The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(52)

‘Can you blame me?’ Rutherford said. ‘I love that car. It’s irreplaceable.’

In the garage Reacher waited for Rutherford to walk around the VW and inspect every inch of paintwork. Then he got down on his knees on the passenger side and peered underneath.

‘What are you doing?’ Rutherford said. ‘Did you drive over something? Tell me you didn’t hit a deer.’

‘I’m looking for tracking devices,’ Reacher said. ‘You do your side. Underneath the car. Along the running boards. Inside the fenders. Anywhere a magnet could stick.’

‘But you checked yesterday. You found a tracker. You said you ditched it.’

‘I was in the army for thirteen years, Rusty. We check. And then we check again. It’s what we do.’

Rutherford shrugged and then worked his way from the front to the back. He came up empty-handed. ‘Nothing on my side. You find anything?’

Reacher leaned across the hood and held out his hand. ‘Another tracker. The same kind. In the same place. And there was this.’ He showed Rutherford a scrap of paper. ‘It was held in place by the magnet.’

Rutherford took the paper and read it out loud. ‘Romeo, Juliet. A bunch of numbers. Eight bells. What does it mean?’

‘Romeo Juliet is R J in the NATO phonetic alphabet. My initials, military style. Reacher, Jack.’

‘I get it,’ Rutherford said. ‘And the numbers? They could be a grid reference. What about eight bells?’

‘That’s noon in Navy time.’

‘Maybe someone wants you to go to this place at noon? But why write it like that?’

‘To show they know my background? To gain my trust? Or intrigue me, perhaps.’

‘What if it’s a trap? You shouldn’t go.’

‘Have you got your phone? Can you figure out where this place is?’

Rutherford tapped his screen then made some swiping and pinching movements. ‘Reacher? Don’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know about this place. It’s an old factory. Just outside town. It’s been abandoned for years. Growing up, there were all kinds of rumours. No one who went in was ever seen again. I never dared go.’

The Spy House was hidden behind a wall. The wall was built of stone, eight feet high, and topped with broken glass. The driveway was blocked by a gate. Made of iron. Also eight feet high. The kind that slides to the side so there are no hinges. No join in the centre, either. No weak spots at all. This particular one was plain. No nonsense. No ornamentation. Just thick vertical bars. It reminded Reacher of a grate covering a giant drain or a sewer. You’d need a tank to knock it down. The bars were too close together for anyone but a child to squeeze through. Not a welcoming proposition. And there was a sign mounted at eye level to complete the effect. It read No Photographs. No Trespassing. No Interviews without an Appointment.

Rutherford pointed to the sign. ‘Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe we should have called ahead.’ Then he wound down his window and pressed a call button on a keypad set on a pole.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice answered after half a minute. It was quiet and cold like a whisper from a tomb.

‘Good morning. My name’s Rusty Rutherford. Is Mr Klostermann available?’

‘Can you read, Mr Rutherford?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘Then you should already know that Mr Klostermann is not available.’

Reacher leaned towards the open window. ‘Actually we don’t know that. Your sign says you need an appointment for an interview. We’re not here for an interview. So we don’t need an appointment.’

There was a pause. ‘Then what are you here for? There are no maintenance visits scheduled for today.’

‘We’re following up on something that will be of interest to Mr Klostermann. Considerable interest. To do with some correspondence from a journalist. About property records for his house.’

‘Please wait.’ A faint electronic buzz told them they hadn’t been disconnected, then after three minutes the woman’s voice returned. ‘Mr Klostermann will see you. When the gate opens drive directly to the front of the house.’

Beyond the gate the site was divided by a line of mature trees. Cypresses and sycamores. The area to the left of them was rough. Unfinished. There were no structures, and no plants taller than stalks of coarse, scrubby grass. The house was to the right. It had an attached two-car garage. Next to that was a covered porch. It was raised up on a stone base and plain white pillars stretched up to support its roof. The rest of the building was finished with wood siding. Long horizontal strips. Painted olive green. There were four windows on the ground floor. Four on the first. Each had shutters. All were open, pinned back against the wall, finished in a darker shade of green. The roof was covered in cream-coloured shingles. A chimney extended six feet above the ridge on the far left.

Rutherford followed the driveway towards the garage, then pulled into a parking area in front of the house and killed the engine. Reacher climbed out. Rutherford followed him and together they climbed the three steps and crossed the porch. Reacher rapped on the door. A woman answered. She was in her late twenties, wearing a knee-length black dress with a white apron. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun. She was thin, almost malnourished, but she moved with effortless grace, like a ballerina.