Lee Child - [Jack Reacher 01-16]

by Jack Reacher Series (epub)

  Sansom said, “Tell me what you know so far.”

  I said, “You were airlifted from Bragg to Turkey, and then Oman. Then India, probably. Then Pakistan, and the North West Frontier.”

  He nodded and said nothing. He had a faraway look in his eyes. I guessed he was reliving the journey in his mind. Transport planes, helicopters, trucks, long miles on foot.

  All long ago.

  “Then Afghanistan,” I said.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Probably you stayed on the flank of the Abas Ghar and headed south and west, following the line of the Korengal Valley, maybe a thousand feet from the floor.”

  “Go on.”

  “You stumbled over Grigori Hoth and took his rifle and let him wander away.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then you kept on walking, to wherever it was you had been ordered to go.”

  He nodded.

  I said, “That’s all I know so far.”

  He asked, “Where were you in March of 1983?”

  “West Point.”

  “What was the big news?”

  “The Red Army was trying to stop the bleeding.”

  He nodded again. “It was an insane campaign. No one has ever beaten the tribesmen in the North West Frontier. Not in the whole of history. And they had our own experience in Vietnam to study. Some things just can’t be done. It was a slow-motion meat grinder. Like getting pecked to death by birds. We were very happy about it, obviously.”

  “We helped,” I said.

  “We sure did. We gave the mujahideen everything they wanted. For free.”

  “Like Lend-Lease.”

  “Worse,” Sansom said. “Lend-Lease was about helping friends that happened to be bankrupt at the time. The mujahideen were not bankrupt. Quite the reverse. There were all kinds of weird tribal alliances that stretched all the way to Saudi. The mujahideen had more money than we did, practically.”

  “And?”

  “When you’re in the habit of giving people everything they want, it’s very hard to stop.”

  “What more did they want?”

  “Recognition,” he said. “Tribute. Acknowledgment. Courtesy. Face time. It’s hard to know exactly how to characterize it.”

  “So what was the mission?”

  “Can we trust you?”

  “You want to get the file back?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what was the mission?”

  “We went to see the mujahideen’s top boy. Bearing gifts. All kinds of gaudy trinkets, from Ronald Reagan himself. We were his personal envoys. We had a White House briefing. We were told to pucker up and kiss ass at every possible opportunity.”

  “And did you?”

  “You bet.”

  “It was twenty-five years ago.”

  “So?”

  “So who cares anymore? It’s a detail of history. And it worked, anyway. It was the end of Communism.”

  “But it wasn’t the end of the mujahideen. They stayed in business.”

  “I know,” I said. “They became the Taliban and Al Qaeda. But that’s a detail, too. Voters in North Carolina aren’t going to remember the history. Most voters can’t remember what they had for breakfast.”

  “Depends,” Sansom said.

  “On what?”

  “Name recognition.”

  “What name?”

  “The Korengal was where the action was. Just a small salient, but that was where the Red Army met its end. The mujahideen there were doing a really fine job. Therefore the local mujahideen leader there was a really big deal. He was a rising star. He was the one we were sent to meet. And we did. We met with him.”

  “And you kissed his ass?”

  “Every which way we could.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He was a fairly impressive guy, initially. Young, tall, good-looking, very intelligent, very committed. And very rich, by the way. Very connected. He came from a billionaire family in Saudi. His father was a friend of Reagan’s Vice President. But the guy himself was a revolutionary. He quit the easy life for the cause.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Osama bin Laden.”

  Chapter 66

  The room stayed quiet for a long moment. Just muted city sounds from the window, and the hiss of air from a vent above the bathroom. Springfield moved away from his position by the TV cabinet and sat down on the bed.

  I said, “Name recognition.”

  Sansom said, “It’s a bitch.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But it’s a big file,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So it’s a long report. And we’ve all read army reports.”

  “And?”

  “They’re very dry.” Which they were. Take Springfield’s Steyr GB, for instance. The army had tested it. It was a miracle of modern engineering. Not only did it work exactly like it should, it also worked exactly like it shouldn’t. It had a complex gas-delayed blow-back system that meant it could be loaded with substandard or elderly or badly assembled rounds and still fire. Most guns have problems with variable gas pressures. Either they blow up with too much or fail to cycle with too little. But the Steyr could handle anything. Which was why Special Forces loved it. They were often far from home with no logistics, forced to rely on whatever they could scrounge up locally. The Steyr GB was a metal marvel.

  The army report called it technically acceptable.

  I said, “Maybe they didn’t mention you by name. Maybe they didn’t mention him by name. Maybe it was all acronyms, for Delta leader and local commander, all buried in three hundred pages of map references.”

  Sansom said nothing.

  Springfield looked away.

  I asked, “What was he like?”

  Sansom said, “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. My whole life counts for nothing now, except I’m the guy who kissed Osama bin Laden’s ass. That’s all anyone will ever remember.”

  “But what was he like?”

  “He was a creep. He was clearly committed to killing Russians, which we were happy about at first, but pretty soon we realized he was committed to killing everyone who wasn’t exactly the same as him. He was weird. He was a psychopath. He smelled bad. It was a very uncomfortable weekend. My skin was crawling the whole time.”

