The Sentinel

by Lee Child

Sands was asleep when Reacher got back to the motel. She was lying on top of the duvet on the bed Reacher hadn’t used. Reacher could see her eyes moving behind her lids. She was dreaming. About boats, he hoped. He crept outside and went to the office to fetch coffee and cinnamon rolls. Sands didn’t wake up when he came back into the room. But she did a minute after he placed a cup and a plate on the nightstand.

  They ate and drank and Reacher brought Sands up to speed on what he’d found out. She had a tough time processing it. With her ex-FBI hat on she was thrilled at the prospect of smashing a neo-Nazi network. Particularly one that was trying to recreate Hitler’s Cathedral of Light in rural Tennessee. But she was also worried about the implications of losing The Sentinel to the Russians. And scared for Rutherford. And Fisher. She’d developed some kind of bond with the agent even though they’d never met. In the end she slid off the bed and made for the connecting door.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We can’t change anything by sitting around. Let’s get to work on the server. See if we can find old man Klostermann’s smoking gun.’

  Rutherford was still out for the count in room nineteen. He was curled up at the top of his bed, under the covers. His laptop was sitting at the other end, tethered to the other pieces of equipment. Sands sat cross-legged and fired it up. He didn’t stir. There was no sign he knew she was there even when she started hammering on the keyboard. Reacher stood and looked over her shoulder. One by one a series of images appeared. Some were mildly interesting. Most held no appeal at all. None had any relevance to Klostermann’s father. And none gave any clue about Russian spies, however laterally Reacher tried to think about what he saw.

  ‘OK,’ Sands said after a few minutes. ‘I’m starting to get an idea of how they put this together. The scans were done in loose chronological order. There are a few outliers, ones that were misfiled or found later or whatever. And they kind of branch into rough categories. Property records. Meeting minutes. That kind of thing. They do seem to cover the right period. 1946 to 1952, correct? When the father arrived, to when he bought the Spy House.’

  ‘That should do it,’ Reacher said.

  ‘I’ll keep looking. There are hundreds of files, though. Don’t feel like you have to stay. I’m weird. I like this kind of thing.’

  Reacher stuck it out for another ten minutes then made his excuses and went back to room eighteen. He took a long shower. Then he put his shirt and pants under his mattress and got into bed. He listened to a few of his favourite songs in his head. Counted to three. And didn’t drop right off to sleep. Something was bothering him. It was the damn flowers, he realized. The edelweiss. Something about his memory of them still wasn’t right.

  Reacher did finally get to sleep. He woke up again at half past two in the morning. Or more accurately, something woke him up. Like a switch being thrown. From sound asleep to completely conscious in an instant. An instinctive response. Something had triggered a warning. A sound. He heard it again. Something metallic. It was coming from the door. To the courtyard. Not the next room. Someone was picking the lock. Trying to get in. Reacher took one of the captured Berettas from under his pillow and moved it beneath the duvet. Then he lay completely still.

  The door opened a quarter of the way. A slim figure darted inside. The door eased back into place. Only one person had come through. Small. Wearing black. With a tactical backpack.

  ‘Reacher?’ It was a woman’s voice, and she was whispering. ‘Reacher, are you in here? Please say you are or I’m going to be mighty embarrassed.’

  ‘Fisher?’ Reacher said.

  ‘Thank God. Your crappy old phone is hard to track. Wallwork couldn’t say for sure if you were here or next door.’

  ‘I’m here.’ Reacher sat up and switched on the bedside light. ‘I’m supposed to be. It’s my room. The question is, what are you doing here?’

  ‘There’s a problem. I have new orders. The guy from Moscow is in the country already. He’s ramping things up. Going after the server even harder than before.’

  ‘That’s not much of a surprise.’

  ‘No. But maybe this is. Going after the server means going after Rutherford. And since none of the Russians know where Rutherford is, the new guy wants to flush him out. By going after his mother.’

  Reacher said nothing.

