share with you. Reacher and I will do it on our own. There are issues of national and military security at stake. You’re going to have to wait out here.”
“All day?” she said.
Trent nodded again. “As long as it takes. You comfortable with that?”
It was clear she wasn’t. She looked at the floor and said nothing.
“You wouldn’t let me see confidential FBI stuff,” Trent said. “I mean, you don’t really like us any more than we like you, right?”
Harper glanced around the room. “I’m supposed to watch over him.”
“I understand that. Your Mr. Blake explained your role to me. But you’ll be right here, outside my office. There’s only one door. The sergeant will give you a desk.”
A sergeant stood up unbidden and showed her to an empty desk with a clear view of the inner office door. She sat down slowly, unsure.
'You’ll be OK there,” Trent said. 'This could take us some time. It’s a complicated business. I’m sure you know how paperwork can be.”
Then he led Reacher into the inner office and closed the door. It was a large room, windows on two walls, bookcases, cabinets, a big wooden desk, comfortable leather chairs. Reacher sat down in front of the desk and leaned back.
“Give it two minutes, OK?” he said.
Trent nodded. “Read this. Look busy.”
He handed over a thick file in a faded green folder from a tall stack. Reacher opened it up and bent to examine it. There was a complicated chart inside, detailing projected aviation-fuel requirements for the coming six-month period. Trent walked back to the door. Opened it wide.
“Ms. Harper?” he called. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Reacher glanced over his shoulder and saw her staring in at him, taking in the chairs, the desk, the stack of files.
“I’m all set, right now,” she called back.
“OK,” Trent said. “You want anything, just tell the sergeant.”
He closed the door again. Walked to the window. Reacher took off his ID tag and laid it on the desk. Stood up. Trent unlatched the window and opened it as wide as it would go.
“You didn’t give us much time,” he whispered. “But I think we’re in business.”
“They fell for it right away,” Reacher whispered back. “A lot sooner than I thought they would.”
“But how did you know you’d have the escort?”
“Hope for the best, plan for the worst. You know how it is.”
Trent nodded. Stuck his head out of the window and checked both directions.
“OK, go for it,” he said. “And good luck, my friend.”
“I need a gun,” Reacher whispered.
Trent stared at him and shook his head again, firmly.
“No,” he said. “That, I can’t do.”
“You have to. I need one.”
Trent paused. He was agitated. Getting nervous.
“Christ, OK, a gun,” he said. “But no ammunition. My ass is already way out on a limb on this thing.”
He opened a drawer and took out a Beretta M9. Same weapon as Petrosian’s boys had carried, except Reacher could see this one still had its serial number intact. Trent took the clip out and thumbed the bullets back into the drawer, one by one.
“Quiet,” Reacher whispered urgently.
Trent nodded and clicked the empty clip back into the grip. Handed the gun to Reacher, butt-first. Reacher took it and put it in his coat pocket. Sat on the window ledge. Turned and swiveled his legs outside.
“Have a nice day,” he whispered.
“You too. Take care,” Trent whispered back.
Reacher braced himself with his hands and dropped to the ground. He was in a narrow alley. It was still raining. The lieutenant was waiting in the Chevy, ten yards away, motor running. Reacher sprinted for the car and it was rolling before his door was closed. The mile back to McGuire took little over a minute. The car raced out onto the tarmac and headed straight for a Marine Corps helicopter. Its belly door was standing open and the rotor blade was turning fast. The rain in the air was whipping up into spiral patterns.
“Thanks, kid,” Reacher said.
He stepped out of the car and across to the chopper’s ramp and ran up into the dark. The door whirred shut behind him and the engine noise built to a roar. He felt the machine come off the ground and two pairs of hands grabbed him and pushed him into his seat. He buckled his harness and a headset was thrust at him. He put it on and the intercom crackle started at the same time as the interior lights came on. He saw he was sitting in a canvas chair between two Marine load-masters.
“We’re going to the Coast Guard heliport in Brooklyn, ” the pilot called through. “Close as we can get without filing a flight plan, and filing a flight plan ain’t exactly on the agenda today, OK?”
Reacher thumbed his mike. “Suits me, guys. And thanks.”
“Colonel must owe you big,” the pilot said.
“No, he just likes me,” Reacher said.
The guy laughed and the helicopter swung in the air and settled to a bellowing cruise.
11
THE COAST GUARD heliport in Brooklyn is situated on the eastern edge of Floyd Bennett Field, facing an island in Jamaica Bay called Ruffle Bar, exactly sixty air miles north and east from McGuire. The Marine pilot kept his foot on the loud pedal all the way and made the trip in thirty-seven minutes. He touched down in a circle with a giant letter H painted inside it and dropped the engines down to idle.
“You’ve got four hours,” he said. “Any longer than that, we’re out of here and you’re on your own, OK?”
“OK,” Reacher said. He unstrapped himself and slipped the headset off and followed the ramp down as it opened. There was a dark blue sedan with Navy markings waiting on the tarmac with its motor running and its front passenger door open.
“You Reacher?” the driver yelled.
Reacher nodded and slid in alongside him. The guy stamped on the gas.
“I’m Navy Reserve,” he said. “We’re helping the colonel out. A little interservice cooperation.”
“I appreciate it,” Reacher said.
'Don’t think twice,” the guy said. “So where we headed?”
“ Manhattan. Aim for Chinatown. You know where that is?”
“Do I? I eat there three times a week.”
He took Flatbush Avenue and the Manhattan Bridge. Traffic was light, but ground transportation still seemed awful slow, after the Lear and the helicopter. It was thirty minutes before Reacher was anywhere near where he wanted to be. A whole eighth of his available time gone. The guy came off the bridge approach and stopped short on a hydrant.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” he said. “Facing the other direction, exactly three hours from now. So don’t be late, OK?”
Reacher nodded.
“I won’t,” he said.
He slid out of the car and slapped twice on the roof. Crossed the street and headed south. It was cold in New York, and damp, but it wasn’t actually raining. There was no sun visible. Just a vague sullen light in the sky where the sun ought to have been. He stopped walking and stood still for a moment. He was twenty minutes from Jodie’s office. He started walking again. It was twenty minutes he didn’t have.
