The Sentinel (Jack Reacher)

by Lee Child

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Rutherford was kind of looking forward to seeing what’s on it. Finding out more about the history of the town. Now he has time on his hands.’

  ‘Have you ever seen these kinds of records?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

  ‘They’re dull as ditchwater. Believe me. Unless you have a vested interest, as I do because of my father, they’re deadly boring. Blow-by-blow accounts of arguments over how many chickens people should be allowed to keep in their yards. Whether people were permitted to sell wet fish from their houses. Things like that. So Mr Rutherford really wouldn’t be missing out on anything if you brought it straight over. And I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘How grateful?’

  ‘Say, an extra thousand dollars?’

  Reacher said nothing.

  ‘An extra two thousand?’ Klostermann said.

  ‘Make it an extra five thousand,’ Reacher said, ‘and it’ll be yours inside thirty minutes.’

  Reacher pulled the second cloned server out of the closet, loaded it into the trunk of Marty’s car, and set out on his own towards Klostermann’s house. He felt the way he imagined a baseball player would in the bottom of the ninth. At bat, score tied, two outs, two strikes against. One chance left to win the game without going to extra innings. At which point the other side would bring out a pinch hitter. A new guy, signed from another league. Not in the stadium in time to make the starting lineup. Unknown. Untested. But with a big reputation.

  Reacher arrived at the mouth of the driveway. He hit the intercom button, announced himself, waited for the gate to roll aside, then drove through and parked in the spot he’d used the day before. He climbed the steps and crossed the porch. The housekeeper was waiting for him at the front door. She was wearing the same style of black dress. The same apron. Her hair was up in the same kind of bun. She greeted him in her quiet, cold voice and led the way down the corridor, gliding effortlessly past the portraits, across the tile, to the door at the end on the right. She knocked, opened it, and stood aside to let Reacher enter. Klostermann was already inside, in his armchair. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and a narrow black tie. His hair was under a little more control that day. He looked like he was ready for a funeral.

  Klostermann put his newspaper down and got to his feet. ‘Is that it?’ He nodded towards the black box under Reacher’s arm.

  ‘As promised,’ Reacher said.

  ‘Excellent. Put it on the table.’

  Reacher set the server down next to a bowl of small white flowers. He’d seen some like them before, but not in real life. In a book he’d read. In history class. Years ago.

  Klostermann retrieved a package from the side of his chair. It was made of brown paper and its top was folded over like a carry-out bag from a restaurant. He handed it to Reacher. ‘Your fee. It’s all there. Including your bonus.’

  Reacher looked inside. The bag held three bundles of banknotes. Each was about an inch thick. Made up of crisp new twenties. Two hundred and fifty in each one. Making each bundle worth five thousand dollars. And weighing about the same as a decent burger. Reacher took out the cash, put each bundle in a different pocket, and handed the bag back to Klostermann.

  ‘Remember your promise,’ Reacher said. ‘Any problems with the digital archive getting back online, you donate the server to the town. In Rutherford’s name.’

  ‘You have my word,’ Klostermann said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting to prepare for.’ He took a small grey box from his pocket. It looked like a garage door opener. He pressed its button. Waited. And nothing happened.

  Klostermann looked annoyed. He pressed the button again. He waited. Nothing happened.

  ‘I apologize,’ Klostermann said. ‘Anya must be occupied in some way. Please. Allow me.’

  Klostermann crossed to the door and led the way back along the corridor. As they approached the far end Reacher heard the housekeeper talking. He figured she was on the phone. Her voice was louder than before, and her tone was even colder.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You cannot. You’re an hour early. You are to leave and come back at the correct time. I don’t care. I’m not interested. That’s not Mr Klostermann’s problem. If you cannot follow simple instructions perhaps he doesn’t need your services at all.’

  Klostermann continued, apparently oblivious of the one-sided conversation, until he arrived at the front door. He opened it, waited for Reacher to step through, and closed it again without saying another word.

