by Lee Child
‘Living in a nest of Cold War spies? That sounds like a great story. If the problem is you’re tired of telling it, why not have someone write a book about it? A journalist would be an obvious choice. Specially one with talent and integrity.’
‘It wouldn’t be a book. More like a haiku. There’s not enough material. And this place was hardly a nest. There were only two of them. They were brothers. They only owned the place for eighteen months. And they didn’t even do any spying while they lived here. They wrote a textbook. On math. I wish that was the angle the public latched on to. Imagine if this place was known as the Math House. Then I wouldn’t be swamped with tourists every time a new Bond movie comes out.’
‘If not your house, what was she researching?’
‘Parts of my family history. My father fled to the States from Germany in the 1930s. He could see the way things were going politically, and somehow of all the places in the world he settled here in Tennessee. He founded a business. Started a family. Did all kinds of things. But the details of his early years in the States are sketchy. I felt it was time to find out as much as I could and record it before it was too late. Where he lived before he moved here. When exactly he bought this house. I think someone else owned it between him and the spies, but I’d like to be sure. I want as much detail as I can get. Including the human aspect, you know? There’s a story that when he bought his first house he had no money and credit was hard to come by so he used a painting he brought with him from Germany to back the purchase. These are the little quirks that are so easily lost. I want to know all of them. I want my son to know. And his son, if he ever has one.’
‘That sounds like a wholesome family project,’ Reacher said. ‘But it’s not the kind of thing anyone should get killed over. Are you sure there’s not more to it? Buried treasure? The location of the Lost Ark?’
Klostermann’s face was blank. ‘Someone was killed over my project? Who?’
‘Toni Garza.’
‘No. That’s crazy. Why would her death have anything to do with my project? Toni was a hard worker. She was driven. She wasn’t working for me exclusively. She had a dozen projects on the go. Some she got paid for, like mine. Others she was doing off her own bat. She was digging into all sorts of unsavoury things. She dreamed of becoming an investigative reporter for one of the big papers, although that was always unrealistic. There are so few of those left now.’
‘What kind of unsavoury things? Did she tell you?’
‘Not chapter and verse. But Toni did confide some things. She wanted to root out crime and corruption. I think she saw me as a kind of father figure. She looked to me for advice from time to time. I warned her to be careful. More than once.’
‘This seems like a nice town. Is crime and corruption a big problem here?’
‘No. But she was based out of Nashville. She did most of her work there.’
‘How did you find her if she’s not local?’
‘I came across her name online. She was recommended by someone on an ancestry forum.’
‘Are you going to replace her? Or had she finished her work?’
‘I guess I will have to replace her. I haven’t had the stomach for it yet. Toni had completed the broad outline but there’s plenty left to do. The biggest problem is confirming all the dates. That’s why she wanted access to the town’s records. And why she contacted you, Mr Rutherford.’
‘I can see why you would want access,’ Rutherford said. ‘But not why Toni reached out to me. Why did she think I could get my hands on the papers you need? I was the IT manager. Not the archivist.’
‘As far as I understand, it worked like this,’ Klostermann said. ‘Toni was in touch with the archivist. There was a project running to digitize all the records. The archivist told Toni there’d been a kind of false start. The computer memory thing they tried to use was too small so halfway through the process they raised some extra money and got a bigger one. They copied everything, then you as the IT manager took the old one into storage until it was needed for something else. So it’s possible the records I want are still on it.’
Rutherford thought for a moment. ‘I know the equipment you’re talking about. I did take it. I thought it might be useful for … something else.’
‘Do you know where it is now?’
‘Not exactly. But I’m trying to find it. I need it for … something.’
‘If you do find it, would you let me see if my father’s records are there?’
‘I’m not sure if I could,’ Rutherford said. ‘It’s town property. I’m not sure if—’
‘We’re talking about seventy-year-old documents,’ Klostermann said. ‘Maybe older. Whose confidence could possibly get betrayed? And it’s all theoretically public domain stuff anyway. It was in the physical archive before the fire. So come on. What do you say?’
