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Night school / Lee Child.

By: Child, Lee [author.].
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookSeries: Child, Lee. Jack Reacher novel: 21.Publisher: London : Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, 2016Description: 394 pages ; 24 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9780593073902; 9780593073919; 0593073916.Subject(s): Reacher, Jack (Fictitious character) -- Fiction | Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction | Extortion -- Ficton | Nuclear weapons -- FictionGenre/Form: Thrillers (Fiction)DDC classification: 813/.54 Summary: "It's 1996, and Reacher is still in the army. In the morning they give him a medal, and in the afternoon they send him back to school. That night he's off the grid. Out of sight, out of mind. Two other men are in the classroom - an FBI agent and a CIA analyst. Each is a first-rate operator, each is fresh off a big win, and each is wondering what the hell they are doing there. Then they find out: A Jihadist sleeper cell in Hamburg, Germany, has received an unexpected visitor - a Saudi courier, seeking safe haven while waiting to rendezvous with persons unknown. A CIA asset, undercover inside the cell, has overheard the courier whisper a chilling message: "The American wants a hundred million dollars." For what? And who from? Reacher and his two new friends are told to find the American. Reacher recruits the best soldier he has ever worked with: Sergeant Frances Neagley. Their mission heats up in more ways than one, while always keeping their eyes on the prize: If they don't get their man, the world will suffer an epic act of terrorism. From Langley to Hamburg, Jalalabad to Kiev, Night School moves like a bullet through a treacherous landscape of double crosses, faked identities, and new and terrible enemies, as Reacher maneuvers inside the game and outside the law."-- Provided by publisher.
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Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

It?s just a voice plucked from the air- 'The American wants a hundred million dollars?. For what? Who from? It?s 1996, and the Soviets are long gone. But now there?s a new enemy. In an apartment in Hamburg, a group of smartly-dressed young Saudis are planning something big. In the morning they gave Reacher a medal, and in the afternoon they sent him back to school. Jack Reacher is fresh off a secret mission. The Army pats him on the back and sends him to a school with only three students- Reacher, an FBI agent, and a CIA analyst. Their assignment? To find that American. And what he?s selling. And to whom. There is serious shit going on, signs of a world gone mad. Night School takes Reacher back to his army days, but this time he?s not in uniform. With trusted sergeant Frances Neagley at his side, he must carry the fate of the world on his shoulders, in a wired, fiendishly clever new adventure that will make the cold sweat trickle down your spine.

"It's 1996, and Reacher is still in the army. In the morning they give him a medal, and in the afternoon they send him back to school. That night he's off the grid. Out of sight, out of mind. Two other men are in the classroom - an FBI agent and a CIA analyst. Each is a first-rate operator, each is fresh off a big win, and each is wondering what the hell they are doing there. Then they find out: A Jihadist sleeper cell in Hamburg, Germany, has received an unexpected visitor - a Saudi courier, seeking safe haven while waiting to rendezvous with persons unknown. A CIA asset, undercover inside the cell, has overheard the courier whisper a chilling message: "The American wants a hundred million dollars." For what? And who from? Reacher and his two new friends are told to find the American. Reacher recruits the best soldier he has ever worked with: Sergeant Frances Neagley. Their mission heats up in more ways than one, while always keeping their eyes on the prize: If they don't get their man, the world will suffer an epic act of terrorism. From Langley to Hamburg, Jalalabad to Kiev, Night School moves like a bullet through a treacherous landscape of double crosses, faked identities, and new and terrible enemies, as Reacher maneuvers inside the game and outside the law."-- Provided by publisher.

