Never Go Back (7 page)

Room 203 had been an evidence locker, and still was, and 201 had been a file room, and still was, and 202 had been the company clerk’s quarters, and still was. The guy was in there, a sergeant, relatively old and grey, probably fighting involuntary separation on an annual basis. Reacher nodded a greeting to him and backed out and went downstairs.

The sour-faced night guy had gone and Leach had taken his place at the reception desk. Behind her the corridor led back to the first-floor offices, 101 through 110. Reacher checked them all. Rooms 109 and 110 had been Jorge Sanchez’s and Manuel Orozco’s offices, and were now occupied by similar guys from a newer generation. Rooms 101 through 108 held people of no particular interest, except for 103, which was the duty officer’s station. There was a captain in there. He was a good-looking guy in his late twenties. His desk was twice the normal size, all covered over with telephones and scratch pads and message forms and an untidy legal pad, with its many used pages folded loosely back like an immense bouffant hairdo from the 1950s. The face-up page was covered with angry black doodles. There were shaded boxes and machines and escape-proof spiral mazes. Clearly the guy spent a lot of time on the phone, some of it on hold, some of it waiting, most of it bored. When he spoke it was with a Southern accent that Reacher recognized immediately. He had talked to the guy from South Dakota more than once. The guy had routed his calls to Susan Turner.

Reacher asked him, ‘Do you have other personnel deployed around here?’

The guy shook his head. ‘This is it. What you see is what you get. We have people elsewhere in the States and overseas, but no one else in this military district.’

‘How many in Afghanistan?’

‘Two.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I can’t give you the details.’

‘Hazardous duty?’

‘Is there another kind? In Afghanistan?’

Something in his voice.

Reacher asked, ‘Are they OK?’

‘They missed their scheduled radio check yesterday.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Never happened before.’

‘Do you know what their mission is?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘I’m not asking you to tell me. I’m asking whether you know. In other words, how secret is it?’

The guy paused a beat and said, ‘No, I don’t know what their mission is. All I know is they’re out there in the back of beyond, and all we’re getting is silence.’

Reacher said, ‘Thank you, captain.’ He headed back to the reception desk, where he asked Leach for a pool car. She hesitated, and he said, ‘I’m dismissed for the day. Colonel Morgan didn’t say I had to sit in the corner. An omission, possibly, but I’m entitled to interpret my orders in the best possible light.’

Leach asked, ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Fort Dyer,’ Reacher said. ‘I want to talk to Colonel Moorcroft.’

‘Major Turner’s lawyer?’

Reacher nodded. ‘And Dyer is definitely less than five miles away. You won’t be aiding or abetting a serious crime.’

Leach paused a beat and then opened a drawer and took out a grubby key. She said, ‘It’s an old blue Chevy sedan. I need it back here before the end of the day. I can’t let you have it overnight.’

‘Whose is the red sports car outside?’

Leach said, ‘That’s Major Turner’s ride.’

‘Do you know the guys in Afghanistan?’

Leach nodded. ‘They’re friends of mine.’

‘Are they good?’

‘They’re the best.’

ELEVEN

THERE WERE THREE
chevrolet sedans in the HQ lot, and two were old, but only one was old and blue. It was dirty and all beat up and saggy, and it had about a million city miles on the clock. But it started up fine, and it idled OK. Which it needed to, because the daytime traffic was slow. Lots of lights, lots of queues, lots of jammed lanes. But getting into Dyer itself was quicker than the first time. The main gate guards were relatively welcoming. Reacher figured Leach must have called ahead again. Which meant she was turning into a minor ally. Which Reacher was happy about. A sergeant on your side made the world go round, smooth and easy. Whereas a sergeant who took against you could kill you dead.

He parked the car and went inside, where it got slower again. A woman at a desk called around and was unable to locate Moorcroft anywhere. Not in the VOQ, not in the legal offices, not in the guardhouse, and not in the cells. Which left only one place to look. Reacher moved on, deeper into the complex, until he saw a sign with an arrow:
Officers’ Club
. It was late for breakfast, but late breakfasts were a natural habitat for senior rear-echelon staffers. Especially senior rear-echelon staffers who were also academic pointy-heads on short-term visits.

