Never Go Back

‘I want a clean arrest. I want them in the cells at Dyer, and I want a full-dress court martial. I want it textbook, Reacher. I want to be exonerated in public. I want the jury to hear every word, and I want a ruling from the bench.’

Reacher said, ‘A clean arrest needs probable cause.’

‘So should cutting their heads off with a butter knife.’

‘Why did Montague let Zadran go home to the mountains?’

‘Because of his history.’

‘I wish we knew more about him.’

‘We know all we’re going to know.’

Reacher nodded. A meaningless peasant, forty-two years old, the youngest of five, the black sheep of the family, disreputable, tried his hand at a number of things, and failed at them all. He said, ‘The butter knife would be easier.’

Then his phone rang. It was Edmonds. He said, ‘That was quick.’

She said, ‘I figured I might get an hour’s sleep tonight if I was quick.’

‘Don’t count on it. What have you got?’

‘Dove Cottage is a private members’ club. It opened four years ago. Membership roll is confidential.’

‘Four years ago?’

‘We have no evidence.’

‘Four years ago we have Morgan at Bragg, building a team around Shrago.’

‘We can’t prove a connection.’

‘Are Scully and Montague members?’

‘Which part of confidential didn’t you get?’

‘Any rumours?’

‘The membership is said to be all-male. Including politicians, but it’s not a political salon, and military, and media, and business, but no deals seem to get done. Guys go there to enjoy themselves, that’s all. Sometimes they stay all night.’

‘Doing what?’

‘No one knows.’

‘How do you get to be a member?’

‘I don’t, if it’s all-male.’

‘How would I?’

‘Invitation only, I guess. You’d have to know a guy who knows a guy.’

‘And no one knows what they do in there?’

‘There are hundreds of private clubs in D.C. There’s no way of keeping track.’

Reacher said, ‘Thank you, counsellor. For everything. You’ve done a fine job.’

‘That sounds like goodbye.’

‘It might be. Or not. Like flipping a coin.’

The latitude and the season meant they had about ninety minutes before the sun came up. So they took what they needed and rode down to the street, where a man in a hat got them a cab. The cab went way north on 16th, to Scott Circle, where it took Mass Ave to Dupont, where it took P Street across the park and into Georgetown. They went as far as the corner with Wisconsin Avenue, where they got out. The cab drove away, and they walked two blocks, back the way they had come, and they made a left, and they headed for their target, which was another two blocks north, on the right, in what looked like the most expensive neighbourhood since money was invented. To the left were the landscaped grounds of some immense mansion. On the right were townhouses, gleaming in the dark, lustrous, burnished, each one substantial in its own right, each one proudly taking its place in line.

Their target fit right in.

‘Some cottage,’ Turner said.

It was a tall, handsome house, strictly symmetrical, restrained and discreet and unshowy in every way, but still gleaming with burnished lustre none the less. The brass plaque was small. There were lights on in some of the windows, most of which still had old wavy glass, which made the light look soft, like a candle. The door had been repainted about every election year, starting with James Madison. It was a big door, solidly made, and properly fitted. It was the kind of door that didn’t open, except voluntarily.

No obvious way in.

But they hadn’t been expecting miracles, and they had been expecting to watch and wait. Which was helped a little by the landscaped grounds of the immense mansion. The grounds had an iron fence set in a stone knee-wall, which was just wide enough for a small person to sit on, and Turner was a small person, and Reacher was used to being uncomfortable. Overhead was a tight lattice of bare branches. No leaves, and therefore no kind of total concealment, but maybe some kind of camouflage. The branches were tight enough to break up the street light. Like the new digital patterns, on the pyjamas.

They waited, half hidden, and Turner said, ‘We don’t even know what they look like. They could come out and walk right past us.’ So she called Leach again, and asked for an alert if the phones moved. Which they hadn’t yet. They were still showing up on a bunch of towers, triangulated ruler-straight on the house in front of them. Reacher watched the windows, and the door. Guys go there to enjoy themselves. Sometimes they stay all night. In which case they would start leaving soon. Politicians and military and media and businessmen all had jobs to do. They would come staggering out, ready to head home and clean up ahead of their day.