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Lee Child
Jack Reacher, or Night School

Copyright © 2016 by Lee Child

© Goldich V., Oganesova I., translation into Russian, 2017

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC Publishing House E, 2017

Dedicated with deep respect to the men and women around the world who truly do this

Chapter
01

In the morning, Jack Reacher was given an award, and in the afternoon he was sent back to study. It was the Legion of Honor, his second. Beautiful, on white enamel, with a purple ribbon. In accordance with Army Regulations 600-8-22, it is awarded for exceptional and outstanding achievement in the service of the United States in a position of responsibility. Reacher believed that, strictly speaking, he deserved it, but he had no doubt that he received the order for the same reason as the first time - an ordinary transaction and a negotiated gift.

Take the trinket and keep quiet about what you had to do for it. There really wasn't much to brag about. The Balkans, ordinary police work, the search for two local residents who had military secrets. The names of both became known quite quickly, they were found, paid a visit and finished off with shots to the head. As part of the peace process. All interests have been respected, and passions in the region have subsided a little. Two weeks to live. Four rounds expended. The usual thing.

Paragraph 600-8-22 was surprisingly vague about how exactly awards should be presented; it was stated only that they should be issued with due formalities and ceremonies. Which usually meant a large room with gilded furniture and lots of flags. And the participation of an officer is higher in rank than the one who receives the medal. Reacher was a major with twelve years of experience, but that morning, in addition to him, three colonels and two brigadier generals were invited to the ceremony, and therefore it was conducted by a lieutenant general from the Pentagon, whom Jack knew from the time when he was a battalion commander in the criminal wanted in Fort Myer. He was no fool and, no doubt, wondered: for what merits does a military police major receive the Legion of Honor? Reacher saw it in the expression of his eyes - ironic and at the same time extremely serious, after all, he was doing his duty. Take the trinket and keep quiet. Perhaps he himself had done something similar in the past. His dress uniform on the left side of his chest was decorated with a whole fruit salad of multi-colored ribbons. Including two "Legions of Honor".

* * *

The room corresponding to this formal event was located deep in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, next to the Pentagon, very convenient for the lieutenant general. However, for Reacher too, since the base was located very close to Rock Creek, where he had been hanging out since he returned to America. And it’s completely inconvenient for officers flying in from Germany.

For some time those invited to the ceremony walked around the room, shook hands, exchanged meaningless phrases, then everyone fell silent, lined up and stood at attention. They saluted clearly when awards were pinned on their chests or ribbons hung on their necks, shook hands again, exchanged a few words and moved from one group to another.

Reacher began to make his way to the door, trying to leave as quickly as possible, but he was stopped by the lieutenant general, who shook his hand and held him by the elbow.

“I heard you received new orders,” he said.

“No one has told me about this yet,” Reacher replied. - Bye. How did you know?

- My senior sergeant. They love to chat. The NCOs in our Army have the most effective intelligence network. They always know everything, and I never tire of being amazed.

- And what did they say, where they were sending me?

“They don’t know for sure, but it’s not far.” In any case, to a place that can be reached by car. It seems that the garage received a corresponding request.

- And when will they tell me the news?

– Today, but I don’t know when exactly.

“Thank you,” Reacher said. – It’s good to know such things in advance.

The General released his elbow, Jack reached the door and went out into the corridor, and at that moment a sergeant 1st class braked sharply in front of him, who saluted him. He was out of breath, as if he had come running from a distant part of the complex where the real work was being done.

“General Garber conveys his best wishes to you, sir, and asks you to come to his office at your convenience,” said the messenger.

-Where are they going to send me, soldier? – asked Reacher.

“You can get there by car,” the sergeant answered, “but in our area it can be anything.”

* * *

Garber's office was in the Pentagon, and Reacher went there by car with two captains, they lived in Belvor, but were on duty on the evening shift in the B Ring. Garber had his own fenced-off office on the second floor inside two rings, which was guarded by a sergeant sitting at a desk behind the door. When he saw Reacher, he stood up, walked him inside and called his name, just like the butler from the old movie. Then he took a step to the side and was about to retreat, but Garber stopped him, saying:

- Sergeant, I want you to stay.

