The Enemy

authors. They all had cracked spines and yellow-edged pages. They all seemed to be adventure stories involving prototype airplanes or lost submarines. The lone hardcover was a souvenir publication from a Rolling Stones concert tour. Judging by the style of the print on the spine it was about ten years old.
    I lifted his mattress up off the cot springs and checked under it. Nothing there. I checked the toilet tank and under the sink. Nothing doing. I moved on to the footlocker. First thing I saw after opening it was a brown leather jacket folded across the top. Underneath the jacket were two white button-down shirts and two pairs of blue jeans. The cotton items were worn and soft and the jacket was neither cheap nor expensive. Together they made up a soldier’s typical Saturday-night outfit. Shit, shave, and shower, throw on the civilian duds, pile into someone’s car, hit a couple of bars, have some fun.
    Underneath the jeans was a wallet. It was small, and made out of brown leather that almost matched the jacket. Like the clothes above it, it was set up for a typical Saturday night’s requirements. There were forty-three dollars in cash in it, sufficient for enough rounds of beers to get the fun started. There was a military ID card and a North Carolina driver’s license in it, in case the fun concluded inside an MP jeep or a civilian black-and-white. There was an unopened condom, in case the fun got serious.
    There was a photograph of a girl, behind a plastic window. Maybe a sister, maybe a cousin, maybe a friend. Maybe nobody. Camouflage, for sure.
    Underneath the wallet was a shoe box half-full of six-by-four prints. They were all amateur snapshots of groups of soldiers. Carbone himself was in some of them. Small groups of men were standing and posing, like chorus lines, arms around each other’s shoulders. Some shots were under a blazing sun and the men were shirtless, wearing beanie hats, squinting and smiling. Some were in jungles. Some were in wrecked and snowy streets. All showed the same tight camaraderie. Comrades in arms, off duty, still alive, and happy about it.
    There was nothing else in Carbone’s six-by-eight cell. Nothing significant, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing explanatory. Nothing that revealed his history, his nature, his passions, or his interests. He had lived his life in secret, buttoned down, like his Saturday-night shirts.

    I walked back to my Humvee. Turned a corner and came face-to-face with the young sergeant with the beard and the tan. He was in my way, and he wasn’t about to move.
    “You made a fool out of me,” he said.
    “Did I?”
    “About Carbone. Letting me talk the way I did. Company clerk just showed us some interesting paperwork.”
    “So?”
    “So we’re thinking now.”
    “Don’t tire yourself out,” I said.
    “Think this is funny? You won’t think it’s funny if we find out it was you.”
    “It wasn’t.”
    “Says you.”
    I nodded. “Says me. Now get out of my way.”
    “Or?”
    “Or I’ll kick your ass.”
    He stepped up close. “Think you could kick my ass?”
    I didn’t move. “You’re wondering whether I kicked Carbone’s ass. And he was probably twice the soldier you are.”
    “You won’t even see it coming,” he said.
    I said nothing.
    “Believe me,” he said.
    I looked away. I believed him. If Delta put a hit on me, I wouldn’t see it coming. That was for sure. Weeks from now or months from now or years from now I would walk into a dark alley somewhere and a shadow would step out and a K-bar would slip between my ribs or my neck would snap with a loud
crack
that would echo off the bricks around me, and that would be the end of it.
    “You’ve got a week,” the guy said.
    “To do what?”
    “To show us it wasn’t you.”
    I said nothing.
    “Your choice,” the guy said. “Show us, or make those seven days count. Make sure you cover all your lifetime ambitions. Don’t start a long book.”

eleven
    I drove the Humvee back to my office. Left it parked right outside my door. The sergeant with the baby son had gone. The small dark corporal who I thought was from Louisiana was there in her place. The coffeepot was cold and empty. There were two message slips on my desk. The first was:
Major Franz called. Please call him back.
The second said:
Detective Clark returned your call.
I dialed Franz in California first.
    “Reacher?” he said. “I asked about the Armored agenda.”
    “And?”
    “There wasn’t one.