The Sentinel

TWENTY-NINE

It was the calm before the storm, Reacher thought. The gate had clanked shut behind Sands and Fisher, leaving the place quiet and peaceful. But it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Swarms of FBI agents would soon race in to tear the house apart. And another crew would be sent underground. To the bunker. To bring up the bodies. And with them would come questions. The kind Reacher didn’t want to be around to answer. So he knew he would have to hurry.

Reacher took out Klostermann’s burner phone. It was a basic model. An old design. Presumably cheap. Which made sense, given it had been bought with no long-term future in mind. It meant there was no fingerprint ID. No facial recognition. Just an old-school PIN. Four digits. Ten thousand permutations. No time to try them all. So Reacher scooped up some dirt. Ground it into dust. Sprinkled a little over the keys. Blew the excess away. Held the phone sideways to the light. And found that none had stuck. He tried again with a little more dirt. None stuck. The technique gave him no help this time. But it had told him something at the gate. Klostermann had used 0420. Adolf Hitler’s birthday. A subtle reinforcement for the people he wanted to convince he was a Nazi. Which he wasn’t. But his choice did reveal a possible affinity with dates. So what would Klostermann pick? The opposite of a Nazi? Reacher tried 0505, for Karl Marx. The phone buzzed angrily and refused to unlock. He tried 0422, for Lenin. The phone refused to unlock. He tried 1107, for Trotsky. The phone refused. Then Reacher refined his thinking. Klostermann had been born in 1950. He grew up during the height of the Cold War. His parents were Soviet agents. His uncles were Soviet agents. Who, from that era, could inspire lifelong loyalty? Reacher entered 1218. Joseph Stalin’s birthday.

The phone unlocked.

Reacher worked his way through the phone’s menus until he found a list of received calls. There were four different numbers. Three of them each appeared only once. The other, four times. Reacher started with it. He highlighted it, and hit call. It was answered after three rings.

‘Yes?’ It was a man’s voice. Reacher was fairly sure he recognized it. He thought he heard a door close in the background, as well.

‘A word to the wise,’ Reacher said. ‘Henry Klostermann is dead. FBI agents are on their way to search his house. ETA, twenty minutes.’

Reacher hung up and started walking towards the house. He crossed the porch. Went inside. Crunched over the pieces of shattered door frame. Made his way down the corridor. Past the photographs. And continued all the way to the end. He knew the last door on the right was the living room, which gave him three to pick from. He tried the last on the left. And found what he was looking for straight away. Klostermann’s study.

The room was square with windows on two sides. There was a desk in front of the one to the right, facing into the room. It was big and oppressive, made of polished mahogany, with a green leather inlay on top. Behind it was a green leather captain’s chair with a row of heavy brass studs around its edge. There was a bookcase next to the door. And a line of waist-high filing cabinets against the fourth wall. Hanging above them was a framed portrait, in oils. It was of Stalin. He was wearing his World War II military uniform. Reacher took it down. There was a different image on its other side. Adolf Hitler. Reacher replaced the picture with the Nazi leader facing out.

Reacher checked the drawers in the desk and the cabinets. All were locked. He considered breaking in, but decided against it. He would have been interested in any historical artefacts unique to Klostermann’s life and times, but the FBI was welcome to the job of sifting through papers and documents. He looked behind the books on the shelf out of pure habit, found nothing, then settled in next to the bookcase to wait.

Five minutes passed in silence, then Reacher heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone medium weight, he thought. Wearing sturdy shoes. Trying to be discreet, but also in a hurry. The sound came closer. It paused outside the door. The handle turned. The door began to swing. Slowly. Its leading edge moved about a foot, then stopped. The muzzle of a gun appeared in the gap. A whole barrel came into view. It belonged to a revolver. A Smith & Wesson Model 60. The first stainless steel revolver made anywhere in the world. Designed to avoid the danger of corrosion when carried close to the body. Not police issue. The hand holding it became visible. Followed by a wrist. Protruding from the cuff of a white shirt beneath a grey suit sleeve.

