The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(82)

He was dispensable. The housekeeper had made that clear.

Reacher waited another five minutes to see if anyone else tried to get in, then dropped the hood into place and climbed back inside the car. He started the engine to get the air going and Wallwork called him before he could shift into Drive.

‘News?’ Reacher said.

‘Some,’ Wallwork said. ‘But nothing from Fisher. This is about Klostermann. Some background on his family. On his father. Henry senior. Or Heinrich, as he was originally called. He did immigrate from Germany. That’s confirmed. We have him getting processed through the Port of Entry in New York in 1946, then showing up in Tennessee. He got married in fifty, and little Henry was born the same year. Heinrich bought the Spy House in fifty-two, directly from the spies, and lived there until his death in 1960. Not very exciting, all told. Nothing that sounds like it could be worth ten grand.’

‘He went to fifteen in the end.’

‘What did you do? Threaten to break his legs?’

‘Told him there was a supplement if he wanted the only copy.’

‘Nice move, Reacher. If he really wanted it for family history research, why would he care if there were copies? Let alone pay through the nose to stop any getting made.’

‘Right. It only makes sense if he thinks there’s something secret hidden on it. Something he never wants to see the light of day.’

‘Meaning he’s working for the Russians. Please God.’

‘Indeed,’ Reacher said. ‘But listen. After I left Klostermann’s place a bunch of guys showed up there for a meeting. Could you run their licence plates? They could be connected.’

‘I shouldn’t,’ Wallwork said. ‘But I will. I’ll call you back when I’ve got something.’





TWENTY-FIVE





Reacher was feeling pretty good when he hung up the phone and started back to the motel. He figured the server was where it needed to be. The Russian technicians would get to work on it and everything would fall into place from there. The beginning of the end was surely under way. But the further he drove, the more unsettled he became. He could feel a scratch at the back of his brain. It was nagging at him. Telling him something was wrong. Two things, in fact. The first he couldn’t put his finger on. Yet. It had to do with something he’d seen at Klostermann’s house. Wallwork had triggered a connection when they spoke. It was there, but not in focus yet. Like a photograph from an old Polaroid camera. Vague and indistinct at first, but definitely something. All Reacher could do was wait. The image would sharpen up. His brain just needed time to join all the dots.

The second thing was already clear. It reminded him of a French legend his mother used to tell. About an ancient soothsayer who could catch a person’s words and scatter them on the surface of a magic lake. At first the words would all look the same. They would all float and bob around. Then the true ones would soak up the water and sink, leaving only the lies at the top for all to see. In this case the false words belonged to Klostermann. He’d spoken them the first time they’d met and they were still there, afloat in Reacher’s memory. My father fled to the States from Germany in the 1930s. But Wallwork had checked the immigration records. Heinrich Klostermann arrived in the United States in 1946. After World War II. Not before. Not the kind of detail a person would forget. So either Henry Klostermann misspoke or misremembered. Or he had something entirely different to hide.

Reacher was almost at the truck stop when his phone rang. It was Wallwork again.

‘News?’ Reacher said.

‘Nothing from Fisher,’ Wallwork said. ‘I’m calling back about those licence plates. That was an interesting group Klostermann met with. The guy in the S-Class is a neighbour. He owns a bunch of buildings in town, plus a heap of land outside it. One of the other guys is a lighting designer. One does sound systems. And the generator guy speaks for himself. If you ask me, Klostermann is putting together some kind of outdoor concert. Maybe it’s a new venture for him. Maybe it’s a hobby. Or a one-off thing, to celebrate some kind of event or anniversary.’

‘What about the guy on the bike?’

‘He’s an all-round disaster zone. His jacket’s two inches thick. I can’t imagine him doing anything useful. Directing traffic at the event, maybe? Or sticking up posters?’

Reacher was quiet for a moment. ‘Have you got an address for him?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘It looked like they kicked him to the kerb. He’ll likely have the loosest lips of the bunch. I have nothing to do until we hear from Fisher. I was thinking I could have a conversation with the guy. See what comes out if we look at Klostermann from a different angle.’

‘Could be useful, I guess. Obviously I shouldn’t tell you. So you didn’t hear it from me.’

Reacher thanked him then hung up, called Sands back, and told her what he was planning to do. She didn’t respond right away.

‘Everything OK?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Sands said. ‘It’s just Rusty.’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Gone down with a migraine. I knew he would. This always happens when he works too hard. He won’t take breaks. He won’t eat. Won’t drink. And then, bang. He’s face down on the floor.’