He complied with the order and stood at ease, with his legs spread wide on the shiny linoleum.

Witness.

“Sit down, Reacher,” Garber said.

Jack sat down on a chair with cylindrical legs intended for visitors, which sank under his weight and moved backwards, as if a strong wind had blown.

“You have new orders,” Garber said.

– What and where? – asked Reacher.

-You're going back to school.

Jack said nothing.

– Disappointed? Garber asked.

That's why a witness was needed, Reacher guessed. Official conversation. This means good behavior is expected.

“As always, General, I’m happy to go wherever the army sends me,” he replied.

- Which school?

“All the details of the new task were taken to your office right now.”

- How long will I be gone?

- Depends on your diligence. I guess as long as it takes.

* * *

Reacher boarded a bus in the Pentagon parking lot and drove two stops to the base of the hill where the Rock Creek headquarters was located. Then he walked up the slope and went straight to his office. On the table, right in the center, lay a thin folder with his name and some numbers, entitled: “The Impact of Contemporary Innovations in Forensic Science on Agency Coordination.” Inside he found sheets of paper, still warm from the copier, and among them an official order for a temporary transfer to a location located on rented property in a business park in McLean, Virginia. He was to appear there before five o'clock that day, in civilian clothes. He will live at his place of duty. He will be provided with a personal vehicle. Without a driver.

Reacher tucked the folder under his arm and left the building. Nobody looked after him. No one was interested in him. No longer interesting. He became a disappointment. The sergeant's intelligence network held its breath, but only managed to find out an incomprehensible location and a stupid title. So now he has become an empty space. Out of circulation. Out of sight, out of mind. Like a football player whose name went on the disabled list. In a month, someone might remember him for a second, wonder when or if he'll come back, and then just as quickly forget.

The sergeant, who was sitting with a bored look at the table near the entrance, raised his head and immediately lowered it.

* * *

Reacher had few civilian clothes, and some of them weren't exactly civilian clothes. The trousers he wore when he was not on duty—khaki, from the Marine Corps uniform—were thirty years old. He knew a guy who knew another guy who worked in a warehouse. So, that second guy said that they had a whole bunch of things lying around that were mistakenly delivered during the presidency of Lyndon Johnson, but no one bothered to send them to the right address. The main point of the story was that the old Marine Corps uniform pants looked exactly like the new ones from Ralph Lauren. However, Reacher didn't care at all what his pants looked like. However, five bucks is a very attractive price, and the trousers are quite nice. Unworn, never worn by anyone, neatly folded; True, with a slight musty smell, but clearly capable of serving for another thirty years.

The T-shirts he wore in his free time also had nothing to do with civilian clothing; they were old, military grade, faded and thin from numerous washes. Only the jacket was truly civilian - made of brown cotton fabric, Levi's, genuine in every way, down to the label, but sewn by the mother of his ex-girlfriend in the basement of Seoul.

Reacher changed clothes, put the remaining things into a canvas bag and a briefcase and took it all out onto the street, where a black Chevrolet Caprice was already parked. He decided that the car had previously been black and white and had been in service with the military police, but when it retired, all identification marks were removed from it, and the holes from the antennas and the light bar on the roof were sealed with rubber plugs. The key was in the ignition. Reacher noted the worn seats, but the engine started right up and the transmission and brakes were fine. Jack turned the car around like he was on a warship maneuver and drove toward McLean, Virginia, with the windows down and the music on.

* * *

The business park was no different from many of its other completely identical counterparts - brown and beige tones, inconspicuous signs with inscriptions, neat lawns, evergreens and trees here and there, campuses with low two- and three-story buildings stretching to the very top. borders of empty land. The service personnel hide behind simple names and colored glass windows of their offices and shops. Reacher found the right place by street number and stopped next to a billboard that reached to his knees, with the words “Educational Solutions Corporation” written in such a simple font that it looked like it had been written by a child.