Reacher kicked the door. It slammed shut, crushing the wrist. The guy screamed. He dropped the gun, pulled his hand free, and jumped back. Reacher jerked the door all the way open. And saw Detective Goodyear cowering against the far wall, clutching his forearm. Reacher stepped into the corridor. Grabbed Goodyear by the lapels. Dragged him into the study. And flung him head first into the wall beneath the window. Then he leaned on the edge of the desk and waited for the guy to roll over and pull himself into a half-sitting position.

‘I guess you’ve answered one question,’ Reacher said. ‘The one I asked you at the courthouse when we first met. About why you were so desperate to sweep Rutherford’s attempted kidnapping under the rug.’

Goodyear didn’t respond.

‘That means there’s one question left,’ Reacher said. ‘Why were you helping Klostermann? Money? Blackmail? What?’

‘Principle,’ Goodyear spat back. ‘Mr Klostermann was working to save our country. Our race. I was proud to help him.’

‘Stand up.’

Goodyear didn’t move.

Reacher pushed away from the desk.

Goodyear hauled himself to his feet.

‘Take off your jacket,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear slipped his arms out of his sleeves and dropped the coat.

‘Open your shirt.’

Goodyear undid his buttons, one by one, starting at the top, working down to his waist.

‘All the way,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear slowly pulled the sides of the shirt apart. Reacher looked at his chest. At the left side. Where there was a tattoo. Of an eagle. With a swastika.

‘You might have heard that I met some of your so-called brothers the other night,’ Reacher said. ‘They all resigned from your little band. With orders to explain that anyone who didn’t would get their house burned down. With them inside.’

‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘Don’t do that. Please. I’ll resign.’

‘You will. But not just yet. Your buddies told me Klostermann was planning to recreate Hitler’s Cathedral of Light. They were too stupid to understand what that was. I’m hoping you have a better grasp of history.’

‘You’re damn right I do. I helped Mr Klostermann with every stage of the planning.’

‘So you know about bringing people in from all the other states.’

‘Damn right.’

‘So you have contacts. With similar sad-ass groups in other places.’

‘You can stop right there. I’ll go to jail before I betray my brothers.’

‘Refuse, and jail will be the least of your worries. But let me ask you one thing about your cause. You shared it with Klostermann?’

‘Correct.’

‘Henry Klostermann was your brother?’

Goodyear nodded.

‘He wasn’t your brother,’ Reacher said. ‘He was a Russian agent. He was playing you for a fool. Using you every step of the way. I bet he laughed himself to sleep every night, thinking about how dumb you are.’

‘Nice try, Reacher. But I’ll never believe that.’

‘That picture.’ Reacher pointed at the wall above the filing cabinets. ‘Was it always up when you came here?’

Goodyear stood and threw out a sharp salute. He winced as he tried to straighten his hand. ‘Always.’

‘Take it down. See what’s on the other side.’

Goodyear stayed where he was. ‘Touching it would be sacrilege.’

‘I’ll do it then.’ Reacher stepped forward, but Goodyear darted in front of him.

‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘If anyone’s going to, it should be me.’

Goodyear paused in front of the picture as if saying a prayer. Then he stretched out and took hold of it. He used both hands. One on each side of the frame. Lifted it down. Paused again. And turned it over.

‘You know who that is, right?’ Reacher said. ‘Klostermann’s true idol. Henry Klostermann dedicated his entire life to destroying everything you believe in. And he tricked you into helping him. The journalist who was murdered? Toni Garza? Klostermann killed her. Because she was going to expose him. Only you buried the investigation. Because he told you to. You helped him get away with it.’

Goodyear shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,’ Reacher said. ‘The FBI will explain it to you. I wasn’t lying when I told you the agents are on their way. You can stay and help them round up the other groups. Which would be doing your brothers a favour, honestly. It would stop anyone with a double-digit IQ being able to exploit them. Or if you don’t like that idea we can go to your house.’ Reacher pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. ‘We can pick up some gas on the way.’

