by Lee Child
Reacher went back into the room and found Klostermann just inside the door. He kicked him in the balls. Klostermann doubled over and went down on all fours, puking and gasping and moaning. Reacher crossed to Fisher. He stretched up and unfastened her manacles. Fisher steadied herself for a moment with a hand on Reacher’s chest. Then she wrapped her arms around herself.
‘I’m freezing,’ she said. ‘I’m dizzy.’
Reacher stepped back over to the Russian woman’s body, hauled it into a sitting position, and wrestled her shirt over her head. He handed it to Fisher then went to work removing the dead woman’s boots, socks, and trousers. He left Fisher to finish getting dressed, walked across to Klostermann, and helped him into a sitting position against the wall.
‘I want you to tell me two things,’ Reacher said. ‘I’ve seen how you get information from people. Do I need to get busy with your tool kit? Hang you from the ceiling? Fire up your electric toy?’
‘No.’ Klostermann’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
‘Good. Now, these are things I already know, but I want to hear you say them. First, Toni Garza. The journalist. You killed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘And tortured her?’
Klostermann nodded.
‘And Marty? The guy who drove me?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘You killed him, too?’
‘No. I had them do it.’ Klostermann gestured towards the Russians’ bodies.
‘OK. Thank you for being honest. And while the spirit of sharing is upon us, I have a couple of things to tell you. For a start, your plan to use Fisher to feed false information to the FBI? It failed.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘All it did was alert them to the real agent.’
Klostermann stiffened.
‘They’re going to arrest her real soon.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. Otherwise, how would I know her name? Diane Smith. Diane Klostermann, before she got married.’
Klostermann didn’t react. He sat perfectly still. For ten seconds. Fifteen. Then he lunged for his ankle. His fingers closed around the grip of a little pearl-handled .22. But he never got it out of its holster. Because Reacher grabbed a handful of his wild hair. Pulled his head forward. And smashed it back into the wall.
Just once.
That was all it took.
Reacher took two phones from Klostermann’s pockets. A plain vanilla burner, and one with all kinds of extra buttons and icons. He figured someone at the FBI would be interested in that one, so he handed it to Fisher. Then he led the way out of the room, down the corridor, and through the door to the lobby. Fisher took a step towards the ladder, then sank down into a crouch.
‘I’m not feeling good,’ she said. ‘Whatever that drug was they used, it’s messed me up. I don’t think I can climb.’
‘I’m not leaving you down here,’ Reacher said. ‘That’s for damn sure.’ He hoisted her over his shoulder, climbed to the next level, and squeezed through the hatch. ‘See, no problem. One more flight and we’re home free.’
Reacher climbed the next five rungs. And stopped. Something was wrong up at the top of the shaft. It was too dark. He continued to the space at the top, gently lowered Fisher down and rested her against the wall. Closed his eyes. And tried the door.
It didn’t move. Not even a fraction of an inch.
Reacher was trapped. Underground. In a small space. The only thing since childhood that could give him nightmares. His worst fear. The only thing he couldn’t fight.
‘I don’t get it,’ Fisher said. ‘Why is there no handle?’
‘It’s on the other side,’ Reacher said. He was focused on continuing to breathe. ‘It’s a kind of airlock. With two doors.’ He paused. ‘They should never be open at once. So the handles are on the same side. Then one guy can control them both.’
‘So someone locked it from the other side? Who?’
‘My money’s on Klostermann’s housekeeper.’ Reacher pressed his back against the door and slid down until he was sitting on the ground. The skin between his shoulder blades was beginning to prickle. He was starting to sweat.
‘The skinny woman? Who ran? But you shot her. I heard it. No. Wait.’ Fisher shook her head, trying to clear the lingering fog. She pressed her fingers against her temples. ‘Her body wasn’t in the corridor. She got away?’
Reacher shrugged.
‘The way she fought?’ Fisher said. ‘The way they let her take part in the torture? She’s not just a housekeeper. She’s one of them. She’ll report what happened. The Russians will pull their agent. We’ve got to warn Wallwork.’
‘He’s on his way,’ Reacher said. ‘He should be. I told him you were here.’
