Tripwire

his folks, I guess. I want to be able to tell them he died doing something useful.”
    DeWitt smiled. A bitter, sardonic smile, worn and softened at the edges by thirty years of regular use. “Well, my friend, you sure as hell can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because none of our missions were useful. They were all a waste of time. A waste of lives. We lost the war, didn’t we?”
    “Was it a secret mission?”
    There was a pause. Silence in the big office.
    “Why should it be secret?” DeWitt asked back, neutrally.
    “He only took on board three passengers. Seems like a special sort of a deal to me. No running jump required there.”
    “I don’t remember,” DeWitt said again.
    Reacher just looked at him, quietly. DeWitt stared back.
    “How should I remember? I hear about something for the first time in thirty years and I’m supposed to remember every damn detail about it?”
    “This isn’t the first time in thirty years. You were asked all about it a couple of months ago. In April of this year.”
    DeWitt was silent.
    “General Garber called the NPRC about Hobie,” Reacher said. “It’s inconceivable he didn’t call you afterward. Won’t you tell us what you told him?”
    DeWitt smiled. “I told him I didn’t remember.”
    There was silence again. Distant rotor blades, coming closer.
    “On behalf of his folks, won’t you tell us?” Jodie asked softly. “They’re still grieving for him. They need to know about it.”
    DeWitt shook his head. “I can’t.”
    “Can’t or won’t?” Reacher asked.
    DeWitt stood up slowly and walked to the window. He was a short man. He stood in the light of the sun and squinted left, across to where he could see the helicopter he could hear, coming in to land on the field.
    “It’s classified information,” he said. “I’m not allowed to make any comment, and I’m not going to. Garber asked me, and I told him the same thing. No comment. But I hinted he should maybe look closer to home, and I’ll advise you to do the exact same thing, Mr. Reacher. Look closer to home.”
    “Closer to home?”
    DeWitt put his back to the window. “Did you see Kaplan’s jacket?”
    “His copilot?”
    DeWitt nodded. “Did you read his last-but-one mission?”
    Reacher shook his head.
    “You should have,” DeWitt said. “Sloppy work from somebody who was once an MP major. But don’t tell anybody I suggested it, because I’ll deny it, and they’ll believe me, not you.”
    Reacher looked away. DeWitt walked back to his desk and sat down.
    “Is it possible Victor Hobie is still alive?” Jodie asked him.
    The distant helicopter shut off its engines. There was total silence.
    “I have no comment on that,” DeWitt said.
    “Have you been asked that question before?” Jodie said.
    “I have no comment on that,” DeWitt said again.
    “You saw the crash. Is it possible anybody survived it?”
    “I saw an explosion under the jungle canopy, is all. He was way more than half-full with fuel. Draw your own conclusions, Ms. Garber.”
    “Did he survive?”
    “I have no comment on that.”
    “Why is Kaplan officially dead and Hobie isn’t?”
    “I have no comment on that.”
    She nodded. Thought for a moment and regrouped exactly like the lawyer she was, boxed in by some recalcitrant witness. “Just theoretically, then. Suppose a young man with Victor Hobie’s personality and character and background survived such an incident, OK? Is it possible a man like that would never even have made contact with his own parents again afterward?”
    DeWitt stood up again. He was clearly uncomfortable.
    “I don’t know, Ms. Garber. I’m not a damn psychiatrist. And like I told you, I was careful not to get to know him too well. He seemed like a real dutiful guy, but he was cold. Overall, I guess I would rate it as very unlikely. But don’t forget, Vietnam changed people. It sure as hell changed me, for instance. I used to be a nice guy.”
    OFFICER SARK WAS forty-four years old, but he looked older. His physique was damaged by a poor childhood and ignorant neglect through most of his adult years. His skin was dull and pale, and he had lost his hair early. It left him looking sallow and sunken and old before his time. But the truth was he had woken up to it and was fighting it. He had read stuff the NYPD’s medical people were putting about concerning diet and exercise. He had eliminated most of the fats from his daily intake, and he had started sunbathing a little,