The Essential Jack Reacher 12-Book Bundle

by Lee Child

  So a fifth undercover operation was planned. The new voice was contacted by a lone federal dissident entirely invented by Kansas City. The federal dissident offered to join forces with the new voice and help. Background questions were asked, and answers were invented. Bona fides were established. After a long and cautious delay the new voice agreed to meet with the federal dissident. And so the operation came slowly to life.

  But at the same time an operation-within-an-operation had been planned by the Hoover Building. Like spying on the spies. Under the guise of a routine higher-level review it had been suggested that Kansas City bring in an agent entirely unknown in the Midwest. For the undercover position. In theory, for extra safety and security. In reality, the Hoover Building wanted a guaranteed reliable man at the heart of the operation. The name they put forward was Special Agent Donald McQueen, most recently of the San Diego field office.

  And as a backstop and as an on-the-ground observer they moved Karen Delfuenso from the main counterterrorism unit in D.C. They moved her in secret. The whole nine yards, like witness protection. She rented a house. She got a job. Her kid came with her and enrolled in school.

  “That’s a big deal,” Sorenson said. “Were you happy with that?”

  “Happy enough,” Delfuenso said. “You know how it is. We go where we’re told. And I like moving around. I want Lucy to see something of the world.”

  “Did she know why you were moving?”

  “Not specifically. Only generically. She knows I have a gun and a badge. But she doesn’t ask questions. She’s used to it.”

  “But she could have blown your cover. She could have talked in school.”

  “And said what? Mommy’s got a gun? Every mommy in Nebraska has a gun. Or Mommy’s a secret agent? All kids make up stories like that. It’s expected. Especially when their mommy is really a cocktail waitress, half naked from the waist up all night long.”

  Then Delfuenso went on with the story. McQueen made contact early on. He played it slow and careful and built up trust and credibility. The new voice turned out to be a medium-sized group of white Americans in an uneasy alliance with a medium-sized group of foreigners from the Middle East. The group called itself Wadiah. Its leader was a man with a code name of his own, and so far McQueen had been denied access to him. The foreigners from the Middle East were thought to be Syrians.

  “What’s their aim?” Reacher asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Delfuenso said.

  “That’s a weird ethnic mixture.”

  “I agree.”

  “Is McQueen going to be OK?”

  “That depends on whether you’re a glass-half-full type of guy, or a glass-half-empty. They lost two out of four so far. So on the face of it his odds are about fifty-fifty.”

  “Not good.”

  “Which is why some big cheese in a suit was all burdened down with worries.”

  “And that’s without him having to explain what happened to King.”

  “Tell me about it,” Delfuenso said.

  Sorenson made hot tea with a plug-in kettle from a cupboard and water from the bathroom. She brought it over on a tray. Reacher thanked her but looked at Delfuenso and asked, “Why did you do all that blinking in the car?”

  Delfuenso took her tea and asked back, “Did I have you fooled?”

  “Totally. I thought you were a random victim. Brave and smart, for sure, but regular-person brave and smart, not law enforcement.”

  “And that’s exactly what I needed you to think. McQueen knew who I was, obviously, but King didn’t. So I had to play a part for him. I had to play a part all night, in fact, because it was pretty obvious I was going to end up face to face with either Wadiah or the Kansas City FBI. And neither one of them could be allowed to know who I was.”

  “I get that. I know you had to act a part. But you didn’t have to blink.”

  “My aim was to get out of there as fast as I could. The sooner the better. By any means available. So I thought if I enlisted you I might get out quicker. You looked like a capable guy. I thought you might get the chance to stage something along the way. But you didn’t. So sure enough I ended up face to face with the Kansas City boys, who put me in here, because I played my part so well they think I’m nobody.”

  “So what really happened last night?”

  “You saw most of it.”

  “But not all of it. And I didn’t understand any of it. And I’m interested in the conversation you had with McQueen after he shot King in the heart. You must have had at least half an hour alone with him, before you were picked up.”

