Page 6 of The Secret

The Pentagon guy repeated what he’d been told a minute earlier. Word for word. Neutral tone. No summarizing. No editorializing. The way Stamoran insisted it was done.

“Understood,” Stamoran said when the Pentagon guy stopped talking. “Wait one.”

Stamoran laid the handset down on the worn leather desktop, crossed to the window, and peered out from around the side of the closed drapes. He stared across the lawn, toward the pond and beyond that the wall, picturing the sensors and tripwires and hidden cameras, and he weighed what he’d just heard. He received briefings on all kinds of subjects, all the time. It was part of the job. One regular report he got was a list of significant deaths. Foreign leaders. Key military figures, friend and foe. Terrorist suspects. Essentially anyone who could upset the geopolitical status quo. Dry stuff, on the whole. But a perk of the job was that he got to add a few extra names for himself. Nothing official. Just people he had a personal interest in. One of these was a guy named Owen Buck. He had died of cancer four weeks ago. Nothing suspicious about that. On its own. Then another guy on his list had died. Varinder Singh. Electrocuted in his bath. A tape player had wound up in the water with him. Its cord was still plugged into the wall. Fifty/fifty, suicideor accident, the police had said. And now Keith Bridgeman had died. Also on his list. Also fifty/fifty. Not the kind of coincidence that was ever going to pass Stamoran’s smell test. That was for damn sure.

Stamoran returned to his desk and picked up the handset. “I’m going to give you three names. Geoff Brown. Michael Rymer. Charlie Adam. They’re already on my list. I want them under surveillance, twenty-four/seven, effective immediately. Send our best people. Someone looks at these guys funny, I want them in a cell before they can blink. In isolation. No one gets access until I send someone to question them.”

“Covert surveillance, sir? Or can the watchers make contact? Make it known what they’re doing?”

“Covert. Strictly hands-off. These guys are Company lifers. If they cotton onto the fact that we have reason to watch them, they’ll disappear faster than a politician who’s asked to keep a promise.”

“Understood.”

“And there’s a fourth name. Neville Pritchard. He’s also on my list. I want him in protective custody. The most secure place we have. The most remote. Now. Tonight. No delay.”

—

Stamoran dropped thereceiver into its cradle and walked back to the window. Three guys were dead. Three would be watched. One would be put on ice. Which left one last name. Not on the list. Stamoran knew it, of course. So did Pritchard. But no one else did. Stamoran needed to keep things that way. The secret he had hidden for twenty-three years depended on it.

Stamoran turned his attention to Pritchard. Tried to picture his face. It wasn’t easy after so many years. He could remember more about the guy’s temper. He wasn’t going to be happy about gettingdragged out of bed and bundled off to some distant safehouse. Not happy at all. But that was too bad. When you’re forced into a game of Russian Roulette you have no time to worry about people’s feelings. There’s only one move to make. Ensure the bullet that could kill you is removed from the gun.

—

Sergeant Hall showedup a whisker after 8:30p.m. She parked her car—a small, clean, domestic sedan—directly outside her house and walked up the path to her door. She was around five foot six and was wearing civilian clothes. Jeans, white sneakers, and an Orioles sweatshirt. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and she moved with fluid confidence, like an athlete. She wasn’t in a rush. She wasn’t glancing around to see if she was being watched. Reacher was pleased. It showed the armory sergeant had listened. He gave her a couple of minutes to get settled then made his own way up the path.

Hall answered the door right away. She looked surprised to see a huge guy in woodland BDUs on her doorstep, but not worried. “Help you, Captain?” she said.

Reacher showed his Military ID card then slid his wallet back into his pocket. “I need a minute of your time. To follow up on the missing weapons case.”

Hall’s expression was blank. “There aren’t any missing weapons. The MPs searched the entire base. They confirmed it.”

“The weapons aren’t missing. But something else is.”

Hall looked away. She scratched the side of her face then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t—”

Reacher said, “Some of our paperwork. A couple of pages got lost. Someone screwed up. I need to fix it before our CO finds out. Just need a few details. I was told you were the person to talk to.”

“Paperwork?” Hall blinked, twice. “Oh. OK. Sure. What…wait. You don’t have a briefcase or a clipboard or anything.”

“Don’t need one.” Reacher tapped his temple. “I’ll remember what you say. Then I’ll call my base and pass the information along to the right person. He needs to do the actual form-filling. Otherwise the handwriting won’t match.”

Hall didn’t respond.

Reacher said, “It won’t take long. And we’re in a time crunch here…”

“Oh. OK. What do you need to know?”

“Mind if I come inside? It’s been a long day. I could use a glass of water while we talk.”

Hall paused. She looked Reacher up and down. He was practically a foot taller than she. Probably twice her weight. But he was an MP and MPs don’t like to be told no.Nothing good ever comes of it. So after a moment she nodded and gestured for him to follow her down the hallway. There were framed pictures on the walls. Three on either side. Prints of animals and birds and scenes from nature. Hall pointed to the door on the right then continued to the kitchen. Reacher followed her direction and found himself in her living room. He stood just off center to avoid hitting his head on a light that hung from the ceiling and waited for Hall to catch up. She appeared a minute later with two plain glasses of water. She put one on a side table next to the couch and then perched at the front of a matching armchair.

“So,” Hall said. “Details?”

Reacher sat in the center of the couch, took a sip of water, then said, “The weapons that come back from the Gulf. The ones designated surplus. You’re responsible for testing them. Deciding which are kept and which are disposed of?”

“My team is. Not just me. But none of those weapons is missing. The MPs searched and—”

“Who decides who tests which crates?”

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