“But what about Holly?” he said.
Webster stacked the paper and laid his hand on it.
“He doesn’t mention her,” he said. “His last call was Monday, the day she was grabbed up. They were building a prison. We have to assume it was for her.”
“This guy calls in?” Brogan said. “By radio?”
Webster nodded.
“He’s got a transmitter concealed in the forest,” he said. “He wanders off when he can, calls in. That’s why it’s all so erratic. He’s been averaging one call a week. He’s pretty inexperienced and he’s been told to be cautious. We assume he’s under surveillance. Brave new world up there, that’s for damn sure.”
“Can we call him?” Milosevic asked.
“You’re kidding,” Webster said. “We just sit and wait.”
“Who does he report to?” Brogan asked.
“Resident Agent at Butte,” Webster said.
“So what do we do?” Johnson asked.
Webster shrugged. The room went quiet.
“Right now, nothing,” he said. “We need a position.”
The room stayed quiet and Webster just looked hard at Johnson. It was a look between one government man and another and it said: you know how it is. Johnson stared back for a long time, expressionless. Then his head moved through a fractional nod. Just enough to say: for the moment, I know how it is.
Johnson’s aide coughed into the silence.
“We’ve got missiles north of Yorke,” he said. “They’re moving south right now, on their way back here. Twenty grunts, a hundred Stingers, five trucks. They’ll be heading straight through Yorke, anytime now. Can we use them?”
Brogan shook his head.
“Against the law,” he said. “Military can’t participate in law enforcement.”
Webster ignored him and glanced at Johnson and waited. They were his men, and Holly was his daughter. The answer was better coming straight from him. There was a silence, and then Johnson shook his head.
“No,” he said. “We need time to plan.”
The aide spread his hands wide.
“We can plan,” he said. “We’ve got radio contact, ground-to-ground. We should go for it, General.”
“Against the law,” Brogan said again.
Johnson made no reply. He was thinking hard. McGrath riffled through the pile of papers and pulled the sheet about the dynamite packing Holly’s prison walls. He held it facedown on the shiny table. But Johnson shook his head again.
“No,” he said again. “Twenty men against a hundred? They’re not frontline troops. They’re not infantry. And their Stingers won’t help us. I assume these terrorists don’t have an air force, right? No, we wait. Bring the missile unit right back here, fastest. No engagement.”
The aide shrugged and McGrath slipped the dynamite report back into the pile. Webster looked around and slapped both palms lightly on the tabletop.
“I’m going back to D.C.,” he said. “Got to get a position.”
Johnson shrugged his shoulders. He knew nothing could start without a trip back to D.C. to get a position. Webster turned to McGrath.
“You three move up to Butte,” he said. “Get settled in the office there. If this guy Jackson calls, put him on maximum alert.”
“We can chopper you up there,” the aide said.
“And we need surveillance,” Webster said. “Can you get the Air Force to put some camera planes over Yorke?”
Johnson nodded.
“They’ll be there,” he said. “Twenty-four hours a day. We’ll give you a live video feed into Butte. A rat farts, you’ll see it.”
“No intervention,” Webster said. “Not yet.”
29
SHE HEARD FOOTSTEPS in the corridor at the exact moment the sixth bolt came free. A light tread. Not Jackson. Not a man treading carefully. A woman, walking normally. The steps halted outside her door. There was a pause. She rested the long tube back on the frame. A key went into the lock. She pulled the mattress back into place. Dragged the blanket over it. Another pause. The door opened.
A woman came into the room. She looked like all of them looked, white, lean, long straight hair, strong plain face, no makeup, no adornment, red hands. She was carrying a tray, with a white cloth mounded up over it. No weapon.
“Lunch,” she said.
Holly nodded. Her heart was pounding. The woman was standing there, the tray in her hands, looking around the room, staring hard at the new pine walls.
“Where do you want this?” she asked. “On the bed?”
Holly shook her head.
“On the floor,” she said.
The woman bent and placed the tray on the floor.
“Guess you could use a table,” she said. “And a chair.”
Holly glanced down at the flatware and thought: tools.
“You want me to get them to bring you a chair?” the woman asked.
“No,” Holly said.
“Well, I could use one,” the woman said. “I’ve got to wait and watch you eat. Make sure you don’t steal the silverware.”
Holly nodded vaguely and circled around the woman. Glanced at the open door. The woman followed her gaze and grinned.
“Nowhere to run,” she said. “We’re a long way from anywhere, and there’s some difficult terrain in the way. North, you’d reach Canada in a couple of weeks, if you found enough roots and berries and bugs to eat. West, you’d have to swim the river. East, you’d get lost in the forest or eaten by a bear, and even if you didn’t, you’re still a month away from Montana. South, we’d shoot you. The border is crawling with guards. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“The road is blocked?” Holly asked.
The woman smiled.
“We blew the bridge,” she said. “There is no road, not anymore.”
“When?” Holly asked her. “We drove in.”
“Just now,” the woman said. “You didn’t hear it? I guess you wouldn’t, not with these walls.”
“So how does Reacher get sent out?” Holly asked. “He’s supposed to be carrying some sort of a message.”
The woman smiled again.
“That plan has changed,” she said. “Mission canceled. He’s not going.”
“Why not?” Holly asked.
The woman looked straight at her.
“We found out what happened to Peter Bell,” she said.
Holly went quiet.
“Reacher killed him,” the woman said. “Suffocated him. In North Dakota. We were just informed. But I expect you know all about it, right?”
Holly stared at her. She thought: Reacher’s in big trouble. She saw him, handcuffed and alone
