Jack

Twenty-two minutes left. She strained to hear the voices in the anteroom. But the suite was near soundproof; she couldn’t quite capture the words being exchanged, which might be OK. Or not. Depended on what the words actually were, didn’t it?

Three or four men were talking. One was the aide who had escorted them from their arrival gate. She hoped one was their subject. If so, the other two could be his protection detail. A lot of firepower for a friendly conversation with two FBI agents.

She heard footsteps. She stood up. Lamont Finlay, Ph.D., pushed the door open and crossed the threshold as if he owned the room and everything in it.

Even at two o’clock in the morning, he looked like a spokesman for financial services. Tall, straight, solid; close cropped hair slightly grey at the temples. Clean shaven. Well dressed. Everything polished to high gloss. Distinguished. Experienced.

Intimidating.

A black man, but his ethnicity was not African-American. The file said his grandparents had emigrated from Trinidad to New York before settling in Boston, where he’d been educated at Harvard. The Boston accent had faded but Kim could hear it.

“Mr. Gaspar, Ms. Otto,” he said, shaking hands with both of them in turn. His paw felt as big as a catcher’s mitt. She could have made a fist with both hands inside his grip. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Please, sit, sit. Have your needs been adequately attended to?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Kim said. A tray delivered more than an hour ago still rested on the table top. The silver coffee carafe with sides of sweeteners and cream, bone china cups and saucers, silver spoons, crystal glasses, linen napkins and four green eight-ounce bottles of bubbly French water consumed the flat surface. Sparkled lamplight danced from a cut crystal pitcher as if fairies filled the room.

Finlay was their host. This was his turf, his agenda. He displayed no concern. He had one knee crossed over the other. He had pinched the fabric to reset the sharp crease in his dark trousers. He had revealed bench-made cap-toe shoes and dark hose, not mere socks. Superior livery for a man with a government salary, Kim noted. She felt actual chest pain when she attempted to breathe, like an asthmatic.

Stress.

That’s all.

Finlay waited, unconcerned. Both arms were folded across his lap. No rings on his capable fingers. A watch, for surely he wore one, hid under crisp white shirt cuffs. Cufflinks glinted with each spare movement. Even before seeing Finlay’s enduring influence on Chief Roscoe, Kim had formed a clear mental portrait of a competent man. Rumor suggested violence and fatal consequences for those who crossed him. His presence cemented every impression of the absolute power she’d imagined. She’d expected ruthless entitlement as well. He was all of that and more.

In short, he scared Kim to death. Gaspar should be afraid, too. They were in way over their heads. They had eighteen minutes.

And then they caught a break. Two breaks, really, in quick succession. First, Finlay spoke when he should have waited. He smiled and said, “I realize we don’t have as much time as you’d hoped. So let’s get right to it, OK?”

But, second, he directed his question to Gaspar. He’d assumed that Gaspar was lead. He wasn’t fully briefed.

Was that good or bad?

“Of course,” she said, projecting her voice past her closed throat. “We certainly don’t want to waste your time.”

His eyes opened a fraction when he realized his mistake. He corrected swiftly and directed his attention to her, as if he’d never erred at all.

Ah , she thought, you’re one of those . But before she could integrate this new piece of data, he seized the advantage.

“I understand you’re building a file on Jack Reacher for the Specialized Personnel Task Force. What job are you considering him for?”

His question knocked her back. Finlay knew why they were here. So was he briefed, or not?

“Reacher’s proposed use is unknown at this time, sir,” Kim said. She sounded more deferential than she’d intended. She sat up straighter and leaned slightly forward.

“Hard for me to hit the target in the dark,” Finlay said.

She didn’t believe he was in the dark. Smarter not to believe him.

“We came directly from Margrave after speaking with Chief Roscoe,” she said, watching closely. No reaction. Unclear whether he already knew that, too. “Frankly, we didn’t have as much time with her as we’d hoped and we’re just getting started. Whatever you can add is more than we’ve got at the moment.”

“You want me to fill in the blanks?” He seemed to relax a bit more, as if the mission was less than expected. “The Margrave files are comprehensive. Not much missing, is there?”

Margrave files? What Margrave files?

“We don’t have all the documents yet,” Kim said, covering as well as she could.

Finlay pushed his starched cuff back with one finger and looked at the slender platinum timepiece on his left wrist. She’d guessed right about the watch at least.

He said, “It would take several hours to brief you. Quickly, ask me your most pressing questions.”

Several hours ? Strike three. How could there be several hours worth of missing data?

She couldn’t think about that now. She had a million questions based on the little bit she did know. Literally. Which topic was the most important? She needed to know what made Reacher tick. Could he be counted on when his country needed him? What was his particular expertise? Why had he been off the grid all these years? What was he doing? What was he running from? Had Reacher assaulted Roscoe? Was he violent? Unpredictable? Crazy?

Gaspar cut directly to a question she was saving for later.

He asked, “Do you know where Reacher is now?”

Finlay said, “No.”

“Do you know where he went when he left Margrave fifteen years ago?”

“No.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“No.”

“Is he dead or alive?”

Finlay flinched. A small flick of his right eyelid. Did it happen? Was it just a sparkle from the dancing fairies? She watched more closely.

“I don’t know,” Finlay said.

The flick again. Right there. She was sure.

Definitely a lie.

“Do you have any reason to believe Reacher’s dead?” Kim asked.

“None.” That was true, at least. She could tell. Then he added, “But it wouldn’t surprise me. Do you have any reason to believe he’s dead?”

“Only that he’s too far off the grid for any man alive,” Kim said.

She heard movement in the anteroom. A toilet flushed.

Finlay said, “Look at the files. You should find something.”

What was he talking about? She had consumed those files. She could recite the contents by rote. Start over. Analyze. You’re good at this. You see the hidden relationships that others don’t see. What does he know that you don’t? He looks relaxed, but he’s not. Why did he come here at all? What does he want?

Finlay had access to information well beyond anything Kim could acquire. Both official and unofficial.

If he said there was something in the Margrave files they could use to locate Reacher, then it was there.

But Finlay wouldn’t have more knowledge than the boss.

So Finlay was wrong.

Or lying.

Or testing.

Which was it?

She took a pause, a breath, and Gaspar asked, “You’re saying you know how to find Reacher?”

Finlay said, “I’m saying you should look at the Margrave files and then we’ll talk further. Roscoe and I testified back then. There’s a lot of material. Some of it is arcane and complicated. Foreign policy. Diplomacy. Chemical analysis. We can’t deal with all of that right now and it wouldn’t help you if we did.”