The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(102)

Reacher hustled across to the steps. He got all the way down and saw someone beyond the first door, hunched over, with her ear to the second. It was Klostermann’s housekeeper. Back from raising the alarm. No doubt wondering about the fate of her comrades.

‘You’re wasting your time.’ Reacher stepped through the doorway. ‘They’re all dead. Your agent’s been caught. So do the smart thing. Give up.’

The housekeeper turned around. Her mouth gaped open. Her eyes stretched wide. She pressed herself back and at the same time she pulled the pin from her hair. Reacher moved closer and she jabbed at him, slashing back and forth. He swotted her arm aside, knocking the pin from her grip. Then he grabbed her by the neck with his left hand, turned the wheel with his right, and opened the door. He waited for Fisher to come out and get to the top of the steps. Then he shoved the housekeeper through the doorway.

Maybe she fell down the shaft. Maybe she didn’t. Reacher didn’t feel the need to check. He just closed the door and spun the wheel.

Reacher and Fisher sat on the hood of the red Chevy and waited for Sands to arrive. She appeared after three minutes, pulling up in the same spot she’d used earlier. She got out. Hugged Fisher. Helped her into the passenger seat. Then came back to talk to Reacher.

‘I should take Agent Fisher to the hospital,’ she said. ‘You coming?’

‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘There’s something I have to do here.’

‘And after that? Will I see you again?’

Reacher said nothing.

‘If our paths don’t cross I wish you luck, Reacher.’

‘Good luck to you, too,’ Reacher said. ‘I hope Cerberus pays off for you. I hope you get your boat.’

‘Thanks. I hope you get whatever it is you need, too.’ Sands came closer. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Reacher’s cheek. Then she turned towards the car.

‘Sarah?’ Reacher took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Give this to Rusty for me? I don’t need it any more.’





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.