Rutherford didn’t reply.
‘I can make it worth your while if compensation is an issue?’ Klostermann said. ‘Very much worth your while if I can get the first look. Patience is not a virtue of mine. And I’m not getting any younger.’
Rutherford squirmed on the edge of the cushion. ‘It’s not about—’
‘Time is the issue,’ Reacher said. ‘Rusty has a lot to do to prepare for the next chapter in his life and as I’m sure you know, an IT manager’s time is expensive.’
‘How expensive?’ Klostermann said.
‘Ten thousand dollars should cover it. Cash.’
Klostermann struggled to his feet and held out his hand. ‘You’re a life coach, you say, Mr Reacher? I’m beginning to think I might need one of those myself. How long to find the records?’
‘That’s hard to predict. We’re working on it. I’ll let you know.’
Reacher walked back to the car in silence. His gut was telling him that he’d met Klostermann before. In barracks rooms. Bars. Jail cells. Offices. Back streets. All kinds of places. All over the world. Or that he’d met guys just like Klostermann, anyway. Guys with something to hide but who imagine they’re smart enough to think on their feet. To cover their trails. Reacher didn’t think every word Klostermann had spoken was a lie. His father’s immigration, for example. His businesses. There were too many things that would be easy to check on, and only a fool would be dishonest about details that could be disproved in a matter of seconds. It was the family history aspect that didn’t pass the smell test. Writing it for his son. Tying it up in a pretty bow. No. It was more likely that there was some kind of skeleton in the family closet. Something illegal. Something embarrassing. Something Klostermann wanted to bury. Or spin. Something worth ten thousand dollars just to see a record of. But a sack of cash was one thing. Was it also worth Toni Garza’s life? Was it worth Rutherford’s?
SIXTEEN
There were two people at the kitchen counter in Mitch’s apartment alongside Reacher, and they were both mad at him.
‘I can’t believe you offered to sell the server.’ Both of Rutherford’s hands were clenched into fists. ‘You had no right. It’s not yours. We don’t know where it is. And ten measly grand? Cerberus will be worth a hundred times that much. A thousand times.’
‘I can’t believe you would even think of going.’ Sands threw the slip of paper on to the countertop. ‘It’s a trap. It’s obvious. How can it not be?’
Reacher took a mouthful of coffee. ‘OK. First of all, Rusty. Don’t worry. I have no intention of selling your computer thing. And Sarah, yes. It’s almost certainly a trap. But sometimes the only way to know if the stove is hot is to touch it.’
Sands glared at him.
‘Someone smart told me that once,’ he said.
‘You’re obviously not smart if you’re even considering walking into a trap.’
‘I never said I was smart. Stubborn, maybe. Obstinate even, on occasion.’
‘Why offer to sell if you had no intention?’ Rutherford said. ‘Are you going to rip Klostermann off? We can’t do that. I have to live here. My reputation’s tattered enough a
lready.’
‘We’re not ripping anyone off,’ Reacher said. ‘It was a test. To get a sense of how important these records are to him. Or sensitive. Or embarrassing. I named a big number and he didn’t turn a hair. That tells us something. And here’s another reason. Say Klostermann isn’t what he seems to be. Say he’s somehow behind Garza’s murder and the attempt to kidnap you. Do you want him thinking you’re not willing to play ball? This way his incentive is to keep us alive.’
‘If you care so much about being free and healthy why would you knowingly walk into an ambush?’ Sands said. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ Reacher said. ‘And I’m not going to walk into anything. The best way to defeat an ambush is to be there first. Which I will be. But logistics aren’t the most important thing. You’re focusing in the wrong place. Look at the note.’
Sands picked up the scrap of paper. She re-read it slowly, and checked the other side. ‘What? I don’t see anything.’
‘The first two words. What do they mean?’
