Lee Child - Night School

She made it sound like the greatest thing ever. Like a 1940s movie, black and white, a giant silver screen, the straightlaced guy agreeing to do the very bad thing, all because of the breathy way she asked him.

“Ready?” Griezman said.

They went in, and Helmut Klopp looked up. Like Griezman had said, he seemed happy enough. He was center stage for once. And ready to enjoy it. A frustrated man, probably. German, but an easterner in the west, with all an immigrant’s resentments. Griezman made an opening statement in German, and Klopp replied, and the translator said, “You have been introduced as top-level operatives who have come from America at a moment’s notice.”

Reacher said, “And how did Mr. Klopp answer?”

“He said he’s ready to help in any way he can.”

“I don’t think he did.”

“Do you speak German?”

“Maybe I picked some up. I’ve been here before. I understand you’re only being polite, but my sergeant and I have both heard worse than anything this guy can say. And accuracy is more important than our feelings. This could be a very serious situation.”

The translator glanced at Griezman, who nodded.

She said, “The witness told us he’s glad they sent white people.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Tell Mr. Klopp he’s an important figure in a current operation. Tell him we intend to debrief him thoroughly across all policy areas. Tell him we want to hear his opinions and his advice. But we have to start somewhere, and the beginning is always best, so our initial focus will be a detailed physical and behavioral description of the two men. Starting, randomly, with the American. First we want to hear it in his own words, and then we’re going to show him some photographs.”

The translator said it all in German, facing Klopp, with animation and careful enunciation. Klopp followed along, nodding gravely, as if contemplating a long task of great difficulty, but willing to give it his best.

Reacher said, “Does Mr. Klopp go to that bar often?”

The translator translated, and Klopp answered, quite long, and the translator said, “He goes either two or three times a week. He has two favorite bars, which he rotates to match his five-day work pattern.”

“How long has he been going to that bar?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Has he seen the American in that bar before?”

There was a pause. Thinking time. Then, some German, and, “Yes, he thinks he saw him there two or possibly three months ago.”

“Thinks?”

“He’s as sure as he can be. The gentleman he’s thinking of two or three months ago was wearing a hat at the time. Which makes it hard to be certain. He would be prepared to admit he might be wrong.”

“What kind of hat?”

“A baseball cap.”

“Anything on it?”

“He thinks a red star. But it was hard to see.”

“Long time ago, too.”

“He’s remembering it by the weather.”

“But either way the American is not a regular customer.”

“No, he’s not.”

“How does he know the guy is American?”

There was a long consultation. A long list. The translator said, “He was speaking English. His accent. The loudness of his voice. The way he dressed. The way he moved.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Now we need a description. Did he see the American standing up or sitting down?”

“Both. Walking in, sitting alone, sitting with the Arab, sitting alone again, and walking out.”

“How tall is the American?”

“A meter seventy, a meter seventy-five.”

“Five feet eight inches,” Griezman said. “Completely average.”

Reacher asked, “Is he fat or thin?”

The translator said, “Neither.”

“Solid?”

“Not exactly.”

“Strong or weak?”

“Quite strong.”

“If he played a sport, what sport would he play?”

Klopp didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “Think about what’s on the TV. Think about the Olympic Games. What sport would he play?”

Klopp thought hard and long, as if going through the whole sporting calendar, in great detail. Eventually he spoke in German, a long speculation, arguments for and against, a little of this and a little of that. The translator said, “He thinks probably a middle-distance runner. Perhaps the fifteen hundred meters upward. Maybe even a long-distance runner, up to the ten thousand meters. But he wasn’t an unnatural stick insect like a marathon runner.”

“A stick insect from Africa, right?”

“He added that, yes.”

“Tell me everything, OK?”

“I apologize.”

“So the American is average height, on the wiry side of average weight, possibly full of bounce and energy? That kind of guy?”

“Yes, always moving.”

“How long was he there before the Saudi guy showed up?”

“Perhaps five minutes. He was just a man in a bar. No one was interested in him.”

“What did he drink?”

“A half liter of lager, quite slowly. He still had most of it left after the meeting had finished.”

“How long did he stay, after the Saudi guy left?”

“Perhaps thirty minutes.”

“What did the Saudi guy drink?”

“Nothing. He would not have been served.”

“What kind of hair has the American got?”

Klopp shrugged at the translator, and she chided him, telling him to think. He said something, awkwardly, clearly not his field of expertise, but then he carried on, determined to muster all the details he could. It turned into a long speech. Eventually the translator said, “The American had fair hair, the color of hay or straw in the summer. His hair was quite normal at the sides but much longer at the top. Like a style. As if he could flop it around. Like Elvis Presley.”

“Was it neat?”

“Yes, it was neatly brushed.”

“Product?”

“What is that?”

“Oil, like he uses. Or wax, or something.”

“No, just natural.”

“Eyes?”

The face as described went with the hair and the build. Deep-set blue eyes, tight skin on the forehead, prominent cheek bones, a thin nose, white teeth, an unsmiling mouth, a firm chin. No visible damage. No major scars, no tattoos. An old tan, and some lines around the eyes. More likely squint lines than laugh lines or frown lines. A groove down one cheek. From the clamp of the jaw, and maybe a missing tooth. But all of a piece. Narrow, but all horizontal. The brows, the eyes, the high cheek bones, the thin slash of the mouth, the clamped and working grimace. His age was more likely thirty-something than twenty-something.

Reacher said, “Tell Mr. Klopp we’ll want him to repeat all of that for the sketch artist.”

The translator passed on the message, and Klopp nodded.

Reacher asked, “What was the American wearing?”

Klopp answered, and the translator said, “Actually a Levi’s jacket the same as yours.”

“Exactly the same?”

“Identical.”

“Small world,” Reacher said. “Now ask him why he feels the Saudi guy was agitated. Only first-hand evidence. Only what he saw or heard. Tell him to leave the political analysis for later.”

There was a long discussion in German, with Griezman chipping in, with a lot of back and forth to get it all straight, and then the translator said, “On reflection Herr Klopp feels excited might be a better word than agitated. Excited and nervous. The American told the Arab something, and the Arab reacted in that manner.”

“Did Mr. Klopp hear what was said?”

“No.”

“How long was that part of the discussion?”

“Possibly a minute.”

“How long did the Saudi guy stay?”

“He left immediately.”

“And the American stayed another thirty minutes?”

“Almost exactly.”