‘We don’t want to waste time here,’ she said.

  He said nothing back and she smiled and opened her bag. Came out with a folded cellular phone the size of a cigarette packet.

  ‘Use my mobile,’ she said.

  Everybody uses mobiles. They use them all the time, just constantly. It’s a phenomenon of the modern age. Everybody’s talk, talk, talking, all the time, little black telephones pressed up to their faces. Where does all that conversation come from? What happened to all that conversation before mobiles were invented? Was it all bottled up? Burning ulcers in people’s guts? Or did it just develop spontaneously because technology made it possible?

  It’s a subject you’re interested in. Human impulses. Your guess is a small percentage of calls made represents useful exchange of information. But the vast majority must fall into one of two categories, either the fun aspect, the sheer delight of doing something simply because you can, or else the ego-building self-important bullshit aspect. And your observation is that it splits pretty much along gender lines. It’s not an opinion you’d care to voice in public, but privately you’re sure women talk because they enjoy it, and men talk because it builds them up. Hi, honey, I’m just getting off the plane, they say. So what? Like, who cares?

  But you’re confident that men’s use of mobiles is closer connected to their ego needs, so it’s necessarily a stronger attachment, and therefore a more frequent urge. So if you steal a phone from a man, it will be discovered earlier, and reacted to with a greater degree of upset. That’s your judgement. Therefore you’re sitting in the airport food court watching the women.

  The other major advantage of women is that they have smaller pockets. Sometimes, no pockets at all. Therefore they carry bags, into which goes all their stuff. Their wallets, their keys, their make-up. And their mobile phones. They take them out to use them, maybe rest them on the table for a spell, and then put them right back in their bags. If they get up for a coffee refill, of course, they take their bags with them. That’s ingrained. Always keep your pocketbook with you. But some of them have other bags, too. There are laptop cases, which these days are made with all kinds of extra compartments for the disks and the CD-ROM thing and the cables. And some of them have pockets for mobiles, little external leather rectangles the same shape as the cigarettes-and-lighter cases women carried back when people smoked. Those other cases, they don’t always take them with them. If they’re just stepping away to the beverage counter, they often leave them at the table, partly to keep their place claimed, partly because who can carry a pocketbook and a laptop case and a hot cup of coffee?

  But you’re ignoring the women with the laptop cases. Because those expensive leather articles imply some kind of serious purpose. Their owners might get home in an hour and want to check their e-mail or finalize a pie chart or something, whereupon they open their laptop case and find their phone is gone. Police notified, account cancelled, calls traced, all within an hour. No good at all.

  So the women you’re watching are the non-business travellers. The ones with the little nylon backpacks carried as cabin baggage. And you’re specifically watching the ones heading out of town, not in toward home. They’re going to make a last couple of calls from the airport and then stuff their phones into their backpacks and forget all about them, because they’re flying out of the local coverage area and they don’t want to pay roaming charges. Maybe they’re vacationing overseas, in which case their phones are as useless to them as their house keys. Something they have to take along, but not something they ever think about.

  The one particular target you’re watching most closely is a woman of about twenty-three or four, maybe forty feet away. She’s dressed comfortably like she’s got a long flight ahead and she’s leaning back in her chair with her head tilted left and her phone trapped in her shoulder. She’s smiling vacantly as she talks, and playing with her nails. Picking at them and turning her hands in the light to look at them. This is a lazy saynothing chat with a girlfriend. No intensity in her face. She’s just talking for the sake of talking.

  Her carry-on bag is on the floor near her feet. It’s a small designer backpack, all covered in little loops and catches and zippers. It’s clearly so complicated to close that she’s left it gaping open. She picks up her coffee cup and puts it down again. It’s empty. She talks and checks her watch and cranes to look at the beverage counter. She wraps up the chat. Flips her phone closed and drops it in her backpack. Picks up a matching pocketbook and stands up and wheels away to get more coffee.