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Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter 1 In the morning they gave Reacher a medal, and in the afternoon they sent him back to school. The medal was another Legion of Merit. His second. It was a handsome item, enameled in white, with a ribbon halfway between purple and red. Army Regulation 600-­8-­22 authorized its award for exceptionally meritorious conduct in the performance of outstanding services to the United States in a key position of responsibility. Which was a bar Reacher felt he had cleared, technically. But he figured the real reason he was getting it was the same reason he had gotten it before. It was a transaction. A contractual token. Take the bauble and keep your mouth shut about what we asked you to do for it. Which Reacher would have anyway. It was nothing to boast about. The Balkans, some police work, a search for two local men with wartime secrets to keep, both soon identified, and located, and visited, and shot in the head. All part of the peace process. Interests were served, and the region calmed down a little. Two weeks of his life. Four rounds expended. No big deal. Army Regulation 600-­8-­22 was surprisingly vague about exactly how medals should be handed out. It said only that decorations were to be presented with an appropriate air of formality and with fitting ceremony. Which usually meant a large room with gilt furniture and a bunch of flags. And an officer senior in rank to the recipient. Reacher was a major, with twelve years in, but other awards were being given out that morning, including three to a trio of colonels and two to a pair of one-­star generals, so the big cheese on deck was a three-­star from the Pentagon, who Reacher knew from many years before, when the guy had been a CID battalion commander working out of Fort Myer. A thinker. Certainly enough of a thinker to figure out why an MP major was getting a Legion of Merit. He had a look in his eye. Part wry, and part seal-­the-­deal serious. Take the bauble and keep your mouth shut. Maybe in the past the guy had done the same thing himself. Maybe more than once. He had a whole fruit salad of ribbons on the left chest of his Class-­A coat. Including two Legions of Merit. The appropriately formal room was deep inside Fort Belvoir in Virginia. Which was close to the Pentagon, which was convenient for the three-­star. Convenient for Reacher too, because it was about equally close to Rock Creek, where he had been marking time since he got back. Not so convenient for the other officers, who had flown in from Germany. There was some milling around, and some small talk, and some shaking of hands, and then everyone went quiet and lined up and stood to attention, and salutes were exchanged, and medals were variously pinned or draped on, and then there was more milling around and small talk and shaking of hands. Reacher edged toward the door, keen to get out, but the three-­star caught him before he made it. The guy shook his hand and kept hold of his elbow, and said, "I hear you're getting new orders." Reacher said, "No one told me. Not yet. Where did you hear that?" "My top sergeant. They all talk to each other. U.S. Army NCOs have the world's most efficient grapevine. It always amazes me." "Where do they say I'm going?" "They don't know for sure. But not far. Within driving distance, anyway. Apparently the motor pool got a requisition." "When am I supposed to find out?" "Sometime today." "Thank you," Reacher said. "Good to know." The three-­star let go of his elbow, and Reacher edged onward, to the door, and through it, and out to a corridor, where a sergeant first-­class skidded to a halt and saluted. He was out of breath, like he had run a long way. From a distant part of the installation, maybe, where the real work was done. The guy said, "Sir, with General Garber's compliments, he requests that you stop by his office at your earliest convenience." Reacher said, "Where am I going, soldier?" "Driving distance," the guy said. "But around here, that could be a lot of different things." Garber's office was in the Pentagon, so Reacher caught a ride with two captains who lived at Belvoir but had afternoon shifts in the B-­Ring. Garber had a walled-­off room all his own, two rings in, two floors up, guarded by a sergeant at a desk outside the door. Who stood up and led Reacher inside, and announced his name, like an old-­time butler in a movie. Then the guy sidestepped and began his retreat, but Garber stopped him and said, "Sergeant, I'd like you to stay." So the guy did, standing easy, feet planted on the shiny linoleum. A witness. Garber said, "Take a seat, Reacher." Reacher did, on a visitor chair with tubular legs, which sagged under his weight and tipped him backward, as if a strong wind was blowing. Garber said, "You have new orders." Reacher said, "What and where?" "You're going back to school." Reacher said nothing. Garber said, "Disappointed?" Hence the witness, Reacher supposed. Not a private conversation. Best behavior. He said, "As always, general, I'm happy to go where the army sends me." "You don't sound happy. But you should. Career development is a wonderful thing." "Which school?" "Details are being delivered to your office as we speak." "How long will I be gone?" "That depends on how hard you work. As long as it takes, I guess." Reacher got a bus in the Pentagon parking lot and rode two stops to the base of the hill below the Rock Creek HQ. He walked up the slope and went straight to his office. There was a slim file centered on his desk. His name was on it, and some numbers, and a course title: Impact of Recent Forensic Innovation on Inter-­Agency Cooperation. Inside were sheets of paper, still warm from the Xerox machine, including a formal notice