The Sentinel

FOURTEEN

Speranski was in his study, looking through catalogues from electrical wholesalers, trying to find the closest thing to a World War II anti-aircraft searchlight, when his secure phone rang again.

‘We were right,’ the voice at the end of the line said. ‘It was an ambush.’

‘How bad?’ Speranski said.

‘Could have been worse. The main team, four people, went into the garage. They read the situation, planted a tracker on Rutherford’s car, and got out unscathed. The drifter got the two guys who stayed outside.’

‘Are they dead?’

‘No. But they’ll be out of the game for a while. He knocked them around pretty good. And one of them got bitten by a rat before he was found. They were left in a couple of dumpsters.’

‘Does the Center know?’

‘Yes. But don’t worry. The police didn’t get involved. No members of the public saw anything. No attention was drawn. They’re not pulling the plug. But they are making a change.’

‘What kind of change?’

‘They’re bringing someone in. Denisov. The rest of the team is stood down to surveillance only until he arrives.’

Speranski paused. He had never worked with Denisov. But he had heard of him. Denisov had started out as an interrogator. The human polygraph, he was called. Due to his appearance. And his temper. His ability to loosen tongues. And bowels.

‘I thought Denisov wasn’t used in the field any more,’ Speranski said. ‘Too many unfavourable outcomes.’

‘No, he is,’ the voice said. ‘He’s been in Chechnya for the last five years. Broadening his repertoire. Working on his self-discipline. He’s rehabilitated now. Back in favour with the people who count.’

‘And they’re letting him loose on Rutherford? Isn’t that overkill?’

‘On the drifter. The rest of the team can proceed with Rutherford, as before.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Sands moved over to the window, then turned back to face Rutherford. ‘How could you have thrown an entire server array in the trash? How many were you using?’

‘Eight.’ Rutherford looked at the floor. ‘I guess I didn’t literally throw them in the trash. But I did kind of trash them.’

‘What did you do to them?’

‘Well, first off the glass in the cabinet door broke when I slammed it. I did that when I realized the backup hadn’t worked. Then I ripped out all the cables. I wanted to fling the whole thing in the dumpster outside but when I tried to drag it to the door the foot of the cabinet got wedged where part of the raised floor had come loose so I left it. Then I went back and stuck on a Post-it note saying it was for the trash.’

‘This was before you got fired?’

‘Right. On the day of the attack.’

‘Was the cabinet still there the day you left?’

Rutherford shrugged. ‘No idea. I didn’t go back to the equipment room after the first day. There was no point. Nothing was working. I actually thought about checking on my last day but I was only there ten minutes before they gave me the letter.’

‘No one’s replaced you?’

‘Not yet.’ Rutherford hung his head. ‘The job’s hardly a big draw. Nothing works. The title is Head of Department but there’s barely a department to head. There are only two other staff. One’s part time. And both are furloughed until the network is fixed.’

‘So what are the odds that anyone saw the note saying to trash the equipment? And then did anything about it?’

‘Probably pretty low.’

‘So it might still be there?’

‘It might be.’

‘Come on then. What are we waiting for? Let’s go see.’

‘There’s no point. We can’t get in. They made me leave my key.’

‘Rusty. Seriously. Think about this. What did I spend the last decade doing? There’s no such thing as a locked door as far as an FBI agent is concerned. And there’ll be no one else there. The security system’s down. The cabinet may as well be sitting on the sidewalk waiting for us to pick it up.’

‘How will we move it?’

‘Between us it’ll be no problem. There must be dollies in the receiving room. How else did it get brought in when it was first delivered?’

‘I mean how will we get it back here? It won’t fit in my car.’

‘That’s why I rented a minivan. But we won’t bring it here. Not with people watching the building and doormen reporting your every move. We’ll get a storage unit for tonight. Hide it there. And tomorrow we’ll rent some office space. Or even a motel room. We’ll need power. And space to work. And privacy.’

