“Where is he now? England?”

“That’s my guess. He flew home, where he feels safe.”

“With the money?”

“Checked luggage. Three bags.”

“Could he do that? With all the X-rays?”

“I don’t see why not. I once had a lesson about paper money from an expert. Right here in New York City, as a matter of fact. At Columbia University. The paper isn’t really paper, as such. It’s mostly linen and cotton fibers. More in common with the shirt on your back than a newspaper. I think it would show up like clothing on an X-ray machine.”

Pauling slid the photographs across the table and butted them together side by side in front of her. Looked at one, looked at the other. Reacher sensed her running through an explanation in her head. An analysis. A narrative.

“He’s tan from the Hamptons,” she said. “He was there all summer with the family. And then he was worried about someone checking his apartment from the street, afterward. That’s why he took the lightbulb out of the guest room and covered the window. The place had to look empty, if anyone ever checked.”

“He was very thorough.”

“And very unsentimental. He walked away from that great apartment.”

“He can rent ten apartments now.”

“That’s for sure.”

“It’s a shame,” Reacher said. “I liked him when I thought he was dead. Everyone spoke well of him.”

“I wouldn’t take recommendations from those guys.”

“I guess not. But I usually like Brits. Gregory seems OK.”

Pauling said, “He’s probably as bad as the rest of them.”

Then she stacked the photographs and slid them back.

“Well, you’ve got the name to give to Lane,” she said.

Reacher didn’t reply.

“A unified theory of everything,” she said. “Like a physicist. I don’t see why you say it’s only partial. Taylor did it all.”

“He didn’t,” Reacher said. “He didn’t make the phone calls. An American made the phone calls.”

CHAPTER 55

“TAYLOR HAD A partner,” Reacher said. “Obviously. He had to, because of the accent thing again. At first I thought it might be the guy in the river. Like you said, I thought maybe they fell out afterward. Or that Taylor got greedy and wanted the whole nine yards for himself. But that won’t work now. The guy in the river was just a regular New York corpse. An unrelated homicide. He was in Rikers at the relevant time. So, I don’t know who made the phone calls. That’s why it’s only a partial theory.”

“Lane will want to know who the partner was. He won’t settle for half a loaf.”

“You bet your ass he won’t.”

“He’s not going to pay.”

“He’ll pay part. We’ll get the rest later. When we tell him who the partner was.”

“How do we find out who the partner was?”

“The only sure way is to find Taylor and ask him.”

“Ask him?”

“Make him tell us.”

“In England?”

“If that’s where your Pentagon buddy says he went. I guess he could check for us who Taylor was sitting next to on the flight. There’s a slim chance they flew together.”

“Unlikely.”

“Very. But it’s maybe worth a try.”

So Pauling went through ten more minutes of phone tag at the U.N. and then gave up and left a voice-mail message asking the guy to check whether Taylor had had a traveling companion.

“What now?” she said.

“Wait for your guy to get back to you,” Reacher said. “Then book us a car to the airport and flights to London, if that’s where Taylor went, which it probably is. Tonight’s red-eye, I guess. I’m betting Lane will ask me to go over there. He’ll want me to do the advance work. Then he’ll bring his whole crew over for the kill. And we’ll deal with them there.”

Pauling looked up. “That’s why you promised no cop or prosecutor in America is going to think twice.”

Reacher nodded. “But their opposite numbers in England are going to get pretty uptight. That’s for damn sure.”

Reacher put Patti Joseph’s photographs back in their envelope and jammed it in the front pocket of his shirt. Kissed Pauling on the sidewalk and headed for the subway. He was outside the Dakota before five in the afternoon.

The name. Tomorrow.

Mission accomplished.

But he didn’t go inside. Instead he walked straight ahead and crossed Central Park West and went in through the gate to Strawberry Field. The John Lennon memorial, in the park. Near where Lennon was killed. Like most guys his age Reacher felt that The Beatles were part of his life. They were its soundtrack, its background. Maybe that was why he liked English people.

Maybe that was why he didn’t want to do what he was about to do.

He patted his shirt pocket and felt the photographs and ran through the narrative one more time the same way Pauling had. But there was no doubt about it. Taylor was the bad guy. No question. Reacher himself was an actual eyewitness. First the Mercedes, then the Jaguar.

No doubt about it.

Maybe there was just no joy in giving one bad guy to another.

But this is for Kate, Reacher thought. For Jade. For Hobart’s money.

Not for Lane.

He took a deep breath and stood for a second with his face tilted up to catch the last of the sun before it fell away behind the buildings to the west. Then he turned around and walked back out of the park.

Edward Lane fanned the two photographs of Taylor quite delicately between his finger and his thumb and asked one simple question: “Why?”

“Greed,” Reacher said. “Or malice, or jealousy, or all of the above.”

“Where is he now?”

“My guess is England. I’ll know soon.”

“How?”

“Sources.”

“You’re good.”

“The best you ever saw.” Or they’d have nailed you in the army.

Lane handed back the photographs and said, “He must have had a partner.”

“Obviously.”

“For the phone calls. Someone with an American accent. Who was it?”

“You’ll have to ask Taylor that.”

“In England?”

“I don’t suppose he’ll be coming back here anytime soon.”

“I want you to find him for me.”

“I want my money.”

Lane nodded. “You’ll get it.”

“I want it now.”

“Ten percent now. The rest when I’m face-to-face with Taylor.”

“Twenty percent now.”

Lane didn’t answer.

Reacher said, “Or I’ll cut my losses and walk away. And you can stroll down to Barnes and Noble and buy a U.K. map and a pin. Or a mirror and a stick.”

Lane said, “Fifteen percent now.”

Reacher said, “Twenty.”

“Seventeen and a half.”

“Twenty. Or I’m out of here.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lane said. “OK, twenty percent now. But you’ll leave now, too. Right now, tonight. You can have one day’s start. That should be enough for a smart boy like you. Then we’ll follow you twenty-four hours later. The seven of us. Me, Gregory, Groom, Burke, Kowalski, Addison, and Perez. That should be enough. You know London?”

“I’ve been there before.”

“We’ll be at the Park Lane Hilton.”

“With the rest of the money?”

“Every penny of it,” Lane said. “I’ll show it to you when you meet us at the hotel and you tell us where Taylor is. I’ll give it to you when I’ve got actual visual contact with him.”

“OK,” Reacher said. “Deal.” And ten minutes later he was back in the subway, heading south, with two hundred thousand U.S. dollars in cash wrapped in a plastic Whole Foods shopping bag.

Reacher met Pauling at her apartment and gave her the bag and said, “Take out what I owe you and hide the rest. It’s enough to get Hobart started with the preliminaries at least.”

Pauling took the bag and held it away from her body like it was contagious. “Is this the African money?”

Reacher nodded. “Direct from Ouagadougou. Via Edward Lane’s closet.”