Lamarr opened the plate-glass door and walked inside. Poulton waited for Reacher on the threshold.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he said. “You can stow your stuff.”

Up close in daylight, he looked older. There were faint lines in his face, barely visible, like a forty-year-old was wearing a twenty-year-old’s skin.

“I don’t have any stuff,” Reacher said to him. “I just told you that.”

Poulton hesitated. There was clearly an itinerary. A timetable to be followed.

“I’ll show you anyway,” he said.

Lamarr walked away with her bag and Poulton led Reacher to an elevator. They rode together to the third floor and came out on a quiet corridor with thin carpet on the floor and worn fabric on the walls. Poulton walked to a plain door and took a key from his pocket and opened it up. Inside was a standard-issue motel room. Narrow entryway, bathroom on the right, closet on the left, queen bed, table and two chairs, bland decor.

Poulton stayed out in the corridor. “Be ready in ten.”

The door sucked shut. There was no handle on the inside. Not quite a standard-issue motel room. There was a view of the woods from the window, but the window didn’t open. The frame was welded shut and the handle had been removed. There was a telephone on the nightstand. He picked it up and heard a dial tone. Hit 9 and heard more. He dialed Jodie’s private office line. Let it ring eighteen times before trying her apartment. Her machine cut in. He tried her mobile. It was switched off.

He put his coat in the closet and unclipped his toothbrush from his pocket and propped it in a glass on the bathroom vanity. Rinsed his face at the sink and pushed his hair into some kind of shape. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

EIGHT MINUTES LATER he heard a key in the lock and looked up and expected to see Poulton at the door. But it wasn’t Poulton. It was a woman. She looked about sixteen. She had long fair hair in a loose ponytail. White teeth in an open, tanned face. Bright blue eyes. She was wearing a man’s suit, extensively tailored to fit. A white shirt and a tie. Small black shoes with low heels. She was over six feet tall, long-limbed, and very slim. And completely spectacular. And she was smiling at him.

“Hi,” she said.

Reacher made no reply. Just stared at her. Her face clouded and her smile turned a little embarrassed.

"So you want to do the FAQs right away?”

“The what?” "The FAQs. Frequently asked questions.”

“I’m not sure I have any questions.”

“Oh, OK.”

She smiled again, relieved. It gave her a frank, guileless look.

“What are the frequently asked questions?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, the stuff most new guys around here ask me. It’s really, really tedious.”

She meant it. He could see that. But he asked anyway.

“What kind of stuff?” he said.

She made a face, resigned.

“I’m Lisa Harper,” she said. “I’m twenty-nine, yes really, I’m from Aspen, Colorado, I’m six feet one, yes really, I’ve been at Quantico two years, yes I date guys, no I dress like this just because I like it, no I’m not married, no I don’t currently have a boyfriend, and no I don’t want to have dinner with you tonight.”

She finished with another smile and he smiled back.

“Well, how about tomorrow night?” he said.

She shook her head. “All you need to know is I’m an FBI agent, on duty.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching you,” she said. “Where you go, I go. You’re classified SU, status unknown, maybe friendly, maybe hostile. Usually that means an organized-crime plea bargain, you know, some guy ratting out his bosses. Useful to us, but not reliable.”

“I’m not organized crime.”

“Our file says you might be.”

“Then the file is bullshit.”

She nodded, and smiled again. “I looked Petrosian up separately. He’s a Syrian. Therefore his rivals are Chinese. And they never employ anybody except other Chinese. Implausible they’d use an American WASP like you.”

“You point that out to anybody?”

“I’m sure they already know. They’re just trying to get you to take the threat seriously.”

“Should I take it seriously?”

She nodded. Stopped smiling.

“Yes, you should,” she said. “You should think very carefully about Jodie.”

“Jodie’s in the file?”

She nodded again. “Everything’s in the file.”

“So why don’t I have a handle on my door? My file shows I’m not the guy.”

“Because we’re very cautious and your profile is very bad. The guy will turn out to be very similar to you.”

“You a profiler too?”

She shook her head. The ponytail moved with it. “No, I’m operational. Assigned for the duration. But I listen carefully. Listen and learn, right? So let’s go.”

She held the door. It closed softly behind him as they walked to a different elevator. This one had buttons for five basement floors in a line beneath 3, 2, and 1. Lisa Harper pressed the bottom button. Reacher stood beside her and tried not to breathe in her scent. The elevator settled with a bump and the door slid back on a gray corridor bright with fluorescent light.

“We call this the Bunker,” Harper said. “It used to be our nuclear shelter. Now it’s BS.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Reacher said.

“Behavioral Science. And that’s a very old joke.”

She led him to the right. The corridor was narrow, and clean, but not public-area clean. It was a working place. It smelled faintly of sweat and old coffee and office chemicals. There were notice boards on the walls and random stacks of stationery cartons in the corners. There was a line of doors in the left-hand wall.

“Here,” Harper said.

She stopped him in front of a door with a number on it and reached across him and knocked. Then she used the handle and opened it up for him.

“I’ll be right outside,” she said.

He went in and saw Nelson Blake behind a crowded desk in a small untidy office. There were maps and photographs taped carefully to the walls. Piles of paper everywhere. No visitor chair. Blake was glowering. His face was red with blood pressure and pale with strain, all at the same time. He was watching a muted television set. It was tuned to a political cable channel. A guy in shirtsleeves was reading something to a committee. The caption read Director of the FBI.

“Budget hearings,” Blake muttered. “Singing for our damn supper.”

Reacher said nothing. Blake kept his eyes on the television.

“Case conference in two minutes,” he said. “So listen up for the rules. Consider yourself somewhere between a guest and a prisoner here, OK?”

Reacher nodded. “Harper already explained that.”

“Right. She stays with you, all the time. Everything you do, everywhere you go, you’re supervised by her. But don’t get the wrong idea. You’re still Lamarr’s boy, only she stays here, because she won’t fly. And you’ll need to get around some. Whereupon we need to keep an eye on you, so Harper goes too. The only time you’re alone is when you’re locked in your room. Your duties are what Lamarr tells you they are. You wear your ID at all times.”

“OK.”

“And don’t get ideas about Harper. Thing with her is, she looks nice, but you start messing with her, then she’s the bitch from hell, OK?”

“OK.”

“Anything else?”

“Is my phone tapped?”

“Of course it is.” Blake riffed through papers. Slid a thick finger down a printout. “You just called your girlfriend, private office line, apartment, mobile. No answer. ”

“Where is she?”

Blake shrugged. “Hell should I know?”

Then he scrabbled in the pile of paper on his desk and came up with a large brown envelope. Held it out.

“With Cozo’s compliments,” he said.

Reacher took the envelope. It was stiff and heavy. It contained photographs. Eight of them. They were color glossies, eight by ten. Crime scene photographs. They looked like stuff from a cheap skin magazine, except the women were all dead. The corpses were displayed in limp imitations of centerfolds. They were mutilated. Pieces were missing. Things had been inserted into them, here and there.