of temporary detachment to a location that seemed to be a leased facility in a corporate park in McLean, Virginia. He was to report there before five o'clock that afternoon. Civilian dress was to be worn. Residential quarters would be on-­site. A personal vehicle would be provided. No driver. Reacher tucked the file under his arm and walked out of the building. No one watched him go. He was of no interest to anyone. Not anymore. He was a disappointment. An anticlimax. The NCO grapevine had held its breath, and all it had gotten was a meaningless course with a bullshit title. Not exciting at all. So now he was a non-­person. Out of circulation. Out of sight, out of mind. Like a ballplayer on the disabled list. A month from then someone might suddenly remember him for a second, and wonder when he was coming back, or if, and then forget him again just as quickly. The desk sergeant inside the door glanced up, and glanced away, bored. Reacher had very few civilian clothes, and some of them weren't really civilian. His off-­duty pants were Marine Corps khakis about thirty years old. He knew a guy who knew a guy who worked in a warehouse, where he claimed there was a bale of old stuff wrongly delivered back when LBJ was still president, and then never squared away again afterward. And apparently the point of the story was that old Marine pants looked just like new Ralph Lauren pants. Not that Reacher cared what pants looked like. But five bucks was an attractive price. And the pants were fine. Unworn, never issued, stiffly folded, a little musty, but good for another thirty years at least. His off-­duty T-shirts were no more civilian, being old army items, gone pale and thin with washing. Only his jacket was definitively non-­military. It was a tan denim Levi's item, totally authentic in every respect, including the label, but sewn by an old girlfriend's mother, in a basement in Seoul. He changed and packed the rest of his stuff into a duffel and a suit carrier, which he heaved out to the curb, where a black Chevy Caprice was parked. He guessed it was an old MP black-­and-­white, now retired, with the decals peeled off, and the holes for the light bar and the antennas all sealed up with rubber plugs. The key was in. The seat was worn. But the engine started, and the transmission worked, and the brakes were fine. Reacher swung the thing around like a battleship maneuvering, and headed out toward McLean, Virginia, with the windows down and the radio playing. The corporate park was one of many, all of them the same, brown and beige, discreet typefaces, neat lawns, some evergreen planting, low two-­ and three-­building campuses spreading outward across empty land, servicing folks who hid behind bland and modest names and tinted glass in their office windows. Reacher found the right place by the street number, and pulled in past a knee-­high sign that said Educational Solutions Incorporated, in a typeface so plain it looked childish. Parked at the door were two more Chevy Caprices. One was black and one was navy blue. They were both newer than Reacher's. And they were both properly civilian, in that they didn't have rubber plugs and brush-­painted doors. They were government sedans, no doubt about it, clean and shiny, each one with two more antennas than a person needed for listening to the ball game. But the extra two antennas were not the same in both cases. The black car had short needles and the blue car had longer whips, in a different configuration. On a different wavelength. Two separate organizations. Inter-­Agency Cooperation. Reacher parked alongside, and left his bags in the car. He went in the door, to an empty lobby, which had durable gray carpet underfoot and green potted ferns here and there against the walls. There was a door marked Office. And a door marked Classroom. Which Reacher opened. There was a green chalkboard at the head of the room, and twenty college desks, in four rows of five, each one with a little ledge on the right, for paper and pencil. Sitting on two of the desks were two guys, both in suits. One suit was black, and one suit was navy blue. Like the cars. Both guys were looking straight ahead, like they had been talking, but had run out of things to say. They were about Reacher's own age. The one in the black suit was pale with dark hair worn dangerously long for a guy with a government car. The one in the blue suit was pale with colorless hair buzzed short. Like an astronaut. Built like an astronaut, too, or a gymnast not long out of the game. Reacher stepped in, and they both turned to look. The dark haired guy said, "Who are you?" Reacher said, "That depends on who you are." "Your identity depends on mine?" "Whether I tell you or not. Are those your cars outside?" "Is that significant?" "Suggestive." "How?" "Because they're different." "Yes," the guy said. "Those are our cars. And yes, you're in a classroom with two different representatives of two different government agencies. At cooperation school. Where they're going to teach us all about how to get along with other organizations. Please don't tell me you're from one of them." "Military police," Reacher said. "But don't worry. I'm sure by five o'clock we'll have plenty of civilized people here. You can give up on me and get along with them instead." The guy with the buzz cut looked up and said, "No, I think we're it. I think we're the whole ball game. There are only three bedrooms made up. I took a look around." Reacher said, "What kind of a government school has three students only? I never heard of that before." "Maybe we're faculty. Maybe the students live elsewhere." The guy with the dark hair said, "Yes, that would make more sense." Excerpted from Night School by Lee Child All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

