Lothar attended to driving the heavy vehicle expertly through snow-covered streets through towns unprepared for the early winter storm.
After she'd warmed up enough to sit a normal distance from the fan's blasting heat, Lothar glanced toward her and asked, “Did she give you the business about getting married and having babies before she dies?”
Kim nodded. She didn't know this man. She had no intention of discussing her personal life with him, no matter how angry she was.
He grinned. “She does that to me every time I see her.”
“Really? I thought it was only me she subjected to never-ending ridicule.”
Lothar laughed, the kind of deep belly laugh that only emerged from genuine mirth, the contagious kind. “When did you get so special?”
Kim smiled, felt better, almost as if she'd found an Otto family ally for the first time in her life, knowing the feeling was supremely foolish. Relief lasted about twenty seconds before the SUV swerved on a black ice patch and she grabbed the armrest to avoid being slung across the seat. She snugged up her seatbelt several notches.
Traffic slogged along, slowing their progress. Several vehicles less suited to the conditions slipped on patches of invisible black ice. They'd dodged two fender-benders already. Snow plows and salt trucks clogged the roadway, but drivers willingly waited as they passed.
Lothar concentrated intently on driving, but he must have sensed her anxiety because he said, “Planes take off in these conditions all the time around here. They'll de-ice. Two or three times if they need to. You'll be fine.”
Kim's stomach started doing backflips and the two antacids she held on her tongue weren't helping in the least. De-icing two or three times? Seriously? Didn't these people know how dangerous ice on airplanes was? Didn't they understand that de-icing two or three times made crashing more likely, not less? Was she completely surrounded by hostiles here?
When they reached the curbside drop off for Frontier Airlines, Lothar turned toward her and placed a hand on her arm. “Hang on a minute. I have something for you.”
Kim knew she looked puzzled because that was how she felt. Lothar reached inside his jacket and pulled a photograph from his breast pocket. He handed it to her.
She bit her lip to suppress a gasp. Major Jack Reacher's official Army head shot. She flipped the photo over and on the back was a sticker sporting typewritten information: Tonight. 10:00 p.m. National Gallery of Art, East Building, front entrance.
“What is this?”
“Following orders.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was ordered to deliver that to you.”
“By whom?”
“The point is someone wants to see you. They knew I could deliver the message. You understand?”
“Spell it out for me,” she said, but she knew. She wanted him to voice her concern aloud so she would know she wasn't crazy. Because it was crazy to think that someone would manipulate her father to manipulate her to come to Wisconsin to meet a reliable cousin to give her a meeting back in Washington DC which is where she started from this morning and where she was returning in thirty-three minutes if she survived her flight.
Lothar asked a question instead. “You recognized the photo, didn't you? How are you involved with that guy? Is he the reason you were so incensed at Grandma Louisa’s meddling in your personal life? You’re not dating that guy?”
He seemed genuinely concerned about her, which worried her more than the message. No one in the extended Otto family had shown her the least bit of concern her entire life. Why start now?
She said, “Do
“By reputation. Otherwise, before my time. Reacher was discharged in 1997. Something hinky about it, though. His situation was definitely not normal, Kim. Wherever that guy went, bodies piled up. And I'm not talking about normal battlefield casualties. Nobody is that unlucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“I'm a Captain in the U.S. Army. Like you, Agent Otto, I follow orders and don't ask questions, or I pay the consequences. Before today, I never had a problem with that because the Army never ordered me to do anything this odd; something not right is going on here.”
He shrugged, giving up. “Friends come and go in life, but enemies pile up. Reacher made a lot of enemies. You be careful, little 'cuz, or you’ll never reach Grandma Louisa’s age with or without those Vietnamese longevity genes.”
A vehicle behind the SUV laid on the horn letting Lothar know it was long past time to move.
Kim slipped Reacher’s photo into her jacket pocket, popped open the door, and slid out to the ground.
Before she closed herself outside in the cold, Lothar said, “You need anything, here’s my card. I feel responsible for you now. Don’t let them be calling me to your funeral.”
4.
Washington, D.C. was full of shadowy men these days. Some were harmless. Some were crazy. Sometimes it was impossible to tell the difference. Always safer to avoid confrontation, just in case.
He stood motionless in a shadowed doorway, an intimidating giant, waiting. He carried his broad frame tall and straight. He wore indigo jeans and brown work boots on his feet. Both hands were stuffed into leather jacket pockets, probably for warmth. Fair hair fell shaggy around his ears and collar, his only cap against winter's cold. Sunglasses covered his eyes and reflected the weak sunset like cat pupils. Without visible effort, he seemed infinitely patient, self-possessed, self-confident, alert and relaxed, harmless and dangerous.
Few pedestrians raised their heads from the biting November wind enough to notice him; those who did veered wide, walked along the curb, as far away as possible from the boxy doorway. Just in case.
When the burner cell phone vibrated he pulled it out of his pocket and held the speaker to his ear. The woman’s voice reported just the facts, “Messages delivered; on their way.”
He said nothing.
He dropped the phone to the concrete, smashed it casually with the heel of his heavy boot, picked up the largest pieces, scattered the smallest, and walked unhurried toward Pennsylvania Avenue, dropping the rest into random trash bins along his route.
5.
Agent Carlos Gaspar flashed his badge at the entrance to the Pentagon, provided appropriate identification and after his approved visitor status was confirmed, he was flagged through.
As he expected, the building was busy even though it was five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. Gaspar had slept an hour on the plane; Tylenol, the strongest pain killer he allowed himself, never lasted longer. He'd stopped for coffee after he passed security.
No one knew him here, but both civilians and military personnel were busy with more pressing matters. He’d passed security so they ignored him, likely accepting that his clearance was high enough. Which it was.
He glanced at the digital clock on the wall. Two hours before he’d meet Otto in the coffee shop. Plenty of time.
The first step in any follow-up investigation was to review and analyze all the previous reports. Because Otto and Gaspar were tasked by one of the FBI’s most powerful leaders and assigned a rush under-the-radar project, this step hadn’t been completed.
He knew where he was going, what to look for, and what he should find there.
He also knew he wouldn't find it. The absence of what should be present would speak volumes.