  ‘You see the issue here,’ Fisher said. ‘We can’t do anything to protect her. If we did the Russians would know there’s a leak. And aside from what that would mean for me personally – as in a slow and agonizing death, which I’d rather avoid – they would pull their agent out of Oak Ridge. We would never find out if they got a copy of The Sentinel. It would be a disaster all around.’

  ‘You have to do something,’ Reacher said.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m assuming you know where Rutherford is?’

  ‘Let’s say I do.’

  ‘Good. Then I need you to do two things. First, get Rutherford to make another copy of the server. Second, bring him to the diner opposite his building. I need him there at six a.m., with the server in a car parked outside. Any questions?’

  ‘You’re resurrecting the original ambush idea?’

  ‘I’m adapting it. I know what the objective is now. And where it will be. But I have to truncate the timescale. I need it done and dusted, including Rutherford’s apparent suicide, before noon. That’s still the Moscow guy’s ETA in town.’

  ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘It has to. Time will be tight. And it’s not without risk. Mainly for me. I have to go against orders. Try to pass it off as initiative, combined with the desire to redeem myself in the eyes of my superiors. The fact that I will get the server this time ought to be enough to save my bacon. It better be. All Rutherford has to do is play along. He’ll be fine. And it’s better than the alternative.’

  ‘No. It’s not possible. Rutherford’s down with a migraine. He couldn’t copy a shopping list, let alone a server. And he can’t move.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Reacher. Tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘It’s no joke.’

  ‘Then we’re screwed. The whole operation’s shot to hell. There’s no way to save it.’

  ‘Don’t panic. The fat lady’s not singing yet. Let’s say I have another way to get the copying done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. There’s no security risk. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘How will I get my hands on it? And make that look convincing?’

  ‘I’ll give it to you. In place of Rutherford.’

  ‘Reacher. You already stopped a kidnapping by me and five other people. I couldn’t grab you now with the three I have left. It wouldn’t be believable.’

  ‘You’re right. You couldn’t take it from me. But you could buy it.’

  ‘How would you come to be selling it?’

  ‘Here’s the story. It all began with the journalist. Convince your people I was working with her. She told me about the server. Not what was on it, specifically. Just that it was valuable. I came to town to get it from Rutherford because I’m greedy. I saved him from getting kidnapped. Buddied up to him until he let slip where it was. I stole it, thinking I could sell it to the newspaper. Only they hit me with a load of bull about being public-spirited and giving it to them for free. So I put it on the market. Via the dark web. Which you were monitoring because you’re so thorough. We set up a meet at the diner, because I insisted on a public place. At, say, 0800. Four hours before the new guy shows his face. You’re the hero, and he’s on the next plane back to Moscow.’

  ‘I don’t see it. Aside from foiling the last kidnap attempt you left two of my men unconscious in a dumpster and attacked the rest of us with improvised chemical weapons. No one’s going to believe you’re a journalist’s assistant.’

  ‘So sprinkle in some of the truth. Say I’m a former soldier, now working as an occasional bodyguard. Say the journalist hired me to look after her in Nashville. Where she was investigating those mob guys. The
ones Klostermann warned her to stay away from.’

  ‘That could work. I guess. I might need to embellish it a little more. But it’s the best we’ve got so let’s try to make it happen. You get to work on the copying. Wallwork will call you at 0600 with a go / no go.’

  ‘Sounds good. See you at the diner. I hope.’

  ‘I hope so too. Oh, and Reacher? One other thing. Before 0600 – charge your damn phone.’

  Fisher let herself out, then Reacher switched off the light and lay back down. He was annoyed with himself. He had just broken the soldier’s most basic rule. Never volunteer. He should have known better. But on the other hand, what choice did he have? It was either go himself, or leave Rutherford’s mother in the firing line. He didn’t know anything about her. Maybe she could handle herself. Maybe she was a former Marine, ready to teach this Moscow guy what happened to anyone who messed with her son. It was possible. But he didn’t know. So the safest thing was to take care of business himself.