The plan was straightforward. Sands would leave first and pause in the lobby. She’d apologize to the doorman for her previous abruptness and mention that her friend was feeling much better. So much better that he was about to go out for a drive. Reacher and Rutherford would give him time to send his text. Then they would head to the garage. They’d take Rutherford’s Beetle. Reacher would drive. He’d cut through the alley with the dumpsters, moving slowly enough for Rutherford to hop out, hide, and wait for Sands to collect him. Then Reacher would continue to drive around in the Beetle, towing the Toyota behind him as if on an invisible rope, and give Rutherford and Sands a clear shot to and from the town’s IT building.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

Or in this case, Reacher’s desire for contact.

He started out aimlessly crisscrossing the town’s streets the way a person might if he didn’t realize there was a tracking device attached to his fender and was trying to spot anyone tailing him. He was uncomfortable, even with the seat racked all the way back. The pedals sticking up out of the floor were stiff and awkward. There wasn’t enough room for his feet. The manual box was cranky and the frequent corners called for what seemed like constant gear changes. But most of all Reacher didn’t like having to take it on trust that he was actually being followed at all. He liked being able to sense his pursuers. To see them in his head like moving dots on a map. He felt cast adrift. Less like the tow rope was invisible. More like it never existed.

Reacher checked the VW’s fuel gauge. It was almost dry. He was always surprised at the way civilians so often failed to refill their vehicles after driving them. What’s the point in equipment that isn’t maintained and ready for use? He shook his head and changed course for the truck stop he had visited earlier with Rutherford. He chose the pump nearest to the main building and approached from its right side so that no one watching from the road would get a clear view of the passenger seat. Then he locked the car and went inside.

Reacher started with the clothing section. He didn’t usually change twice in a day but conditions were fluid. Operating in the dark was now on the cards so concealment was a priority. He picked out a pair of black pants and a black hoodie, paid, and went to the restroom to change. Then he returned to the clothing area and grabbed a pack of three T-shirts off the shelf. He took a map, a flashlight, and an emergency gas can from the auto section. A twelve-pack of bottled water from the refreshment area. Filled a twenty-ounce cup with the kind of extra-caffeinated coffee truckers drink when they have to drive all night. And at the register he added two cigarette lighters and prepaid for plenty of gas.

Back outside, Reacher stowed his new items. Everything other than the coffee and the gas can went on the floor on the passenger’s side of the car, along with the larger knife and the duct tape he’d bought earlier. He put the smaller knife and the lighters in his pocket and tucked the guns he’d captured into his waistband. He filled the Beetle’s tank and topped off the can. Stowed the can in the trunk. Checked the map to see if there was a way to join the route Marty had taken that morning without driving through the town again. Found one which looped around to the west. Then he folded himself back into the little car and pulled out on to the road.

On the map the road was represented by a thick black line. It suggested something wide. Substantial. Broadly equivalent to the one Reacher had taken on his way to the truck stop. It proved to be a poor example of the cartographer’s art. On the ground the road was little more than a track. Reacher imagined agricultural workers getting it started with horses and carts, then solidifying it with tractors and trailers, until finally the county adopted it. Widened it a little. Straightened it. Added a meagre layer of blacktop. Maybe sent an occasional maintenance crew to tend to the rough, pitted ribbon of scorched asphalt that twisted around sudden bends and snaked through fields and the occasional stand of trees. Reacher took it easy. He wanted to keep gear changes to a minimum. And he didn’t want to end the night in a ditch.

Eventually the track dumped him out on to the route Marty had used, south of the town. The light was fading fast and the traffic, which had been thin earlier in the day, was now non-existent. Reacher checked his mirror every few seconds. There was no sign of a car behind him. No glinting of the setting sun on a windshield. No trace of headlights. Reacher came to a long, straight section so he pushed the gas pedal all the way down to the floor. The engine rattled and growled behind him. The steering wheel twitched and throbbed. He kept his speed up for as long as he dared and hit the brakes going into the next bend. He was a fraction late. The car pitched and squirmed. Its narrow tyres squealed. He emerged into the next straight half on the wrong side of the road, corrected course, and slowed to walking speed. He checked his mirror. There was no sign of a car behind him. He passed the spot where Marty had stopped. Checked his mirror. There was no sign of a car. He saw the entrance to the field he had cut across. There was no sign of a car. He accelerated under a bridge that had once been used to carry water for the crops. No sign of a car. Then the Beetle’s feeble beams picked out the tall shape of the Studebaker sign. Reacher eased off the gas. He wanted his pursuers to be clear what he was doing. Assuming anyone was pursuing him at all.