  Reacher knew he had to be out of the house for the plan to move forward, but he still wanted to know what Klostermann was doing. Communicating, he hoped. Sending a message up his chain of command: Server recovered. Verification in progress. Followed by an order for the team in the field: Mission Accomplished. Stand down. And a final instruction to the specialist from Moscow: Presence no longer required. Return to base.

  Reacher drove up to the gate and while he waited for it to open he pulled out his phone. He dialled Wallwork’s number. Told him the server had been delivered and asked for an update on Klostermann. Wallwork had no new information. He promised to let Reacher know the moment he heard anything. Or, more importantly, received word from Fisher that her cell was being pulled out. Reacher drove on. The ball had been slow and over the plate, he thought. He had taken his swing. Made good contact. Now it was in the air and there was nothing to do but wait and see if it cleared the fence.

  Or maybe there was one thing he could do. Klostermann had mentioned a meeting. He hadn’t stated that it would be at the house, but that was the implication Reacher had taken. He had said prepare for. Not go to. And someone had showed up an hour early for something. Which might be completely unconnected. Or mean a bunch of Klostermann’s contacts were about to arrive. Maybe to talk about flower arranging at the local church. Maybe to talk about something else. Not the server, though, Reacher figured. The person who had shown up early was dispensable. The housekeeper had made that clear. And the Russians would only allow members of their trusted inner circle to be involved with something so valuable. But whatever the subject, Reacher figured it would be worth an hour of his time to see if anyone showed up. And if so, who. Wallwork was struggling to come up with fresh intel on Klostermann. Maybe it was time for Reacher to gather his own.

  There was nowhere Reacher could reasonably conceal himself and the car, so he pulled over to the side of the road and turned on his blinkers. He judged the location carefully. Humans have a subconscious tendency to infer associations based on physical proximity. You see a guy standing at a crosswalk, you assume he wants to cross the street. Reacher didn’t want to be so close to Klostermann’s house that it looked like he was waiting outside it. He wanted to appear unconnected, beyond the intangible boundary linking him to the place. But neither did he want to be too far away. It wouldn’t help his cause if he was unable to get a clear look at Klostermann’s guests.

  If he had any.

  Reacher felt under the dashboard to make sure he could locate the hood release lever. He called Sands to let her know what was happening. Then he leaned his head against the rest.

  Nothing stirred for half an hour. Then a mail truck trundled past. A minute later a woman went by in a silver SUV. Neither driver paid Reacher any attention. Nothing else moved. Reacher sat tight until he figured he had five minutes until people would start arriving for Klostermann’s meeting. If it was happening at all. Then he climbed out, lifted the hood, and pretended to examine the engine. His face and head were hidden. And he had a clear view of Klostermann’s driveway along the passenger side of the car.

  Nothing moved for seven minutes. Then a Mercedes rolled up. A sedan. It was long and black and shiny. Reacher made a note of the licence plate and watched it approach Klostermann’s house. It stopped at the gate. An arm in a white shirt sleeve stretched out of the driver’s window. Aiming for the intercom, Reacher thought. But the guy hit four keys, not one. He was entering a code. The gate s
lid aside and the car moved forward and headed for the parking area in front of the house. The next vehicle to arrive was a Dodge Ram. It was blood red, and even shinier. The driver used the intercom, waited for the gate, and drove inside. After that an F150 showed up. Then a white panel van with Gerrard’s Generators – Power 2 U painted on the side in jagged letters. Both their drivers used the intercom, too. Finally a motorcycle rattled into sight. It was some kind of customized machine with flames painted on the fuel tank, tall wide handlebars, and pegs for the rider’s feet set way out in front. The guy sitting on it had black boots. Black leather pants. A black leather vest with a picture of a giant spider stitched into the back. A pair of round, mirrored sunglasses. And a Stars and Stripes bandana in place of a helmet. He pulled up short of the gate and took a phone out of his vest pocket. This was the guy who had been early, Reacher thought. Now he was late. The guy hit a button then raised the phone to his ear. Held it there for thirty seconds. Then lowered it, jabbed a button, and jammed it back into his pocket. He pulled the bike into the tightest turn he could manage. Revved the engine a few times. Then released the clutch and screeched away. Smoke poured from his back wheel and the tyre left a long wide strip of rubber on the asphalt.

