Personal (Jack Reacher, #19)(92)

Bennett stepped over and considered the guy for a long moment. Then he took a switchblade from his pocket. A flick knife, in Britain. He thumbed the button and the blade popped out, with a solid thunk. An antique, probably. They had been illegal for so long it had gotten hard to find a good one. He balanced the handle on his thumb, with his four fingers spread along the upper edge, and he moved the blade close to Charlie’s cheek, like he was a barber about to start a shave with a straight razor.

Charlie eased backward, until his head was jammed hard against the wood of the wall.

Casey Nice said, ‘Are we on the record here?’

Bennett said, ‘Don’t worry.’

He used the blade to pick at the edge of the duct tape I had wrapped around Charlie’s mouth. He got some of it lifted and used a fingernail to pouch it out. He made a quarter-inch cut, and then started over, lifting, picking, cutting, a quarter-inch at a time, until the whole two-inch width was severed. He used the blade again, to lift a tab, which he grasped finger-andthumb with his left hand, and then he peeled the tape away from Charlie’s lips, neither fast nor slow, like a nurse changing a dressing. Charlie coughed and ducked his mouth to his shoulder, to wipe it.

Bennett asked him, ‘Who is staying with Joey?’

Charlie said, ‘I don’t know.’

Bennett still had the switchblade open. Charlie’s hands were still taped behind his back. He was wedged as tight in the corner as he could get. No further movement was feasible.

Bennett said, ‘You sell guns to hoodlums everywhere in this country. You peddle heroin and cocaine. You lend a man with mouths to feed fifty pounds, but he pays you back a hundred, or you break his legs. You bring teenage girls from Latvia and Estonia and you turn them out, and when they’re all used up, they go to Joey’s. So on a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that anyone in the whole wide world will give a shit about what I do to you next?’

Charlie didn’t speak.

Bennett said, ‘I need an answer, Mr White. Just so we understand each other. On a scale of one to ten. Where ten is very likely and one is not very likely. Pick a number.’

Charlie didn’t speak.

‘I get it,’ Bennett said. ‘You can’t find the right answer. Because it’s a trick question. The numbers don’t go low enough. No one in the whole wide world is going to give a shit. Not one single person. And they won’t even know anyway. Tomorrow you’ll be in Syria or Egypt or Guantanamo Bay, even. We do things differently now. Your organization is harbouring a rifleman planning to shoot the British prime minister and the American president. You’re the new Osama bin Laden. Or Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, at the very least.’

Charlie White said, ‘That’s bullshit.’

‘Which part?’

‘All of it. I wouldn’t have the prime minister shot.’

‘Why not?’

‘I voted for him.’

‘Who is staying with Joey?’

‘I don’t know who it is.’

‘But you know someone is there?’

‘I never met the man.’

Bennett said, ‘He killed Karel Libor for you, and he gave you a lot of money, and he induced you to shake hands with the Serbians, and you’re providing twenty-four-seven shelter and security for him, and for a deal of that magnitude you never talked to him face to face?’

Charlie said nothing.

Bennett said, ‘I think you talked extensively. I think you know every detail. Including the target.’

Charlie said, ‘I want my lawyer.’

Bennett said, ‘Which part of Guantanamo Bay don’t you understand?’

Charlie said nothing.

Bennett said, ‘Hypothetically, then. For now. If a hypothetical man in your hypothetical situation was involved in a deal of that type, would he not want to approve certain details?’

‘Of course he would. Hypothetically.’

‘Including the target?’

‘Of course the target.’

‘Why?’

‘It would have to be acceptable.’

‘Who would be off limits?’

‘Women and children, obviously. And the royal family.’

‘And the prime minister?’

‘That would be a big step. Hypothetically, I mean. I believe such people haven’t dabbled in that kind of politics before.’

‘Just the folding kind?’

‘Hypothetically.’

‘So you know what the target is. Because you approved it.’ No answer.

Bennett said, ‘This is like one of those philosophy questions that people debate in the newspapers. Suppose you had until the sun comes up to find the ticking bomb? How far could you go, legally and ethically?’

No answer.

‘What’s the target, Mr White?’

Charlie said nothing. He was looking at Bennett, looking at me, looking at Bennett, back and forth, with some kind of a plea in his eyes, as if he wanted permission to give each of us a different answer.

I said, ‘Leave it for now, Bennett. It doesn’t change what we have to do next.’

Bennett looked at me, and at Charlie, and at Nice, and then he shrugged and stepped back to where he had been before, by the window, and as he got there the busted door crashed open and a man with a gun stepped in, followed immediately by another, the hut suddenly hot and cramped, six of us in there, and then it got worse. A leg the size of a tree trunk appeared, bent at the knee, and a massive shoulder, and a bent back, and a lowered head, way down under the lintel, where it said Bowling Club outside, and then Little Joey was right there in front of us, in the hut, upright, nearly seven feet tall, the pent of the roof exactly framing his massive head and shoulders.