Reacher steered the Beetle through the gap between the old showroom and the abandoned gas-station kiosk. He stopped the car at a careless angle and climbed out, leaving his door open. He checked the kiosk to make sure Marty wasn’t still shackled to the water pipe then fetched the gas can from the trunk and took the water bottles, the T-shirts, and the flashlight from the passenger’s footwell. He left the passenger door open and made his way to the section of hoarding at the back of the showroom where he had seen the woman and one of the guys emerge when they fled. He tugged at the plywood. It was loose at one side so he enlarged the gap and squeezed through. He stepped into a large space with an arc of tall windows in place of a front wall. They were all boarded up. A range of tall display cases covered one side. The glass was broken and the shelves were bare. Reacher swept the flashlight beam around slowly and picked up a line of footprints in the dust on the floor. He followed them to a door at the far side of the showroom. It led to a flight of wooden steps. They’d seen better days. That was for sure. Their paint had long since worn away. There were cracks in their surface. The handrail sagged when Reacher touched it. He thought twice about going up. What he had in mind could be accomplished from the ground, given sufficient cover. But he was in the mood for something theatrical, not functional.

Reacher kept to the edge nearer the wall, where the steps should be at their strongest. He took them slowly, testing each one carefully before committing his weight. He crept his way to the top, which gave access to a hatch leading to the roof. He heaved the water bottles up and through. Then the gas can. Then he climbed out after them. The surface was flat. It had once been covered with some kind of silver coating. To make it waterproof, and to protect the building from the worst of the sun’s heat. Now the surface was dull and peeling. It was covered with leaves and twigs and assorted pieces of trash that the wind had somehow deposited there. Much of it had blown against the base of the wall that enclosed the whole space. It was three feet tall. Like the rampart on a miniature castle, Reacher thought. Which was just how he was planning to use it.

He crossed to the rear corner at the side of the building next to the kiosk and separated six bottles of water from the pack. He emptied them, then half filled them with gas. He cut two of the T-shirts into strips and fed them into the bottles, leaving plenty hanging over their necks. Then he lined the bottles up at the base of the wall and took one of the lighters out of his pocket.

Reacher’s plan was only missing one component. A target. He sat and waited and no car appeared in the gap below. He began to worry that he was on a wild goose chase. And that he was the goose. He crossed to the stem of the vertical sign and looked for movement on the road. There was none. Then he caught a glimmer of light, a quarter of a mile away. He thought. But he wasn’t sure. He kept watching, willing it to reappear, and he picked up the sound of a vehicle. It was coming from the other direction. A panel van. It was bouncing and swaying along the road. Moving fast. Maybe a plumber, anxious to get home after a long day. Or an electrician. Or a drunk.

The van slowed a little and its lights picked out a familiar shape hunkered down beneath the water bridge. The blue Toyota. It had followed him. But it wasn’t looking to engage. Just to observe. To note where he went. Close enough to see if he switched cars or got a ride with someone else. Too far away for Reacher to incinerate. He kept watching, willing it to change tack. To approach. Another five minutes passed. There was no movement. Then Reacher’s phone buzzed. It was another text. Also from Rutherford. It said the same thing as the first. In. Safe. That meant Reacher could head back, too. He could let the Toyota follow. Creeping along behind him on its electronic tether. The guys in it could file an innocuous report. Inform their bosses about every detail of Reacher’s evening. But he didn’t like that idea. When he sent a message he liked it to be clear and unambiguous. Someone had sent six guys after him. It would be wrong to let the day end with only two of them in the hospital.