The OC dining room turned out to be a pleasant, bland space, low, wide, and long, recently refurbished, probably by the same guy who did the dining rooms in mid-price chain hotels. There was plenty of blond wood and mid-green fabric. Plenty of angled dividers, and therefore plenty of separate little seating areas. There was carpet on the floor. There were venetian blinds on the windows, cracked open about halfway. Reacher remembered a joke his old colleague Manuel Orozco liked to tell:
How do you make a venetian blind? You poke his eyes out
. And then:
How do you make a Swiss roll? You push him down an Alp
. Whereupon David O’Donnell would start pointing out that Swiss rolls weren’t really Swiss. More likely British. Nineteenth-century. Like a Victoria sponge, but assembled differently. O’Donnell was the kind of pedant that made Reacher look normal.

Reacher moved on. Most of the little seating areas were empty, but Moorcroft was in one of them. He was a short, rotund, middleaged man with an amiable expression, in a Class A uniform, with his name big and obvious on the flap of his right breast pocket. He was eating toast, at a big isolated table for four.

And face to face at the table with him was Major Sullivan, Reacher’s lawyer for the Big Dog. Sullivan wasn’t eating. She had already had breakfast, with Reacher, in the Greek establishment. She was cradling a cup of coffee, nothing more, and talking, and listening, in what looked like a very deferential manner, like majors often converse with colonels, or students with teachers.

Reacher stepped into the intimate little area and pulled out a chair and sat down at the table between them. He said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

Moorcroft asked, ‘Who are you?’

Sullivan said, ‘This is Major Reacher. My client. The one I was telling you about.’

Nothing in her voice.

Moorcroft looked at Reacher and said, ‘If you have things to discuss, I’m sure Major Sullivan would be happy to schedule an appointment at a more appropriate time.’

‘It’s you I want to talk to,’ Reacher said.

‘Me? About what?’

‘Susan Turner.’

‘Do you have an interest?’

‘Why has her pre-trial confinement not been appealed?’

‘You must state a legitimate interest before we can consider specifics.’

‘Any citizen has a legitimate interest in the correct application of due process against any other citizen.’

‘You think my approach has so far been incorrect?’

‘I’ll be better able to make that determination after you answer my question.’

‘Major Turner is facing a serious charge.’

‘But pre-trial confinement is not supposed to be punitive. It’s supposed to be no more rigorous than is required to ensure the accused’s presence at trial. That’s what the regulation says.’

‘Are you a lawyer? Your name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘I was an MP. Actually, I
am
an MP, I suppose. All over again. Therefore I know plenty about the law.’

‘Really? In the same way a plumber understands the science behind fluid mechanics and thermodynamics?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, colonel. It’s not brain surgery.’

‘So enlighten me, by all means.’

‘Major Turner’s situation doesn’t require confinement. She’s a commissioned officer in the United States Army. She’s not going to run.’

‘Is that a personal guarantee?’

‘Almost. She’s the commander of the 110th MP. As was I. I wouldn’t have run. She won’t, either.’

‘There are elements of treason here.’

‘Here, maybe, but not in the real world. No one is thinking treason. Or they wouldn’t have brought her here to Dyer. She’d be in the Caribbean by now.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s not a speeding ticket.’

‘She won’t run.’

‘Again, is that a personal guarantee?’

‘It’s a considered assessment.’

‘Do you even know her?’

‘Not really.’

‘So butt out, major.’

‘Why did she instruct you to prevent me from visiting?’

‘She didn’t, technically. That instruction was passed on by the duty lawyer. At some unspecified time in the late afternoon. Therefore the restriction was already in place before I took over her case, which was the next morning. Which was yesterday.’

‘I want you to ask her to reconsider.’

Moorcroft didn’t answer. Sullivan leaned into the conversation and looked at Reacher and said, ‘Captain Edmonds told me she’d met with you. About the Candice Dayton matter. She said she advised you to take proactive steps. Have you yet?’

Reacher said, ‘I’ll get to it.’

‘It should be your first priority. Nuances count, in a thing like this.’

‘I’ll get to it,’ Reacher said again.

‘This is your daughter we’re talking about here. She’s living in a car. That’s more important than a theoretical worry about Major Turner’s human rights.’

