The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(13)

‘You said you had somewhere to be?’

‘I do. But I can wait a while to get there. No need to be inflexible. I hear it’s bad for your health.’

The same time Reacher was talking to Rutherford, two people were trying to call Speranski. One on a burner cell. One on the secure phone he’d used earlier. Neither call got through. Not right away. The signal was blocked. Because Speranski had gone down to the generator room. Just for a couple of minutes. He wanted to see the place one last time before his housekeeper cleaned it up. That couldn’t wait much longer, he knew. Some of the blood was already more than two weeks old. The subject had held out a long time. She had yielded some critical information. She’d told them about Rutherford. What was in his possession. Which was gold, professionally. And personally, she’d made him feel young again. He didn’t get to do much wet work these days. He missed it. He looked at the dark pools on the floor. The droplets sprayed up the walls. The manacles. The tools lined up on the stainless steel trolley. The cleaner patches where the suitcases had been. He relived his favourite moments. And smiled. Normally he didn’t know when his next opportunity would arise. Or who it would be with. But this time he knew both.

It would be very soon.

And it would be with the traitor. As soon as she was no longer useful.

The first phone to ring when he got back to ground level was the burner. It was a short call. From a guy a short distance away. A report. First, facts. Then opinions. Brief and concise. The way Speranski liked it. Which meant that when the secure phone rang a few moments later, Speranski already knew what the guy at the end of the line was going to say: ‘Rutherford got away.’

‘OK,’ Speranski replied. ‘So we try again.’

‘We may not. The Center is concerned. The failed attempt caused a spectacle. And Rutherford had help. We don’t know who from, or what size of force is involved. Trying again might draw more attention. It could be counter-productive.’

‘So the Center is proposing we do what? Nothing?’

‘The final decision has not yet been made. Watch and wait is the current stance. See if the item surfaces on its own. And if it does, see if it’s actually dangerous.’

Speranski took the phone away from his ear and fought the urge to smash it into a million pieces. This was the worst part of working in the field. Having to deal with spineless cretins who hid behind their desks all day. Who never put their own necks on the line and then gambled with the lives of the people who did. And then were too timid to take a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to turn the tables on the enemy even when it was handed to them on a plate.

He lifted the phone to his ear again. ‘You need to get back to them. Right now. Convince them that watching and waiting is not an option. The item may never surface. That’s true. And if it does, it may not be dangerous. That’s also true. But neither of those things matters. If the FBI doesn’t find it here, what will they do? Give up? No. They’ll keep on hunting. At the source. Until they’re successful. Which could be before the mission is complete. Which would be a disaster. And even if it was afterwards, it would be the end of … the agent concerned. Which, obviously, I will never allow to happen.’

‘I understand. And I agree. But the Center is worried about exposure. About attracting attention. Tipping our hand.’

‘Tell them there’s no danger of that happening. The interference was a one-off. A fluke. A drifter, some kind of ex-military cop read the situation and stepped in. He won’t do it again. He’s been told to leave town.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I’ve operated in this town for more than fifty years. I have contacts.’

‘Are they reliable?’

‘This is coming direct from the police department.’

‘OK. That’s good. But what if the drifter doesn’t leave town?’

‘Then I’ll take local action.’

‘Like you did with the journalist?’

‘Exactly like that.’

‘All right. I’ll talk to them. Try to get them to start surveillance up again, at least.’

‘That’s not enough. We have to take Rutherford, and fast. They don’t understand what it takes to whip up the hysteria. I’ve used everything. Local press. Whisper campaigns. A whole army of bots on social media. It’s holding for now, but it can’t last. The bubble will burst. Something else will happen and take the spotlight. Rutherford needs to disappear while everyone in town still hates him.’

Rutherford led the way to his favourite diner. It was on the ground floor of an office building on the main street, three blocks from the coffee shop. Reacher wasn’t encouraged by the exterior but he had to admit that the designer had done a credible job with the inside. The colour scheme was pure fifties with plenty of chrome, and the booths along both sides of the room all had their own mini jukebox. There was an old-fashioned pay phone on the back wall, and a line of Formica-covered four-tops down the centre. The side walls were covered with giant paintings of cars. They were all convertibles. Cadillacs and Chevys. Turquoise and pink. Speeding down scenic highways or parked by snow-topped mountains and sparkling lakes with happy nuclear families spilling out with picnic sets and footballs.

There were no other customers in the place so they helped themselves to a booth midway along the right-hand wall. It was below a turquoise Chevrolet, where Reacher could keep an eye on the doors to the street and the kitchen. A moment later a waitress emerged. She smiled at Reacher as she approached but her expression cooled when she saw who his dining companion was. Reacher ordered two cheeseburgers and coffee. Rutherford ordered one, then they sat in silence until the waitress delivered their mugs.