‘What does a Christmas scorpion even look like?’ ‘We don’t know. But obviously he is a superstar. They talk about him like Messi’

the same in every language, as if it’s more of a description than a name, as if it derives from a physical characteristic.’ ‘What’s the name?’ ‘The Christmas Scorpion.’ ‘What kind of physical characteristic would that be? What does a Christmas scorpion even look like?’

‘We don’t know. But obviously the guy is a superstar. They talk about him like Lionel Messi.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Football player.’ ‘Soccer,’ Ness said. ‘Barcelona.’ ‘Like Cristiano Ronaldo at Real Madrid,’ Reacher said.

‘Exactly. This guy is top five in the world. And he knows about the meeting.’

‘We need a helicopter,’ Jackson said.

Reacher looked out of the window.

The snow had stopped falling. The sky was lightening. He said: ‘First we need Nato.’ Jackson looked at the transceiver, down in his lap. No signal. The old guy at the other table coughed to get attention, and looked over, optimistically, hoping for good news.

Reacher whispered: ‘We can’t leave them behind. They’ll tell the papers the military evacuated us but not them. They’ll cause a scandal. And we should take them anyway. No beds, no food. This is a state of emergency.’

Jackson looked down and said: ‘Nato is back.’

‘Get the CO in the MP barracks.’

Jackson did, after a lot of back and forth. He handed the transceiver to Reacher, who said: ‘Look up DCR 120 in your code book, and call me back on this frequency.’ He clicked off. Ness asked: ‘What’s DCR 120?’ ‘A solid gold promise he’s about to get a medal and a promotion.’ ‘Is he?’ ‘Depends what happens next.’ The guy came back on the line. Reacher asked for everything short of the dinner date and the million bucks in cash. The guy agreed.

He said a Black Hawk would be there in 20 minutes.

The older lady tightened the scarf around her neck, and buttoned her coat.

She seemed equal parts excited and worried about the helicopter, which arrived five minutes early, dropping low where the road was buried, kicking up a whole new blizzard, hovering with its wheels in the snow, but not set down, because who knew what the snow was hiding?

Reacher floundered out to meet it, keeping low, and he ushered the older lady past him, and turned back into the artificial blizzard for her husband, so he didn’t see the same blizzard catch the older lady’s scarf, and flap it up, thereby for a split second exposing a small round tattoo in the pit of her throat, the size of a silver dollar, of a Christmas wreath complete with leaves and bows and candles, all surrounding the black silhouette of a scorpion. The Midnight Line by Lee Child is out now.