The Enemy (11 page)

"How long?" Joe asked.

"Not long," she said.

We said nothing.

"You don't need me any more," she said. "You're all grown up. My job is done. That's natural, and that's good. That's life. So let me go."

By six in the evening we were all talked out. Nobody had spoken for an hour. Then my mother sat up straight in her chair.

"Let's go out to dinner," she said. "Let's go to Polidor, on Rue Monsieur le Prince."

We called a cab and rode it to the Odeon. Then we walked.

My mother wanted to. She was bundled up in a coat and she was hanging on our arms and moving slow and awkward, but I think she enjoyed the air. Rue Monsieur le Prince cuts the corner between the Boulevard Saint Germain and the Boulevard Saint Michel, in the Sixime. It may be the most Parisian street in the whole of the city. Narrow, diverse, slightly seedy, flanked by tall plaster faqades, bustling. Polidor is a famous old restaurant. It makes you feel all kinds of people have eaten there. Gourmets, spies, painters, fugitives, cops, robbers.

We all ordered the same three courses. Chkvre chaud, porc aux pruneaux, dames blanches. We ordered a fine red wine. But my mother ate nothing and drank nothing. She just watched us. There was pain showing in her face. Joe and I ate, self consciously. She talked, exclusively about the past. But there was no sadness. She relived good times. She laughed. She rubbed her thumb across the scar on Joe's forehead and scolded me for putting it there all those years ago, like she always did. I rolled up my sleeve like I always did and showed her where he had stuck me with a chisel in revenge, and she scolded him equally.

She talked about things we had made her in school. She talked about birthday parties we had thrown, on grim faraway bases in the heat, or the cold. She talked about our father, about meeting him in Korea, about marrying him in Holland, about his awkward manner, about the two bunches of flowers he had bought her in all their thirty-three years together, one when Joe was born, and one when I was.

"Why didn't you tell us a year ago?" Joe asked.

"You know why," she said.

"Because we would have argued," I said.

She nodded. "It was a decision that belonged to me," she said.

We had coffee and Joe and I smoked cigarettes. Then they brought the bill and we asked him to call a cab for us. We back to the Avenue Rapp in silence. We all went to bed without saying much.

I woke early on the fourth day of the new decade. Heard someone in the kitchen, talking French. I went in there and found a woman. She was young and brisk. She had short neat hair luminous eyes. She told me she was my mother's private nurse provided under the terms of an old insurance policy. She told me she normally came in seven days a week, but had missed the day before at my mother's request.

She told me my had wanted a day alone with her sons. I asked the girl how long each visit lasted. She said she stayed as long as she needed. She told me the old insurance policy would covert twenty-four hours a day, as and when it became which she thought might be very soon.

The girl with the luminous eyes left and I went back to bedroom and showered and packed my bag. Joe came io watched me do it.

"You leaving?" he said.

"We both are. You know that."

"We should stay."

"We came. That's what she wanted. Now she wants us to leave."

"You think?"

I nodded. "Last night, at Polidor. It was about saying She wants to be left in peace now."

"You can do that?"

"It's what she wants. We owe it to her."

I got breakfast items in the Rue Saint Dominique again we ate them with bowls of coffee, the French way, all three us together. My mother had dressed in her best and was like a fit young woman temporarily inconvenienced by a leg. It must have taken a lot of will, but I guessed that was how she wanted to be remembered. We poured coffee and passed things to each other, politely. It was a civilized meal. Like we used to have, long ago. Like an old family ritual.

Then she revisited another old family ritual. She did something she had done ten thousand times before, all through our lives, since we were first old enough to have individuality of our own. She struggled up out of her chair and stepped over and put her hands on Joe's shoulders, from behind. Then she bent and kissed his cheek.

"What don't you need to do?" she asked him.

He didn't answer. He never did. Our silence was part of the ritual.

"You don't need to solve all the world's problems, Joe. Only some of them. There are enough to go around."

She kissed his cheek again. Then she kept one hand on the back of his chair and reached out with the other and moved herself over behind me. I could hear her ragged breathing. She kissed my cheek. Then like she used to all those years before she put her hands on my shoulders. Measured them, side to side. She was a small woman, fascinated by the way her baby had grown into a giant.

"You've got the strength of two normal boys," she said. Then came my own personal question.

"What are you going to do with this strength?" she asked me. I didn't answer. I never did.

"You're going to do the right thing," she said.

Then she bent down and kissed me on the cheek again.

I thought: was that the last time?

We left thirty minutes later. We hugged long and hard at the door and we told her we loved her, and she told us she loved us too and she always had. We left her standing there and went down in the tiny elevator and set out on the long walk back to the Op6ra to get the airport bus. Our eyes were full of tears and we didn't talk at all.

My medals meant nothing to the check-in girl at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle. She sat us in the back of the plane. About halfway through the flight I picked up Le Monde and saw that Noriega had been found in Panama City. A week ago I had lived and breathed that mission. Now I barely remembered it. I put the paper down and tried to look ahead. Tried to remember where I was supposed to be going, and what I was supposed to be doing when I got there. I had no real recollection. No sense of what was going to happen. If I had, I would have stayed in Paris.

