Blue Moon - Lee Child Page 0,65

say that kind of case is very hard to investigate and very easy to bury.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Too many. Like I said. Too many, too nasty, too protected. You should forget it.”

“Where was your company in the order of battle?”

“Pretty near the tip of the spear,” Vantresca said.

“In other words hopelessly outnumbered, from day one and possibly forever.”

“I get the point you’re trying to make. But I had fourteen Abrams tanks. They were the finest fighting vehicles in the world. They were like something out of a science fiction book. I wasn’t walking through the Fulda Gap in a pair of pants and a jacket.”

“As always with armored people, you over-fetishize the machine. That said, clearly you felt you were more lethal than them. Outnumbered, but nastier. But in turn they were certainly protected, by a whole giant nation. One out of three in your favor. Two out of three against. But even so, you would have started your engines, if they had told you to.”

“I get the point,” Vantresca said again.

“And you expected to win,” Reacher said. “Which is why you learned the languages. Which are all I really need right now. I’m taking this one step at a time. First I need to understand what they’re saying in the texts, and then I need to use what I learn, in order to figure out what to do next. No combat readiness yet. No warnings necessary.”

“Suppose what you learn is that it’s hopeless?”

“Not an acceptable outcome. Can only be a failure of planning. Surely they taught you that in Germany.”

“OK,” Vantresca said. “One step at a time.”

* * *

—

They worked in the kitchen and started with the Ukrainian language. Vantresca admired Abby’s video capture. Smart, to the point, and efficient. He tapped his finger on the screen, in a slow, syncopated rhythm, play, pause, play, pause, and he read aloud from the freeze-framed screen, at first slow and halting, and then sometimes stopping altogether.

Because linguistically he was in trouble from the start. These were text messages, full of unknown slang, and single-letter abbreviations, and in-group acronyms, and also full of what could only be misspellings, unless in fact they were deliberate simplifications, perhaps following a convention developed especially for the medium. No one knew. Vantresca said the task could take him some time. He said it would be like translating a difficult foreign language while simultaneously breaking an espionage code. Or maybe two codes, given the oblique allusions and elisions any self-respecting gangster could be expected to use.

Abby got her laptop and worked with him side by side, tackling individual words with on-line dictionaries, or searching the single-letter abbreviations, or the acronyms, on language blogs, and word-nerd sites. She made notes on scraps of paper. A couple of things fell into place, but even so the work was slow. Never had so much come from so little. She had made the video as fast as she dared, five, ten, twenty seconds, scrolling at speed, pumping on and on. Now that vivid blur was giving up thousands and thousands of words, each one a challenge and a puzzle, most of them with two or three plausible solutions.

Reacher let them work. He hung out in the front parlor, with Barton and Hogan, in the spaces between the drums and the speaker cabinets. One cabinet was gray and about the size of a refrigerator. It had eight dirty circles on its grill. Reacher sat on the floor and leaned his back against it and it didn’t move at all. Barton hauled his battered Fender up into his lap, and played it unplugged, barely audible, with up and down runs of soft buzzy notes.

Hogan said, “Do you think we would have won? Do you think Vantresca would have wound up using his languages?”

“On balance I think we would have prevailed,” Reacher said. “As a technical matter I think we would have shut them down before they shut us down. Hard to call it winning, given the mess it would have made. But whatever, the tip of the spear would have been vaporized long ago. I’m afraid your friend wasted his time in school.”

Barton played a descending arpeggio, some kind of diminished minor chord, and ended with a bang on the open bottom string. Plugged in, it would have demolished the house. Unplugged, the string rattled and clattered against the frets, and gave out no fundamental at all. Barton looked at Reacher and said, “Now you’re the tip of