  “You were there a whole weekend?”

  “Honored guests. Except not really. He was an arrogant son of a bitch. He lorded it over us the whole time. He lectured us on tactics and strategy. Told us how he would have won in Vietnam. We had to pretend to be impressed.”

  “What gifts did you give him?”

  “I don’t know what they were. They were wrapped. He didn’t open them. Just tossed them in a corner. He didn’t care. Like they say at weddings, our presence was present enough. He thought he was proving something to the world. The Great Satan was bending its knee before him. I nearly puked a dozen times. And not just because of the food.”

  “You ate with him?”

  “We were staying in his tent.”

  “Which will be called their HQ in the report. The language will be very neutral. The ass-kissing won’t be mentioned. It will be three hundred tedious pages about a rendezvous attempted and a rendezvous kept. People will die of boredom before you’re halfway over the Atlantic. Why are you so worried?”

  “The politics is awful. The Lend-Lease thing. Inasmuch as bin Laden wasn’t dipping into his own personal fortune, it’s like we were subsidizing him. Paying him, almost.”

  “Not your fault. That’s White House stuff. Did any sea captain get it in the neck for delivering Lend-Lease stuff to the Soviets during World War Two? They didn’t stay our friends, either.”

  Sansom said nothing.

  I said, “It’s just words on a page. They won’t resonate. People don’t read.”

  Sansom said, “It’s a big file.”

  “The bigger the better. The bigger it is, the more buried th
e bad parts will be. And it will be very dated. I think we used to spell his name differently back then. With a u. It was Usama. Or UBL. Maybe people won’t even notice. Or you could say it was someone else entirely.”

  “You sure you know where that stick is?”

  “Certain.”

  “Because you sound like you don’t. You sound like you’re trying to console me, because you know it’s staying out there for the world to see.”

  “I know where it is. I’m just trying to get a handle on why you’re so uptight. People have survived worse.”

  “You ever used a computer?”

  “I used one today.”

  “What makes for the biggest files?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Long documents?”

  “Wrong. Large numbers of pixels make for the biggest files.”

  “Pixels?” I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “OK,” I said. “I see. It’s not a report. It’s a photograph.”

  Chapter 67

  The room went quiet again. The city sounds, the forced air. Sansom got up and used the bathroom. Springfield moved back to his former position by the TV cabinet. There were bottles of water on the cabinet, with paper collars that said if you drank the water you would be charged eight dollars.

  Sansom came out of the bathroom.

  “Reagan wanted the photograph,” he said. “Partly because he was a sentimental old geezer, and partly because he was a suspicious old man. He wanted to check we had followed his orders. The way I remember it, I’m standing next to bin Laden with the mother of all shit-eating grins on my face.”

  Springfield said, “With me on the other side.”

  Sansom said, “Bin Laden knocked down the Twin Towers. He attacked the Pentagon. He’s the world’s worst terrorist. He’s a very, very recognizable figure. He’s completely unmistakable. That photograph will kill me in politics. Stone dead. Forever.”

  I asked, “Is that why the Hoths want it?”

  He nodded. “So that Al Qaeda can humiliate me, and the United States along with me. Or vice versa.”

  I stepped over to the TV cabinet and took a bottle of water. Unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. The room was on Springfield’s card, which meant that Sansom was paying. And Sansom could afford eight bucks.

  Then I smiled, briefly.

  “Hence the photograph in your book,” I said. “And on your office wall. Donald Rumsfeld with Saddam Hussein, in Baghdad.”

  “Yes,” Sansom said.

  “Just in case. To show that someone else had done the very same thing. Like a trump card, just lying there in the weeds. No one knew it was a trump. No one even knew it was a card.”

  “It’s not a trump,” Sansom said. “It’s not even close. It’s like a lousy four of clubs. Because bin Laden is way worse than Saddam ever was. And Rumsfeld wasn’t looking to get elected to anything afterward. He was appointed to everything he did after that, by his friends. He had to be. No sane person would have voted for him.”

  “You got friends?”

  “Not many.”

  “No one ever said much about Rumsfeld’s photograph.”

  “Because he wasn’t running for office. If he had ever gotten into an election campaign, that would have been the most famous photograph in the world.”

  “You’re a better man than Rumsfeld.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Educated guess.”

  “OK, maybe. But bin Laden is worse than Saddam. And that image is poison. It doesn’t even need a caption. There I am, grinning up at the world’s most evil man like a puppy dog. People fake pictures like that for attack ads. And this one is real.”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  “When?”

  “How are we doing with the felony charges?”

  “Slow.”

  “But sure?”

  “Not very. There’s good news and bad news.”

  “Give me the bad news first.”

  “It’s very unlikely that the FBI will want to play ball. And it’s certain the Department of Defense won’t.”

  “Those three guys?”

  “They’re off the case. Apparently they’re injured. One has a broken nose and one has a cut head. But they’ve been replaced. The DoD is still hot to trot.”

  “They should be grateful. They need all the help they can get.”

