Page 19 of The Secret

“If I were, you’d never know.”

“Maybe this is a double bluff?”

“It isn’t. So what was up? Wrong number?”

Kasluga picked up a bright pink stress ball and flung it at his head. “None of your business. Now get out. I’m working.”

—

Ottoway left thebar first. Reacher was last, and Chapellier was sandwiched between them. The street outside was a blaze of red and blue. Four Bureau cars were lined up with dome lights flashing on their dashboards. The scrawny guy was in the backseat of the last car. Behind it was an old, dented Toyota Corolla. Its driver’s door was open. So was its trunk. An agent was standing next to it, and as Reacher watched, a plain white box van pulled up next to it and a pair of technicians climbed out. Ottoway made her way to the lead car and leaned down to talk to someone in the passenger seat. Then two men emerged from the shadows near the wall. They were trim. Lean. Dressed all in black. Like French avant-garde philosophers who had become obsessed with exercise, Reacher thought. Although he knew what they really were. He could recognize soldiers in and around bars in his sleep. Years of experience had honed his instinct. And MPs were even easier to spot. No one else ever hung out with them. They were too unpopular. The only thing Reacher couldn’t figure was what they were doing there. He hadn’t requested backup.

The MPs stepped forward. The taller one said, “Captain Reacher?”

Reacher nodded.

“Could you verify that, please, sir.”

Reacher took out his wallet and showed his Military ID card.

“Thank you, sir.” The MP pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it over.

Reacher tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with the Military Police crest at the top. It stated that he was torelinquish custody of Sergeant Chapellier and report to an address in Washington, D.C., at 11:00a.m.the following day.

Reacher looked at the MP. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“What have you heard?”

“We’ve been told nothing, sir.”

Reacher smiled. It was clear that these guys were NCOs. The backbone of the service. And Reacher knew from experience that the NCO scuttlebutt was the most efficient communication medium in the world. “I didn’t ask what you’vebeen told.I asked what you’veheard.And if you tell me you’ve not heard anything I’ll have you locked up for impersonating a member of the US Army. So let’s start with this. I’m being sent to D.C. How come?”

The MP glanced at his buddy then said, “Word is, a couple of people died.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

“Ours?”

The MP shook his head. “Retired scientists. One got electrocuted. One fell out of a hospital window.”

“Fell out?”

The MP shrugged.

“So they were CIA. What’s our angle?”

“Word is, it’s part of a bigger thing. CIA, plus other agencies. Orders from the Pentagon.”

“Then why are they sending me?”

“They wanted an O-3 or higher. No one from HQ would touch it. I guess you must have pissed off the wrong guy, sir.”

—

Susan Kasluga tappedgently on Charles Stamoran’s study door, pushed it open, and took a small step into the room. Stamoran was sitting in his armchair. He was reading a book. A biography of George Meade. He glanced up, then went back to his Civil War history.

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