‘Romeo, Juliet. R J. Reacher, Jack. Your name.’
‘Exactly. Someone made it personal. I’m not some faceless guy who got in the way any more. They’re coming after me specifically. They need to understand that’s the wrong thing to do.’
Reacher parked Marty’s car half a mile south of the factory and covered the rest of the ground on foot. He moved slowly. He stopped frequently, but never at the same interval. He never continued until he was certain no one was following. And no one was watching. The clock in his head said 10:45. Seventy-five minutes before he was due at the rendezvous. More time would have been better but experience told him seventy-five minutes would be enough. Nine times out of ten.
The moment the abandoned building came into view Reacher knew that no kind of ghost story could have kept him away when he was growing up. Or his brother Joe. There were too many iron girders to climb. Too many nooks and alcoves to hide in. Too many frontal assaults and insane last stands and against-the-odds escapes to stage. And too much prime real estate to fight over with the other kids.
Plus ça change … as his mother used to say. The more things change …
The moment Reacher stepped through the gap where the tall wooden door used to be he knew seventy-five minutes weren’t enough. Not this time. He’d hit the one in ten. The ambushers were already there. He couldn’t see them. Yet. Or hear them. Or smell them. But he knew. Eyes were on him. He could feel them. He could feel a chill on his neck. Some kind of primal response to being watched. A warning mechanism hardwired into his lizard brain, as finely tuned as his ancestors’ had been millions of years ago. Then, forests. Now, a factory. Either way, evading predators. Not getting eaten. Not getting shot. Living to fight another day.
Plus ça change …
Reacher kept moving. Same speed. Same direction. He didn’t want whoever was watching to know he was aware of their presence. Not until he knew exactly where they were. And how many there were. He strained his ears. Heard nothing. Scanned the rubble and the weeds covering the ground. Checked the long line of smashed windows. The gaping holes in the roof. Looking for movement. Shadow. Shape. Shine.
He saw nothing.
Reacher took another step. Something made a sound behind him. Metal shifting against stone. But not someone looking to shoot him. They could have done that already. A decoy? Reacher scanned the ground in front. Behind. Both sides. He increased the radius. Looking for signs of disturbance. A place for someone to hide. To spring out of when his attention was drawn away. To get in close, quickly, and neutralize his advantage in strength and size.
He saw nothing.
‘It’s just you and me, Major.’ It was a woman’s voice. Behind him. Calm and confident. ‘And there’s no need to worry. No need to do anything either of us will regret in the morning. I just want to talk.’
Reacher turned around. The woman he’d last seen driving the Toyota was standing next to a sheet of corrugated iron against the wall. She must have eased her way out from behind it. She was dressed all in black, with a small tactical backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair tied back in a ponytail. There was a gun in her hand. A Glock 19. Reacher approved of her choice. It was compact. Easy to conceal. And reliable. The chances of a misfire were slim to none. Her hand seemed steady. He was a sizeable target. They were fifteen feet apart. If he rushed her she would have fifteen chances to hit him, assuming the magazine was full. Sixteen if she had one already in the chamber. More than one chance per foot. Not odds Reacher liked.
‘I’ve never been much of a conversationalist,’ he said.
‘Then just listen. I know a lot about you. Enough to believe I can trust you. I need to even those scales. And I need to do it quickly. So I’m going to tell you one story from my past. My father was a Stanford man. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps but I had other ideas. I wanted to study in England so I applied to college there. One of the old ones. It doesn’t matter which. But because I was foreign I had to jump through a couple extra hoops. One was writing a special essay. There was no word limit. No time limit. And no choice of subject. The title they gave me was What is a risk? You know what I wrote?’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Four words. This is a risk. It worked. I got in. And I wasn’t lying. It was a risk. The biggest one I’d taken at that time. Now I’m going to take a bigger one. The biggest I’ve ever taken.’
She slipped the backpack off her shoulder and lobbed it underarm, straight at Reacher. It landed at his feet and kicked a small cloud of dust up over his shoes.
