Die Trying (27 page)

Reacher glanced at him. Said nothing.

“Believe it,” Borken said. “It's like they're solving a corpse-disposal problem in advance. Get rid of the middle class now, they don't need so many concentration camps later.”

Reacher was just staring at Borken's eyes. Like looking at a bright light. The fat red lips were smiling an indulgent smile.

“I told you, we're way ahead of the others,” he said. “We've seen it coming. What else is the Federal Reserve for? That's the key to this whole thing. America was basically a nation founded on business, right? Control business, you control everything. How do you control business? You control the banks. How do you control the banks? You set up a bullshit Federal Reserve system. You tell the banks what to do. That's the key. The world government controls everything, through the Fed. I've seen it happen.”

His eyes were open wide. Shining with no color.

“I saw them do it to my own father,” he screamed. “May his poor soul rest in peace. The Fed bankrupted him.”

Reacher tore his gaze away. Shrugged at the corner of the room. Said nothing. He started trying to recall the sequence of titles in Borken's fine mahogany bookcase. Warfare from ancient China through Renaissance Italy through Pearl Harbor. He concentrated on naming the titles to himself, left to right, trying to resist the glare of Borken's attention.

“We're serious here,” Borken was saying again. “You may look at me and think I'm some kind of a despot, or a cult leader, or whatever the world would want to label me. But I'm not. I'm a good leader, I won't deny that. Even an inspired leader. Call me intelligent and perceptive, I won't argue with you. But I don't need to be. My people don't need any encouraging. They don't need much leading. They need guidance, and they need discipline, but don't let that fool you. I'm not coercing anybody. Don't make the mistake of underestimating their will. Don't ignore their desire for a change for the better.”

Reacher was silent. He was still concentrating on the books, skimming in his mind through the events of December 1941, as seen from the Japanese point of view.

“We're not criminals here, you know,” Borken was saying. “When a government turns bad, it's the very best people who stand up against it. Or do you think we should all just act like sheep?”

Reacher risked another glance at him. Risked speaking.

“You're pretty selective,” he said. “About who's here and who's not.”

Borken shrugged.

“Like unto like,” he said. “That's nature's way, isn't it? Black people have got the whole of Africa. White people have got this place.”

“What about Jewish dentists?” Reacher asked. “What place have they got?”

Borken shrugged again.

“That was an operational error,” he said. “Loder should have waited until he was clear. But mistakes happen.”

“Should have waited until I was clear, too,” Reacher said.

Borken nodded.

“I agree with you,” he said. “It would have been better for you that way. But they didn't, and so here you are among us.”

“Just because I'm white?” Reacher said.

“Don't knock it,” Borken replied. “White people got precious few rights left.”

Reacher stared at him. Stared around the bright, hate-filled room. Shuddered.

“I've made a study of tyranny,” Borken said. “And how to combat it. The first rule is you make a firm decision, to live free or die, and you mean it. Live free or die. The second rule is you don't act like a sheep. You stand up and you resist them. You study their system and you learn to hate it. And then you act. But how do you act? The brave man fights back. He retaliates, right?”

Reacher shrugged. Said nothing.

“The brave man retaliates,” Borken repeated. “But the man who is both brave and clever acts differently. He retaliates first. In advance. He strikes the first blows. He gives them what they don't expect, when and where they don't expect it. That's what we're doing here. We're retaliating first. It's their war, but we're going to strike the first blows. We're going to give them what they don't expect. We're going to upset their plans.”

Reacher glanced back at the bookcase. Five thousand classic pages, all saying the same thing: don't do what they expect you to do.

“Go look at the map,” Borken said.

Reacher thrust his cuffed hands forward and lifted himself awkwardly out of the chair. Walked over to the map of Montana on the wall. He found Yorke in the top left-hand corner. Well inside the small black outline. He checked the scale and looked at the contour shading and the colors. The river Joseph Ray had talked about lay thirty miles to the west, on the other side of high mountains. It was a thick blue slash running down the map. There were enormous brown heights shown to the north, all the way up to Canada. The only road ran north through Yorke and terminated at some abandoned mine workings. A few haphazard tracks ran through solid forest to the east. To the south, contour lines merged together to show a tremendous east-west ravine.

“Look at that terrain, Reacher,” Borken said quietly. “What does it tell you?”

Reacher looked at it. It told him he couldn't get out. Not on foot, not with Holly. There were weeks of rough walking east and north. Natural barriers west and south. The terrain made a better prison than wire fences or mine-fields could have. He had once been in Siberia, after glasnost, following up on ancient stories about Korean MIAs. The gulags had been completely open. No wire, no barriers. He had asked his hosts: but where are the fences? The Russians had pointed out over the miles of snow and said: there are the fences. Nowhere to run. He looked up at the map again. The terrain was the barrier. To get out was going to require a vehicle. And a lot of luck.

“They can't get in,” Borken said. “We're impregnable. We can't be stopped. And we mustn't be stopped. That would be a disaster of truly historic proportions. Suppose the redcoats had stopped the American Revolution in 1776?”

Reacher glanced around the tiny wooden room and shuddered.

“This isn't the American Revolution,” he said.

“Isn't it?” Borken asked. “How is it different? They wanted freedom from a tyrannical government. So do we.”

“You're murderers,” Reacher said.

“So they were in 1776,” Borken said. “They killed people. The established system called that murder, too.”

“You're racists,” Reacher said.

“Same in 1776,” Borken said. “Jefferson and his slaves? They knew black people were inferior. Back then, they were exactly the same as we are now. But then they became the new redcoats. Slowly, over the years. It's fallen to us to get back to how it should have stayed. Live free or die, Reacher. It's a noble aim. Always has been, don't you think?”

