Personal by Lee Child Page B

A big kitchen item, maybe ten inches long, buried five inches in the wall board.
    Casey Nice said, ‘There’s more.’
    She was standing in an alcove, maybe meant for a bed. I stepped over and found the back wall covered with papers. All about me. At the top was the same photograph, life size. Below it was where it had come from. Which was the bio page from my army personnel file, with my thumbnail headshot glued in the top right corner, crisply Xeroxed. Below the bio page were dozens of other pages, all Xeroxed, all pinned up, packed close together, ordered in some way.
    Chosen in some way.
    They were my failures. They were after-action reports, mostly, admitting missed clues, and missed connections, and risks gone bad. Thirty whole pages were about Dominique Kohl.
    My failures.
    Casey Nice asked, ‘Who was she?’
    I said, ‘She worked for me. I sent her to arrest a guy. She was captured, mutilated, and killed. I should have gone myself.’
    ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘So am I.’
    She studied the pages for a minute and said, ‘You couldn’t have known.’
    I said, ‘She was exactly your age.’
    She said, ‘There’s more, I’m afraid.’
    She led me to another room, where I saw on a table what I guessed was a homemade rack, good for pinning paper targets on, good for propping on a rocky shelf fourteen hundred yards from the rifle. Admirable initiative, except the paper targets were my photograph. Same deal. Life size. There were two stacks. One used, one not. The unused examples were what I had seen. My face, a sooty Xerox, right to the limits of letter-size paper. The used examples were even less pretty. A lot of them were more or less completely shredded, either by the massive trauma of the .50-calibre round, or by fragments blasted back from the cratered rocks behind, or by both. But some examples had held up better. One was unmarked except for a neat half-inch hole just below my right cheekbone. Another had a hole on the right corner of my mouth.
    From fourteen hundred yards. Left and a little low, but still, good shooting.
    He got better.
    Further down the pile, again, many were completely destroyed, but the good ones were pretty damn good, including three with the hole right between my eyes, one fractionally left, one fractionally right, the last dead centre.
    From fourteen hundred yards.
    More than three-quarters of a mile.
    Casey Nice asked, ‘How old is the photograph?’
    I said, ‘Could be twenty years.’
    ‘So he could have had the file before he went to jail.’
    I shook my head. ‘Some of those bad things happened after he went away. He got the file when he came out.’
    ‘He seems really mad at you.’
    ‘You think?’
    ‘He’s in London.’
    ‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘Why would he be? If he’s this mad at me, why would he take time out overseas?’
    ‘Lots of reasons. First is money, because this thing is going to be a real big payday, believe me. But second is he can’t find you. You’re a hard man to pin down. He could look for ever. He didn’t think that far ahead.’
    ‘Maybe. But right now he doesn’t need to find me. I showed up at his door. And the odds are three in four he’s here.’
    ‘He could have shot us a dozen times. But he hasn’t. Because he isn’t here.’
    ‘Was he ever? Where’s his stuff?’
    ‘I’m guessing he doesn’t have stuff. Maybe a bedroll and a backpack. A monkish existence, or whatever they call people who meditate. He packed it up and took it with him to Paris. And then to London.’
    Which made some kind of sense. I nodded. Kott had nothing for fifteen years. Maybe he had gotten used to it. I took a good long look at the target with the dead-centre hole, right between my eyes, and then I said, ‘Let’s go.’
    The walk back to the red truck felt better than I thought it might. Because of the trees. It was geometrically impossible to hit a long-range target through a forest. There would always be a tree in the way, to stop the bullet, or