The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(81)

Klostermann looked annoyed. He pressed the button again. He waited. Nothing happened.

‘I apologize,’ Klostermann said. ‘Anya must be occupied in some way. Please. Allow me.’

Klostermann crossed to the door and led the way back along the corridor. As they approached the far end Reacher heard the housekeeper talking. He figured she was on the phone. Her voice was louder than before, and her tone was even colder.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You cannot. You’re an hour early. You are to leave and come back at the correct time. I don’t care. I’m not interested. That’s not Mr Klostermann’s problem. If you cannot follow simple instructions perhaps he doesn’t need your services at all.’

Klostermann continued, apparently oblivious of the one-sided conversation, until he arrived at the front door. He opened it, waited for Reacher to step through, and closed it again without saying another word.

Reacher knew he had to be out of the house for the plan to move forward, but he still wanted to know what Klostermann was doing. Communicating, he hoped. Sending a message up his chain of command: Server recovered. Verification in progress. Followed by an order for the team in the field: Mission Accomplished. Stand down. And a final instruction to the specialist from Moscow: Presence no longer required. Return to base.

Reacher drove up to the gate and while he waited for it to open he pulled out his phone. He dialled Wallwork’s number. Told him the server had been delivered and asked for an update on Klostermann. Wallwork had no new information. He promised to let Reacher know the moment he heard anything. Or, more importantly, received word from Fisher that her cell was being pulled out. Reacher drove on. The ball had been slow and over the plate, he thought. He had taken his swing. Made good contact. Now it was in the air and there was nothing to do but wait and see if it cleared the fence.

Or maybe there was one thing he could do. Klostermann had mentioned a meeting. He hadn’t stated that it would be at the house, but that was the implication Reacher had taken. He had said prepare for. Not go to. And someone had showed up an hour early for something. Which might be completely unconnected. Or mean a bunch of Klostermann’s contacts were about to arrive. Maybe to talk about flower arranging at the local church. Maybe to talk about something else. Not the server, though, Reacher figured. The person who had shown up early was dispensable. The housekeeper had made that clear. And the Russians would only allow members of their trusted inner circle to be involved with something so valuable. But whatever the subject, Reacher figured it would be worth an hour of his time to see if anyone showed up. And if so, who. Wallwork was struggling to come up with fresh intel on Klostermann. Maybe it was time for Reacher to gather his own.

There was nowhere Reacher could reasonably conceal himself and the car, so he pulled over to the side of the road and turned on his blinkers. He judged the location carefully. Humans have a subconscious tendency to infer associations based on physical proximity. You see a guy standing at a crosswalk, you assume he wants to cross the street. Reacher didn’t want to be so close to Klostermann’s house that it looked like he was waiting outside it. He wanted to appear unconnected, beyond the intangible boundary linking him to the place. But neither did he want to be too far away. It wouldn’t help his cause if he was unable to get a clear look at Klostermann’s guests.

If he had any.

Reacher felt under the dashboard to make sure he could locate the hood release lever. He called Sands to let her know what was happening. Then he leaned his head against the rest.

Nothing stirred for half an hour. Then a mail truck trundled past. A minute later a woman went by in a silver SUV. Neither driver paid Reacher any attention. Nothing else moved. Reacher sat tight until he figured he had five minutes until people would start arriving for Klostermann’s meeting. If it was happening at all. Then he climbed out, lifted the hood, and pretended to examine the engine. His face and head were hidden. And he had a clear view of Klostermann’s driveway along the passenger side of the car.

Nothing moved for seven minutes. Then a Mercedes rolled up. A sedan. It was long and black and shiny. Reacher made a note of the licence plate and watched it approach Klostermann’s house. It stopped at the gate. An arm in a white shirt sleeve stretched out of the driver’s window. Aiming for the intercom, Reacher thought. But the guy hit four keys, not one. He was entering a code. The gate slid aside and the car moved forward and headed for the parking area in front of the house. The next vehicle to arrive was a Dodge Ram. It was blood red, and even shinier. The driver used the intercom, waited for the gate, and drove inside. After that an F150 showed up. Then a white panel van with Gerrard’s Generators – Power 2 U painted on the side in jagged letters. Both their drivers used the intercom, too. Finally a motorcycle rattled into sight. It was some kind of customized machine with flames painted on the fuel tank, tall wide handlebars, and pegs for the rider’s feet set way out in front. The guy sitting on it had black boots. Black leather pants. A black leather vest with a picture of a giant spider stitched into the back. A pair of round, mirrored sunglasses. And a Stars and Stripes bandana in place of a helmet. He pulled up short of the gate and took a phone out of his vest pocket. This was the guy who had been early, Reacher thought. Now he was late. The guy hit a button then raised the phone to his ear. Held it there for thirty seconds. Then lowered it, jabbed a button, and jammed it back into his pocket. He pulled the bike into the tightest turn he could manage. Revved the engine a few times. Then released the clutch and screeched away. Smoke poured from his back wheel and the tyre left a long wide strip of rubber on the asphalt.