SEVEN

Going west the time changes causes lengthening the day instead of shortening it. They paid us back the hours we had lost two days before. We landed at Dulles at two in the afternoon. I said goodbye to Joe and he found the cab line and headed into the city. I went looking for buses and was arrested before I found any.

Who guards the guards? Who arrests an MP? In my case it was a trio of warrant officers working directly for the Provost Marshal General's office. There were two W3s and a W4. The W4 showed me his credentials and his orders and then the W3s showed me their Berettas and their handcuffs and the W4 gave me a choice: either behave myself or get knocked on my ass. I smiled, briefly. I approved of his performance. He carried himself well. I doubted if I would have done it any different, or any better.

"Are you armed, major?" he said.

"No," I said.

I would have been worried for the army if he had believed me. Some W4s would have. They would have been intimidated by the sensitivities involved. Arresting a superior officer from your own corps is tough duty. But this particular W4 did everything right. He heard me say no and nodded to his W3s and they moved in to pat me down about as fast as if I had said yes, with a nuclear warhead. One of them did the body search and the other went through my duffel. They were both very thorough. Took them a good few minutes before they were satisfied.

"Do I need to put the cuffs on you?" the W4 asked.

I shook my head. "Where's the car?"

He didn't answer. The W3s formed up one on either side and slightly behind me. The W4 walked in front. We crossed the sidewalk and passed by the bay where the buses were waiting and headed for an official-vehicle-only lane. There was an olive green sedan parked there. This was their time of maximum danger. A determined man would be tensing up at that point, ready to make his break. They knew it, and they formed up a little tighter. They were a good team. Three against one, they reduced the odds to maybe fifty-fifty. But I let them put me in the car. Afterwards, I wondered what would have happened if I had run for it. Sometimes, I found myself wishing that I had.

The car was a Chevrolet Caprice. It had been white before the army sprayed it green. I saw the original colour inside the door frame. It had vinyl seats and manual windows. Civilian police specification. I slid across the rear bench and settled in the corner behind the front passenger seat. One of the W3s crammed in next to me and the other got behind the wheel. The W4 sat next to him up front. Nobody spoke.

We headed east towards the city on the main highway. I was probably five minutes behind Joe in his taxi. We turned south and east and drove through Tysons Corner. At that point I knew for sure where we were going. A couple of miles later we picked up signs to Rock Creek. Rock Creek was a small town twenty some miles due north of Fort Belvoir and forty-some north and east of the Marine place at Quantico. It was as close as I got to a permanent duty station. It housed the 110th Special Unit headquarters. So I knew where we were headed. But I had no idea why.

110th headquarters was basically an office and supply facility. There were no cells. No secure holding facilities. They locked me up in an interview room. Just dumped my bag on the table and locked the door and left me there. It was a room I had locked guys in before. So I knew how it was done. One of the W3s would be on station in the corridor outside. Maybe both of them would be. So I just tilted the plain wooden chair back and put my feet on the table and waited.

I waited an hour. I was uncomfortable and hungry and dehydrated from the plane. I figured if they knew all of that they'd have kept me waiting two hours. Or more. As it was they came back after sixty minutes.

The W4 led the way and gestured with his chin that I should stand up and follow him out the door. The W3s fell in behind me. They walked me up two flights of stairs. Led me left and right through plain grey passageways. At that point I knew for sure where we were going. We were going to Leon Garber's office. But I didn't know why.

They stopped me outside his door. It had reeded glass with CO painted on it in gold. I had been through it many times. But never while in custody. The W4 knocked and waited and opened the door and stepped back to let me walk inside. He closed the door behind me and stayed on the other side of it, out in the corridor with his guys.

Behind Garber's desk was a man I had never seen before. He was a colonel. He was in BDUs. His tapes said: Willard, U.S. Army. He had iron-grey hair parted in a schoolboy style. It needed a trim. He had steel-rimmed eyeglasses and the kind of grey pouchy face that must have looked old when he was twenty. He was short and relatively squat and the way his shoulders failed to fill his BDUs told me he spent no time at all in the gym. He had a problem sitting still. He was rocking to his left and plucking at his pants where they went tight over his right knee. Before I had been in the room ten seconds he had adjusted his position three times. Maybe he had haemorrhoids. Maybe he was nervous. He had soft hands. Ragged nails. No wedding band. Divorced, for sure. He looked the type. No wife would let him walk about with hair like that. And no wife could have stood all that rocking and twitching. Not for very long.

I should have come smartly to attention and saluted and announced: Sir, Major Reacher reports. That would have been the standard army etiquette. But I was damned if I was going to do that. I just took a long lazy look around and came to rest standing easy in front of the desk.

"I need explanations," the guy called Willard said. He moved in his chair again.

"Who are you?" I said.

"You can see who I am."