Near the door stood two more Chevrolet Caprices, one black, the other blue, both noticeably newer than the one Reacher had arrived in. And undoubtedly civilian ones, no rubber stoppers or repainted doors for you. In general, government sedans are clean and shiny, each with two additional antennas, completely unnecessary if you want to listen to the coverage of a football match. And these additional antennas were different in both cases. On black - short, on blue - longer. Different wavelengths, two organizations.

Coordination of agency actions.

Reacher parked nearby and, leaving his things in the car, walked through the door and into the empty lobby, covered with a long gray carpet, with pots of plants like ferns placed here and there along the walls. There were two doors leading out of the vestibule; one said: “Office”, the other: “Classroom”. Jack opened it and saw at the far end a green school board and twenty tables arranged in four rows of five each. On the tables on the right there was a small shelf for papers and pencils.

Two men in suits sat at two tables. One in black, the other in blue, just like their cars. Both looked straight ahead, as if they had been talking about something a little earlier, but they had run out of words. Both were about Reacher's age, Black Suit pale, with dark hair too long for someone driving a government car. Blue Suit was also pale, with short, colorless hair, like an astronaut's. His build also resembled that of an astronaut or a gymnast who had recently finished his sports career.

Reacher walked in and both turned and stared at him.

- Who are you? – Dark-haired asked.

- It depends who You like that,” Jack answered.

– Does your name depend on mine?

- No, it depends on your name whether I will tell you mine. Are your cars parked outside?

- And is it important?

- Makes you think.

- In what sense?

- They are different.

“Yes,” replied the Black Suit. - These are our cars. And yes, you are in a classroom with two representatives from two different agencies. School of Cooperation. Here we will be taught how to cooperate with other organizations. Just don't tell us you're from one of them.

“Military police,” Reacher said. – But don't worry; I have no doubt that by five o'clock there will be a lot of civilians here, you can forget about me and take care of them.

The guy with the short hair looked at him and said:

- No, I think we are the students, there will be no one else. I looked around here and found only three bedrooms.

– What kind of school is this that only has three students? – Reacher was surprised. - I've never heard anything like it.

– Maybe we are teachers, and the students live somewhere else.

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” Dark-haired remarked.

Reacher thought about it, remembering the conversation in Garber's office.

“They told me something about a promotion, but it felt like they were talking about me, in the sense that promotion was waiting for me. Then they said that if I worked hard, everything would work out very quickly. In general, I guess I'm not one of the teachers. What were your orders?

“About the same,” answered Short Hair.

The dark-haired man said nothing, only shrugged his shoulders defiantly, as if he wanted to say that a person with a developed imagination could interpret his order as something of little interest.

“I’m Casey Waterman, FBI,” the guy with short hair introduced himself.

– Jack Reacher, US Army.

“John White, CIA,” said Dark Hair.

They shook hands and fell into a silence similar to what greeted Reacher when he entered, because they didn't know what else to say. Jack sat down at a table in the back of the classroom. Waterman sat in front and to the left, White - in front and to the right. Waterman remained completely motionless, but alert. He used waiting to conserve energy and strength, and Reacher realized that he had done this before and was an experienced agent. Not a newbie at all. As, indeed, did White, despite the fact that in everything else he was his complete opposite. He twitched, constantly changed position, moved his arms and squinted, looking into space, looked at one point for a long time, then quickly moved his eyes to another, sometimes winced, turned left, then right, as if he was tormented by some thoughts and could not find a way out . Reacher guessed that White was an analyst and, after years spent in a world of unreliable data and double, triple and quadruple bluffs, he had every right to look a little nervous.

All three were silent.

Five minutes later Reacher broke the silence.

– Is there a story about how you and I couldn’t get along? I mean the FBI, CIA and VP. I haven't heard of any major disagreements. And you?

“I think you've come to the wrong conclusion,” Waterman said. – This is not about history, but about the future. They know we get along great now. And they use it. Remember what the first part of the course is called. "Modern Innovations in Forensic Science and Agency Coordination." Innovation means they intend to save money and in the future we will all have to collaborate even more with each other by sharing laboratory space. They are going to build one huge complex into which they will put us all. At least that's what I think. And we are here to explain to us what we must do to achieve their goals.

