The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25)(91)
‘I’m going to cut this tie,’ she said, sliding the knife blade between Reacher’s wrists and the plasticuff. ‘Do anything stupid and I’ll break your finger.’
‘I’ve already done something stupid,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ve come here with you.’
Fisher freed his wrists and tied them one by one low down to the chair’s back legs. When she was done she moved aside. The Moscow guy took her place. He checked the knots. Each one in turn. Carefully. And when he was satisfied he turned to the woman at the table. The server was lined up next to her laptop, and another pair of cables snaked down from the back of it and into the portable cabinet.
‘How does it look?’ he said.
The woman nodded. ‘Genuine. No doubt about that.’
‘Good. Call me the second you find the document. Or when you’re certain it’s not there.’ Then he turned to Fisher. ‘And you – watch Mr Reacher. Carefully. He and I will need to have a conversation. Whatever the outcome.’
Fisher waited for the door to close behind the Moscow guy then sat down next to the woman at the table. Reacher could see the laptop screen between their heads. It was like when Sands had searched the original server at their motel. A succession of images, presumably documents and records of various kinds. Reacher could see official-looking scrolls and seals on some but others looked more like handwritten letters and notes. Most of the words were impossible to make out. They were too small. Too spidery and intricate. And he was too far away. Though he doubted they would be any more interesting if they were legible. To him, anyway. The Russians clearly had a different reason for reading them. They didn’t just want to confirm that the server was genuine. They wanted to know if the incriminating detail was there. If it wasn’t they were free and clear. There would be nothing that could help the FBI expose the spy. And they’d have no further use for Reacher. If it was there, though, that would be a different story. There would be a chance for Fisher to save The Sentinel. And then the question of copies would come into play. As in, had Reacher kept any. Which was presumably the reason the Moscow guy had changed the plan. Why he had wanted to bring Reacher to the motel. That, and his desire to stamp his authority on the team. Neither of which amounted to an attractive proposition, from Reacher’s point of view.
Fisher kept up a constant stream of conversation. She talked about TV shows. Movies. Celebrity gossip. She was trying to bond with the computer woman, Reacher guessed. To appear friendly. Non-threatening. Not the kind of person who needed to be kept in the dark. Not the kind who would steal a vital secret. The woman paid her no attention. She was too focused on her screen and her mouse. She had fallen into a steady rhythm. She clicked an entry on a list. An image opened. She studied it for about a second, then she closed it. She clicked on the next entry. Studied the image for a second. Closed it. Clicked. Studied. Closed. On and on. Over and over. The whole thing made Reacher simultaneously tense and bored.
The other woman appeared in her bedroom doorway. She fetched a bottle of water from the fridge, crossed to the table, watched the images flicker across the screen for a couple of minutes, then went back to her room. The computer woman kept going like a robot. Click. Study. Close. Click. Study. Close. She went on for another ten minutes. More than five hundred documents. Fisher was still chatting away. Then the woman’s pattern changed. She held one image open for three seconds. Then she checked five more, reverting to a one-second interval for each.
‘Time for a bathroom break.’ The computer woman closed the laptop, stood up, and headed for the second bedroom. ‘Back in a minute.’
Fisher rested her head on the table and looked for all the world like she was about to fall asleep. But the moment the bedroom door closed she sat back up, fully alert. She opened the laptop. A picture appeared on the screen. A church, all bright colours and twisty onion-shaped domes. It was clearly Russian. Reacher recognized it. The Church of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood. In St Petersburg. Reacher had visited the city on a trip after the Soviet Union fell. He remembered it because it was the first major church to be designed from the outset for use with electric light.
A box popped up in the centre of the screen. There was a line of Cyrillic characters in a bar at the top. Reacher assumed it was asking for a password. Fisher typed something. Reacher couldn’t tell what because each keystroke was represented by an asterisk. But whatever she entered, it worked. The church gave way to the list of files. Fisher used the mouse to select the entry five places above the one that was highlighted. An image appeared. Fisher pulled a small folding cell phone out of her pocket. She opened it and took two photographs of the screen. She closed the phone. Closed the image. Opened the entry that had been highlighted. Closed it. Closed the computer. Then stepped across to Reacher. She pushed the phone into his pocket, followed it with a car key, and leaned in close to his ear.
‘Found it,’ she whispered. ‘There was a third brother. You have to get the picture to Wallwork. Wait till the tech comes back. Break free. Should be easy; I removed most of the screws. You’ll have to knock us both out. Me first, so she sees. Sonya too, if she comes out. The car’s parked out front. Chevy Malibu. White.’
Fisher gripped Reacher quickly on the shoulder and rushed back to the table. She rested her head on the surface. The technician came back from the bedroom. Sat down. Opened the laptop. Entered her password. And resumed her routine. Open. Study. Close. Open. Study. Close. Reacher gave it two minutes. More than a hundred extra documents. Then he leaned forward, lifting the chair legs and pivoting on the balls of his feet. He slammed back down. The chair disintegrated. Reacher wound up on the floor surrounded by fragments of wood. Some were smashed and shattered. Others were virtually intact. The upright sections of the legs were still attached to his wrists and ankles by the paracord. He ignored them and started for the door.