The Enemy (Page 18)

I nodded and said nothing. Truth is, I didn’t know exactly what he did for a living. He had probably told me. It wasn’t a national secret or anything. It was something to do with the Treasury Department. He had probably told me all the details and I probably hadn’t listened. Now it seemed too late to ask.

"You were in Panama," he said. "Operation Just Cause, right?"

"Operation Just Because," I said. "That’s what we called it."

"Just because what?"

"Just because we could. Just because we all had to have something to do. Just because we’ve got a new Commander-in-Chief who wants to look tough."

"Is it going well?"

"It’s like Notre Dame against the Tumble Tots. How else is it going to go?"

"You got Noriega yet?"

"Not yet."

"So why did they post you back here?"

"We took twenty-seven thousand guys," I said. "It wasn’t down to me personally."

He smiled briefly and then got that narrow-eyed look I remembered from childhood. It meant he was figuring out some pedantic and convoluted line of reasoning. But we got to the head of the line before he had time to tell me about it. He took out his credit card and paid for the flights. Maybe he expected me to pay him back for mine, maybe he didn’t. He didn’t make it clear either way.

"Let’s get coffee now," he said.

Joe was probably the only other human on the planet who liked coffee as much as I did. He started drinking it when he was six. I copied him immediately. I was four. Neither of us has stopped since. The Reacher brothers’ need for caffeine makes heroin addiction look like an amusing little take-it-or-leave-it sideline.

We found a place with a W-shaped counter snaking through it. It was three-quarters empty. It was harshly lit with fluorescent tubes and the vinyl on the stools was sticky. We sat side by side and rested our forearms on the counter in the universal pose of early-morning travelers everywhere. A guy in an apron put mugs in front of us without asking. Then he filled them with coffee from a flask. The coffee smelled fresh. The place was changing over from the all-night service to the breakfast menu. I could hear eggs frying.

"What happened in Panama?" Joe asked.

"To me?" I said. "Nothing."

"What were your orders there?"

"Supervision."

"Of what?"

"Of the process," I said. "The Noriega thing is supposed to look judicial. He’s supposed to stand trial here in the States. So we’re supposed to grab him up with some kind of formality. Some way that will look acceptable when we get him in a courtroom."

"You were going to read him his Miranda rights?"

"Not exactly. But it had to be better than some cowboy thing."

"Did you screw up?"

"I don’t think so."

"Who replaced you?"

"Some other guy."

"Rank?"

"Same," I said.

"A rising star?"

I sipped my coffee. Shook my head. "I never met him before. But he seemed like a bit of an asshole to me."

Joe nodded and picked up his mug. Said nothing.

"What?" I said.

"Bird’s not a small post," he said. "But it’s not real big either, right? What are you working on?"

"Right now? Some two-star died and I can’t find his briefcase."

"Homicide?"

I shook my head. "Heart attack."

"When?"

"Last night."

"After you got there?"

I said nothing.

"You sure you didn’t screw up?" Joe said.

"I don’t think so," I said again.

"So why did they pull you out of Panama? One day you’re supervising the Noriega process, and the next day you’re in North Carolina with nothing to do? And you’d still have nothing to do if the general hadn’t died."

"I got orders," I said. "You know how it is. You have to assume they know what they’re doing."

"Who signed the orders?"

"I don’t know."

"You should find out. Find out who wanted you at Bird badly enough to pull you out of Panama and replace you with an asshole. And you should find out why."

The guy in the apron refilled our mugs. Shoved plastic menus in front of us.

"Eggs," Joe said. "Over well, bacon, toast."

"Pancakes," I said. "Egg on the top, bacon on the side, plenty of syrup."

The guy took the menus back and went away and Joe turned around on his stool and sat back-to with his legs stretched way out into the aisle.

"What exactly did her doctor say?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Not very much. No details, no diagnosis. No real information. European doctors aren’t very good with bad news. They hedge around it all the time. Plus, there’s a privacy issue, obviously."

"But we’re headed over there for a reason?"

He nodded. "He suggested we might want to come. And then he hinted that sooner might be better than later."

"What is she saying?"

"That it’s all a lot of fuss about nothing. But that we’re always welcome to visit."

We finished our breakfast and I paid for it. Then Joe gave me my ticket, like a transaction. I was sure he earned more than me, but probably not enough to make an airline ticket proportional to a plate of eggs and bacon with toast on the side. But I took the deal. We got off our stools and got our bearings and headed for the check-in counter.

"Take your coat off," he said.

"Why?"

"I want the clerk to see your medal ribbons," he said. "Military action going on overseas, we might get an upgrade."

"It’s Air France," I said. "France isn’t even a military member of NATO."

"The check-in clerk will be American," Joe said. "Try it."

I shrugged out of my coat. Folded it over my arm and walked sideways so the left of my chest stuck out forward.

"OK now?" I said.

"Perfect," he said, and smiled.

I smiled back. Left-to-right on the top row I wear the Silver Star, the Defense Superior Service Medal, and the Legion of Merit. Second row has the Soldier’s Medal, the Bronze Star, and my Purple Heart. The bottom two rows are the junk awards. I won all of the good stuff purely by accident and none of it means very much to me. Using it to get an upgrade out of an airline clerk is about what it’s good for. But Joe liked the top two rows. He served five years in Military Intelligence and didn’t get past the junk.

We made it to the head of the line and he put his passport and ticket on the counter along with a Treasury Department ID. Then he stepped behind my shoulder. I put my own passport and ticket down. He nudged me in the back. I turned a little sideways and looked at the clerk.

"Can you find us something with legroom?" I asked him.

He was a small man, middle-aged, tired. He looked up at us. Together we measured almost thirteen feet tall and weighed about four hundred fifty pounds. He studied the Treasury ID and looked at my uniform and pattered on his keyboard and came up with a forced smile.

"We’ll seat you gentlemen up front," he said.

Joe nudged me in the back again and I knew he was smiling.

We were in the last row of the first-class cabin. We were talking, but we were avoiding the obvious subject. We talked about music, and then politics. We had another breakfast. We drank coffee. Air France makes pretty good coffee in first class.

"Who was the general?" Joe asked.