“Then very well, I will too,” the old lady said.

“Do you really have no idea what McCann’s problem was?”

“I told you, I’m his neighbor, not his sister. You should really ask her.”

“Who?”

“His sister.”

“He has a sister?”

“I told you before.”

“I thought it was a figure of speech.”

“No, she’s real. They’re very close. She’d be the one he shared secrets with.”

Chapter 37

They sent Mrs. Hopkins home in the Town Car, and told the driver that was the last of his engagements for the day, and therefore he was off-duty thereafter, free to go home, or back to the garage, or wherever else it was he was supposed to go. The guy took the news cheerfully. But Reacher figured his last engagement wouldn’t be his finest. He figured they wouldn’t make it all the way. They would get within a couple of streets of the old lady’s house, and then they would hit the roadblocks. If the old lady could produce proof of name and address, she would be allowed to continue on foot. Or in the back of a real government car, depending how much sooner or later they wanted to talk to the neighbor. Either way she would end up cool and comfortable, plied with water and coffee, talking to polite young women.

Safe enough.

Chang switched on her cell phone. Also safe enough. Hackett’s tracking operation was out of business, at least temporarily. And they needed maps, and satellite images, and flight schedules, and search engines. Mrs. Hopkins had told them Peter McCann’s sister was a woman named Lydia Lair. She was younger by a number of years. She had married a doctor and moved away, to a tony suburb outside of Phoenix, Arizona. Her husband was rich, but McCann had asked for nothing except her time and her ear. There was a street address for her, a scribbled note intended for the old lady’s Christmas card list, still wedged in a pocket diary in her purse. But there was no phone number. Chang found the husband’s practice on-line, but the medical receptionist wouldn’t give out a home number. The phone company database said it was unlisted. Neither husband nor wife showed up anywhere in Chang’s secret databases. Google brought nothing back either, except one anodyne image of the couple at a charity event. Dr. and Mrs. Evan Lair. A kidney foundation. He was in black tie, and she was in an evening gown. She looked in good health. She glittered with diamonds, and her teeth were very white.

Then it became a three-way decision, between how soon they would need to get to Phoenix, and how long they could wait for a gold card flight, and how long the police would wait before notifying the sister. If they ever did. She was not the next of kin. That would be the son. He would be their primary focus. They would want to tell him first. And if they did, they would leave it to him to call his aunt. They would see that as his responsibility. Which he might or might not discharge, depending on his challenges.

All of which meant one way or the other she might or might not be getting the call just as they touched down in Phoenix. Which was still OK, either way. Bad news was bad news. Didn’t matter when you got it. As long as she didn’t have time to start up with a scheme whereby she should fly to Chicago and take charge of everything personally. She had to be gotten to well before that happened. Before she was coached into nothing but bumper stickers, by victim support officers, or well-meaning friends.

The best travel bet was outside Chang’s comfort zone, on an airline she didn’t have a card for. But it was the first and most satisfactory option. It gave them just enough time to stop by the Peninsula to dump the P7 and grab Chang’s bag. And one other thing. They fired up Hackett’s captured phone and checked the call log. All incoming traffic was from one number alone. Its area code was 480.

Chang checked her computer.

She said, “That’s a cell phone in Phoenix, Arizona. Where we’re going.”

A very expensive quickie with her phone company guy told them the Phoenix number was a burner cell bought from a local Arizona Wal-Mart just a week ago, and registered immediately, right outside in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Bought with cash, and as one of six at a time, which were purchasing behaviors suggestive of a customer who was comfortable with the theory and practice of untraceable communications.

Reacher said, “He’ll dump that number soon. He’ll move on to the next.”

Chang nodded. “As soon as Hackett doesn’t call him when he should. Or as soon as he turns on CNN and sees what’s going on here.”

“So maybe we should call him first. While we still can.”

“And say what?”

“Whatever might produce an advantage. We need to keep him off balance. We need all the help we can get.”

“You want to upset him.”

“Can’t hurt. Whatever stray emotions we can bring to bear.”

“OK, try it.”

He lit up Hackett’s phone, and found the right screen, and pressed the green button. He heard the numbers spooling outward into the ether, and then he heard a short hissing silence, and then he heard a ring tone.

And then he heard an answer.

A voice said, “Yes?”

It was a man’s voice, from a big chest and a thick neck, but the syllable was snatched at and the full boom was bitten back short, because of breathy haste and enthusiasm. And anticipation. Like a gulp or a gasp. This guy had caller ID, and he wanted Hackett’s news, and he wanted it bad, and he wanted it right then. That was clear. So the celebrations could begin, presumably.

Reacher said, “This is not Hackett.”

The voice paused, and said, “I see.”

“This is Jack Reacher.”

No answer.

“Hackett got McCann, but he didn’t get us. In fact we got him. He was good, but not good enough.”

The voice said, “Where is Hackett now?”

Some kind of a flat, monotone accent. Eastern European, maybe. A big guy, for sure. Probably pale and fleshy, maybe short of breath.

Reacher said, “Hackett is in the hospital. But handcuffed to the bed, because the police found him before the doctors. Right here in Chicago. We took his phone and his back-up weapon, but we left him with the gun that killed McCann. Unconscious, in a suspected terrorist den. The cops found him there. I know, don’t ask. Bad data. They were misinformed. But because of it they’ll be sweating him hard. They’ll be telling him Guantanamo is in his future. Or rendition, to places where bad things happen. He’ll be so desperate for a deal he’ll give you up in a heartbeat. Nothing you can do to him the government won’t do worse. So you have that to worry about. Plus you have us to worry about. You started a war. Which was dumb. Because you’ll lose. And it won’t be pretty. We’re going to beat you so hard your kids will be born dizzy.”

“You think?”

“We already beat Hackett. He went down easy. Was he the best you had? I hope not, for your sake. Because you’re next. We know your name, and we know where you live. And we’re on the way. The time for looking over your shoulder starts now.”

There was a long indrawn breath on the other end of the line, as if more words were coming, perhaps many, but in the end none were spoken. Instead the call cut off, and Reacher heard nothing more. He pictured the electronic chip being pried out of the phone, being snapped in two by a blunt thumbnail, the pieces being dumped in the trash.

Chang asked, “Who was he?”

Reacher said, “He didn’t talk much. Only nine words. But he sounded big and heavy, and Russian, and fairly verbal, and reasonably smart.”

“Russian?”

“From around there. Georgia, or Ukraine. One of those new countries.”

“Verbal, with only nine words?”

“I told him I wasn’t Hackett, and he said, I see. Measured, and calm. Or said in order to appear measured and calm. This is a guy who understands how words can mean all kinds of different things.”