Reacher put the lighter back in his pocket and emptied the gas out of the bottles. He eased his way back down the steps to the showroom and crossed to a door in the centre of the back wall. It led to a corridor with another door at the far end, one door on the left, and two evenly spaced on the right. The one on the left opened into a double office. Based on the age of the building Reacher guessed the outer part would have been for a secretary and the larger, inner room for a manager. Or the owner of the franchise. Both offices were empty. The first door on the right led to a small kitchen. There were no appliances or utensils. Just a Formica countertop with enough space for preparing drinks or light snacks.

Next up was a pair of bathrooms. There was a cleaning closet tucked in between them. A broom had been left behind. And a mop. And a bucket. A roll of towels. A bottle of bleach. And some floor polish. Reacher moved on to the door at the end of the corridor. It led to the final section of the building. A car-sized space with a roll-up door to the side, drain holes in the floor, but no vehicle lift and no room for serious tools. Some kind of valet bay, Reacher thought. Where cars had been detailed before going on display. Or got ready for collection. There was a metal cabinet against the far wall. Reacher wrestled it open and found a tub of hand cleaner, long dried up. A tin of wax. Some chalky paste for brightening up whitewall tyres. A bottle of detergent. A tube of tar remover. And a bottle of glass cleaner. Reacher opened it. Sniffed the contents. Nodded to himself. And doubled back to the cleaning closet to collect the bleach. He figured it was time to find out how well he remembered his high school chemistry.

Reacher squeezed out through the gap in the plywood hoarding and made his way back to the Beetle. To the rear. He felt around the inside of the fender until he found the tracking device. He detached it and placed it on the ground directly below the car. He took a last swig of coffee. Removed the lid. Emptied the dregs. Tied the one remaining T-shirt around his head so that it covered his mouth and nose. Then, working at arm’s length, which was further for Reacher than for most people, he poured bleach into the coffee cup until it was half full. He topped it off with glass cleaner. Replaced the lid. Closed the passenger door. Wound down the driver’s window then climbed into the car and started the engine. He held the cup in his left hand so that he could shift and set off slowly back to the road. He drove with no lights, as smoothly as he could manage, in the direction of the town.

The Toyota was still under the bridge. It was tucked in with its passenger side close to the thick brick pillars that must have supported the structure for the last hundred years. Reacher pulled across so the Beetle was tight up against its driver’s side, making it the meat in a sandwich. He pulled the T-shirt away from his face. The driver stared at him. She looked surprised for a moment. Then suspicious. Reacher gestured for her to roll down her window.

‘How are you guys doing?’ Reacher flashed what he hoped was a friendly smile. ‘Surveillance duty can be pretty dull, can’t it? That’s why I’ve brought you something. Should liven things up.’

Reacher removed the lid, stretched his arm across the driver’s lap, and tipped the contents of the cup all over the Toyota’s centre console. Then he wound up his own window and sat for a moment and watched as curly fingers of thin green smoke began to rise and twist inside the other car. High school chemistry. He’d remembered it pretty well. The four occupants squealed and clawed at their eyes then scrabbled for their door handles. The doors on the opposite side slammed into the brick pillars leaving a gap too narrow to escape through. The doors on Reacher’s side were snagged against the Beetle’s running board. Reacher held his position for another moment then pulled away. In his mirror he saw the first pair tumble out. Then the second pair followed, stumbling around with their arms stretched out like horror movie zombies.

Reacher felt like he was getting a peek into the future when he arrived back at Mitch’s apartment. Rutherford was stooped. Hunched. He dragged his feet along the floor as he walked. His eyes seemed dim and unfocused, as if he’d aged fifty years in the course of the evening.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Reacher said.

Rutherford didn’t reply.

‘Where’s Sarah?’ Reacher said.

‘Bathroom.’ Rutherford made it as far as the couch and slumped down.

‘How did you do?’

‘We have some good news,’ Rutherford said. ‘Some OK news. And some absolutely catastrophic news. Which do you want first?’

‘Start with the good.’

Rutherford gestured towards the kitchen. A large grey laptop was sitting on the countertop, connected to an outlet by a twisted grubby wire. ‘We got that.’