  “Closer to forty minutes. And it wasn’t McQueen who shot King in the heart. He passed me his gun around the seat. I told you different because I was still playing the part back then. Also I made up all that stuff about screaming and wailing.”

  “So what really happened tonight?”

  “You tell me.”

  Reacher shrugged.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “But I don’t think either King or McQueen was carrying the knife. Too big for a suit pocket. There was nothing in their hands. I suppose one of them could have had it strapped to his forearm, but that seems unlikely. I think the other guy had it. And I think he was always planning to use it. He was unzipping his coat as he walked into the bunker.”

  “You spoke to the eyewitness.”

  “I’m sure he’ll deny it. He’s following the rules. For the free beer.”

  Delfuenso said, “These things are always co-productions. King and McQueen went on behalf of Wadiah to meet with some other guy appearing on behalf of some other group. Funding, probably, or some other kind of cooperation. Or logistics. Or supply. It was supposed to be a love-in. The plan was King and McQueen should get a ride there, and then the new guy would take them onward to his HQ. Like a ritual dance. But it went to rat shit immediately. The new guy started shouting something at them and then he pulled out a knife and tried to kill them. McQueen disarmed him.”

  “And broke his arm in the process.”

  “Did he?”

  Sorenson said, “The medical examiner told us. At lunchtime today.”

  Reacher said, “And then what?”

  Delfuenso said, “And then McQueen killed the guy. In self defense. Almost a reflex.”

  “Bullshit,” Reacher said. “He killed him to shut him up. The guy was shouting. Who knew what he was going to say next? Too big a risk to take. Could be the guy is based in San Diego and he’s seen McQueen going in and out of the FBI building there. And McQueen wouldn’t want King to hear that.”

  “It was a justifiable homicide.”

  “Did he do it well?”

  “Is that your benchmark for justifiable?”

  “Style points can help. If the decision is close.”

  “I don’t know how well he did it.”

  “I do,” Sorenson said. “I saw the body. And he did it pretty well. Lateral slash on the forehead to blind the guy, and the knife up under the ribs, like one, two.”

  “Happy now?” Delfuenso asked.

  “That’s a little old-school,” Reacher said. “Don’t you think? The forehead thing used to be considered cool. Flamboyant, even. But it was always completely unnecessary. Might as well make the second move first. If you’ve got a nine-inch blade up to the hilt in someone’s gut, does it really bother you that he’s still got twenty-twenty vision?”

  “Whatever, it was justifiable.”

  “I agree. No argument from me. Either way. What happened next?”

  “They ran for it. They didn’t like the red car. They figured either the local cops or the other group of bad guys would come looking for it. Or both. McQueen knew where I was. He always knew my whereabouts. So he drove up to Sin City, but like he didn’t really know where he was going, and he kind of pretended to spot my Chevy, and right away King agreed it would be a good car to steal.”

  “But they didn’t just steal it.”

  “They couldn’t get it open. It’s a late
model. All kinds of security. They set the alarm off. I looked out the window in the ladies’ room. They were just standing there. So I figured if I went out back like I had just finished work they could rob me at gunpoint and take the key. That was what I was expecting. McQueen too, he said. Maybe a tap on the head, at worst. But King had other ideas. He didn’t want to leave a witness. So he went for the whole hijack thing. He took the cocktail waitress along for the ride. And so the act began.”

  “Did McQueen know the guy in the bunker?”

  “No. He told me he’d never seen him before.”

  “So you don’t know who he was either. And you weren’t getting a real-time news feed all night and all day. Not like we were. And Kansas City won’t have told you, because you’re nobody.”

  “Told me what?”

  Sorenson said, “As far as we know the dead guy was a CIA head of station.”

  Delfuenso was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I need guidance on this.” She opened her bible and took out the cell phone and the charger. She got everything plugged in. She held a button down for two long seconds. The screen lit up. With a text message already on it. All in capital letters.

