61 Hours

that six hours from then something specific is going to happen in order to solve them.’
    ‘You think?’
    ‘Just my opinion.’
    ‘What kind of thing will happen?’
    ‘The siren will sound. It’s their only way to get at Mrs Salter.’
    ‘How can a lawyer make the siren sound?’
    ‘He can’t. But maybe they can together.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘What happens up there at eight o’clock? Are they eating? Feeding time at the zoo is always a good time for a riot.’
    ‘They eat earlier.’
    ‘TV time? An argument about CBS or NBC?’
    ‘You said another riot won’t happen.’
    ‘Something is going to happen. That lawyer is talking about a future event with a fairly high degree of confidence.’
    Peterson went pale. Papery white, under his reddened winter skin.
    ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Eight o’clock is head-count time. They lock them in their cells for the night and check them off. Suppose that guy got out this afternoon and they don’t know it yet? They’re going to be one short. One minute past eight, they’re going to hit the panic button.’

    They drove straight back to Janet Salter’s house. Dinner was almost ready. About ten minutes away. Spaghetti and sauce and cheese, with salad in the old wooden bowl. Janet Salter offered to set an extra place for Peterson. Peterson said yes. But nothing more. He just accepted the invitation and then stepped away from the kitchen activity and took Reacher by the elbow and dragged him into the parlour. He said, ‘I’m staying right here when the siren goes off.’
    Reacher said, ‘Good.’
    ‘Two are better than one.’
    ‘Always.’
    ‘Are you armed?’
    ‘Yes. And so is Mrs Salter.’
    ‘How will their guy arrive?’
    ‘From the front, in a car. Too cold for anything else.’
    ‘Anything we can do ahead of time?’
    Reacher said, ‘No.’
    Peterson said, ‘We could warn the prison, I suppose. If the siren went off right now, their guy might be out of position.’
    ‘We don’t want him out of position,’ Reacher said. ‘We want him walking up the driveway at two minutes past eight. Exactly when and where we expect him. You said it yourself, we need this thing to be over.’
    Seventeen hundred miles south Plato came out of his house and found the three idling Range Rovers parked in a neat nose-to-tail line. The six men who had come with them were standing easy in pairs, heads up, sunglasses on, hands clasped behind their backs. Plato looked at them carefully. He knew them. He had used them before. They were solid but unspectacular performers. Competent, but uninspired. Not the best in the world. Second-rate, B-students, adequate. There were a lot of words with which to describe them.
    He looked at the trucks. Three of them, all identical. British. Each the cost of a college education. Maybe not Harvard. He counted them from the front, one, two, three. Then from the back, three, two, one. He had to choose. He never occupiedthe same relative position in a convoy two times in a row. Too predictable. Too dangerous. He wanted a two-in-three chance of surviving the first incoming round, if there was to be one. He figured a second round would miss. The supercharged engines had great acceleration. Better than turbocharged. No lag.
    He chose car number three. A double bluff, in a way. Slightly counterintuitive. If number one or number two was blown up, number three might get trapped by the flaming wreckage. He would be expected to expect that. He would be presumed to be in car number one, for that very reason. Which burnished his two-in-three chances a little. Convoys opened up at speed. Rack and pinion steering, fast reactions, number three’s driver could swerve with plenty of time to spare.
    He inclined his head, towards the third car. One of the men standing next to it stepped up smartly and opened the rear door. Plato climbed in. There was a step. Which was necessary, given his stature. He got settled on the rear seat. Cream leather, piped with black. An armrest on the door to his right, an armrest pulled down in the centre of the bench. Air conditioning, set low. Very comfortable.
    The two men climbed into the front. Doors closed, a forward gear was engaged. The convoy moved off. The gate was grinding back as they approached it. They slowed, slipped through, sped up. They cruised through the first dusty mile.
    Plato looked at the men in front of him.
    Many words to describe them.
    The best was: disposable.
    Janet Salter’s kitchen table was