  “Doesn’t work like that. There are turf wars to be won.”

  “So what’s the good news?”

  “We think the NYPD is prepared to be relaxed about the subway.”

  “Terrific,” I said. “That’s like canceling a parking ticket for Charles Manson.”

  Sansom didn’t reply.

  I asked him, “What about Theresa Lee and Jacob Mark? And Docherty?”

  “They’re back at work. With federal paper on file commending them for helping Homeland Security with a sensitive investigation.”

  “So they’re OK and I’m not?”

  “They didn’t hit anybody. They didn’t bruise any egos.”

  “What are you going to do with the memory stick when you get it back?”

  “I’m going to check it’s right, then I’m going to smash it up, and burn the pieces, and grind the ash to dust, and flush it down about eight separate toilets.”

  “Suppose I asked you not to do that?”

  “Why would you?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Depending on your point of view it was either late in the afternoon or early in the evening. But I had just woken up, so I figured it was time for breakfast. I called down to room service and ordered a big tray. About fifty bucks’ worth, at Sheraton New York prices, with taxes and tips and charges and fees. Sansom didn’t bat an eye. He was sitting forward in his chair, seething with frustration and impatience. Springfield was much more relaxed. He had shared that mountain journey a quarter of a century earlier, and he had shared the ignominy. Sometimes our friends become our enemies, and sometimes our enemies become our friends. But Springfield had nothing riding on it. No aims, no plans, no ambitions. And it showed. He was still exactly what he had been back then, just a guy doing his job.

  I asked, “Could you have killed him?”

  “He had bodyguards,” Sansom said. “Like an inner circle. Loyalties over there are fanatical. Think of the Marines, or the Teamsters, and multiply by a thousand. We were disarmed a hundred yards from the camp. We were never alone with him. There were always people milling about. Plus kids and animals. They lived like the Stone Age.”

  “He was a long lanky streak of piss,” Springfield said. “I could have reached up and snapped his scrawny neck any old time I wanted to.”

  “Did you want to?”

  “You bet I did. Because I knew. Right from the start. Maybe I should have done it right when the flashbulb went off. Like a bread-stick in an Italian restaurant. That would have made a better picture.”

  I said, “Suicide mission.”

  “But it would have saved a lot of lives later.”

  I nodded. “Just like if Rumsfeld had stuck a shiv in Saddam.”

  The room service guy brought my meal and I moved Sansom out of his chair and ate at the table. Sansom took a cell phone call and confirmed that as of that moment I was off the hook for the subway transgression. I was no longer a person of interest as far as the NYPD was concerned. But then he made a second call and told me the jury was still out at the FBI, and the signs did not look good at all. Then he made a third call and confirmed that the DoD brass definitely would not let go. They were like dogs with a bone. I was in all kinds of trouble at the federal level. Obstruction of justice, assault and battery, wounding with a deadly weapon.

  “End of story,” Sansom said. “I would have to go to the Secretary direct.”

  “Or the President,” I said.

  “I can’t do either. On the face of it the DoD is currently in hot pursuit of an active Al Qaeda cell.
Can’t argue against that, in today’s climate.”

  Politics is a minefield. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  “OK,” I said. “Just as long as I know the shape of the battlefield.”

  “It’s not your battle, strictly speaking.”

  “Jacob Mark will feel better with a little closure.”

  “You’re doing this for Jacob Mark? The feds can give him all the closure he needs.”

  “You think? The feds are nowhere. How long do you want to drag this out?”

  “So are you doing it for Jacob Mark or for me?”

  “I’m doing it for myself.”

  “You’re not involved.”

  “I like a challenge.”

  “There are lots of other challenges in the world.”

  “They made it personal. They sent me that DVD.”

  “Which was tactical. If you react, they win.”

  “No, if I react, they lose.”

  “This isn’t the Wild West.”

  “You got that right. This is the timid West. We need to roll the clock back.”

  “Do you even know where they are?”

  Springfield glanced at me.

  I said, “I’m working on a couple of ideas.”

  “Do you still have an open channel of communication?”

  “She hasn’t called me since the DVD.”

  “Since she set you up, you mean.”

  “But I think she’s going to call again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she wants to.”

  “She might win. One false step, and you’re her prisoner. You’ll end up telling her what she wants to know.”

  I asked him, “How many times have you flown commercial since September eleventh?”

  He said, “Hundreds.”

  “And I bet every single time some small corner of your mind was hoping there were hijackers on board. So you could see them marching up the aisle, so you could jump up and beat the shit out of them. Or die trying.”

  Sansom inclined his head and his mouth turned down in a rueful little smile. The first I had seen from him for a long time.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Every single time.”

  “Why?”

  “I would want to protect the airplane.”

  “And you would want to unload your frustrations. And burn off your hate. I know I would. I liked the Twin Towers. I liked the way the world used to be. You know, before. I have no political skills. I’m not a diplomat or a strategist. I know my weaknesses, and I know my strengths. So all in all for a guy like me the chance to meet an active Al Qaeda cell seems pretty much like all my birthdays and Christmases rolled into one.”