‘A computer?’ Reacher said.

‘Not just any computer.’ A hint of defiance crept into Rutherford’s voice. ‘The computer the asshole town lawyers wanted me to pay fourteen thousand dollars to see. Which leads to the OK news. I at least have a future as a cat burglar ahead of me if I can’t get my job back. We got in. We got out. No one had a clue we were ever there.’

‘And the server things?’

‘That’s the bad news. They’re gone. We looked everywhere. Not even the broken glass from the cabinet door was left.’

‘But we’re not giving up, are we, Rusty?’ Sarah emerged from a door to the side of the kitchen. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing a black satin robe that was several sizes too big for her. ‘We’re going to find those damn things. Starting tomorrow. We’ll search the whole state. The whole country, if we have to. They must be somewhere.’

‘What do they look like?’ Reacher said. ‘Could you describe them to me?’

‘I can get you pictures, if you like,’ Rutherford said. ‘Model numbers. Serial numbers. Why?’

‘You should let me find them. You and Sarah should leave town.’

‘No way.’ Rutherford crossed his arms. ‘We’ve been over this before.’

‘We should find the servers, then leave.’ Sands sat on the couch next to Rutherford. ‘They’re portable. We can work on them anywhere. There’s nothing to be gained by staying in harm’s way longer than we have to.’

‘You should leave now,’ Reacher said. ‘Someone wants these things badly enough to send six guys after you. Those six failed. Do you think they’ll give up? No. They’ll send twelve guys. Eighteen. Who knows how many? And if they get their hands on you, how far do you think I don’t know where the servers are will get you?’

Sands adjusted the towel on her head. Rutherford said nothing.

‘You should leave,’ Reacher said. ‘If I can find the servers I’ll get them to the FBI. They can do whatever they need to with this digital fingerprint you think is in one of them. Then when it’s safe, if you want to, you can come back.’

‘No.’ Rutherford shook his head. ‘I don’t care how many people they send. I’m not being driven out of my home. And I’m not handing the servers over to anyone. Not yet. Not if there’s a chance we could develop Cerberus into something that’s worth serious money. I don’t want to sound shallow or greedy, but look at this place. Mitch is ten years younger than me. He had one good idea. I’ve worked my ass off all my life. I deserve my shot.’

‘That’s fair.’ Sands tucked a loose strand of hair back under the towel. ‘You do deserve a shot. You should benefit if Cerberus turns into a success. We both should. But you can’t benefit if you’re dead. So don’t look at it as being driven away. Think of it as a sabbatical. If Reacher finds the servers we could give a copy to the FBI. Have them sign some kind of agreement not to develop any products out of what they find. That’s not what they do anyway. And in the meantime we could do more work with the models. At my place. It’s safe there, and imagine what it would be like driving back here in a brand new Rolls-Royce. Your old boss pleading with you to go back. You telling him to stick his job.’

An electronic chime sounded in the kitchen and Rutherford stood up. ‘That’s my computer. It’s finished its updates. Finally. Let’s see—’ His phone rang. He checked the screen. ‘It’s a local number. I don’t recognize it. Should I answer?’

‘It’s your phone,’ Reacher said.

Rutherford pressed a key and held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello.’ He listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Reacher. ‘It’s Officer Rule. She wants to talk to you.’

‘This is Reacher.’ He stood and walked to the window.

‘We need to talk,’ Officer Rule said. ‘I’ll give you an address. Come alone. The garage will open. Drive in and stay in your car.’

Reacher found the address Officer Rule gave him without any problem. It was a small single family home with a neat but plain yard on a neat but plain street in a sleepy neighbourhood half a mile from the courthouse. The blacktop had been resurfaced within the last year judging by the colour and the lack of severe cracking, but Reacher thought it was strange that there were no sidewalks. The street butted right up to people’s properties. To their lawns or driveways or beds full of medium-size shrubs. Reacher wondered if that was down to the heat. Or the humidity. Or if people in that town were particularly averse to any form of exercise that involved leaving their own yards.

