Lee Child: Small Wars (The new Jack Reacher short story)

Reacher said, “She gave the impression she had family money.”

The hangdog guy said, “No, that was all hers. She gets paid a fortune. It’s a government job. Those people look after each other. Pensions, too, I expect. All kinds of benefits.”

“No legacies? No inheritances?”

“We gave her thirty-five dollars when she went to West Point. It was all we had saved. That’s all she ever got. Anything else, she earned.”

Reacher said, “May I use your phone?”

They said yes, and he dialed the Pentagon. A number on a desk outside an office with a window. Answered by a sergeant.

Reacher said, “Is he there? It’s his brother.”

Joe’s voice came on the line.

Reacher said, “Name a good steakhouse in Alexandria open late.”

Joe did.

Reacher said, “I’ll meet you there at nine o’clock tonight.”

“Why?”

“To keep you in the loop.”

“With Crawford? Is there something weird?”

“Many things. I need to run an idea by you.”

Neagley drove. Back on I-95. Hundreds of miles. As far as from Fort Smith to Myrtle Beach, all over again. They stayed on the left of the Potomac and got to Alexandria ninety minutes after dark. They were five minutes late to the restaurant. There was a guy near the door, doing nothing. Plain clothes. Almost convincing.

Neagley went in and got a table for one. Then Reacher went in and sat with Joe. White linen, dim candlelight, ruby wines, a hushed atmosphere. There was another guy in plain clothes all alone at a table, on the other side of the room from Neagley. Symmetrical.

Joe said, “I see you brought your attack dog with you.”

Reacher said, “I see you brought two of yours.”

“Crawford is serious shit. Immediate action might be required.”

“That’s why Neagley is here.”

They ordered. Onion soup and a rib-eye for Reacher, foie gras and a filet mignon for Joe. Fries for both, red wine for Joe, coffee for Reacher. Plus tap water. No small talk.

Reacher said, “I was worried about the road from the beginning. It doesn’t go anywhere. Stupid place to set a trap. Can’t have been random. But deliberate makes no sense either. She had a choice of three or four destinations, and about forty different ways of getting there. Then I figured it out. A truly smart guy would ignore the destinations. He wouldn’t try to predict how she would get from A to B or C or D. He would figure all roads were equal. At least in terms of transportation. But not equal in other ways. Not emotionally, for instance. Sometimes I forget that normal people like driving more than I do. So a smart guy would ask, which road would she use just for the hell of it? A young woman with a brand-new sports car? No contest. That was a great road. Straightaways, nice bends, trees, sunshine, the smell of fresh air. Great noise, too, probably. A windows-down kind of a road. A smart guy would be able to predict it.”

Joe said, “A smart guy with military training.”

“Because of the triple shot? I agree. It’s a high-stress moment. That was automatic. Muscle memory. Years at the gun range. The guy was one of ours.”

“But which one of ours, and why?”

“This is where it gets highly speculative. She wasn’t rich. I know that now. I should have known long ago. It was right there in the fine print from the autopsy. She had recent cosmetic dentistry. A rich girl would have had it years before. As a teenager. So, no family money. I met her parents. They had thirty-five dollars in her college fund. There are no rich uncles. They think she earned it all. Government job. They think she earned a fortune. But we know she didn’t. Ten light colonels couldn’t afford a brand-new Porsche. But she got one. With what?”

“You tell me.”

“She was in War Plans. Suppose she was selling information to a foreign government? Iraq, maybe. They’d pay a fortune. She’s writing the plan. They’d be getting it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Possible,” Joe said. “Theoretically. As a worst-case scenario.”

“Are we going to have a problem with Iraq?”

“Likely,” Joe said. “He wants Kuwait. Next year, or the year after. We’ll have to throw him out. Probably stage in Saudi, put the Navy in the Gulf. The whole nine yards.”

“So he wants that plan. And he pays for it, word for word. From a woman who maybe didn’t want to be poor anymore. Scuttlebutt says she came out of her shell in War Plans. Finally started spending some of her money. Except maybe it wasn’t finally. Maybe that was the first money she ever had.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “Counterintelligence must have been keeping an eye on such things. But for some reason they missed her, and so it went on for a long time. It became the legend. Family money. The richest woman. It was hiding in plain sight. Then something changed. Suddenly they figured her out.”

Joe said, “How?”

Reacher said, “Could be a number of reasons. Could be dumb luck.”

“Or?”

“Could be counterintelligence got a new commander. Maybe the new commander brought with him the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly two plus two made four. Which would be dumb luck of a different kind. But it happens.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “But let’s freeze the action right there. Let’s look at it from the new commander’s point of view. Right then he’s the only one with all the pieces. He’s the only one who can see the whole picture. In the world. It’s a lonely position. No one else knows. But it’s all about who else knows. Because no one else must know. It’s only Iraq, but who will believe that? You’ll have mass panic. Every plan will be called compromised. The Soviet strategy will fall apart. Nothing will be believed ever again. So it’s vital no one else knows. Literally. Not ever. No one. Two can’t keep a secret. But she has to be stopped. And treason gets the death penalty. The new commander concludes he has to do it himself. It’s the only way to contain it. Almost a historic moment. The world will be saved. That big of a deal. But the world will never know. So it’s ironic, and strategically astute, and noble and ethical. Like a patriotic duty.”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “I imagine a new commander of such a unit would be smart enough to figure out the thing with the sports car and the road.”

Joe said, “The guy had size fifteen feet.”

“He had a maximum size fifteen. You can’t make your footprints smaller, but you can make them bigger. I figure I could put on a tennis shoe, something tight, and get my whole foot inside a size fifteen boot. Tight and solid. Not like clown shoes. I could stomp around making footprints like an astronaut on the moon. You know where I got that idea?”

Joe said, “No.”

“The second time we lived on Okinawa. You were six. Maybe seven. You got into a thing where you would get up early in the morning and clump around in Dad’s boots. I didn’t know why. Maybe it’s a first-born thing. Maybe you were trying to fill his shoes, literally. But I would hear you. And once you got him in trouble with Mom for making marks on the rug. That’s where I got the idea.”

“Lots of people must have done that.”

“How many grew up to be recently promoted commanders of counterespionage units?”

Joe said nothing.

Reacher said, “Thinking back, you did pretty well on the phone. You must have been very shocked. But you didn’t forget to ask the obvious questions, like who died. And you asked how, which was good, and I said shot on a lonely road, but then you should have asked shot on a lonely road how, because a sniper in the trees was just as plausible as a stationary ambush. On the back roads. But you didn’t ask shot on a lonely road how. You could have scripted that part a little better. And you got nervous. You wouldn’t let it go. You asked me what I was going to do about her. And you totally blew it with the six hundred and ninety-three miles. You’re a pedantic guy, Joe. You wouldn’t get it wrong. And I’m sure you didn’t. You figured Benning was on a level with a distance you knew for sure. The same radius. And the distance you knew for sure was your office to Fort Smith. Because you’d just driven it. Twice. There and back.”