“Unwrap it,” O’Donnell said.

It was wrapped tight. Reacher used his fingernails to scrape up a corner and then his teeth to tear the plastic. When he got it all off he turned the CD over and ran his finger down the track list.

“‘Little Wing,’” he said.

O’Donnell shrugged. Neagley looked blank.

“Doesn’t help,” Dixon said.

“I know the song,” Reacher said.

“Please don’t sing it,” Neagley said.

“So what does it mean?” O’Donnell said.

Reacher said, “It means New Age makes a weapons system called ‘Little Wing.’”

“Obviously. But that doesn’t help us if we don’t know what Little Wing is.”

“Sounds aeronautical. Like a drone plane or something.”

“Nobody heard of it?” Dixon asked. “Anybody?”

O’Donnell shook his head.

“Not me,” Neagley said.

“So it really is supersecret,” Dixon said. “No loose lips in D.C. or on Wall Street or among all of Neagley’s connections.”

Reacher tried to open the CD box but found it taped shut with a title label that ran all the way across the top seam. He picked at it with his nails and it came off in small sticky fragments.

“No wonder the record business is in trouble,” he said. “They don’t make these things very easy to enjoy.”

Dixon asked, “What are we going to do?”

“What did the e-mail say?”

“You know what it said.”

“But do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did it say?”

“Find the sixth track on the second Hendrix album.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“No, it said “‘Please call soonest.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” Neagley said. “If he won’t tell me by e-mail, why would he tell me on the phone?”

“It didn’t say, ‘Please call me.’ A coded note like that, every word counts.”

“So who am I supposed to call?”

“There must be somebody. He knows you know somebody that can help.”

“Who’s going to help with a thing like this? If he won’t?”

“Who does he know you know? Maybe from Washington, since he used that word, and every word counts?”

Neagley opened her mouth to say Nobody. Reacher saw the denial forming in her throat. But then she paused.

“There’s a woman,” she said. “She’s called Diana Bond. We both know her. She’s a staffer for a guy on the Hill. The guy is on the House Defense Committee.”

“There you go. Who’s the guy?”

Neagley said a familiar but unloved name.

“You’ve got a friend who works for that asshole?”

“Not exactly a friend.”

“I should hope not.”

“Everyone needs a job, Reacher. Except you, apparently.”

“Whatever, her boss is signing the checks, so he’ll have been briefed. He’ll know what Little Wing is. Therefore she will, too.”

“Not if it’s secret.”

“That guy can’t spell his own name without help. Believe me, if he knows, she knows, too.”

“She’s not going to tell me.”

“She is. Because you’re going to play hardball. You’re going to call her and tell her that Little Wing’s name is out there, and you’re about to tell the papers that the leak came from her boss’s office, and the price for your silence is everything she knows about it.”

“That’s dirty.”

“That’s politics. She can’t be exactly unfamiliar with the process, working for that guy.”

“Do we really need to do this? Is it relevant?”

“The more we know the luckier we get.”

“I don’t want to involve her.”

“Your Pentagon buddy wants you to,” O’Donnell said.

“That’s just Reacher’s guess.”

“No, it’s more than that. Think about the e-mail. He said the sixth track was dynamically brilliant. That’s a weird phrase. He could have just said it was great. Or amazing. Or brilliant on its own. But he said dynamically brilliant, which is the letters d and b. Like this Diana Bond woman’s initials.”

38

Neagley insisted on making the call to Diana Bond alone. When they got back to the hotel she parked herself in a far corner of the lobby and did a whole lot of dialing and redialing. Then some serious talking. She came back a long twenty minutes later. Slight distaste on her face. Slight discomfort in her body language. But a measure of excitement, too.

“Took me some time to track her down,” she said. “Turns out she’s not far away. She’s up at Edwards Air Force Base for a few days. Some big presentation.”

O’Donnell said, “That’s why your guy said call her soonest. He knew she was in California. Every word counts.”

“What did she say?” Reacher asked.

“She’s coming down here,” Neagley said. “She wants to meet face-to-face.”

“Really?” Reacher said. “When?”

“Just as soon as she can get away.”

“That’s impressive.”

“You bet your ass it is. Little Wing must be important.”

“Feel bad about the call?”

Neagley nodded. “I feel bad about everything.”

They went up to Neagley’s room and looked at maps and figured out Diana Bond’s earliest possible arrival time. Edwards was on the other side of the San Gabriel Mountains, out in the Mojave, about seventy miles north and east, past Palmdale and Lancaster, about halfway to Fort Irwin. A two-hour wait, minimum, if Bond got away immediately. Longer if she didn’t.

“I’m going for a walk,” Reacher said.

O’Donnell said, “I’ll come with you.”

They headed east on Sunset again to where West Hollywood met regular Hollywood. It was early afternoon and Reacher felt the sun burning his head through his shaved hair. It was like the rays had extra intensity after bouncing around through glittering particles of air pollution.

“I should buy a hat,” he said.

“You should buy a better shirt,” O’Donnell said. “You can afford one now.”

“Maybe I will.”

They saw a store they had passed on the way to Tower Records. It was some kind of a popular chain. It had an artfully pale and un-crowded window, but it wasn’t expensive. It sold cotton stuff, jeans, chinos, shirts, and T-shirts. And ball caps. They were brand new but looked like they had been worn and washed a thousand times already. Reacher picked one out, blue, no writing on it. He never bought anything with writing on it. He had spent too long in uniform. Name tapes and badges and alphabet soup all over him for thirteen long years.

He loosened the strap at the back of the cap and tried it on.

“What do you think?” he asked.

O’Donnell said, “Find a mirror.”

“Doesn’t matter what I see in a mirror. You’re the one laughing at how I look.”

“It’s a nice hat.”

Reacher kept it on and moved across the store to a low table piled high with T-shirts. In the center of the table was a mannequin torso wearing two of them, one under the other, pale green and dark green. The underneath shirt showed at the hem and the sleeves and the collar. Together the two layers were reassuringly thick and hefty.

Reacher asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s a look,” O’Donnell said.

“Do they need to be different sizes?”

“Probably not.”

Reacher picked a light blue and a dark blue, both XXLs. He took off the hat and carried the three items to the register. Refused a bag and bit off the tags and stripped off his bowling shirt right there in the middle of the store. Stood and waited, naked to the waist in the chill of the air conditioning.

“Got a trash can?” he asked.

The girl behind the counter bent down and came back with a plastic item with a liner. Reacher tossed his old shirt in and put his new shirts on, one after the other. Tugged them around and rolled his shoulders to get them comfortable and jammed the cap on his head. Then he headed back to the street. Turned east.

O’Donnell asked, “What are you running from?”

“I’m not running from anything.”

“You could have kept the old shirt.”

“Slippery slope,” Reacher said. “I carry a spare shirt, pretty soon I’m carrying spare pants. Then I’d need a suitcase. Next thing I know, I’ve got a house and a car and a savings plan and I’m filling out all kinds of forms.”