The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(80)

‘That’s music to my ears. Where should I come to collect it?’

‘I’ll bring it to you.’

‘Oh. OK. When? How soon can you be here?’

‘How soon can you get our money?’

‘It’s already here. I have it in my safe.’

‘Then I’d say tomorrow? Or possibly Saturday. Sunday at the latest.’

‘What’s wrong with today? This morning? Right now?’

‘Can’t do today. That’s too soon. We still need to figure out how to make a copy. You need special equipment. Servers aren’t like laptops, you know. You can’t just turn them on. They’re more like giant external hard drives. You need computers and networks and software. And now that Mr Rutherford is no longer working for the town he doesn’t have access to the same facilities. He’ll have to beg a favour from a friend. There’s someone in Nashville who might be able to do it. If not we’ll have to go to Knoxville.’

‘Why do you need to make a copy?’

‘Well, I guess we don’t need to. More like want to. You said there are some of the town’s records on there. They could be interesting. And if there are any problems getting the digital archive back online after the ransomware thing is resolved, Mr Rutherford was thinking he could donate it to the town. To show there are no hard feelings.’

‘That’s very generous of him. But here’s the thing, Mr Reacher. As I told you yesterday, I’m not a patient man. I hate having to wait for anything. So how about this? Bring the server to me right away. Or let me come and collect it. I don’t mind which. And if there is any problem with the digital archive further down the line, I’ll donate the thing to the town in Mr Rutherford’s name. What do you say?’

‘I don’t know. Mr Rutherford was kind of looking forward to seeing what’s on it. Finding out more about the history of the town. Now he has time on his hands.’

‘Have you ever seen these kinds of records?’

‘No, I can’t say I have.’

‘They’re dull as ditchwater. Believe me. Unless you have a vested interest, as I do because of my father, they’re deadly boring. Blow-by-blow accounts of arguments over how many chickens people should be allowed to keep in their yards. Whether people were permitted to sell wet fish from their houses. Things like that. So Mr Rutherford really wouldn’t be missing out on anything if you brought it straight over. And I’d be very grateful.’

‘How grateful?’

‘Say, an extra thousand dollars?’

Reacher said nothing.

‘An extra two thousand?’ Klostermann said.

‘Make it an extra five thousand,’ Reacher said, ‘and it’ll be yours inside thirty minutes.’

Reacher pulled the second cloned server out of the closet, loaded it into the trunk of Marty’s car, and set out on his own towards Klostermann’s house. He felt the way he imagined a baseball player would in the bottom of the ninth. At bat, score tied, two outs, two strikes against. One chance left to win the game without going to extra innings. At which point the other side would bring out a pinch hitter. A new guy, signed from another league. Not in the stadium in time to make the starting lineup. Unknown. Untested. But with a big reputation.

Reacher arrived at the mouth of the driveway. He hit the intercom button, announced himself, waited for the gate to roll aside, then drove through and parked in the spot he’d used the day before. He climbed the steps and crossed the porch. The housekeeper was waiting for him at the front door. She was wearing the same style of black dress. The same apron. Her hair was up in the same kind of bun. She greeted him in her quiet, cold voice and led the way down the corridor, gliding effortlessly past the portraits, across the tile, to the door at the end on the right. She knocked, opened it, and stood aside to let Reacher enter. Klostermann was already inside, in his armchair. He was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and a narrow black tie. His hair was under a little more control that day. He looked like he was ready for a funeral.

Klostermann put his newspaper down and got to his feet. ‘Is that it?’ He nodded towards the black box under Reacher’s arm.

‘As promised,’ Reacher said.

‘Excellent. Put it on the table.’

Reacher set the server down next to a bowl of small white flowers. He’d seen some like them before, but not in real life. In a book he’d read. In history class. Years ago.

Klostermann retrieved a package from the side of his chair. It was made of brown paper and its top was folded over like a carry-out bag from a restaurant. He handed it to Reacher. ‘Your fee. It’s all there. Including your bonus.’

Reacher looked inside. The bag held three bundles of banknotes. Each was about an inch thick. Made up of crisp new twenties. Two hundred and fifty in each one. Making each bundle worth five thousand dollars. And weighing about the same as a decent burger. Reacher took out the cash, put each bundle in a different pocket, and handed the bag back to Klostermann.

‘Remember your promise,’ Reacher said. ‘Any problems with the digital archive getting back online, you donate the server to the town. In Rutherford’s name.’

‘You have my word,’ Klostermann said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important meeting to prepare for.’ He took a small grey box from his pocket. It looked like a garage door opener. He pressed its button. Waited. And nothing happened.