Bishop sent the bus early, because of General Helmsworth coming in. The driver said Delta’s wheels-down in Hamburg had already happened, just as dawn was coming up. The general was being met at the airport and would be driven straight to the consulate, where he would freshen up in the guest quarters ahead of moving to a meeting room provided by Bishop. Apparently Helmsworth’s interpretation of his orders was narrow. He would speak only to Sinclair, Reacher and Neagley, who were in his chain of command, broadly understood. The others were not. Which in practical terms was no problem at all. They had already decided among themselves to keep it lean. It was felt someone else’s cryptic half-remembered childhood legends would not survive a formal one-against-seven across-the-table grilling. It was felt a casual atmosphere would be more productive. A smaller gathering. Sinclair and Reacher and Neagley had already been chosen ahead of time.
So the others went to the regular office, and Bishop led the way to the room he had chosen. It looked a lot like the room in Fort Belvoir where Reacher had gotten his medal. Same kind of gilt chairs, same kind of red velvet, same kind of flags. Maybe the ceiling was higher. It was an older building. Neagley found four chairs with arms, and she set them in a square, like a casual group. All equal. Just folks passing the time of day.
Then Bishop left, and a minute later Helmsworth came in. He was a compact man close to his middle sixties. He had a silver buzz cut and bright gray eyes. He was wearing battledress uniform, starched and pressed, with two black stars in the collar. He had flown all night, but he looked in reasonable shape. Introductions were made. Hands were shaken, except for Neagley, who nodded politely. Then they all sat down, where Neagley had placed the chairs.
Reacher said, “General, how annoyed are you right now, on a scale of one to ten?”
Helmsworth said, “All things considered, son, about an eight or a nine.”
He sounded like a guy reading out a death sentence.
Reacher said, “It can only get worse.”
“I have no doubt about that, soldier.”
“But we don’t have time for bullshit. So cheer the hell up, general. We’re here to talk about the good old days.”
“Yours or mine, major?”
“A sergeant named Arnold P. Mason. He served in an 82nd Airborne unit. Your path and his crossed in 1955, and a couple of times later. But only technically. You were moving up by then. You won’t remember him.”
“I don’t. It was forty years ago.”
“But we need to know what you remember about his unit.”
“What is this, a folklore project? Oral history month?”
“We’re looking at a guy named Wiley. As a kid growing up, for a six-year period, from the age of ten to the age of sixteen, his mother’s boyfriend was a twenty-year veteran of the 82nd Airborne in Europe. We think the boyfriend told the kid stories. We think the kid remembered the stories, and then many years later joined the army himself, because of them.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to happen. I’m glad to hear it.”
“It wasn’t like that with Wiley. It was like the stories were a treasure map, and he joined the army only because he wanted to dig up the treasure.”
Helmsworth said, “That’s absurd.”
“Now he’s got it and he’s AWOL.”
“Got what?”
“We don’t know. But it’s worth a lot of money.”
“AWOL from where?”
“Air defense with the armored divisions near Fulda.”
“Major, why am I here? Please tell me you had a good reason for bringing me to Europe.”
“We want to hear the buried treasure stories. From that old 82nd Airborne unit. We’re sure you remember them. Every officer remembers his first command.”
“There were no buried treasure stories.”
“Our boy Wiley got in a unit competition over smart-mouth one-liners about why they joined the army. When his turn came he said because his uncle told him Davy Crockett stories.”
Helmsworth didn’t answer.
Reacher noticed.
He said, “The uncle was really the mother’s boyfriend. The twenty-year veteran. Uncle Arnold. A polite honorific. Possibly appropriate when the kid was ten. Maybe a little weird by the time he was sixteen.”
Helmsworth said, casually, “What were the Davy Crockett stories?”
“We don’t know,” Reacher said. “That’s why we’re asking.”
“What years did the mother’s boyfriend serve?”
“From 1951 through 1971.”
Helmsworth was quiet a long moment.
Reacher said, “General?”
“I can’t help you,” Helmsworth said. “I’m very sorry.”
Reacher said, “How mad are you now?”
Helmsworth almost answered, but then he stopped himself short.
“Exactly,” Reacher said. “A one or a two out of ten. You’re no longer angry. Because now you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”
Helmsworth said nothing.
Reacher said, “General?”
Helmsworth said, “I can’t discuss it.”
“You’ll have to, I’m afraid.”
“I mean I’m not permitted to discuss it.”
Sinclair said, “General, with respect, you’re talking to the National Security Council. There is no higher level of clearance.”
“Is this room secure?”
“It’s in a United States consulate and it was selected by the CIA head of station.”
“I need to speak with the Joint Chiefs’ office.”
“On this issue they’ll say what we tell them to say. Why not cut out the middleman and tell us direct?”
“It was classified a long time ago.”
“What was?”
“It’s a closed file.”
Reacher said, “Tell the story, general. Our boy Wiley is AWOL with stolen material. We need to know what it is. We’re going to sit here until you tell us. I’d like to say we’ve got all day, but I’m not sure about that. Maybe we haven’t.”