  You’re on your feet instantly. Car keys in your hand. You hustle straight across the court, ten feet, twenty, thirty. You’re swinging the keys. Looking busy. She’s in line. About to be served. You drop your keys and they skid across the tiles. You bend to retrieve them. Your hand skims her bag. You come back up with the keys and the phone together. You walk on. The keys go back in your pocket. The phone stays in your hand. Nothing more ordinary than somebody walking through an airport lounge holding a mobile.

  You walk at normal pace. Stop and lean on a pillar. You flip the phone open and hold it at your face, pretending to make a call. Now you’re invisible. You’re a person leaning on a pillar making a call. There are a dozen of you within a twenty-foot radius. You look back. She’s back at her table, drinking her coffee. You wait, whispering nothing into the phone. She drinks. Three minutes. Four. Five. You press random buttons and start talking again. You’re on a new call. You’re busy. You’re one of the guys. She stands up. Yanks on the cords of her backpack to close it up. Picks it up by the cords and bounces it against its own weight to make them tight. She buckles the catches. Swings the pack onto one shoulder and picks up her pocketbook. Opens it to check her ticket is accessible. Closes it again. She looks around once and strides purposefully out of the food court. Straight toward you. She passes within five feet and disappears toward the departure gates. You flip the phone closed and slip it into the pocket of your suit and you walk out the other way. You smile to yourself as you go. Now the crucial call is going to end up on someone else’s bill. Safe as houses.

  The phone call to the Fort Armstrong duty officer revealed nothing at all on the surface, but the guy’s evasions were voiced in such a way that a thirteen-year Army cop like Reacher took them to be confirmation as good as he’d get if they were written in an affidavit sworn before a notary public.

  ‘He’s there,’ he said.

  Harper had been eavesdropping, and she didn’t look convinced.

  ‘They tell you that for sure?’ she asked.

  ‘More or less,’ he said.

  ‘So is it worth going?’

  He nodded. ‘He’s there, I guarantee it.’

  The Nissan had no maps in it, and Harper had no idea of where she was. Reacher had only anecdotal knowledge of New Jersey geography. He knew how to get from A to B, and then from B to C, and then from C to D, but whether that was the most efficient direct route all the way from A to D, he had no idea. So he came out of the lot and headed for the turnpike on-ramp. He figured driving south for an hour would be a good start. He realized within a minute he was using the same road Lamarr had driven him on, just a few days before. It was raining lightly and the Nissan rode harder and lower than her big Buick. It was right down there in the tunnel of spray. The windshield was filmed with city grease and the wipers were blurring the view out with every alternate stroke. Smear, clear, smear, clear. The needle on the gas gauge was heading below a quarter.

  ‘We should stop,’ Harper said. ‘Get gas, clean the screen.’

  ‘And buy a map,’ Reacher said.

  He pulled off into the next service area. It was pretty much identical to the place Lamarr had used for lunch. Same layout, same buildings. He rolled through the rain to the gas pumps and left the car at the full service island. The tank was full and the guy was cleaning the screen when he got back, wet, carrying a coloured map which unfolded awkwardly into a yard-square sheet.

  ‘We’re on the wrong road,’ he said. ‘Route 1 would be better.’

  ‘OK, next exit,’ Harper said, craning over. ‘Use 95 to jump across.’

  She used her finger to trace south down Route 1. Found Fort Armstrong on the edge of the yellow shape that represented Trenton.

  ‘Close to Fort Dix,’ she said. ‘Where we were before.’

  Reacher said nothing. The guy finished with the windshield and Harper paid him through her window. Reacher wiped rain off his face with his sleeve and started the motor. Threaded his way back to the highway and watched for the turn onto 95.

  95 was a mess, with heavy traffic. Route 1 was better. It curved through Highland Park and then ran dead straight for nearly twenty miles, all the way into Trenton. Reacher remembered Fort Armstrong as a left-hand turn coming north out of Trenton, so coming south it was a right-hand turn, onto another dead straight approach road, which took them all the way to a vehicle barrier outside a two-storey brick guard-house. Beyond the guardhouse were more roads and buildings. The roads were flat with whitewashed kerbs and the buildings were all brick with radiused corners and external stairways made of welded tubular steel painted green. Window frames were metal. Classic Army architecture of the Fifties, built with unlimited budgets and unlimited scope. Unlimited optimism.