‘The kid is nearly fifteen years old in Los Angeles. No doubt she’s slept in cars before. And if she’s my kid she can take a day or two more of it.’

Moorcroft said, ‘I think Major Sullivan and Captain Edmonds are trying to make the point you might not have a day or two more. Depending on what the prosecutors decide to do about the Rodriguez issue, I mean. I imagine they’re rubbing their hands with glee. Because it’s a perfect storm. Clear evidence, plus a disastrous PR angle.’

‘The clear evidence is clear bullshit.’

Moorcroft smiled, practised and indulgent. ‘You’re not the first defendant ever to say that, you know.’

‘The guy is dead. But I’m supposed to be able to confront the witnesses against me. So how is this even legal?’

‘It’s an unfortunate anomaly. The affidavit speaks from beyond the grave. It is what it is. It can’t be cross-examined.’

Reacher looked at Sullivan. She was his lawyer, after all. She said, ‘The colonel is right. I told you, I can get you a deal. You should take it.’

And then she left. She drained her cup, and stood up, and said goodbye, and walked away. Reacher watched her go, and then he turned back to Moorcroft.

He asked, ‘Are you going to appeal Major Turner’s confinement?’

‘Yes,’ Moorcroft said. ‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m going to ask for confinement to the D.C. military district, and I expect to be successful. She’ll be out and about before long.’

‘When will you start the process?’

‘I’ll put in the paperwork as soon as you let me finish my breakfast.’

‘When will you get a decision?’

‘By the middle of the day, I should think.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Good or bad, it’s really none of your business, major.’

Moorcroft chased toast crumbs around his plate for a minute more. Then he stood up in turn and said, ‘Good day, major,’ and strolled out of the room. He waddled a little as he walked. Much more academic than military. But not a bad guy. Reacher felt his heart was in the right place.

Samantha Dayton.

Sam.

Fourteen years old.

I’ll get to it
.

Reacher walked all the way north through the complex and stopped in at the guardhouse, where a different captain was in charge. Not Weiss, from the night before. The day guy was an aquiline black man about seven feet tall, but slender as a pencil, folded into a desk chair that was far too small for him. Reacher asked to visit with Susan Turner, and the guy consulted the green three-ring binder, and he refused the request.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

So Reacher walked back to where the old blue Chevy was parked, and he drove it back to the 110th HQ, and he left it where he had found it. He went inside and gave the key to Leach. She was agitated again. Nervous, stressed, and uptight. Not terrible, but visible. Reacher said, ‘What?’

Leach said, ‘Colonel Morgan’s not here.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘We need him.’

‘I can’t imagine what for.’

‘He’s the CO.’

‘No, Major Turner is your CO.’

‘And she’s not here either.’

‘What happened?’

‘Our guys in Afghanistan missed their second radio check. It’s forty-eight hours since we heard from them. And therefore we need to do something. But Morgan’s not here.’

Reacher nodded. ‘He’s probably having a new poker fitted. Up his ass. It’s probably a lengthy procedure.’

He moved on, into the ground-floor corridor, to the second office on the left. Room 103. The duty officer’s station. The guy was in there, behind his huge desk, handsome, Southern, and worried. His doodles were bleaker than ever. Reacher asked him, ‘Didn’t Morgan tell you where he was going?’

‘Pentagon,’ the guy said. ‘For a meeting.’

‘Is that all he said?’

‘No details.’

‘Have you called?’

‘Of course I have. But it’s a big place. They can’t find him anywhere.’

‘Does he have a cell phone?’

‘Switched off.’

‘How long has he been gone?’

‘Nearly an hour.’

‘What would you want him to do?’

‘Authorize a request for a search party, of course. Every minute counts now. And we have lots of people over there. The 1st Infantry Division. And Special Forces. And helicopters, and drones, and satellites, and all kinds of aerial surveillance.’

‘But you don’t even know where your guys are supposed to be, or what they’re supposed to be doing.’

The duty officer nodded and jabbed his thumb at the ceiling. At the upstairs offices. He said, ‘The mission is in Major Turner’s computer. Which is now Colonel Morgan’s computer. Which is password-protected.’