‘We can’t wait. We have to warn him now.’
Reacher took out his phone. It had no signal. They were near the surface, but behind too much concrete. Too much steel. The same things that were keeping them in were keeping the radio waves out. Reacher tried Klostermann’s phones. Neither of those could connect, either.
‘OK,’ Fisher said. ‘Then we have to stop her.’
‘How?’ Reacher said. ‘This door is the only way out. It’s impossible to open.’
‘There must be another way. Where the utilities come in? Some kind of pipe? Or duct?’
Reacher shook his head. ‘These places are self-contained. The water is processed and recirculated. Same with the air.’
‘What about power? The generator. It’s gone now, but there must have been one. This place was built, when? The 1950s?’
Reacher nodded.
‘What kind of generators did they have back then?’ Fisher said.
‘Diesel, probably,’ Reacher said.
‘And diesel engines require air to run. Which would have to come from outside. Come on.’ Fisher struggled to her feet. ‘Back to the generator room. We’ll start looking in there.’
Reacher looked at the mouth of the shaft. It was the last place in the world he wanted to go. But where he was, trapped behind that massive door, was the last place in the world he wanted to stay. And he had the Russian agent to think about. Klostermann’s daughter. Maybe with her hands already on The Sentinel. Maybe already ordered to disappear. Reacher knew Sands would raise the alarm when she didn’t hear from him. Wallwork should be on his way, too. But how long would help take to arrive?
‘I’ll go.’ Reacher handed the SOCOM to Fisher. ‘Someone might come. They might open the door. If they do, make sure they don’t close it again.’
Reacher climbed down the first ladder. One rung at a time. Nice and slow and calm. Then the second ladder. Then he walked down the corridor to the generator room. Went in. Glanced at the bodies on the floor. And turned his attention to the ceiling. He surveyed every inch. There was nothing that looked like it could have been a vent or an air supply. He moved down to the walls. There were two filled-in circles that could have been pipes. In which case they were doomed. They were only nine inches across. Which left two square panels set into the opposite wall. Reacher walked over and knocked on one. It sounded solid. He tried the second.
It was hollow.
He tried to tear it off but couldn’t get any kind of purchase. It had been painted around, sealing up any gap, not even leaving enough space to jam his fingernails into. He went to the metal table. Scanned the top level. The line of ghastly tools. Found a chisel. And a hammer. Tried not to think about why Klostermann had wanted them. Or what he’d used them for. Reacher took them back to the panel. He started at the top left corner and hammered the tip of the chisel between the wood and the wall. He worked his way all around the perimeter, then knocked the chisel in further. Three inches. Four. And started to lever the handle away from the wall. He felt the panel move. He kept heaving until the gap grew larger and finally he was able to wrench the wood away altogether. It had covered a square hole in the wall, three feet by three. The space also went back thr
ee feet, forming a cube. Reacher felt inside. The floor was solid. So were the walls. But the top wasn’t. A circular shaft rose out of it, three feet in diameter. He tried to look up inside it, but it was pitch dark.
Reacher crawled into the space then stretched his arms above his head, hunched his shoulders and clawed his way upright. Nothing obstructed him. He felt the sides of the shaft. They were cold and smooth. Stainless steel, he thought. He moved his hands down and found a rib. An inch deep. The join between sections of steel liner. Not much. But something. He stretched up and found another, three feet above the first. Like tiny ladder rungs. Leading into a tight, dark space. Maybe to the surface. Maybe to oblivion.
Only one way to find out.
Reacher started to climb. He pulled himself up to the next rib. Found the one below with his feet. Pressed his back into the metal surface behind him. Took a breath. Pulled up to the next rib. Took another breath. He was still sweating. He pulled himself up. His skin was still prickling. Then the shaft started to get narrower. It was squeezing in. Gripping him. He was going to get jammed. It was like the black holes in space he’d read about. Matter got sucked in. Crushed. And it never got back out.
No. That wasn’t true. His mind was playing tricks. He forced himself to keep going. He made it to the eighteenth rib. The nineteenth. He stretched up. And his fingertips touched something. It was solid. Rough. Wood, he thought. He was at the top, but something was covering the exit.