  ‘The US military,’ Reacher said. ‘We were kings of the world, back then.’

  There was dimmed light in the guardhouse window next to the vehicle barrier. A sentry was visible, silhouetted against the light, bulky in a rain cape and helmet. He peered through the window and stepped to the door. Opened it up and came out to the car. Reacher buzzed his window down.

  ‘You the guy who called the captain?’ the sentry asked.

  He was a heavy black guy. Low voice, slow accent from the deep South. Far from home on a rainy night. Reacher nodded. The sentry grinned.

  ‘He figured you might show up in person,’ he said. ‘Go ahead in.’

  He stepped back into the guardhouse and the barrier came up. Reacher drove carefully over the tyre spikes and turned left.

  ‘That was easy,’ Harper said.

  ‘You ever met a retired FBI agent?’ Reacher asked.

  ‘Sure, once or twice. Couple of the old guys.’

  ‘How did you treat them?’

  She nodded. ‘Like that guy treated you, I guess.’

  ‘All organizations are the same,’ he said. ‘Military police more so than the others, maybe. The rest of the Army hates you, so you stick together more.’

  He turned right, then right again, then left.

  ‘You been here before?’ Harper asked.

  ‘These places are all the same,’ he said. ‘Look for the biggest flower bed, that’s where the general office is.’

  She pointed. ‘That looks promising.’

  He nodded. ‘You got the idea.’

  The headlight beams played over a rose bed the size of an Olympic pool. The roses were just dormant stalks, sticking up out of a surface lumpy with horse manure and shredded bark. Behind them was a low symmetrical building with whitewashed steps leading up to double doors in the centre. A light burned in a window in the middle of the left-hand wing.

  ‘Duty office,’ Reacher said. ‘The sentry called the captain soon as we were through the gate, so right now he’s walking down the corridor to the doors. Watch for the light.’

  The fanlights above the doors lit up with a yellow glow.

  ‘Now the outside lights,’ Reacher said.

  Two carriage lamps mounted on the door pillars lit up. Reacher stopped the car at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Now the doors open,’ he said.

  The doors opened inward and a man in uniform stepped through the gap.

  ‘That was me, about a million years ago,’ Reacher said.

  The captain waited at the top of the steps, far enough out to be in the light from the carriage lamps, far enough in to be sheltered from the drizzle. He was a head shorter than Reacher had ever been, but he was broad and he looked fit. Dark hair neatly combed, plain steel eyeglasses. His uniform jacket was buttoned, but his face looked open enough. Reacher slid out of the Nissan and walked around the hood. Harper joined him at the foot of the whitewashed steps.

  ‘Come in out of the rain,’ the captain called.

  His accent was East Coast urban. Bright and alert. He had an amiable smile. Looked like a decent guy. Reacher went up the steps first. Harper saw his shoes leaving wet stains on the whitewash. Glanced down and saw her own were doing the same thing.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  The captain smiled again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘The prisoners paint them every morning.’

  ‘This is Lisa Harper,’ Reacher said. ‘She’s with the FBI.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ the captain said. ‘I’m John Leighton.’

  The three of them shook hands all around at the doors and Leighton led them inside. He turned off the carriage lamps with a switch inside the doors and then killed the hallway light.

  ‘Budgets,’ he said. ‘Can’t waste money.’

  Light from his office was spilling out into the corridor, and he led them toward it. Stood at his door and ushered them inside. The office was original Fifties, updated only where strictly necessary. Old desk, new computer, old file cabinet, new phone. There were crammed bookcases and every surface was overloaded with paper.

  ‘They’re keeping you busy,’ Reacher said.

  Leighton nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘So we’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I called around, after you called me, naturally. Friend of a friend said I should push the boat out. Word is you were a solid guy, for a major.’

