The Hard Way

The guy’s voice was low and quiet and his accent was flat and clipped and British.
    “The waiter pointed me out,” Reacher said. “And the only thing that distinguishes me from his other customers is that I was here last night and they weren’t.”
    “You’re certain about that?”
    “Turn your head away,” Reacher said. “Watch the traffic.”
    The guy turned his head away. Watched the traffic.
    “Now tell me what I’m wearing,” Reacher said.
    “Green shirt,” the British guy said. “Cotton, baggy, cheap, doesn’t look new, sleeves rolled to the elbow, over a green T-shirt, also cheap and not new, a little tight, untucked over flat-front khaki chinos, no socks, English shoes, pebbled leather, brown, not new, but not very old either, probably expensive. Frayed laces, like you pull on them too hard when you tie them. Maybe indicative of a self-discipline obsession.”
    “OK,” Reacher said.
    “OK what?”
    “You notice things,” Reacher said. “And I notice things. We’re two of a kind. We’re peas in a pod. I’m the only customer here now who was also here last night. I’m certain of that. And that’s what you asked the staff. Had to be. That’s the only reason the waiter would have pointed me out.”
    The guy turned back.
    “Did you see a car last night?” he asked.
    “I saw plenty of cars last night,” Reacher said. “This is Sixth Avenue.”
    “A Mercedes Benz. Parked over there.” The guy twisted again and pointed on a slight diagonal at a length of empty curb by a fire hydrant on the other side of the street.
    Reacher said, “Silver, four-door sedan, an S-420, New York vanity plates starting OSC, a lot of city miles on it. Dirty paint, scuffed tires, dinged rims, dents and scrapes on both bumpers.”
    The guy turned back again.
    “You saw it,” he said.
    “It was right there,” Reacher said. “Obviously I saw it.”
    “Did you see it leave?”
    Reacher nodded. “Just before eleven forty-five a guy got in and drove it away.”
    “You’re not wearing a watch.”
    “I always know what time it is.”
    “It must have been closer to midnight.”
    “Maybe,” Reacher said. “Whatever.”
    “Did you get a look at the driver?”
    “I told you, I saw him get in and drive away.”
    The guy stood up.
    “I need you to come with me,” he said. Then he put his hand in his pocket. “I’ll buy your coffee.”
    “I already paid for it.”
    “So let’s go.”
    “Where?”
    “To see my boss.”
    “Who’s your boss?”
    “A man called Lane.”
    “You’re not a cop,” Reacher said. “That’s my guess. Based on observation.”
    “Of what?”
    “Your accent. You’re not American. You’re British. The NYPD isn’t that desperate.”
    “Most of us are Americans,” the British guy said. “But you’re right, we’re not cops. We’re private citizens.”
    “What kind?”
    “The kind that will make it worth your while if you give them a description of the individual who drove that car away.”
    “Worth my while how?”
    “Financially,” the guy said. “Is there any other way?”
    “Lots of other ways,” Reacher said. “I think I’ll stay right here.”
    “This is very serious.”
    “How?”
    The guy in the suit sat down again.
    “I can’t tell you that,” he said.
    “Goodbye,” Reacher said.
    “Not my choice,” the guy said. “Mr. Lane made it mission-critical that nobody knows. For very good reasons.”
    Reacher tilted his cup and checked the contents. Nearly gone.
    “You got a name?” he asked.
    “Do you?”
    “You first.”
    In response the guy stuck a thumb into the breast pocket of his suit coat and slid out a black leather business card holder. He opened it up and used the same thumb to slide out a single card. He passed it across the table. It was a handsome item. Heavy linen stock, raised lettering, ink that still looked wet. At the top it said:
Operational Security Consultants.
    “OSC,” Reacher said. “Like the license plate.”
    The British guy said nothing.
    Reacher smiled. “You’re security consultants and you got your car stolen? I can see how that could be embarrassing.”
    The guy said, “It’s not the car we’re worried about.”
    Lower down on the business card was a name:
John Gregory.
Under the name was a subscript:
British Army, Retired.
Then a job title:
Executive Vice President.
    “How long have you been out?” Reacher asked.
    “Of the British Army?” the guy called Gregory said. “Seven