61 Hours

Pelé. Or the way another named Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite had called himself Kaká. Others claimed that Plato was Colombian, which would have been in many ways more logical, given his chosen trade. Others insisted he was indeed Mexican. But all agreed that Plato was short, not that anyone would dare say so to his face. His local driver’s licence claimed five feet three inches. The reality was five feet one in elevator shoes, and four feet eleven without them.
    The reason no one dared mention his stature to his face was a former associate named Martinez. Martinez had argued with Plato and lost his temper and called him a midget. Martinez had been delivered to the best hospital in Mexico City, unconscious. There he had been taken to an operating room and laid on the table and anaesthetized. He had been measured from the top of his scalp downward, and where the tape showed four feet and ten inches, lines had been drawn on his shins, a little closer to his knees than his ankles. Then a full team of surgeons and nurses had performed a double amputation, neatly and carefully and properly. Martinez had been kept in the hospital for two days, and then delivered home in an ambulance. Plato had delivered a get-well gift, with a card expressing the wish that the gift be appreciated and valued and kept permanently on display. Under the circumstances the wish was correctly interpreted as a command. Martinez’s people had thought the gift was a tank of tropical fish, from its size and apparent weight and because it was clearly full of sloshing liquid. When they unwrapped it they saw that it was indeed a fish tank. But it contained no fish. It was full of formaldehyde and contained Martinez’s feet and ankles and part of his shins, ten inches’ worth in total.
    Thus no one ever again mentioned Plato’s height.
    He had taken the call from the walled villa in the city and had promised a decision within twelve hours, but it really wasn’t worth investing that much time on a relatively minor issue concerning a relatively minor outpost of a large and complex international organization. So after just an hour and a half his mind was madeup: he would authorize the silencing of the witness. He would send his man in as soon as was practical.
    And he would go one step further. He would add a fifteenth item to the list. He was a little dismayed that it had not already been proposed. But then, he was Plato, and they weren’t.
    He would break the chain, for safety’s sake.
    He would have the lawyer silenced, too.

FIVE
    P ETERSON LED R EACHER OUT INTO THE FREEZING NIGHT AND asked if he was hungry. Reacher said yes, he was starving. So Peterson drove to a chain restaurant next to a gas station on the main route out to the highway. His car was a standard police specification Ford Crown Victoria, with winter tyres on the front and chains on the back. Inside it smelled of heat and rubber and hamburger grease and warm circuit boards. Outside it had nearly stopped snowing.
    ‘Getting too cold to snow,’ Peterson said. Which seemed to be true. The night sky had partially cleared and a vast frigid bowl of arctic air had clamped down. It struck through Reacher’s inadequate clothing and set him shivering again on the short walk through the restaurant lot.
    He said, ‘I thought there was supposed to be a big storm coming.’
    Peterson said, ‘There are two big storms coming. This is what happens. They’re pushing cold air ahead of them.’
    ‘How long before they get here?’
    ‘Soon enough.’
    ‘And then it’s going to warm up?’
    ‘Just a little. Enough to let it snow.’
    ‘Good. I’ll take snow over cold.’
    Peterson said, ‘You think this is cold?’
    ‘It ain’t warm.’
    ‘This is nothing.’
    ‘I know,’ Reacher said. ‘I spent a winter in Korea. Colder than this.’
    ‘But?’
    ‘The army gave me a decent coat.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘At least Korea was interesting.’ Which needled Peterson a little. The restaurant was empty and looked ready to close up. But they went in anyway. They took a table for two, a thirty-inch square of laminate that looked undersized between them.
    Peterson said, ‘The town of Bolton is plenty interesting.’
    ‘The dead guy?’
    ‘Yes,’ Peterson said. Then he paused. ‘What dead guy?’
    Reacher smiled. ‘Too late to take it back.’
    ‘Don’t tell me Chief Holland told you.’
    ‘No. But I was in his office a long time.’
    ‘Alone?’
    ‘Not for a minute.’
    ‘But he