The Sentinel

by Lee Child

  Sands leaned across and hit some buttons on the minivan’s GPS screen which caused it to display the locations of the five nearest gas stations. The closest was the truck stop Reacher had visited twice before. They continued in silence, and when they arrived Sands pulled up at the pump Reacher had used the previous night. Rutherford stayed in the car. Sands climbed out and pumped the gas. She used her credit card to avoid having to go inside the main building. Reacher went in anyway. He was hungry. He rounded up the ingredients for four hot dogs, assembled them, loaded them with extra cheese and onions, then grabbed a bunch of newspapers. A disposable razor. A can of shaving cream. And a pack of bottled water, figuring the others could probably use some hydration.

  Sands dropped Reacher and Rutherford two blocks from the apartment building and went to find a random spot to leave the minivan. She got back to Mitch’s place ten minutes after the others, fired up the coffee machine, then went to take a shower. Rutherford stayed in the kitchen, hunched over his computer. Reacher stretched out on the couch and made a start on the newspapers. Neither of them moved for half an hour. Neither said a word. Then Sands came out of the bathroom and Rutherford went in. She poured two mugs of coffee, carried them to the living room, and took a seat opposite Reacher.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Sands said. ‘You were in the army. You were an MP. You investigated things. And people. Yes?’

  ‘That was the general idea,’ Reacher said.

  ‘You must have had resources. Records. Databases. Other soldiers who could make calls. Verify information. Find out if people had been telling the truth?’

  ‘All of the above.’

  ‘Do you miss that, now that you’re on your own?’

  ‘Life in the army was pretty good, overall,’ Reacher said. ‘I worked with some outstanding people. Aside from the time I wasted dealing with bullshit from senior officers. Other than that I left with very few regrets.’

  ‘No,’ Sands said. ‘I mean the support you had. The ability to get facts checked. If you found yourself in a particular situation, for example, and you were given a plausible account for it. Then you realized there might be an alternative explanation. A much less favourable one, from a certain individual’s point of view. What would you do now?’

  ‘I’d listen to my gut. If I had any doubt, I’d walk away.’

  ‘Even if that meant leaving a friend in danger?’

  ‘OK, Sarah. Enough beating around the bush. What’s your real question?’

  ‘Well, when I was in the shower just now I started thinking, what if I wanted to get something from Rusty? Something critically important. And I wanted to do it without anyone realizing. I wouldn’t steal it, because he’d notice and report it missing. I wouldn’t try to buy it from him or trick him into handing it over, because he might see through me. He might play along and then report the attempt. Or run. I could kidnap him, of course, and force him to give it to me. But then I’d have to kill him to preserve the secret. So maybe I’d do this instead. I’d stage a kidnapping attempt. Make it look very professional. Very convincing. The kind of thing that would certainly have succeeded if someone hadn’t intervened. Someone with all the right skills and experience who just happened to be walking by. Someone who would instantly gain Rusty’s trust, and then offer to stick around and help him.’

  ‘That someone being me?’ Reacher said.

  ‘I’m not trying to be an asshole here. But you have to admit it’s a possibility.’

  ‘It’s absolutely a possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time something like it happened.’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it’s not just the kidnap attempt that could be fishy. Every other time you’ve had contact with whoever we’re up against you’ve been on your own. A series of coincidences? Or clandestine meetings?’

  Reacher smiled and looked away.

  ‘What?’ Sands said. ‘Is this funny to you?’

  ‘No. It’s just this town. There must be something in the water. First I get mistaken for an insurance guy. And now you think, what? Follow it through. If I’m working with these kidnappers, I must be some kind of mercenary. Someone good, because this operation wasn’t thrown together on a budget. Therefore someone expensive. So I must be secretly rich. What’s your theory? This whole image is a sham? I really live in some Manhattan mansion with closets full of silk suits and a garage crammed with Ferraris?’

  ‘Is that any less likely than a retired major being homeless?’

