The alarm clock in my head went off at four. Summer was still asleep. I eased my arm out from under her and worked some kind of circulation back into my shoulder and slid out of bed and padded across the carpet to the bathroom. Then I put my pants on and shrugged into my sweatshirt and woke Summer with a kiss.
“Rise and shine, Lieutenant,” I said.
She stretched her arms up high and arched her back. The sheet fell away to her waist.
“Good morning,” she said.
I kissed her again.
“I like Paris,” she said. “I had fun here.”
“Me too.”
“Lots of fun.”
“Lobby in half an hour,” I said.
I went back to my own room and called room service for coffee. I was through shaving and showering before it arrived. I took the tray at the door wearing just a towel. Then I dressed in fresh BDUs and poured my first cup and checked my watch. It was four-twenty in the morning in Paris, which made it ten-twenty in the evening on the East Coast, which made it well after the end of bankers’ hours. And which made it seven-twenty in the evening on the West Coast, which was early enough that a hardworking guy might still be at his desk. I checked the plate on the phone again and hit nine for a line. Dialed the only number I had ever permanently memorized, which was the Rock Creek switchboard back in Virginia. An operator answered on the first ring.
“This is Reacher,” I said. “I need a number for Fort Irwin’s MP XO.”
“Sir, there’s a standing order from Colonel Willard that you should return to base immediately.”
“I’ll be right there, soon as I can. But I need that number first.”
“Sir, where are you now?”
“In a whorehouse in Sydney, Australia,” I said. “Give me that Irwin number.”
He gave me the number. I repeated it to myself and hit nine again and dialed it. Calvin Franz’s sergeant answered, second ring.
“I need Franz,” I said.
There was a click and then silence and I was settling in for a long wait when Franz came through.
“I need you to do something for me,” I said.
“Like what?”
“You’ve got a XII Corps guy called Marshall there. You know him?”
“No.”
“I need him to stay there until I can get there myself. It’s very important.”
“I can’t stop people leaving the post unless I arrest them.”
“Just tell him I called from Berlin. That should do it. As long as he thinks I’m in Germany, he’ll stay in California.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what he’s been told to do.”
“Does he know you?”
“Not personally.”
“Then that’s an awkward conversation for me to have. Like, I can’t just walk up to a guy I never met and say, Hey, hot news, another guy
“So be subtle,” I said. “Tell him I asked you to ask him a question for me, because there’s no way I can get there myself.”
“What question?”
“Ask him about the day of Kramer’s funeral. Was he at Arlington? What did he do the rest of the day? Why didn’t he drive his guys to North Carolina? What reason did they give him for wanting to drive themselves?”
“That’s four questions.”
“Whatever, just make it sound like you’re asking on my behalf because California isn’t in my travel plans.”
“Where can I get back to you?”
I looked down at the phone and read out the George V’s number.
“That’s France,” he said. “Not Germany.”
“Marshall doesn’t need to know that,” I said. “I’ll be back here later.”
“When are you coming to California?”
“Within forty-eight hours, I hope.”
“OK,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” I said. “Call Fort Bird for me and ask my sergeant to get histories on General Vassell and Colonel Coomer. Specifically I want to know if either one of them has a connection with a town called Sperryville in Virginia. Born there, grew up there, family there, any kind of connection that would indicate they might know what kind of retail outlet was where. Tell her to sit on the answers until I get in touch.”
“OK,” he said again. “Is that it?”
“No,” I said. “Also tell her to call Detective Clark in Green Valley and have him fax his street canvasses relating to the night of New Year’s Eve. She’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m glad someone will,” Franz said.
He paused. He was writing stuff down.
“So is
“For now,” I said.
I hung up and made it down to the lobby about five minutes after Summer. She was waiting there. She had been much faster than me. But then, she didn’t have to shave and I don’t think she had made any calls or taken time for coffee. Like me, she was back in BDUs. Somehow she had cleaned her boots, or had gotten them cleaned. They were gleaming.
We didn’t have money for a cab to the airport. So we walked back through the predawn darkness to the Place de l’Opera and caught the bus. It was less crowded than the last time but just as uncomfortable. We got brief glimpses of the sleeping city and then we crossed the Peripherique and ground slowly through the dismal outer suburbs.
We got to Roissy-Charles de Gaulle just before six. It was busy there. I guessed airports worked on floating time zones all their own. It was busier at six in the morning than it would be in the middle of the afternoon. There were crowds of people everywhere. Cars and buses were loading and unloading, red-eyed travelers were coming out and going in and struggling with bags. It looked like the whole world was on the move.
The arrivals screen showed that Joe’s flight was already on the ground. We hiked around to the customs area’s exit doors. Took our places among a big crowd of meeters and greeters. I figured Joe would be one of the first passengers through. He would have walked fast from the plane and he wouldn’t have checked any luggage. No delays.
We saw a few stragglers coming out from the previous flight. They were mostly families slowed by young children or individuals who had waited for odd-sized luggage. People in the crowd turned toward them expectantly and then turned away again when they realized they weren’t who they were looking for. I watched them do it for a spell. It was an interesting physical dynamic. Just subtle adjustments of posture were enough to display interest, and then lack of interest. Welcome, and then dismissal. A half-turn inward, and then a half-turn away. Sometimes it was nothing more than a transfer of body weight from one foot to the other.
The last stragglers were mixed in with the first people off of Joe’s flight. There were businessmen moving fast, humping briefcases and suit carriers. There were young women in high heels and dark glasses, expensively dressed. Models? Actresses? Call girls? There were government people, French and American. I could pick them out by the way they looked. Smart and serious, plenty of eyeglasses, but their shoes and suits and coats weren’t the best quality. Low-level diplomats, probably. The flight was from D.C., after all.
Joe came out about twelfth in line. He was in the same overcoat I had seen before, but a different suit and a different tie. He looked good. He was walking fast and carrying a black leather overnight bag. He was a head taller