Set in 1996, bestseller Child's splendid 21st Jack Reacher novel (after 2015's Make Me) delves into his hero's U.S. Army past. Right after Reacher is commended for a mission in the Balkans, he's immediately sent "back to school." It turns out that school means a vital and secret mission: a sleeper cell in Hamburg, Germany, has learned of an American traitor with something to sell to Islamic terrorists for $100 million. Alfred Ratcliffe, the U.S. president's National Security Adviser, tells Reacher and his fellow students-two seasoned agents from the CIA and the FBI-"we have enemies everywhere" and gives Reacher's team its orders: "Your job is to find that American." It's no spoiler to say that Reacher handles the heavy lifting on-site in Hamburg, though he's ably assisted by two former military police colleagues, Frances Neagley and Manuel Orozco. The premise of the pre-9/11 plot is both compelling and disconcerting, and Child applies his trademark eye for detail to make the whole endeavor surprisingly and thrillingly credible. Agent: Darley Anderson, Darley Anderson Literary. (Nov.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

Booklist Review

*Starred Review* The premise of Child's celebrated Jack Reacher series may be the best in the business: off-the-grid, ex-military guy have toothbrush will travel wanders about, stumbling into messes and cleaning them up. But how do you keep it going without those random messes beginning to seem contrived? By flashing back to Reacher when he was on the grid and in the army. This time it's 1997, and our boy, still in the MPs, is sent to night school along with two other students, one FBI, one CIA, and charged with following not the money but the whisper of the money, as when chatter picks up a Saudi courier saying, The American wants a hundred million dollars. What American? What's the money for? It's off to Germany to find out. In chapters that alternate between Reacher's point of view and that of the elusive American himself, we come to understand the frightening scope of an audacious scheme that stretches back to the Cold War. There's not as much headbanging here as usual, but there is an extra serving of Holmesian ratiocination, as Jack shows his deductive side, as does a German police detective who can exercise the old gray matter with the best of them. There's also something out of the ordinary for Child: an in-depth portrait of the bad guy, who is very bad, indeed, but in a pathetic, almost sympathetic way, as when we see him at the end, his master plan in tatters (no spoiler there this is a Reacher novel), staring blankly with open-mouthed incredulity at the unlikely ways the world can crush a person. We share that incredulity, but with Child's equally unlikely ability to keep his formula fresh, not only with well-timed backstory, but also with a touch of lyricism where we least expect it. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: What's longer: a presidential campaign or a Jack Reacher publicity campaign? The would-be prexies win but not by much, as this novel's five-month national consumer-advertising effort proves.--Ott, Bill Copyright 2016 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

Jack Reacher finds himself involved in a race to stop a major terrorist operation.The Reacher series has had several entries set during its hero's time as an Army investigator. This outing is situated between the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center and the turn of the millennium, in a time of fear that the coming of Y2K might bring chaos. In other words, a time when the public still considered terrorism only a faint possibility for the United States. Reacher is part of a trio of government experts trying to track down an American who appears to have sold something to Middle Eastern radicals operating out of Hamburg. The novel tries to work up suspense by highlighting how unknowingly close Reacher and his quarry are operating to each other, but the missed connections and the way the action jumps from the U.S. to Europe impedes any momentum. That's not the whole problem, though. The novel contains descriptions of torture which are incidental to the plot and sour the rest of the book. And the shift here to terrorism, as opposed to the individual crime and corporate machinations that provided the villains in most of the series' other entries, doesn't sit right. Reacher novels are terrific pop entertainments. But they don't possess the weight or moral seriousness that allowed books by Eric Ambler, Geoffrey Household, and John le Carr to plausibly confront the dangers and moral dilemmas of their day.For the first time in 20 books, the man-mountain Reacher, and the story around him, moves like a lug. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.