  ‘I’m not homeless.’

  ‘So that’s one lie you told.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘You told Rusty you don’t own a house. You just drift around. A night here. Two nights there. No fixed abode.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So you are homeless.’

  ‘No. My situation is not the same at all. It’s like the difference between being alone and being lonely. Two separate, distinct things.’

  ‘OK, then. Back up. Say you have earned a fortune as a mercenary. It doesn’t follow that you spent the money on a house and clothes and cars. That’s faulty reasoning. You might not have spent the money at all. You could have stashed it all in a bank in the Cayman Islands. Or hidden it inside a hollow tree. Or given it to a cat shelter.’

  ‘True. I could have. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Can you back that up?’

  ‘How? I can’t prove a negative. No one can.’

  Sands slumped back on the couch.

  ‘Try this,’ Reacher said. ‘Flip it around. I have the means and the opportunity, sure. But what’s my motive?’

  ‘Money,’ Sands said.

  ‘I’m not interested in money. I have enough already. Why would I want more?’

  ‘Have you met the human race?’

  ‘You’re on the wrong track, Sarah. The point is, I do have a motive. To keep Rusty out of danger. You’re equally capable of that. So why don’t you take over? If you move him somewhere safe, today, I’ll walk away. I’ll never come near him again.’

  ‘Or with us out of the way you’ll go straight to the depot and lean on Thomassino.’

  ‘Look, if you really don’t trust me, talk to your friends at the Bureau. Have them run my background.’

  ‘I already did. Five minutes after I met you. They didn’t find anything. But what does that mean? You’re telling the truth? Or you’re good at covering your tracks?’

  ‘I guess it boils down to this,’ Reacher said. ‘I could be helping Rusty. I could be setting him up. Only time will tell. So right now it just depends on what you believe. And you obviously don’t believe I’m in league with the devil.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘You’re a smart woman. That’s clear. So if you really thought I was a hired killer you wouldn’t say so to my face. You’d drug my coffee and slip away while you had the chance. Or shoot me before I could hurt your friend.’

  ‘That’s an interesting theory. Which begs another question. Who just made your coffee?’

  Reacher picked up his mug. It was a decent size. Maybe eight fluid ounces. It had started out full. Now only a quarter was left. Was six ounces enough for an effective dose of tranquillizer? For a man his size? He didn’t feel dizzy. Or nauseous. Or tired. He sniffed the remaining liquid. There was no unusual odour. It had tasted fine. But then he wasn’t the world’s greatest connoisseur when it came to flavour. He was mainly a fan of strength.

  ‘Here,’ Sands said. ‘Pass it to me.’

  Reacher put the mug back on the table and slid it across. Sands picked it up and took a mouthful.

  ‘I was joking about the coffee,’ she said, then revealed why her robe was gaping a little that day. There was something in the pocket. Something heavy. Sands reached inside and pulled it out. It was a gun. A Colt Government Model .380. Small. Light. Reliable. She flicked the safety down with her right thumb. ‘I’m not joking about this. And remember, you may be bigger. But I’m faster. So look me in the eye and tell me y
ou’re on the level.’

  ‘I’m on the level.’

  Sands rested the Colt on her lap. The tips of her fingers were touching its grip.

  ‘So,’ Reacher said after a long minute had ticked past. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What choice do I have? Do what you said. Go with my gut.’ Sands flicked the safety up and slipped the gun back into her pocket. ‘And pray you don’t make me regret it.’

  NINETEEN

  Rutherford emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and scurried to his sleeping area behind the wooden divider. Sands got up and followed around to hers. Reacher stayed on the couch. He could hear the others rustling and rubbing and fidgeting, then two hairdryers started up almost simultaneously. They ran for almost the same length of time. There was more rustling. Then Sands reappeared. She was wearing loose linen pants and a pale blue T-shirt. She was using her sunglasses to hold back her hair, and her purse was slung over her left shoulder. Positioned to ensure easy access for her right hand, Reacher thought. No doubt with the Colt at the top. Maybe in a special built-in holster, so that it wouldn’t get buried or snagged.

