“A meter seventy, a meter seventy-five.”
“Five feet eight inches,” Griezman said. “Completely average.”
Reacher asked, “Is he fat or thin?”
The translator said, “Neither.”
“Solid?”
“Not exactly.”
“Strong or weak?”
“Quite strong.”
“If he played a sport, what sport would he play?”
Klopp didn’t answer.
Reacher said, “Think about what’s on the TV. Think about the Olympic Games. What sport would he play?”
Klopp thought hard and long, as if going through the whole sporting calendar, in great detail. Eventually he spoke in German, a long speculation, arguments for and against, a little of this and a little of that. The translator said, “He thinks probably a middle-distance runner. Perhaps the fifteen hundred meters upward. Maybe even a long-distance runner, up to the ten thousand meters. But he wasn’t an unnatural stick insect like a marathon runner.”
“A stick insect from Africa, right?”
“He added that, yes.”
“Tell me everything, OK?”
“I apologize.”
“So the American is average height, on the wiry side of average weight, possibly full of bounce and energy? That kind of guy?”
“Yes, always moving.”
“How long was he there before the Saudi guy showed up?”
“Perhaps five minutes. He was just a man in a bar. No one was interested in him.”
“What did he drink?”
“A half liter of lager, quite slowly. He still had most of it left after the meeting had finished.”
“How long did he stay, after the Saudi guy left?”
“Perhaps thirty minutes.”
“What did the Saudi guy drink?”
“Nothing. He would not have been served.”
“What kind of hair has the American got?”
Klopp shrugged at the translator, and she chided him, telling him to think. He said something, awkwardly, clearly not his field of expertise, but then he carried on, determined to muster all the details he could. It turned into a long speech. Eventually the translator said, “The American had fair hair, the color of hay or straw in the summer. His hair was quite normal at the sides but much longer at the top. Like a style. As if he could flop it around. Like Elvis Presley.”
“Was it neat?”
“Yes, it was neatly brushed.”
“Product?”
“What is that?”
“Oil, like he uses. Or wax, or something.”
“No, just natural.”
“Eyes?”
The face as described went with the hair and the build. Deep-set blue eyes, tight skin on the forehead, prominent cheek bones, a thin nose, white teeth, an unsmiling mouth, a firm chin. No visible damage. No major scars, no tattoos. An old tan, and some lines around the eyes. More likely squint lines than laugh lines or frown lines. A groove down one cheek. From the clamp of the jaw, and maybe a missing tooth. But all of a piece. Narrow, but all horizontal. The brows, the eyes, the high cheek bones, the thin slash of the mouth, the clamped and working grimace. His age was more likely thirty-something than twenty-something.
Reacher said, “Tell Mr. Klopp we’ll want him to repeat all of that for the sketch artist.”
The translator passed on the message, and Klopp nodded.
Reacher asked, “What was the American wearing?”
Klopp answered, and the translator said, “Actually a Levi’s jacket the same as yours.”
“Exactly the same?”
“Identical.”
“Small world,” Reacher said. “Now ask him why he feels the Saudi guy was agitated. Only first-hand evidence. Only what he saw or heard. Tell him to leave the political analysis for later.”
There was a long discussion in German, with Griezman chipping in, with a lot of back and forth to get it all straight, and then the translator said, “On reflection Herr Klopp feels excited might be a better word than agitated. Excited and nervous. The American told the Arab something, and the Arab reacted in that manner.”
“Did Mr. Klopp hear what was said?”
“No.”
“How long was that part of the discussion?”
“Possibly a minute.”
“How long did the Saudi guy stay?”
“He left immediately.”
“And the American stayed another thirty minutes?”
“Almost exactly.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Tell Mr. Klopp it’s time to look at the photographs.”
—