One was a man and one was a woman, both of them a long way past their rookie years, both of them quiet and contained and competent, and neither one visibly unhappy with their short-straw courier assignment. Good team players, obviously. Only the best for the best. They said normally they would ask us to sign for the delivery, given the sensitivity of the contents, but on this occasion Mr Bennett had waived the requirement. They said the computer required two passwords. They said the passwords were Ms Nice’s mother’s Social Security number, and the name of the prisoner Mr Reacher shot while attempting to escape. The passwords were case-sensitive, and could be entered one time only. No three-strikes-and-you’re-out with British software.
Then they left.
We took the tablet to Nice’s room. It was like half of a laptop computer. No keyboard. Just a screen. A blank screen. Nice said, ‘You remember his name, right?’
‘I remember both their names,’ I said.
‘But I assume the password is the first one. The main man.’
‘The target.’
‘Yes, him. Or was the other one attempting to escape also?’
‘Actually he was the only one attempting to escape. The target was already down. He didn’t see me coming.’
‘Which one were you investigated for?’
‘The second one, technically.’
‘Did people talk about the case?’
‘Not if they wanted to live. It was about the assassination of an American citizen on American soil.’
‘But if they had talked about it, what would they have called it? The case as a whole, I mean, like the John Doe thing, or whatever.’
‘Definitely the first guy.’
‘Who was the target. And Mr Bennett is British, and therefore ironic. Which means we can assume his mention of the escape was tongue-in-cheek. Which all focuses back to the target. Which was the first guy. Which is the name we should use.’
‘First or last?’
‘Has to be last. This was the U.S. Army, correct?’
‘Or code name?’
‘He had a code name?’
‘He had two. One from us, and one from the Iraqis.’
She said, ‘Do you wake up in a sweat about it?’
‘About what?’
‘That operation.’
‘Not really,’ I said.
‘But if you did, what name would you call him? Like, I shouldn’t have done that bad thing to whoever.’
‘You think it was a bad thing?’
‘It wasn’t helping old ladies across the street to the library in Africa.’
‘You’re as bad as Scarangello. We need to get you out of there and into the army before it’s too late.’
‘What was his name?’
I said, ‘Tell me about your mother.’
‘What about her?’
‘You know her Social Security number?’
‘I help her with her paperwork. She’s sick at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘She has a brain tumour. It won’t go away. She can’t think straight. I deal with insurance and disability and things like that. I know her details better than mine, probably.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘She must be young.’
‘Too young for this.’
‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s just me.’
I said, ‘Would the average person know her mother’s Social Security number?’
‘I don’t know. Did you know yours?’
‘I don’t think so. Do you visit your mother?’
‘As often as I can.’
‘In downstate Illinois? That’s a lot of flying.’
‘It keeps me busy.’
‘Plus you worry when you can’t get there, I guess. Like now.’
‘Nothing I can do.’
‘When did she get the diagnosis?’
‘Two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, for the third time.
She said, ‘It is what it is.’
‘When did Tony Moon start going to the doctor?’
‘It’s not connected.’
‘You absolutely sure about that?’
‘My mother isn’t here now.’
‘But you’re thinking about her.’
‘A little.’
‘And therefore feeling a little anxious.’
‘Not about her. It’s not connected.’
I said nothing.
She said, ‘I have one pill left.’
‘You took one?’
‘Last night. I had to sleep.’
I said, ‘Do your bosses know about your mother?’
She nodded. ‘It’s a requirement. Family situations must be reported. They’ve been very supportive about it. They keep me free on weekends whenever they can.’
‘So there’s a human resources file somewhere at Langley, recording the fact that your mother is sick and you’re taking care of business for her. Which has to be confidential. Because everything at the CIA is confidential. And there’s another file somewhere in the Pentagon, recording the name of a guy I shot in the head twenty years ago. Which I know for damn sure is confidential. But somehow MI5 in London got access to both files, to come up with unbreakable passwords for us. They’re like DNA, or fingerprints.’
She nodded again. ‘Mr Bennett’s hacking theories might be true. In which case he’s showing off.’