  Rutherford rejoined them. He had on a fresh pair of chinos and a clean polo shirt. Another sombre colour. Another logo. To show he still meant business.

  Sands left the apartment first, alone, to avoid being seen with the others. She retrieved the minivan, rendezvoused with Rutherford and Reacher in the alley with the dumpsters, and entered the waste company’s address into the GPS. The machine predicted a ten-minute drive, which turned out to be accurate. It led them to a compound at the end of a long straight road with squat, shabby warehouses on either side. The site was surrounded by a chain-link fence made of heavy-gauge steel. Eight feet tall. The only entrance they could see was blocked by a red and white striped barrier. Sands drove up close and stopped next to a tall metal post. There were two keypads attached to it. One high, for trucks. One low, for cars. Sands wound down her window and hit the intercom button on the lower one. There was no response. She hit it again. The box didn’t make a sound. Not even a buzz of static. She stretched up to give the other one a try but stopped before her finger made contact. There was movement from inside the compound. A shiny black pickup was approaching. It looked like a regular F150. No light bar on the roof. No security company logo on the door. Sands took her fake federal ID out of her purse, just in case.

  The Ford slowed as it drew nearer, almost to a walking pace. The barrier twitched like it was waking from a deep sleep, then jerked its way up through ninety degrees. The pickup accelerated and sped away. The driver didn’t give them a second glance. The barrier stayed up. It was swaying slightly from its recent movement. But it wasn’t descending. Yet. The timing had probably been calculated with trucks in mind. Long. Heavy. Slow to get moving. Sands glanced around. No one else was watching so she hit the gas and they were inside the compound long before the pole lurched back down on to its supports.

  There were two buildings on the site, set at four and eight o’clock when viewed from the gate. The eight o’clock unit was the smaller of the two. The office, Reacher assumed. It was a single storey, built of rough brick, with a flat roof, six square windows, and a crude concrete slab sticking out to shelter its doorway. It had parking for thirty cars. Half the spaces were occupied. There were two silver German sedans sitting alone in the row nearest the building’s entrance. The rest were middle spec, medium-sized domestic models in varying pale colours, scattered at random throughout the rest of the lot. Belonging to the office workers, most likely.

  Not the cars they were looking for.

  The four o’clock building must have been what the guy with the shotgun had called the depot. It was a simple rectangular shape, built out of cinderblocks, painted white, with a pitched metal roof and a line of four roll-up vehicle doors along one side. All were tall enough for a full-size garbage truck to fit through. All were wide enough. All were closed. There was a single line of parking spots outside to the left of them, near a personnel door. Four were taken. All by pickups. Three Fords and a Dodge Ram. Not new but clean and well maintained. Belonging to the mechanics, Reacher figured.

  Not the cars they were looking for.

  There was an empty area on the right of the depot building. It stretched across to the fence. Where the trucks parked at night. There was room for at least half a dozen. And beyond that, where the fence turned back towards the entrance and the space narrowed, there was another line of vehicles. Seven of them. An old, open-top Jeep with most of its paint missing. A Chrysler 300 sedan in black with chrome wheels and heavy tints on the windows. A Porsche 911, dark blue and gleaming in the afternoon sun. A 1980s Cadillac, originally burgundy, now chalky and dull. A mustard-coloured Volvo station wagon. A tiny, sky blue Fiat. And a white Hyundai SUV.

  Possibly the cars they were looking for.

  A sign mounted to the fence said Unauthorized Vehicles Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense. Sands swung the minivan around and reversed right up to it, at the side of the Hyundai. She kept the engine running and adjusted the air. Outside the heat shimmered off the cracked concrete slabs. The flat surfaces in the distance wobbled and danced. Sands unfastened her seat belt and leaned back, relaxed but alert. Rutherford was beside her in the passenger seat, anxious and fidgety. Reacher stretched out behind them, so still he could have been asleep.