The correct house was easy to spot because it had a police cruiser parked outside along with a late model Honda Civic. Reacher guessed that would be Officer Rule’s personal vehicle. He slowed as he approached, checked his mirrors a final time to be sure no one was following, then turned on to the driveway. The garage door immediately began to clang and clank its way up and when it was all the way open Reacher rolled inside. He killed his engine and the door began its descent. There was an aluminium ladder fixed on the wall on one side and a bicycle suspended by its front wheel from the other. There was a stout shelf covered with gardening fertilizers and weedkillers and tools of various kinds. Reacher had no idea what any of them were for.

Once the door to the driveway was all the way down a personnel door opened on Reacher’s left and Officer Rule stepped through. She was wearing navy sweatpants with a matching T-shirt. Her hair was held back by a gold clip. And she was holding a slim envelope. Reacher opened his door and started to get out but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay put.

‘We’ve got to be quick. My neighbour will be home any minute and I don’t want her to see you leaving.’

‘You think she’s spying on you?’

‘You’ve never lived in a small town, have you?’ A smile spread briefly across her face. ‘Of course she’s spying. Everyone is. Maybe not the way you were thinking but I still want nothing to do with it. Here.’ She passed the envelope to Reacher. ‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’ he said. There was nothing written on it. Nothing printed. No label.

‘A file. A copy, anyway. For the journalist you were asking about.’

‘Why are you giving it to me?’

‘Because I’m sick and tired of it. What happened to her is horrible and no one in the department is doing anything about it. You were a military cop. You showed good instincts with Holly’s scumbag boyfriend. Maybe you can shake something loose. Get some justice for this woman. Her name was Toni Garza. I’ve never even heard Detective Goodyear say it out loud.’

The photographs of the dead journalist were safely tucked inside the envelope, and the envelope was safely tucked beneath the floor mat on the passenger side of Marty’s car. There was always the chance of a random traffic stop and Reacher didn’t want to fall foul of a cop with prying eyes if he got pulled over. But even though the pictures were hidden the images continued to cycle through Reacher’s head as he drove. His having seen them made no difference to Toni Garza. She was still dead. It did make a difference to Reacher, though. He had to assume that whoever had killed Garza was the person chasing Rutherford. Or part of the same organization, at least. And now that he’d seen the level of brutality involved, there was no way he could leave Rutherford alone.

Sands opened the door to Mitch’s apartment when Reacher knocked. She’d dried her hair and styled it and had changed into yoga pants and a loose, pale blue silk shirt. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked. ‘What did this Officer Rule person want with you?’

‘She had some information for me. On the QT. A kind of cop to ex-cop thing. Related to a case I’d asked her about at the station house earlier.’

‘Is it helpful, this information?’

‘Helpful’s not the word I’d use. But it does add perspective.’

Rutherford was in the kitchen, tethered to his computer. Apparently it was showing its age by refusing to operate unless it was attached to an outlet.

‘Is that thing working?’ Reacher said. ‘I need you to find the email Toni Garza sent you. The journalist.’

Rutherford rattled some keys and prodded a square pad and after a minute he gestured for Reacher to come closer.

‘Here it is.’ Rutherford pointed at the screen. ‘Like I said, she was enquiring about property records. For a particular address. No mention of an owner’s name.’

‘What about her second message?’ Reacher said.

Rutherford shook his head. ‘That was a voicemail. I deleted it as soon as I listened to it.’

‘Do you have the address of the property?’ Reacher said. ‘Is it still standing? If someone lives there I want to pay him a visit. Or her. First thing in the morning.’

‘We have to track down the servers in the morning,’ Sands said.

‘Let’s see what I can find,’ Rutherford said. ‘Give me two minutes.’ He pressed and prodded and called up maps and databases, then nodded. ‘Oh, yes. It’s still standing. It’s actually famous. Or notorious. I’ve never seen the street address before. I only know it by its local name. The Spy House. Two Soviet secret agents lived there. Back in the 1950s. Now it’s owned by a businessman. Henry Klostermann.’