  He was dispensable. The housekeeper had made that clear.

  Reacher waited another five minutes to see if anyone else tried to get in, then dropped the hood into place and climbed back inside the car. He started the engine to get the air going and Wallwork called him before he could shift into Drive.

  ‘News?’ Reacher said.

  ‘Some,’ Wallwork said. ‘But nothing from Fisher. This is about Klostermann. Some background on his family. On his father. Henry senior. Or Heinrich, as he was originally called. He did immigrate from Germany. That’s confirmed. We have him getting processed through the Port of Entry in New York in 1946, then showing up in Tennessee. He got married in fifty, and little Henry was born the same year. Heinrich bought the Spy House in fifty-two, directly from the spies, and lived there until his death in 1960. Not very exciting, all told. Nothing that sounds like it could be worth ten grand.’

  ‘He went to fifteen in the end.’

  ‘What did you do? Threaten to break his legs?’

  ‘Told him there was a supplement if he wanted the only copy.’

  ‘Nice move, Reacher. If he really wanted it for family history research, why would he care if there were copies? Let alone pay through the nose to stop any getting made.’

  ‘Right. It only makes sense if he thinks there’s something secret hidden on it. Something he never wants to see the light of day.’

  ‘Meaning he’s working for the Russians. Please God.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Reacher said. ‘But listen. After I left Klostermann’s place a bunch of guys showed up there for a meeting. Could you run their licence plates? They could be connected.’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ Wallwork said. ‘But I will. I’ll call you back when I’ve got something.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Reacher was feeling pretty good when he hung up the phone and started back to the motel. He figured the server was where it needed to be. The Russian technicians would get to work on it and everything would fall into place from there. The beginning of the end was surely under way. But the further he drove, the more unsettled he became. He could feel a scratch at the back of his brain. It was nagging at him. Telling him something was wrong. Two things, in fact. The first he couldn’t put his finger on. Yet. It had to do with something he’d seen at Klostermann’s house. Wallwork had triggered a connection when they spoke. It was there, but not in focus yet. Like a photograph from an old Polaroid camera. Vague and indistinct at first, but definitely something. All Reacher could do was wait. The image would sharpen up. His brain just needed time to join all the dots.

  The second thing was already clear. It reminded him of a French legend his mother used to tell. About an ancient soothsayer who could catch a person’s words and scatter them on the surface of a magic lake. At first the words would all look the same. They would all float and bob around. Then the true ones would soak up the water and sink, leaving only the lies at the top for all to see. In this case the false words belonged to Klostermann. He’d spoken them the first time they’d met and they were still there, afloat in Reacher’s memory. My father fled to the States from Germany in the 1930s. But Wallwork had checked the immigration records. Heinrich Klostermann arrived in the United States in 1946. After World War II. Not before. Not the kind of detail a person would forget. So either Henry Klostermann misspoke or misremembered. Or he had something entirely different to hide.

  Reacher was almost at the truck stop when his phone rang. It was Wallwork again.

  ‘News?’ Reacher said.

  ‘Nothing from Fisher,’ Wallwork said. ‘I’m calling back about those licence plates. That was an interesting group Klostermann met with. The guy in the S-Class is a neighbour. He owns a bunch of buildings in town, plus a heap of land outside it. One of the other guys is a lighting designer. One does sound systems. And the generator guy speaks for himself. If you ask me, Klostermann is putting together some kind of outdoor concert. Maybe it’s a new venture for him. Maybe it’s a hobby. Or a one-off thing, to celebrate some kind of event or anniversary.’

