The Hard Way

crack a problem. He liked a quiet space to work in. And he liked a similar mind to work with. He started out with no doubt at all that he and Pauling could get the whole thing figured before morning.
    That feeling lasted about thirty minutes.
    Pauling dimmed the lights and lit a candle and called out for Indian food. The clock in Reacher’s head crawled around to nine-thirty. The sky outside the window turned from navy blue to black and the city lights burned bright. Barrow Street itself was quiet but the cabs on West 4th used their horns a lot. Occasionally an ambulance would scream by a couple of blocks over, heading up to Saint Vincent’s. The room felt like part of the city but a little detached, too. A little insulated. A partial sanctuary.
    “Do that thing again,” Reacher said.
    “What thing?”
    “The brainstorming thing. Ask me questions.”
    “OK, what have we got?”
    “We’ve got an impossible takedown and a guy that can’t speak.”
    “And the tongue thing is culturally unrelated to Africa.”
    “But the money is related to Africa, because it’s exactly half.”
    Silence in the room. Nothing but a faraway siren burning past, going south on Seventh Avenue.
    “Start at the very beginning,” Pauling said. “What was the very first false note? The first red flag? Anything at all, however trivial or random.”
    So Reacher closed his eyes and recalled the beginning: the granular feel of the foam espresso cup in his hand, textured, temperature-neutral, neither warm nor cold. He recalled Gregory’s walk in from the curb, alert, economical. His manner while questioning the waiter, watchful, aware, like the elite veteran he was. His direct approach to the sidewalk table.
    Reacher said, “Gregory asked me about the car I had seen the night before and I told him it drove away before eleven forty-five, and he said no, it must have been closer to midnight.”
    “A dispute about timing?”
    “Not really a dispute. Just a trivial thing, like you said.”
    “What would it mean?”
    “That I was wrong or he was.”
    Pauling said, “You don’t wear a watch.”
    “I used to. I broke it. I threw it away.”
    “So he was more likely to be right.”
    “Except I’m usually pretty sure what time it is.”
    “Keep your eyes closed, OK?”
    “OK.”
    “What time is it now?”
    “Nine thirty-six.”
    “Not bad,” Pauling said. “My watch says nine thirty-eight.”
    “Your watch is fast.”
    “Are you serious?”
    Reacher opened his eyes. “Absolutely.”
    Pauling rooted around on her coffee table and came up with the TV remote. Turned on the Weather Channel. The time was displayed in the corner of the screen, piped in from some official meteorological source, accurate to the second. Pauling checked her watch again.
    “You’re right,” she said. “I’m two minutes fast.”
    Reacher said nothing.
    “How do you
do
that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But it was twenty-four hours after the event that Gregory asked you about it. How precise could you have been?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “What would it mean if Gregory was wrong and you were right?”
    “Something,” Reacher said. “But I’m not sure what exactly.”
    “What was the next thing?”
    Right now more likely death than life,
Gregory had said. That had been the next thing. Reacher had checked his cup again and seen less than a lukewarm eighth-inch of espresso left, all thick and scummy. He had put it down and said
OK, so let’s go.
    He said, “Something about getting into Gregory’s car. The blue BMW. Something rang a bell. Not right then, but afterward. In retrospect.”
    “You don’t know what?”
    “No.”
    “Then what?”
    “Then we arrived at the Dakota and it was off to the races.”
The photograph,
Reacher thought.
After that, everything was about the photograph.
    Pauling said, “We need to take a break. We can’t force these things.”
    “You got beer in the refrigerator?”
    “I’ve got white wine. You want some?”
    “I’m being selfish. You didn’t blow it five years ago. You did everything right. We should take a minute to celebrate that.”
    Pauling was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.
    “We should,” she said. “Because to be honest it feels really good.”
    Reacher went with her to the kitchen and she took a bottle out of the refrigerator and he opened it with a corkscrew from a drawer. She took two glasses from a cupboard and set them side by side on the counter. He filled them. They