  Thirty minutes passed. No trucks appeared. Fifteen more minutes passed with no arrivals. Then after another five minutes they heard a vehicle engine. A big diesel. Coming their way. Sands and Reacher simultaneously snapped upright. A garbage truck came into view at the far end of the road. It was full size. So not Thomassino’s. They watched it creep along the road, negotiate the gate, lumber across to the parking area, then settle to a halt with a long hiss of its air brakes. Two men jumped down. They were wearing blue coveralls like the guy at the recycling plant. They made their way to the line of cars. The first guy climbed into the Jeep. The second, the Chrysler. They set off together, driving side by side until they were close to the gate. Then the Jeep took the lead. They made it through while the barrier was still up from their entrance, accelerated hard, and soon disappeared from view.

  Another truck appeared seven minutes later. Also full size. So not Thomassino’s. It followed the same routine. Its occupants took the Cadillac and the Volvo. That left three cars. The Hyundai. The Fiat. And the Porsche.

  The next truck to arrive was smaller. They had to wait until it passed them to read the licence plate on the rear. It matched the entry on the recycling site log next to Thomassino’s ID number. It parked alongside the two larger trucks, but it pulled further in, vanishing from sight. A man appeared after thirty seconds. He was around five ten. He had blond hair, buzzed short. Mirrored aviator sunglasses. Shiny black boots. And the same blue coveralls, only darker and crisper, like in his mind he was wearing a flight suit. He walked towards them. Heading for the Porsche. Sands reached for her door handle, then paused. The guy was on the wrong side of the car. He went up to the Porsche’s passenger window. Leaned in close. Cupped his hand against the sun. Gazed inside for ten seconds. Then straightened up, shook his head, continued past the Fiat, and made his way between the Hyundai and the minivan. Sands jumped out and hurried around, holding her black wallet out in front.

  ‘David Thomassino?’ she said.

  ‘That’s me.’ The guy paused. ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Federal agents. We need to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Get in the van for a second. I’ll explain everything.’

  Rutherford twisted around in his seat and hit a button which caused the side door to slide open, revealing Reacher crammed inside like a caged gorilla.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Thomassino stepped back. ‘I’m not getting in there with him. I’ll talk to you. But at the police station. I’ll drive. You can follow.’

  ‘Let me put it another way.’ Reacher leaned out, grabbed the front of Thomassino�
��s coveralls, and pulled him inside. Sands climbed in after Thomassino and guided him through to the bench seat at the very back. She pulled a lever that made her middle row seat swivel around so she was facing him, then hit the button to close the door. Reacher rotated his seat as well. Rutherford peered through the gap between the front seats.

  ‘Before we start it’s very important that you understand something,’ Sands said. ‘We’re not here for you. We’re not looking to jam you up or cause you trouble of any kind. We don’t care about you at all. All we want is one piece of information. Give it to us and you can go about your business. You’ll never see us again. And no one will ever know you helped us. Is that clear?’

  Thomassino swallowed hard, then nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Sands said. ‘Now, your job is to collect unwanted electronic equipment and take it to the recycling facility outside town, correct?’

  ‘It’s just a sorting facility. The actual recycling’s done somewhere else.’

  ‘But you take the electronic things there?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘This month you’ve made two collections from the town’s IT department.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘That’s what the site log says.’

  ‘Then I’m sure it’s right.’

  ‘On one of those occasions you picked up eight network servers.’

  ‘I don’t know what they are.’

  ‘Boring-looking black boxes,’ Rutherford said. ‘But they were in a cabinet. In the equipment room. Right in the middle. With a broken glass door.’

  ‘Do you know how many things I move in a week?’ Thomassino said. ‘I can’t remember all of them.’

  ‘I see you’re wearing a wedding ring, Dave,’ Reacher said. ‘Do you have any kids? Or is it just you and your wife?’