  ‘What about the guy on the bike?’

  ‘He’s an all-round disaster zone. His jacket’s two inches thick. I can’t imagine him doing anything useful. Directing traffic at the event, maybe? Or sticking up posters?’

  Reacher was quiet for a moment. ‘Have you got an address for him?’

  ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘It looked like they kicked him to the kerb. He’ll likely have the loosest lips of the bunch. I have nothing to do until we hear from Fisher. I was thinking I could have a conversation with the guy. See what comes out if we look at Klostermann from a different angle.’

  ‘Could be useful, I guess. Obviously I shouldn’t tell you. So you didn’t hear it from me.’

  Reacher thanked him then hung up, called Sands back, and told her what he was planning to do. She didn’t respond right away.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Sands said. ‘It’s just Rusty.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Gone down with a migraine. I knew he would. This always happens when he works too hard. He won’t take breaks. He won’t eat. Won’t drink. And then, bang. He’s face down on the floor.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  ‘No. Go and lean on this guy. One thing I learned in the Bureau – never leave a lead unfollowed. Those are the ones that bite you in the ass.’

  The address Wallwork gave Reacher for the guy on the bike was in the same subdivision as Holly’s place. Reacher cut roughly southwest from the truck stop to avoid driving back through town and threaded his way through the rows of rectangular houses on their rectangular lots until he arrived outside the final one on the final street. The last one to be built, Reacher figured. Maybe a couple of years younger than the first. Which could be an advantage, if all the kinks in the design had been ironed out. Or a disadvantage if the contractor’s enthusiasm had worn off by then and the pick of the crew had left for fresh projects. But whichever way the scale had leaned originally, the point was no longer relevant. It looked like the house had been beamed in from a scrapyard. Shingles were slipping off the roof. The windows were opaque with dirt. Paint was peeling off every flat surface. The yard seemed to be filled with spoil from a chemical plant. And in the centre, shiny and incongruous, sat a bike. Flames on the fuel tank. Tall wide handlebars. Foot pegs way out in front.

  Like Holly’s, the house had a front door with no window. Reacher was even less inclined to knock on this one so he drove past and stopped in the fishtail. Made his way down the far side where there were no neighbours to worry about. And found he wouldn’t have to climb over the fence. He wouldn’t be able to. Because it had already fallen down. Reacher stepped over the remains and surveyed the yard.
If any attempt at horticulture had ever been made, the signs were long gone. Nothing was growing. The soil was dull brown. It looked utterly desolate. Reacher wouldn’t have been surprised to find scientists there in hazmat suits collecting samples. He cut across to the rear of the house. It also had a sliding glass door. This one had a diagonal crack running across it. Some kind of clear tape had been applied. It was yellow with age and the peeling edges were encrusted with ancient bugs. Reacher looked inside, into the kitchen. The cupboard doors were shabby. Several weren’t lined up straight and a couple weren’t closed. There were pots on the stove. The sink was stacked high with dirty plates and mugs and glasses. Cans and bottles were overflowing from the trash. There was a full ashtray on the small round table. But no sign of the biker. Or anyone else.

  Reacher knocked on the glass. He heard a scraping sound above him. A window opening. He moved closer to the wall.

  ‘Whoever you are, they’re not here.’ It was a woman’s voice, raspy from cigarette smoke. ‘Now get out of my yard.’

  ‘I need to talk to Zach,’ Reacher said.

  ‘I told you, he’s not here.’

  ‘His bike’s out front.’

  ‘So talk to the bike. Zach’s not here. None of them are. Come in and look if you don’t believe me. If your shots are up to date.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘At the workshop, obviously. Trying to fix up that dumbass car.’

  ‘Got an address on the workshop?’

  ‘If you don’t know that, you don’t know Zach. What do you want him for?’

  ‘To talk about a job.’

  The woman let out a little shriek. ‘You really don’t know Zach if you think he wants a job.’