He was leaning forward with his great bulk pressing tight against the desk. His hands were in the air. His colorless eyes were shining.

“But there were mistakes made in 1776,” he said. “I've studied the history. War could have been avoided if both sides had acted sensibly. And war should always be avoided, don't you think?”

Reacher shrugged.

“Not necessarily,” he said.

“Well, you're going to help us avoid it,” Borken said. “That's my decision. You're going to be my emissary.”

“Your what?” Reacher said.

“You're independent,” Borken said. “Not one of us. No ax to grind. An American like them, an upstanding citizen, no felony convictions. A clever, perceptive man. You notice things. They'll listen to you.”

“What?” Reacher said again.

“We're organized here,” Borken said. “We're ready for nationhood. You need to understand that. We have an army, we have a treasury, we have financial reserves, we have a legal system, we have democracy. I'm going to show all that to you today. I'm going to show you a society ready for independence, ready to live free or die, and just a day away from doing so. Then I'm going to send you south to America. You're going to tell them our position is strong and their position is hopeless.”

Reacher just stared at him.

“And you can tell them about Holly,” Borken said quietly. “In her special little room. You can tell them about my secret weapon. My insurance policy.”

“You're crazy,” Reacher said.

The hut went silent. Quieter than silent.

“Why?” Borken whispered. “Why am I crazy? Exactly?”

“You're not thinking straight,” Reacher said. “Don't you realize that Holly counts for nothing? The President will replace Johnson faster than you can blink an eye. They'll crush you like a bug and Holly will be just another casualty. You should send her back out with me.”

Borken was shaking his bloated head, happily, confidently.

“No,” he said. “That won't happen. There's more to Holly than who her father is. Hasn't she told you that?”

Reacher stared at him and Borken checked his watch.

“Time to go,” he said. “Time for you to see our legal system at work.”

 

HOLLY HEARD THE quiet footsteps outside her door and eased off the bed. The lock clicked back and the young soldier with the scarred forehead stepped up into the room. He had his finger to his lips and Holly nodded. She limped to the bathroom and set the shower running noisily into the empty tub. The young soldier followed her in and closed the door.

“We can only do this once a day,” Holly whispered. “They'll get suspicious if they hear the shower too often.”

The young guy nodded.

“We'll get out tonight,” he said. “Can't do it this morning. We're all on duty at Loder's trial. I'll come by just after dusk, with a jeep. We'll make a run for it in the dark. Head south. Risky, but we'll make it.”

“Not without Reacher,” Holly said.

The young guy shook his head.

“Can't promise that,” he said. “He's in with Borken now. God knows what's going to happen to him.”

“I go, he goes,” Holly said.

The young guy looked at her nervously.

“OK,” he said, “I'll try.”

He opened the bathroom door and crept out. Holly watched him go and turned the shower off. Stared after him.

 

HE LOOPED NORTH and west and took a long route back through the woods, same way as he had come. The sentry Fowler had hidden in the trees fifteen feet off the main path never saw him. But the one he had hidden in the back-woods did. He caught a glimpse of a camouflage uniform hustling through the undergrowth. Spun around fast, but was too late to make the face. He shrugged and thought hard. Figured he'd keep it to himself. Better to ignore it than report he'd failed to make the actual ID.

So the young man with the scar hurried all the way and was back in his hut two minutes before he was due to escort his commander down to the tribunal hearing.

 

IN THE DAYLIGHT, the courthouse on the southeast corner of the abandoned town of Yorke looked pretty much the same as a hundred others Reacher had seen all over rural America. Built early in the century. Big, white, pillared, ornate. Enough square solidity to communicate its serious purpose, but enough lightness in its details to make it a handsome structure. He saw a fine cupola floating off the top of the building, with a fine clock in it, probably paid for by a public subscription held long ago among a long-forgotten generation. More or less the same as a hundred others, but the roof was steeper-pitched than some, and heavier built. He guessed it had to be that way in the north of Montana. That roof could be carrying a hundred tons of snow all winter long.

But this was the third morning of July, and there was no snow on the roof. Reacher was warm after walking a mile in the pale northern sun. Borken had gone ahead separately and Reacher had been marched down through the forest by the same six elite guards. Still in handcuffs. They marched him straight up the front steps and inside. The first-floor interior was one large space, interrupted by pillars holding up the second floor, paneled in broad smooth planks sawed from huge pines. The wood was dark from age and polish, and the panels were stern and simple in their design.

Every seat was taken. Every bench was full. The room was a sea of camouflage green. Men and women. Sitting rigidly upright, rifles exactly vertical between their knees. Waiting expectantly. Some children, silent and confused. Reacher was led in front of the crowd, over to a table in the well of the court. Fowler was waiting there. Stevie next to him. He nodded to a chair. Reacher sat. The guards stood behind him. A minute later, the double doors opened and Beau Borken walked over to the judge's bench. The old floor creaked beneath his bulk. Every person in the room except Reacher stood up. Stood to attention and saluted, as if they were hearing an inaudible cue. Borken was still in his black uniform, with belt and boots. He had added a large holster to hold his Sig-Sauer. He held a slim leatherbound book. He came in with six armed men in a loose formation. They took up station in front of the bench and stood at rigid attention, gazing forward, looking blank.

The people sat down again. Reacher glanced up at the ceiling and quartered it with his eyes. Worked out which was the southeast corner. The doors opened again and the crowd drew breath. Loder was pushed into the room. He was surrounded by six guards. They pushed him to the table opposite Fowler's. The accused's table. The guards stood behind him and forced him into the chair with their hands on both his shoulders. His face was white with fear and crusted with blood. His nose was broken and his lips were split. Borken stared across at him. Sat down heavily in the judge's chair and placed his big hands, palms down, on the bench. Looked around the quiet room and spoke.