  “Emergency,” she said. “McQueen just dropped off the radar.”

  Chapter 61

  Delfuenso called whatever secret number was stored in her phone, and she got the latest update. To say McQueen had dropped off the radar was just a figure of speech. In reality his GPS signals had disappeared off a computer screen. He was carrying two chips, one in his phone, and one sewn in the back of his belt. For seven months they had recorded his every move. Now an hour ago they had blinked off and disappeared, never to return. Both of them. Seconds apart. The likelihood of two near-simultaneous failures was so remote it wasn’t even worth considering. McQueen was in trouble.

  Reacher asked, “Where was he last recorded?” Delfuenso said, “At his normal location.”

  “Which is where?”

  “A Wadiah hideout.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Near Kansas City.”

  Reacher asked, “Do your people have a plan?”

  Delfuenso said, “We’re not going to involve the Kansas City boys. That was decided a long time ago. They’re walled off, as of this minute. Because they can’t help us with a problem like this. Their track record tells us they probably caused it.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “A SWAT team direct from Quantico.”

  “When?”

  “Rapid deployment.”

  “How rapid?”

  “They’ll be in Kansas City in eight hours.”

  “That’s rapid?”

  “It’s a big country. There’s a lot to organize.”

  “Eight hours is way too long.”

  “I know it is.”

  “But we’re right here. The three of us. We’re a hundred miles from Kansas City. Which is two hours. Not eight.”

  There was no discussion. Not that Reacher expected there to be. An undercover agent was down, and he figured the FBI’s unwritten codes would be at least half as strong as the army’s. Undercover was the toughest job in the world, and the only way to make it bearable was to make it so the guy in the field knew he was watched over by people who would react instantly if he ran into trouble.

  They gave themselves three minutes to prepare. Reacher didn’t need them. He hadn’t unpacked. His toothbrush was still in his pocket. He was good to go. Delfuenso spent her time writing a note for Lucy. Sorenson spent her time getting out of her pant suit and into the free stuff from the piles on her bed. She said she felt it was going to be a denim kind of night.

  Then in a brief before-the-storm pause Delfuenso looked straight at Reacher and said, “Remember, Wadiah has your name and your description.”

  Reacher said, “I know.”

  “And McQueen has almost certainly told them it was you who killed King. Remember that too.”

  “What are you, my mother? Don’t worry about me.”

  At that point they had just one weapon between them, which was the Glock 19 from Delfuenso’s bible. She carried it in her right hand, with her ID wallet open and ready in her left. Her phone was in her pants pocket. First port of call was Trapattoni’s room. His light was still on. He answered Delfuenso’s knock within seconds. He was confused by her ID. Like the ground had suddenly shifted under his feet. Not a cocktail waitress. Not an innocent victim. Not anymore. And apparently her ID was better than his. Higher up the food chain. Like an ace of trumps. Maybe because it had been issued by the Hoover Building, not by a regional field office. Reacher didn’t really understand the nuances. But the guy fell in line immediately. He grabbed his suit coat, no questions asked, and he hustled with them all the way over to Bale’s quarters.

  Bale put up more of a fight. Apparently he had a bigger ego. The visit started out the same way. Light still on, a fast answer to the knock, genuine surprise at the ID thrust under his nose. Then the guy started to argue. He said he knew nothing about any of this. He hadn’t been informed. He hadn’t been briefed. Delfuenso wasn’t in his chain of command. She was an agent of equal rank, that’s all, Hoover Building or no Hoover Building. She couldn’t tell him what to do.

  The guy was immovable. He was all the way up on his high horse.

  Which put Delfuenso on the spot. She couldn’t put the guy on the line with the mothership. The Hoover Building was not going to back her up. Not then. Too cautious. The suits were not going to approve a half-assed nighttime guerilla excursion by two women agents and a civilian. Too much risk, too much liability. Way outside the box. All that was left was the power of personal persuasion. Agent to agent. Face to face. And it wasn’t working.