  Reacher turned the light back on, slid out of bed, and let himself into room nineteen to search for the bag with the phone charger in it. He tried to be quiet but Sands woke up anyway. He talked her through the developments and she agreed to take care of copying the server. She made a start right away. Reacher figured that since he and Sands were both awake he might as well make his way to the diner as soon as the server was ready. Then he changed his mind. Getting there ahead of time would be pointless. He had to go through with the exchange, come what may. Even if the Russians had replaced the entire wait staff with paratroopers and locked all the customers in the basement, he still had to make sure they got the server. Otherwise their attention would turn back to Rutherford’s mother. The path he’d already ruled out. And there was another reason for playing it dumb. Fisher knew who he was. But the rest of her cell didn’t. They needed to see a not-very-bright part-time bodyguard chasing an easy payday. Any hint that he was something different and the whole house of cards could collapse. So he went back to bed. Plugged in the phone. Took three deep breaths. And fell back to sleep.

  Reacher opened his eyes thirty seconds before his phone rang. It was Wallwork, checking in as agreed.

  ‘We’re good to go,’ he said. ‘Fisher sold them on it. Should be a piece of cake. Better than the ambush, in the end. Less complicated. No need for the fake suicide.’

  ‘OK. Let’s keep radio silence from here on in, except for emergencies. I’ll call you when it’s done.’

  Reacher hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed just as Sands came through the connecting door.

  ‘How’s Rusty?’ Reacher said.

  ‘No change,’ she said. ‘He’s totally out of it. But the good news is the copying went without a hitch. The clone is on the bed, next to Rusty’s laptop.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Just be careful. Come back in one piece.’

  Reacher paid a quick visit to the truck stop’s main building after he left the motel. He wanted something to carry the server in for the last part of his journey, when he would be on foot. The best he could find was a giant tote bag. It was made of coarse, brightly striped nylon with fluorescent yellow handles. The luggage equivalent of hiding in plain sight, Reacher thought. He picked up a cup of the extra-strong truckers’ coffee on his way out, continued to town, and parked four blocks behind Rutherford’s building.

  Reacher timed his walk so that he arrived at the diner at 0802. He spotted one of the Russians on the street, acting like he was looking in a store window on the far side of the alley. Reacher pretended not to notice him and went inside. Four of the booths were occupied. Agent Fisher was in Reacher’s favourite. The one midway along the right-hand wall, beneath the turquoise Chevrolet. Then there was the other female Russian agent, evidently recovered from her exposure to the chlorine, alone, reading a magazine. A man in a suit, tucking into a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon. And a group of three women. They looked very similar, with maybe twenty-five years between each one. Three generations of the same family, Reacher thought. Maybe in town for a reunion. Or a wedding.

  Reacher waited for Fisher to beckon to him then took the seat opposite her in the booth.

  ‘Reacher?’ she said.

  Reacher nodded. ‘Dragon Tattoo 99?’

  ‘My screen name,’ Fisher said. ‘Is that it?’ She pointed at Reacher’s bag.

  ‘As promised,’ Reacher said. ‘All I need from you is the money.’

  ‘No problem. The money’s in my car. Out back. Come with me.’ Fisher started to pull a ten-dollar bill from her purse. She paused when it was a quarter of the way out, making sure to keep her body between it and the Russian woman in the next booth. Three words were printed in the margin, in pencil. AMBUSH. PLAY ALONG. She pulled the bill the rest of the way out and went to leave it on the table, but ended up dropping it in her water glass instead. ‘Damn it! I’m so clumsy today. Give me one second.’ She grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser by the wall, fished out the bill, and dabbed at it until it was almost dry. And completely free of handwriting.

  Fisher led the way to the door that opened on to the alley. She pulled the handle then stood aside to let Reacher go through. A vehicle was waiting, three yards away. A black Lincoln Town Car. The old, square model. A retired limousine, Reacher thought. Or a stolen one. A guy climbed out of the passenger seat. The specialist from Moscow, no doubt. Arrived early. A huge slab of a man crammed into a black suit and tie. Like an unfinished waxwork. He must have been six five. Easily three hundred pounds. His head was square, with sharp angles that were emphasized by his complete lack of hair. His ears were small, and they jutted out from his skull like they’d been stuck on as an afterthought. He had no eyebrows. Bright blue eyes. A nose that had been broken a couple of times. A mouth that gaped open in a cruel smile, revealing several uneven brown teeth. Huge arms that hung straight down from his massive shoulders. And thighs that were wider than some people’s waists.