Goodyear sank back down on to the floor. ‘No. I’ll stay.’

‘Take out your cuffs,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear pulled them from a leather pouch on his belt.

‘Secure yourself to a filing cabinet. To the drawer handle.’

Goodyear did what he was told.

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Two last things before I go.’ First he took the painting and smashed it over Goodyear’s head, leaving the frame hanging like a necklace. Then Reacher punched Goodyear in the face. Normally he would have used his left hand. Maybe dialled back the power a little too. But making an exception seemed the right thing to do.

Reacher left Klostermann’s burner phone on his desk. There were four numbers in its call log. Goodyear’s, which was accounted for. Marty’s, which was a dead end. Literally. But that still left two for the FBI to track down. Two more crooked cops, maybe. Or two more suitcase carriers. Whatever they turned out to be, they needed to be stopped.

He checked that Goodyear was breathing. Then made his way out of the house and across to the red Chevy. He figured he would drive to the truck stop. Leave the car in a parking lot. Walk over to the gas station. To the truck side. And go wherever the first driver willing to take him was heading.

He pulled up to the gate. Waited for it to slide to the side. Drove through. And stopped dead. A car had pulled in front of him. From out of nowhere, it seemed. Certainly not the road ahead. It must have been up on the grass verge, parallel to the wall.

Reacher waited for the car to move. It was small. A late model Honda Civic. A woman was driving. She was wearing plain clothes. Which was why it took Reacher a moment to recognize her. It was Officer Rule.

Rule recognized Reacher at the same moment. She climbed out of the Honda and walked around to Reacher’s door. He rolled down his window.

‘Reacher?’ Rule said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Leaving,’ Reacher said. ‘In fact, I was never here. You?’

Rule was silent for a moment, as if she was trying to decide whether to answer. ‘I followed someone here.’

‘Detective Goodyear?’

Rule nodded.

‘Why?’ Reacher said.

‘I figured something weird was going on. Something wrong.’

‘There was. How did you know?’

Rule shrugged. ‘Call it a cop’s instinct. I saw Goodyear take a call on a cell phone, then hurry into his office. Only it wasn’t his regular phone. We’ve all had to use our own while the department phones have been down, and I know he has an iPhone. The latest kind. But several times now he’s used this other one. It’s old. And he’s often seemed kind of furtive. I’ve always ignored it before. Then I thought, this is it. I have to know what his deal is.’

‘This was at the courthouse, where he took the call?’

‘Right.’

‘So why aren’t you in uniform? And how come you’re using your personal vehicle?’

‘I was at the courthouse to hand in my notice. I quit. I’m sick of the place. I mean, think about it. You’re a stranger. Drifting through town. And you cared more about stopping crime here than our detective. You’ve already helped me more than anyone in the department ever did. I’ve had enough. It’s time for a fresh start somewhere else.’

‘Your letter. Will anyone have read it yet?’

‘I doubt it. Why?’

‘You might want to get it back.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘The town has a vacancy for a new detective.’

‘We only have one detective position. And it’s taken.’

‘Not any more. Goodyear just resigned.’

‘Are you serious? Why?’

‘Call it a personal crisis. So he’ll have to be replaced. They could bring someone in from the outside, I guess. But someone local would be better. Someone who cares about the town. Who has a string of recent arrests to her name. You know anyone like that?’

Rule thought for a moment. ‘Time for me to get back to the courthouse. Make that letter disappear.’ She got halfway around the hood of her car then turned back to Reacher. ‘What about you? Where are you going?’

‘I have no particular place in mind.’

‘How about my place? You know where it is. It’s Friday evening. We could get some carry out. I have some beer. Some wine.’

‘What about your neighbours? They would be bound to see me.’

‘Screw them. What are they going to do? Mess with the town’s soon-to-be only detective?’