Reacher pressed his hands against it. Tucked his head into his chest, and shifted his feet up one more rib. Uncurled his back until his neck and shoulders were in contact. Started to push. And his left foot slipped. He fell sideways. His head hit the metal lining of the shaft, disorienting him in the dark. He scrabbled with his hands. Pushed sideways. Stabilized himself. Got his bearings. Caught his breath. And tried again. He hunched over. Pressed up with his shoulders and neck. Slowly built the pressure. And felt the thing above him move. Very slightly. He pushed harder. It gave a little more. He wriggled and twisted and pushed and managed to slide it to the side. An inch. Two inches. Enough to see light. To breathe fresh air. He pushed harder. Twisted further. Kept going until he’d made a space wide enough to climb through. Then he hauled himself out and collapsed on the rough scrubby grass, covered in sweat, staring up at the sky.
Reacher sat and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It vibrated in his hand and two words appeared on its screen: New Message. He hit the button to make the message play and lifted the phone to his ear. It was from Wallwork. With news from Oak Ridge. As terse as ever. He said Klostermann’s daughter had tried to run. The FBI had stopped her. But she wasn’t talking. Not yet.
Reacher put the phone away and hauled himself to his feet. He took a quick look at the top of the shaft. A neat, square concrete collar had been built around it. The stubs of sturdy bolts were sticking out, so he figured there had originally been some kind of baffle fixed over the entrance to guard against whatever kind of nuclear debris the Cold Warriors were worried about. That had probably been removed when the generator was taken out of service. Dismantled parts may even have been hauled up the shaft. It would have been easier than carrying them up the ladders. That was for sure. And when the project was done, someone just tossed a board over the hole. Over time the board got covered with soil. And the soil grew scrappy grass like the rest of the field. Which is why nothing showed up on the satellite photo.
Reacher hustled across to the steps. He got all the way down and saw someone beyond the first door, hunched over, with her ear to the second. It was Klostermann’s housekeeper. Back from raising the alarm. No doubt wondering about the fate of her comrades.
‘You’re wasting your time.’ Reacher stepped through the doorway. ‘They’re all dead. Your agent’s been caught. So do the smart thing. Give up.’
The housekeeper turned around. Her mouth gaped open. Her eyes stretched wide. She pressed herself back and at the same time she pulled the pin from her hair. Reacher moved closer and she jabbed at him, slashing back and forth. He swotted her arm aside, knocking the pin from her grip. Then he grabbed her by the neck with his left hand, turned the wheel with his right, and opened the door. He waited for Fisher to come out and get to the top of the steps. Then he shoved the housekeeper through the doorway.
Maybe she fell down the shaft. Maybe she didn’t. Reacher didn’t feel the need to check. He just closed the door and spun the wheel.
Reacher and Fisher sat on the hood of the red Chevy and waited for Sands to arrive. She appeared after three minutes, pulling up in the same spot she’d used earlier. She got out. Hugged Fisher. Helped her into the passenger seat. Then came back to talk to Reacher.
‘I should take Agent Fisher to the hospital,’ she said. ‘You coming?’
‘No,’ Reacher said. ‘There’s something I have to do here.’
‘And after that? Will I see you again?’
Reacher said nothing.
‘If our paths don’t cross I wish you luck, Reacher.’
‘Good luck to you, too,’ Reacher said. ‘I hope Cerberus pays off for you. I hope you get your boat.’
‘Thanks. I hope you get whatever it is you need, too.’ Sands came closer. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Reacher’s cheek. Then she turned towards the car.
‘Sarah?’ Reacher took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Give this to Rusty for me? I don’t need it any more.’
TWENTY-NINE
It was the calm before the storm, Reacher thought. The gate had clanked shut behind Sands and Fisher, leaving the place quiet and peaceful. But it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Swarms of FBI agents would soon race in to tear the house apart. And another crew would be sent underground. To the bunker. To bring up the bodies. And with them would come questions. The kind Reacher didn’t want to be around to answer. So he knew he would have to hurry.
