Page 51 of The Secret

“When did she lie?”

“In ’69. She said seven people died in that accident. She left out the other thousand.”

Smith was quiet for a moment. “It’s only a lie if you know what you’re saying isn’t true. How would she have known about the real death toll? I doubt the CIA and the army gave guided tours of the scene. They probably just stuck her in front of the cameras because she was young and pretty, and trusted she was naïve enough to read out what they told her to read.”

“Maybe.”

“I think it’s a good idea to ask her about Sanson. I think we should do it.”

“Let’s take—”

There was a loud ripping sound from the doorway, then a crash. Neilsen had arrived. He’d gotten tangled up in the plastic sheet that hung from the frame and overbalanced in the course of freeing himself. He stood up, brushed off his crumpled suit, strolled across, and took the seat next to Reacher.

He said, “Where’s the server. I need whiskey. Immediately.”

Smith said, “Looks like you’ve already had plenty of whiskey.”

Neilsen tipped his head to the side. “Correct.Had. Past tense. Which is why, now, I need more.”

“Your informant had a thirst on, I guess.”

“Not an informant. And no. Frank doesn’t drink. This,” Neilsen gestured to his loosened tie and a stain on his shirt, “all happened after he left.”

“You’ve been drinking all afternoon?”

“If I’d met him for breakfast I’d have been drinking all day. So lighten up.”

Reacher said, “He had bad news?”

Neilsen said, “Bad? Such an inadequate little word. Here’s what he told me. He said the Agency has no record of Project Typhon. Nothing to say it ever existed. It’s been buried. That’s what they do with time bombs. But he’s a thorough guy, Frank. See, I’d asked him who was in charge of it. And when he couldn’t answer that, he moved on to what he figured was the next best thing. Who was in charge of the 19x projects. All of them. And all their spin-offs. So including 192 and Typhon. Care to guess?”

Smith shook her head.

Reacher said nothing.

“Charles Stamoran.”

Chapter19

Neilsen got his whiskey. Adouble. Smith had a glass, too. A single, with water. Reacher switched to coffee. Black, with a sidecar of espresso.

“There’s one tiny silver patch in this cloud,” Neilsen said. “The question about whether we dig into Typhon? That’s answered. It was the Secretary of Defense’s baby. We don’t touch it with a ten-million-foot pole.” He drained his glass. “Here’s another thing that sucks. Our fate is out of our hands. It’s down to those killer women now. And Neville Pritchard. If he can disappear, we’ll be OK. If they catch him and only want to kill him, we’ll be OK. But if they catch him and he blabs, we’re screwed. No way is Stamoran going to stand still and take the blame for all those dead bodies. He’ll be deflecting, left and right. Onto us, or some poor schmuck from the sixties. Wait. That’s a good point. We need to give him a schmuck from the sixties. First thing tomorrow, we find one. Or another KGB guy. Smith, got any up your sleeve? Not that you’re wearing sleeves, but you know what I mean.”

Reacher said, “You might want to order another whiskey.”

“Of course I do. Wait. Why?”

“Pritchard’s dead.”

“He is? When?”

“We found out this afternoon.”

“Did he blab?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Neilsen signaled for the server to come over.

---