“Bullshit,” said Reacher, “I don’t know anything about labs and schedules.” I have nothing to do with such things at all.

“Me too,” Waterman said. – To be honest, this is my weak point.

“This is much worse than bullshit,” White intervened. - This is a colossal waste of time. There are many more things happening in the world that are of great importance.

He twitched again, began to fidget in his chair and wring his hands.

“Did they force you to abandon some unfinished business to send you here?” – Reacher asked him.

- In general, no. I was waiting for a transfer after successfully completing one case. I thought it was a reward.

- Well, look at what is happening optimistically. You will be able to relax and unwind. Play golf. You don't need to learn anything, you already know how everything works. Besides, the CIA doesn't care about laboratories, you don't use them.

– I will be three months late for work, which I should start now.

– I can’t answer your question.

– And who was appointed instead of you?

– I can’t say that either.

-A good analyst?

- Not too much. He may miss important things, perhaps fundamentally important ones. It is impossible to predict how everything will turn out.

– What cannot be predicted?

– But it's important, right?

– Much more important than what’s here.

-What case did you just close?

– I can’t answer your question.

– Were these exceptional and outstanding achievements in the service of the United States in a responsible position?

- Or something like that?

- Yes, you can say that.

“But school is your reward.”

“And mine,” said Waterman. – We are in the same boat. I can agree with every word he just said. I expected a promotion, but not this at all.

- Promotion for what? Or after what?

- We closed a major case.

- What kind of?

“Basically, it was a hunt that lasted for many years, and the trail has long gone cold. But we were successful.

– And did you provide a service to the country?

- What are you about?

– I compare the two of you and don’t see much difference between you. You are very good agents, you have fairly high ranks, you are considered loyal, trustworthy and reliable, so you are assigned important tasks. But when you succeed, you receive a rather unusual reward. This could mean two things.

- Namely? - White asked.

“Perhaps what you did is considered by some in certain circles... let's say, sensitive.” Maybe now there is a need to deny everything and you need to be hidden. Out of sight, out of mind.

White shook his head.

- No, everyone was happy. And they will be over the next years. In complete secrecy, I was presented with the award. And I received a personal letter from the Secretary of State. In any case, there is nothing to deny there, because the operation was carried out secretly and no one knew anything about it.

– Was there anything compromising in your hunt?

Waterman shook his head and asked:

– What about the second option?

- This is not a school.

- So what then?

– A place where agents are sent who have just successfully completed some mission.

Waterman was lost in the moment, pondering a new thought.

-Are you the same as us? I see no reason for it to be otherwise. If two agents who find themselves here are in the same position, then so is the third.

“I’m just like you,” Reacher confirmed, nodding. – I just successfully completed a very large case. That's for sure. This morning I received a medal on a ribbon, which they hung around my neck for a job well done. Everything is clean, you can’t dig into it. There are no sensitive situations and nothing to be ashamed of.

- And what kind of task was it?

“I have no doubt that information about him is strictly classified, but from a reliable source I learned that someone broke into the house and killed the owner by shooting him in the head.”

– One bullet in the forehead, the other behind the ear, a very reliable method, it never fails.

- No, where is that house?

– I’m sure that this is also secret information, but, I believe, overseas. A reliable source also told me that the name of the murdered man contained many consonants and very few vowels. The next night the same person did the same thing in another house. And all for an exceptionally good reason. Thus, he probably expected a more significant reward. At least as far as the next assignment is concerned. Perhaps even the right to choose.

“Exactly,” White said. – And I certainly wouldn’t choose This. I would go do what I should be doing right now.

“It sounds like it’s a very interesting and complicated case.”

– Which is completely normal. As a reward, we want to receive something that will be a challenge for us, and not a simple order. We want to move forward and upward.

- Exactly.

“Perhaps that’s what happened,” Reacher said. - Let me ask you a question. Remember how you received the order to go here. Was it written on paper or was it announced in a personal meeting with your superiors?

- In person. It couldn't have been any other way.

– Was there a third person in the room?

“Actually, yes,” White replied. “It was very humiliating.” The assistant secretary came with some papers, and he asked her to stay. She just stood there and was silent.