Reacher took out Klostermann’s burner phone. It was a basic model. An old design. Presumably cheap. Which made sense, given it had been bought with no long-term future in mind. It meant there was no fingerprint ID. No facial recognition. Just an old-school PIN. Four digits. Ten thousand permutations. No time to try them all. So Reacher scooped up some dirt. Ground it into dust. Sprinkled a little over the keys. Blew the excess away. Held the phone sideways to the light. And found that none had stuck. He tried again with a little more dirt. None stuck. The technique gave him no help this time. But it had told him something at the gate. Klostermann had used 0420. Adolf Hitler’s birthday. A subtle reinforcement for the people he wanted to convince he was a Nazi. Which he wasn’t. But his choice did reveal a possible affinity with dates. So what would Klostermann pick? The opposite of a Nazi? Reacher tried 0505, for Karl Marx. The phone buzzed angrily and refused to unlock. He tried 0422, for Lenin. The phone refused to unlock. He tried 1107, for Trotsky. The phone refused. Then Reacher refined his thinking. Klostermann had been born in 1950. He grew up during the height of the Cold War. His parents were Soviet agents. His uncles were Soviet agents. Who, from that era, could inspire lifelong loyalty? Reacher entered 1218. Joseph Stalin’s birthday.
The phone unlocked.
Reacher worked his way through the phone’s menus until he found a list of received calls. There were four different numbers. Three of them each appeared only once. The other, four times. Reacher started with it. He highlighted it, and hit call. It was answered after three rings.
‘Yes?’ It was a man’s voice. Reacher was fairly sure he recognized it. He thought he heard a door close in the background, as well.
‘A word to the wise,’ Reacher said. ‘Henry Klostermann is dead. FBI agents are on their way to search his house. ETA, twenty minutes.’
Reacher hung up and started walking towards the house. He crossed the porch. Went inside. Crunched over the pieces of shattered door frame. Made his way down the corridor. Past the photographs. And continued all the way to the end. He knew the last door on the right was the living room, which gave him three to pick from. He trie
d the last on the left. And found what he was looking for straight away. Klostermann’s study.
The room was square with windows on two sides. There was a desk in front of the one to the right, facing into the room. It was big and oppressive, made of polished mahogany, with a green leather inlay on top. Behind it was a green leather captain’s chair with a row of heavy brass studs around its edge. There was a bookcase next to the door. And a line of waist-high filing cabinets against the fourth wall. Hanging above them was a framed portrait, in oils. It was of Stalin. He was wearing his World War II military uniform. Reacher took it down. There was a different image on its other side. Adolf Hitler. Reacher replaced the picture with the Nazi leader facing out.
Reacher checked the drawers in the desk and the cabinets. All were locked. He considered breaking in, but decided against it. He would have been interested in any historical artefacts unique to Klostermann’s life and times, but the FBI was welcome to the job of sifting through papers and documents. He looked behind the books on the shelf out of pure habit, found nothing, then settled in next to the bookcase to wait.
Five minutes passed in silence, then Reacher heard footsteps in the corridor. Someone medium weight, he thought. Wearing sturdy shoes. Trying to be discreet, but also in a hurry. The sound came closer. It paused outside the door. The handle turned. The door began to swing. Slowly. Its leading edge moved about a foot, then stopped. The muzzle of a gun appeared in the gap. A whole barrel came into view. It belonged to a revolver. A Smith & Wesson Model 60. The first stainless steel revolver made anywhere in the world. Designed to avoid the danger of corrosion when carried close to the body. Not police issue. The hand holding it became visible. Followed by a wrist. Protruding from the cuff of a white shirt beneath a grey suit sleeve.
Reacher kicked the door. It slammed shut, crushing the wrist. The guy screamed. He dropped the gun, pulled his hand free, and jumped back. Reacher jerked the door all the way open. And saw Detective Goodyear cowering against the far wall, clutching his forearm. Reacher stepped into the corridor. Grabbed Goodyear by the lapels. Dragged him into the study. And flung him head first into the wall beneath the window. Then he leaned on the edge of the desk and waited for the guy to roll over and pull himself into a half-sitting position.