  The primitive part of Reacher’s brain took in all the subliminal cues. It assimilated them in an instant. And flashed a warning in return. Amber. Not red. The guy would present a challenge, it said. Significant, but not insurmountable. Normally Reacher would be reassured by that kind of assessment. But he wasn’t that day. Due to a twenty-first century reality that his ancient cortex was not wired to appreciate. This wasn’t a fight to the death. It was a ploy. And it would only work if Reacher didn’t blow his cover. Which meant he couldn’t kill anyone. Or even seriously hurt them. Which turned the situation into a very big problem indeed. Particularly if he was to avoid getting killed himself.

  The Russian Reacher had knocked out appeared in the mouth of the alley, to his left. The guy he’d thrown through the Toyota’s window appeared to his right. Fisher was behind him. He felt another presence join her. The other Russian woman. And straight ahead the Moscow guy took a step closer. Reacher was surrounded. The Moscow guy took a key fob out of his pocket and clicked a button on its remote. The Lincoln’s trunk lid slowly rose until it was vertical. The inside of the trunk was shiny. Someone had taped black trash bags over every surface. The guy put the key fob away and took a pistol out of his jacket pocket. A SOCOM Mark 23. Developed from the Heckler & Koch USP for the US Special Operations Command. Presumably sourced locally, rather than brought from Russia. A status symbol, in its way. Then the guy took out a suppressor and screwed it on to the end of the barrel. Unnecessary showboating, Reacher thought. He should have had his weapon ready ahead of time. Then Reacher realized the show wasn’t for his benefit. It was for the agents’. The new guy was making his mark. He was saying The problem you couldn’t solve? It’s easy to fix. It’s done like this.

  It would have been a good demonstration if it wasn’t for the one mistake the guy made. He hadn’t forced Reacher to put down the bag. With the server in it. Their big prize. That gave Reacher options. He could fling the bag high in the air and simply walk away while they scrambled to catch it and pr
otect its contents. He could hold it in front of his chest as a shield. Or threaten to smash it if they didn’t back off and let him go. He could have done any of those things on a normal day. But not that day. Because his need to get the server safely into their hands was at least as great as their own.

  The guys in the alley moved closer. The women pressed in tighter behind. The Moscow guy gestured with his gun for Reacher to step forward. Reacher was running out of options. His brain was running through scenarios like slides in a magic lantern. He could see ways to escape. He could see ways to give them the server. But not a way to do both. And he was almost out of time.

  A second set of fingers closed around the bag’s shiny handles. Much smaller than Reacher’s. Fisher stepped past him and ripped the bag out of his grip. She handed it to the Moscow guy. Took his gun. And pointed it at Reacher’s chest.

  ‘Into the trunk, numb nuts,’ she said. ‘Or die right here in the alley.’

  Reacher didn’t move. His mind was racing. Had she played him all along? Or was she saving his life? Then the primitive part of his brain kicked back in. Assessed the cues. And flashed its verdict. Green. No threat. Reacher stepped forward. And stopped. There was another twenty-first century factor that his ancient cortex could not take into account. The trunk itself. The Lincoln was not a small car. Its trunk was a reasonable size. But Reacher wasn’t. And he hated enclosed spaces. He always had. Some primeval aversion to being trapped. There was nothing he could do about it.

  So he moved to his right. Along the side of the car. To the passenger door. Opened it. And slid inside.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Reacher had spent plenty of time in places he didn’t want to be. Mostly during his army service. Places that were too hot. Or too cold. Where everything that moved wanted to bite him. Or where everyone he met wanted to kill him. But in those days he didn’t have a choice about where he went. He was following orders. And at least he was getting paid.