Reacher looked at Waterman, who said:

- The same. My boss told his secretary to stay in his office. Usually he doesn't do this. How did you find out?

- Because it was the same with me. Sergeant. Witness. A person who will talk about what he heard. This is their goal. Junior staff and employees constantly share gossip. So within a couple of seconds everyone knew that I wasn't going to have anything particularly exciting coming up. I received orders to take some pointless course with a stupid name. I immediately became yesterday's news and was no longer of interest. I ceased to exist altogether, disappearing into the bureaucratic fog. Perhaps you too. Maybe the executive secretaries and executive secretaries at the FBI have their own intelligence networks. And if so, then you and I have now turned into the three most invisible people on the planet. Nobody asks questions about us, we don’t arouse curiosity in anyone, no one even remembers us. There is no place in the world more boring than where you and I are at the moment.

“You want to say that three unrelated people, but active operatives, were completely removed from under the radar. For what?

– Under the radar is an incorrect definition. You and I are in a classroom. And completely invisible.

- Why? And why exactly the three of us? What's the connection here?

- I don't know. But I am sure that the project we have to tackle is extremely difficult and will require serious efforts from us. Perhaps it's the sort of thing that three active-duty operatives might consider a fitting reward for their service to their country.

- And what kind of place is this?

“I have no idea,” Reacher replied, “but I’m pretty sure it’s not the school.”

* * *

At exactly five o'clock, two black vans pulled out of the road, drove past Reacher's knee-high billboard, and parked behind the three Chevys, building a barricade and trapping them. Two men in suits emerged from each, clearly representatives of the Secret Service or bailiffs. They quickly looked around, showed each other that everything was clear, and dived back into the vans to bring the authorities out.

A woman emerged from the second van, holding a briefcase in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. She wore a neat black dress that reached to her knees and was multifunctional; it looked great with pearls during the day in the quiet offices of senior management, and in the evening with diamonds at receptions and cocktail parties. Looking at her, Reacher realized that she was ten years older than him, in other words, she was about forty-five, but she looked beautiful: blond hair, a simple hairstyle that she clearly tidied up with her fingers. The woman was above average height and slender. And, without a doubt, smart.

Then a man appeared from the first van, whom Reacher instantly recognized because his face appeared in the newspapers once a week, and on television even more often. It wasn't just his own business that attracted interest, but he was often featured in photographs and news coverage of Cabinet meetings and informal, if heated, discussions in the Oval Office. His name was Alfred Ratcliffe, and he was the national security adviser and the president's chief assistant when it came to matters that threatened trouble. The best specialist in such matters. The president's right hand.

There were rumors that he was almost seventy, although he looked much younger. Ratcliffe survived the old State Department, experienced the favor and disfavor of those in the highest positions throughout his career, depending on the changing political winds, but continued to stay afloat and eventually, through strength of character, received the best post of all possible.

The woman approached him, and together, surrounded by four “suits,” they headed towards the door. Reacher heard it open, then footsteps on the hard carpet as they entered the classroom. Two bodyguards remained outside, while the other two walked purposefully towards the board. Ratcliffe and the woman followed them and, when there was nowhere else to go, they turned to face the class, just like teachers before the start of a lesson.

Ratcliffe looked at White, then at Waterman, and finally at Reacher, who was sitting at the very back of the room.

“This is not a school,” he said.

Jack Reacher, or Night School Lee Child

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Title: Jack Reacher, or Night School

About the book "Jack Reacher, or Night School" by Lee Child

In 1996, Jack Reacher was still serving as a major in the military police, solving one crime after another and receiving well-deserved awards. Suddenly he was informed that he was heading... to evening school to improve his qualifications. Extremely surprised, Reacher arrived at his new duty station. It turned out that school and training are just a screen, a “smoke screen.” In fact, he and several other cool specialists from the FBI and CIA must complete a task of the highest importance. Intelligence services received information that an American living in Hamburg, Germany, was to receive one hundred million dollars from Afghan terrorists. Why are they paying him such unrealistic money? What is he selling? And how to find it? Jack Reacher won't leave night school until he answers all these questions...

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