“Fifty-seventh Street,” Burke said. “I’m heading west. I’m about to get on the West Side Highway.”

“You’re a long way from where I want you.”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Take the highway, if that’s what you prefer. Go south.”

“Give me time,” Burke said. “Traffic is real bad.”

“Worried?”

“How would you feel?”

“Stay on the line,” the voice said.

The sound of distorted breathing filled the car. It was slow and deep. Unworried, Reacher thought. A patient person, in control, in command, safe somewhere. He felt the car sprint and hook left. Onto the highway through a yellow light, he thought. Take care, Burke. A traffic stop could be real awkward tonight.

“I’m on the highway now,” Burke said. “Heading south.”

“Keep going,” the voice said. Then it lapsed back to breathing. There was an audio compressor somewhere in the chain. Either in the voice machine itself or in the BMW’s stereo. The breathing started out quiet and then ramped up slowly until it was roaring in Reacher’s ears. The whole car was filled with it. It felt like being inside a lung.

Then the breathing stopped and the voice asked, “How’s the traffic?”

“Lots of red lights,” Burke said.

“Keep going.”

Reacher tried to follow the route in his head. He knew there were plenty of lights between 57th Street and 34th Street. The Passenger Ship Terminal, the Intrepid, the Lincoln Tunnel approaches.

“I’m at Forty-second Street now,” Burke said.

Reacher thought: Are you talking to me? Or the voice?

“Keep going,” the voice said.

“Is Mrs. Lane OK?” Burke asked.

“She’s fine.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“No.”

“Is Jade OK, too?”

“Don’t worry about either one of them. Just keep on driving.”

American, Reacher thought. For sure. Behind the wall of distortion he could hear the inflections of a native speaker. Reacher had heard more than his share of foreign accents, but this wasn’t one of them.

“I’m at the Javits now,” Burke said.

“Just keep going,” the voice said back.

Young, Reacher thought. Or at least not old. All the dirt and grit in the voice came from the electronic circuitry, not from the effects of age. Not a big guy, Reacher thought. The booming bass was artificial. There was a speed and a lightness there. No big chest cavity. Or, maybe a fat guy. Maybe one of those fat guys who have high-pitched voices.

“How much farther?” Burke asked.

“You low on gas?” the voice asked.

“No.”

“So what do you care?”

The breathing came back, slow and steady. Not close yet, Reacher thought.

“Coming up on Twenty-fourth Street,” Burke said.

“Keep going.”

The Village, Reacher thought. We’re going back to Greenwich Village. The car was moving faster now. Most of the left turns into the West Village were blocked off, so there were fewer lights. And most of the traffic would be going north, not south. A clear run, relatively speaking. Reacher craned his neck and got an angle through the rear side window. He could see buildings with the evening sun reflected in their windows. They flashed past in a dizzy kaleidoscope.

The voice asked, “Where are you now?”

“Perry,” Burke said.

“Keep going. But stand by now.”

Getting close, Reacher thought. Houston? Are we going to take Houston Street? Then he thought: Stand by now? That’s a military term. But is it exclusively military? Is this guy ex-military, too? Or not? Is he a civilian? A wannabe?

“Morton Street,” Burke said.

“Left turn in three blocks,” the voice said. “On Houston.”

He knows New York City, Reacher thought. He knows that Houston is three blocks south of Morton and he knows you say it House-ton, not like the place in Texas.

“OK,” Burke said.

Reacher felt the car slow. It stopped. It waited and inched forward. Then it sprinted to catch the light. Reacher rolled heavily against the rear seat.

“East on Houston now,” Burke said.

“Keep going,” the voice said.

The traffic on Houston was slow. Cobblestones, stop signs, potholes, lights. Reacher paced it out in his head. Washington Street, Greenwich Street, Hudson Street. Then Varick, where he had come up out of the subway for his fruitless morning vigil. The car bounced over patches of frost heave and thumped into dips.

“Sixth Avenue next,” Burke said.

The voice said, “Take it.”

Burke turned left. Reacher craned his neck again and saw the apartments above his new favorite café.

The voice said, “Get in the right-hand lane. Now.”

Burke dabbed the brake hard and Reacher jolted forward and hit the front seat. He heard the turn signal click. Then the car jumped right. And slowed.

The voice said, “You’ll see your target on the right. The green Jaguar. From the first morning. Exactly halfway up the block. On the right.”

“I already see it,” Burke said.

Reacher thought: The same place? It’s right there on the same damn fireplug?

The voice said, “Stop and make the transfer.”

Reacher felt the transmission slam into Park and he heard the click of the hazard lights start up. Then Burke’s door opened and noise blew in. The suspension rocked as Burke climbed out. There was honking on the street behind. An instant traffic jam. Ten seconds later the door next to Reacher’s head opened wide. Burke didn’t look down. Just leaned in and grabbed the bag. Reacher craned his neck the other way and looked at the Jaguar upside down. Saw a flash of dark green paint. Then the door shut in his face. He heard the Jaguar’s door open. Then he heard it shut again. He heard a faint hydraulic thunk from somewhere outside. Ten seconds after that Burke was back in his seat. He was a little out of breath.

“The transfer is done,” he said. “The money is in the Jaguar.”

The nightmare voice said, “Goodbye.”

The phone clicked off. The car filled with silence. Profound and absolute.

“Go now,” Reacher said. “Turn right on Bleecker.”

Burke took off with the hazard warning still clicking. He caught the light and barged through the crosswalk. Accelerated for twenty yards and then jammed on the brakes hard. Reacher fumbled horizontally above his head and found the door handle. Pulled it and butted the door open and scrambled out. He stood up and slammed the door and paused for a second and tugged his shirt down. Then he hustled back to the corner.

REACHER STOPPED WHILE he was still on Bleecker and jammed his hands in his pockets and then restarted at a more appropriate pace. He turned left onto Sixth like a man walking home. Maybe after a busy day at work, maybe planning a stop in a bar, maybe with grocery shopping on his mind. Just blending in, which he was surprisingly good at, given that he was always a head taller than anyone else around him. The height advantage was a mixed blessing for surveillance. It made him theoretically conspicuous. But it meant he could see farther than the average guy. Simple trigonometry. He stayed in the middle of the sidewalk and looked straight ahead and put the green Jaguar firmly in his peripheral vision. Checked left. Nothing. Checked right, over the Jaguar’s roof.

And saw a guy six feet from the driver’s door.

It was the same guy he had seen the very first night. He was absolutely sure of that. Same stature, same posture, same movements, same clothes. White, a little sunburned, lean, chiseled, clean-shaven, jaw clamped, not smiling, maybe forty years old. Calm, focused, intent. Neat and quick, dodging traffic, just into his final two strides before reaching the car. Fluid, economical movements. The guy pulled the door and slid into the seat and started the engine and clipped his belt and took a long glance back over his shoulder at the traffic. Then he pulled out neatly into a gap and took off north. Reacher kept on walking south but turned his head to watch him go. The guy flashed past, out of sight.