"I can see you're a colonel in the U.S. Army named Willard. But I can't explain anything to you before I know whether or not you're in my chain of command."

"I am your chain of command, son. What does it say on my door?"

"Commanding officer," I said.

"And where are we?"

"Rock Creek, Virginia," I said.

"OK, asked and answered," he said.

"You're new," I said. "We haven't met."

"I assumed this command forty-eight hours ago. And now we've met. And now I need explanations."

"Of what?"

"You were UA, for a start," he said.

"Unauthorized absence?" I said. "When?"

"The last seventy-two hours."

"Incorrect," I said.

"How so?"

"My absence was authorized by Colonel Garber."

"It was not."

"I called this office," I said.

"When?"

"Before I left."

"Did you receive his authorization?"

I paused. "I left a message. Are you saying he denied authorization?"

"He wasn't here. He got orders for Korea some hours earlier."

"Korea?"

"He got the MP command there."

"That's a brigadier general's job."

"He's acting. The promotion will no doubt be confirmed in the fall."

I said nothing.

"Garber's gone," Willard said. "I'm here. The military merry go-round continues. Get used to it."

The room went quiet. Willard smiled at me. Not a pleasant smile. It was close to a sneer. The rug was out from under my feet, and he was watching me hit the ground.

"It was good of you to leave your travel plans," he said. "It made today easier."

"You think the arrest was appropriate for UA?" I said.

"You don't?"

"It was a simple miscommunication."

"You left your assigned post without authorization, major. Those are the facts. Just because you had a vague expectation that authorization might be granted doesn't alter them. This is the army. We don't act in advance of orders or permissions. We wait until they are properly received and confirmed. The alternative would be anarchy and chaos." I said nothing. "Where did you go?"

I pictured my mother, leaning on her aluminum walker. I pictured my brother's face, as he watched me pack.

"I took a short vacation," I said. "I went to the beach."

"The arrest wasn't for the UA," Willard said. "It was because you wore Class As on the evening of New Year's Day."

"That's an offence now?"

"You wore your nameplate." I said nothing.

"You put two civilians in the hospital. While wearing your nameplate."

I stared at him. Thought hard. I didn't believe the fat guy and the farmer had dropped a dime on me. Not possible. They were stupid, but they weren't that stupid. They knew I knew where I could find them.

"Who says so?" I asked.

"You had a big audience in that parking lot."

"One of ours?" Willard nodded.

"Who?" I said.

"No need for you to know."

I kept quiet.

"You got anything to say?" Willard asked me.

I thought: He won't testify at the court martial. That's for damn sure. That's what I've got to say.

"Nothing to say," I said.

"What do you think I should do with you?"

I said nothing.

"What do you think I should do?"

You should figure out the difference between a hard ass and a dumb ass, pal. You should figure it out real quick.

"Your choice," I said. "Your decision."

He nodded. "I also have reports from General Vassell and Colonel Coomer."

"Saying what?"

"Saying you acted in a disrespectful manner towards them."

"Then those reports are incorrect."

"Like the UA was incorrect?" I said nothing.

"Stand at attention," Willard said.

I looked at him. Counted one thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Then I came to attention.

"That was slow," he said.

"I'm not looking to win a drill competition," I said.

"What was your interest in Vassell and Coomer?"

"An agenda for an Armored Branch conference is missing. I need to know if it contained classified information."

"There was no agenda," Willard said. "Vassell and Coomer have made that perfectly clear. To me, and to you. To ask is permissible. You have that right, technically. But to wilfully disbelieve a senior officer's direct answer is disrespectful. It's close to harassment."

"Sir, I do this stuff for a living. I believe there was an agenda." Now Willard said nothing.

"May I ask what was your previous command?" I said. He shifted in his chair. "Intelligence," he said.

"Field agent?" I asked. "Or desk jockey?"

He didn't answer. Desk jockey.

"Did you have conferences without agendas?" I asked.

He looked straight at me.

"Direct orders, major," he said. "One, terminate your interest in Vassell and Coomer. Forthwith, and immediately. Two, terminate your interest in General Kramer. We don't want flags raised on that matter, not in the circumstances. Three, terminate Lieutenant Summer's involvement in special unit affairs. Forthwith, and immediately. She's a junior-grade MP and after reading her file as far as I'm concerned she always will be. Four, do not attempt to make further contact with the local civilians you injured. And five, do not attempt to identify the eyewitness against you in that matter."

I said nothing.

"Do you understand your orders?" he said.

"I'd like them in writing," I said.

"Verbal will do," he said. "Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes," I said.

"Dismissed."

I counted one thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Then I saluted and turned around. I made it all the way to the door before he fired his parting shot.

"They tell me you're a big star, Reacher," he said. "So right now you need to decide whether you keep on being a big star, or whether you let yourself become an arrogant smart-ass son of a bitch. And you need to remember that nobody likes arrogant smart-ass sons of bitches. And you need to remember we're coming to a point where it's going to matter whether people like you or not. It's going to matter a lot."