‘Pick it up,’ she said. ‘Open it.’
The pack was made of black ballistic nylon. It wasn’t new. One of the shoulder straps was starting to fray and the bottom corners were scuffed. A tried and tested piece of equipment. The best kind. It had a small pocket on the right-hand side. An identical pocket on the left. Both were empty. There was a triple row of MOLLE webbing across the front, with nothing attached. And one internal compartment. Reacher unzipped it and looked inside. There were three spare magazines for the Glock. A set of car keys. For the Toyota, Reacher assumed. A hairbrush with two elastic ponytail holders wrapped around the handle. And a book.
‘See the Bible?’ she said. ‘Take it out.’
Reacher set the pack down and fished out the book. It was a King James hardcover edition. It had a dark red cardboard front. A dark red cardboard back. Gold printing on the front. Gold printing on the spine. It was scuffed and worn as if she carried it everywhere. The leaves were yellow and dark as if the victim of some spillage, long ago. Maybe some kind of fruit drink. Certainly something sticky, because the pages were gummed up solid.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘Dig your fingernails in. Pull. It will open.’
‘I don’t need to.’ Reacher slipped the book back into the pack. ‘I’ve seen one just like it before. You’re with the FBI?’
‘Special Agent Fisher,’ she said. ‘Margaret. You can call me Mags. If you help me.’
‘What kind of help do you need? The same kind Toni Garza gave you? Did you know enough to trust her, too? And did she trust you in return?’
‘Who’s Toni Garza?’
Reacher said nothing.
‘I’m serious,’ Fisher said. ‘I don’t know who Toni Garza is. I have an entirely different problem.’
‘Toni Garza was a journalist. She’s dead. Murdered by the people you’re working for. In a very nasty way.’
‘I can believe that,’ Fisher said, after a moment. ‘I’m working for some very nasty people. But I didn’t kill her. My cell didn’t kill her. I don’t know anything about her. But I do know this. If you don’t help me, more people like her will get hurt. Maybe murdered. Also in a very nasty way.’
Reacher said nothing.
‘The cell I’ve infiltrated was sent here to bag someone named Rusty Rutherford. But I guess you know that since you stumbled into the op and royally screwed it up.’
‘I’m not helping
you capture Rutherford. Even if you convince me about Garza.’
Fisher held up her hand. ‘I’m not asking you to. All I need from you is information. Rutherford was to be taken because he has something a certain foreign power is desperate to get its hands on. He either has this thing in his possession or he knows where it is. If I can get to it first, before they go after Rutherford again, that’s the best way to keep him out of further danger.’
‘Which foreign power are we talking about?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘If you want my help you’re going to have to turn your cards all the way up.’
Fisher sighed. ‘Russia.’
‘OK. And what is the thing they want?’
‘I don’t know. Not exactly. All the cell was told is that it’s an item. An object. Something physical. It contains data or records of some kind so it could be a paper file or a photograph. But I think it’s most likely to be computer related, given the job Rutherford just lost.’
‘What kind of records?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Something that reveals a name or an identity. Or that would enable us to deduce one.’
‘Of an agent?’
Fisher nodded.
‘Theirs or ours?’
‘Theirs.’
‘An active agent?’
‘Very active. And that’s a situation that needs to be corrected.’
‘Why is there an agent in a sleepy town like this?’
Fisher shook her head. ‘The information is here. Not the agent. He’s somewhere else. Or she.’
‘Where?’
‘Repeat a word of this and I’ll kill you. I’ll probably have to kill myself, too. Have you heard of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory?’
‘Near Knoxville. Where they develop the supercomputers?’
‘They do many things there. Supercomputing is one of them. Another is cyber security. The United States is facing a lot of threats. We have a lot of defensive programs running. And the Russians have an agent in place who’s attempting to steal a copy of the most critical one. Its official name is project C02WW06BHH21.’