  So Reacher hit the guy. Not hard. Just a pop to the solar plexus, left-handed. No big deal. Just enough to fold him up a little. Then it was easy to pin his arms behind his back while Sorenson took his gun out of his shoulder holster, and his spare magazine off his belt, and his cell phone out of one pocket, and his car key out of another. Trapattoni gave up the same four items voluntarily. And with a degree of haste and alacrity.

  Reacher put Bale in one armchair, and Trapattoni joined him in the other.

  Delfuenso said, “Your job is to stay here and attend to your duties. You still have two guests, one of which is my daughter. I expect her to be kept safe and treated well.”

  No answer.

  Reacher said, “You gave up your service weapons. Where I come from, that’s a real big no-no. I’m sure it’s the same with you. Do what you’re told, and no one will ever know about it. Step out of line, and I’ll make sure everyone knows about it. You’ll be a laughing stock. Robbed by two women? You’ll be a punchline. You won’t get a job as a dog catcher.”

  There was no answer, but Reacher sensed surrender.

  They checked both cars and chose the one with more gas, which was Bale’s. Delfuenso drove. Sorenson sat next to her in the front. Reacher sprawled in the back. A hundred yards later the motherly type in the office played it Trapattoni’s way, not Bale’s. She volunteered to look after Lucy, and she hit the button for the gate at the first time of asking. Delfuenso and Sorenson and Reacher got back in Bale’s car and drove away. Around the traffic circle, along the concrete roadway, and out through the gate.

  They turned right, north toward the Interstate.

  The gate closed again behind them.

  A car, three phones, a Glock 19, two Glock 17s, and eighty-eight rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition.

  Good to go.

  Chapter 62

  The twenty-plus miles of dark rural two-lane was hard going at speed, so there was no meaningful conversation until they were through the cloverleaf and heading east on the highway. Bale’s car drove straight and steady, just like Sorenson’s, just like the Impala. Quiet and smooth and unburstable, even at close to a hundred miles an hour. Impressive, Reacher thought.

  Delfuenso asked, “What exactly does a CIA head of station do for a living?”
>
  Reacher said, “He’s responsible for a chunk of foreign territory. He lives near and works out of its biggest embassy. He deals with defectors and runs the local agents who work for us.”

  Then he said, “Or she.”

  Delfuenso asked, “Are there any women CIA heads of station?”

  “I have no idea. I was in the army.”

  “Did you have female superiors?”

  “Whenever fortune felt like smiling on me.”

  “Local agents who work for us? What kind?”

  “The usual kind. Foreign nationals who because of blackmail, bribes, or ideology betray their countries to us. Now and then the head of station meets with the most important of them.”

  “How?”

  “Just like in the movies. A lonely café, a back street, a city park, packages on the shelf in a phone booth.”

  “Why do they meet?”

  “The blackmailed need to hear the threats over again, and the bribed need their bags of money, and the ideologues need to be stroked. And the heads of station need to collect their information.”

  “How often do they meet?”

  “Could be once a week, could be once a month, whatever the individual agent needs.”

  “And the rest of the time this guy is posing as a trade attaché?”

  “Or a cultural attaché. Or anything else that doesn’t sound like very much work.”

  “And this is Russia and the Middle East and Pakistan and places like that, right?”

  “I sincerely hope so,” Reacher said.

  “So why would a guy like that try to kill an FBI agent in Nebraska?”

  Sorenson said, “He was an Arabic speaker. So maybe one of the Syrians from Wadiah had been one of his agents, back in Syria. Or maybe he still was. Maybe it was all to do with something they started overseas. But no Syrian came to that meet in the bunker, so maybe the CIA guy got suspicious. I mean, from his point of view everyone except his own guy is a bad guy, right?”

  “Except that the CIA isn’t allowed to operate inside America.”

  “Well, maybe it’s super-covert. Maybe they were going to terminate the guy. Because of unfinished business or something. They’re not going to share that with us.”