Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,64
your car stolen. That way they’ll take it seriously. They’ll act with an element of tactical caution. They’ll assemble larger forces.”
“That’s a bad thing.”
“Only if they find us. Assuming they don’t, all they’re doing by bunching up is leaving bigger gaps elsewhere, for us to walk through.”
“Walk through where?”
“I guess the ultimate goal would be a face to face meeting with the big boss. Gregory’s equivalent.”
“Dino,” Abby said. “That’s crazy.”
“He’s one guy. Same as me. We could have an exchange of views. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“I have to work in this town. One side of Center or the other.”
“I apologize,” Reacher said.
“You should.”
“But that’s why we need to do this right. We need to play to win.”
“OK, we’ll steal the car.”
“Or we could set it on fire.”
“Stealing is better,” she said. “I want to get out of here as fast as I can.”
* * *
—
They drove the car four blocks into a tangle of blank urban streets, and they left it on a corner, keys in, all four doors standing open, plus the hood, plus the trunk. Somehow symbolic. Then they walked back to Barton’s place, via a long circuitous route, and they checked all four sides of his block before they stepped to his door. He was up, waiting, with Hogan.
Plus a third guy, who Reacher had never seen before.
Chapter 27
The third guy in Barton’s hallway had the kind of hair and skin that made a person look ten years younger than he really was, which therefore in reality made him about Reacher’s own generation. He was smaller and neater. He had sharp watchful eyes set deep either side of a blade of a nose. He had a long unruly lock of hair that fell across his forehead. He was dressed with a modicum of style, in good shoes and corduroy pants and a shirt and a jacket.
Joe Hogan said, “This is who I was telling you about. The dogface who knows all the old Commie languages. His name is Guy Vantresca.”
Reacher stuck out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“Likewise,” Vantresca said, and he shook hands, and then he did so all over again, with Abby.
Reacher said, “You got here fast.”
“I was still awake,” Vantresca said. “I live close by.”
“Thanks for helping out.”
“Actually that’s not why I’m here. I came to warn you off. You can’t mess with these people. Too many, too nasty, too protected. That would be my assessment.”
“Were you Military Intelligence?”
Vantresca shook his head.
“Armor,” he said.
A company commander late on in the Cold War, Hogan had called him.
“Tanks?” Reacher asked.
“Fourteen of them,” Vantresca said. “All mine. All facing east. Happy days.”
“Why did you learn the languages?”
“I thought we were going to win. I thought I might be ruling a civilian district. Or at least ordering a bottle of wine in a restaurant. Or meeting girls. It was a long time ago. Plus Uncle Sam paid for it. Back then the army liked education. Everyone was getting postgraduate degrees.”
Reacher said, “Too many and too nasty are subjective judgments. We can talk about that kind of stuff later. But too protected is different. What do you know about that?”
“I do some corporate consulting. Mostly physical security of buildings. But I hear things, and I get asked things. Last year a federal project ran a set of integrated numbers from all across the nation, and it turned out the two most law-abiding populations in America were the Ukrainian and Albanian communities right here in town. They don’t even get parking tickets. That suggests a very close relationship with all levels of law enforcement.”
“But there must be a red line somewhere. I suggested to one of them that gunfire on the city streets at night would get a reaction, and the guy didn’t argue. In fact I guess he agreed with me, because he didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Plus we’re getting a new police commissioner. They’re nervous. But there’s still plenty of boring invisible stuff their side of the line. Generally speaking this type of thing isn’t about bullets in the street. It’s about someone having a cozy chat with a potential witness, out of sight, out of earshot, probably in the witness’s own home, probably in a meaningful location, like an infant daughter’s bedroom, about what a weird thing memory is, how it comes and goes, how it fades in and out, how it plays tricks, and about how it’s no shame at all to say, look, man, I just can’t recall. People I know