  Reacher smiled, briefly.

  ‘Well, I always tried to be,’ he said. ‘For a major. Who was the friend of the friend?’

  ‘Some guy worked for you when you worked for old Leon Garber. He said you were a stand-up guy and old Garber always swore by you, which makes you pretty much OK as long as this generation is still in harness.’

  ‘People still remember Garber?’

  ‘Do Yankees fans still remember Joe DiMaggio?’

  ‘I’m seeing Garber’s daughter,’ Reacher said.

  ‘I know,’ Leighton said. ‘Word gets around. You’re a lucky guy. Jodie Garber’s a nice lady, from what I recall.’

  ‘You know her?’

  Leighton nodded. ‘I met her on the bases, when I was coming up.’

  ‘I’ll remember you to her.’

  Then he lapsed into silence, thinking about Jodie, and Leon. He was going to sell the house Leon had left him, and Jodie was worrying about it.

  ‘Sit down,’ Leighton said. ‘Please.’

  There were two upright chairs in front of the desk, tubular metal and canvas, like the things storefront churches threw away a generation ago.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ Leighton said, aiming the question at Reacher, looking at Harper.

  ‘She’ll explain,’ Reacher said.

  She ran through it all from the beginning, summarizing. It took seven or eight minutes. Leighton listened attentively, interrupting her here and there.

  ‘I know about the women,’ he said. ‘We heard.’

  She finished with Reacher’s smokescreen theory, the possible Army thefts, and the trail which led from Petrosian’s boys in New York to Bob in New Jersey.

  ‘His name is Bob McGuire,’ Leighton said. ‘Quartermaster sergeant. But he’s not your guy. We’ve had him two months, and he’s too dumb, anyway.’

  ‘We figured that,’ Harper said. ‘Feeling was he could name names, maybe lead us to somebody more likely.’

  ‘A bigger fish?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Somebody doing enough business to make it worth killing witnesses.’

  Leighton nodded back.

  ‘Theoretically, there might be such a person,’ he said, cautiously.

  ‘You got a name?’

  Leighton looked at her and shook his head. Leaned back in his chair and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. Suddenly looked very tired.

  ‘Problem?’ Reacher asked.

  ‘How long have you been out?’ Leighton asked back, eyes closed.

  ‘About three years, I guess,’ Reacher said.

  Leighton yawned and stretched and returned to an upright position.

  ‘Things have changed,’ he said. ‘Time marches on, right?’

  ‘What’s changed?’

  ‘Everything,’ Leighton said. ‘Well, this, mainly.’ He leaned over and tapped his computer monitor with his nail. It made a glassy ringing thunk, like a bottle. ‘Smaller Army, easier to organize, more time on our hands. So they computerized us, completely. Makes communication a whole lot easier. Makes it so we all know each other’s business. Makes inventories easier to manage. You want to know how many Willys Jeep tyres we got in store, even though we don’t use Willys Jeeps any more? Give me ten minutes, I can tell you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we keep track of everything, much better than we used to. For instance, we know how many M9 Berettas have ever been delivered, we know how many have ever been legitimately issued, and we know how many we got in store. And if those numbers didn’t add up, we’d be worrying about it, believe me.’

  ‘So do the numbers add up?’

  Leighton grinned, briefly. ‘They do now. That’s for damn sure. Nobody’s stolen an M9 Beretta from the US Army in the last year and a half.’

  ‘So what was Bob McGuire doing two months ago?’ Reacher asked.

  ‘Selling out the last of his stockpile. He’d been thieving ten years, at least. A little computer analysis made it obvious. Him, and a couple dozen others in a couple dozen different locations. We put procedures in place to dry up the stealing and we rounded up all the bad guys selling whatever they still had left.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Computer says so. We were leaking weapons like crazy, all kinds of descriptions, couple of dozen locations, so we arrest a couple dozen guys, and the leakage has stopped. McGuire was about the last, maybe second to last, I’m not sure.’

  ‘No more weapons theft?’