Not that he had ever really tried.

He said, ‘I’m a nomad.’

Peterson said, ‘Nomads have animals. They move around to find pasture. That’s the definition.’

‘OK, I’m a nomad without the animals part.’

‘You’re a bum.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You got no bags.’

‘You got a problem with that?’

‘It’s weird behaviour. Cops don’t like weird behaviour.’

‘Why is it weirder to move around than spend every day in the same place?’

Peterson was quiet for a spell and then he said, ‘Everyone has possessions.’

‘I’ve got no use for them. Travel light, travel far.’

Peterson didn’t answer.

Reacher said, ‘Whatever, I’m no concern of yours. I never heard of Bolton before. If the bus driver hadn’t twitched I’d have been at Mount Rushmore tonight.’

Peterson nodded, reluctantly.

‘Can’t argue with that,’ he said.

Five minutes to ten in the evening.

Fifty-four hours to go.

Seventeen hundred miles to the south, inside the walled compound a hundred miles from Mexico City, Plato was eating too, a rib eye steak flown in all the way from Argentina. Nearly eleven in the evening local time. A late dinner. Plato was dressed in chinos and a white button-down shirt and black leather penny loafer shoes, all from the Brooks Brothers’ boys’ collection. The shoes and the clothes fit very well, but he looked odd in them. They were made for fat white middle-class American children, and Plato was old and brown and squat and had a shaved bullet head. But it was important to him to be able to buy clothes that fit right out of the box. Made-to-measure was obviously out of the question. Tailors would wield the tape and go quiet and then call out small numbers with studied and artificial neutrality. Alteration of off-the-rack items was just as bad. Visits from nervous local seamstresses and the furtive disposal of lengths of surplus fabric upset him mightily.