Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

The Ford slowed as it drew nearer, almost to a walking pace. The barrier twitched like it was waking from a deep sleep, then jerked its way up through ninety degrees. The pickup accelerated and sped away. The driver didn’t give them a second glance. The barrier stayed up. It was swaying slightly from its recent movement. But it wasn’t descending. Yet. The timing had probably been calculated with trucks in mind. Long. Heavy. Slow to get moving. Sands glanced around. No one else was watching so she hit the gas and they were inside the compound long before the pole lurched back down on to its supports.

There were two buildings on the site, set at four and eight o’clock when viewed from the gate. The eight o’clock unit was the smaller of the two. The office, Reacher assumed. It was a single storey, built of rough brick, with a flat roof, six square windows, and a crude concrete slab sticking out to shelter its doorway. It had parking for thirty cars. Half the spaces were occupied. There were two silver German sedans sitting alone in the row nearest the building’s entrance. The rest were middle spec, medium-sized domestic models in varying pale colours, scattered at random throughout the rest of the lot. Belonging to the office workers, most likely.

Not the cars they were looking for.

The four o’clock building must have been what the guy with the shotgun had called the depot. It was a simple rectangular shape, built out of cinderblocks, painted white, with a pitched metal roof and a line of four roll-up vehicle doors along one side. All were tall enough for a full-size garbage truck to fit through. All were wide enough. All were closed. There was a single line of parking spots outside to the left of them, near a personnel door. Four were taken. All by pickups. Three Fords and a Dodge Ram. Not new but clean and well maintained. Belonging to the mechanics, Reacher figured.

Not the cars they were looking for.

There was an empty area on the right of the depot building. It stretched across to the fence. Where the trucks parked at night. There was room for at least half a dozen. And beyond that, where the fence turned back towards the entrance and the space narrowed, there was another line of vehicles. Seven of them. An old, open-top Jeep with most of its paint missing. A Chrysler 300 sedan in black with chrome wheels and heavy tints on the windows. A Porsche 911, dark blue and gleaming in the afternoon sun. A 1980s Cadillac, originally burgundy, now chalky and dull. A mustard-coloured Volvo station wagon. A tiny, sky blue Fiat. And a white Hyundai SUV.

Possibly the cars they were looking for.

A sign mounted to the fence said Unauthorized Vehicles Will Be Towed At Owner’s Expense. Sands swung the minivan around and reversed right up to it, at the side of the Hyundai. She kept the engine running and adjusted the air. Outside the heat shimmered off the cracked concrete slabs. The flat surfaces in the distance wobbled and danced. Sands unfastened her seat belt and leaned back, relaxed but alert. Rutherford was beside her in the passenger seat, anxious and fidgety. Reacher stretched out behind them, so still he could have been asleep.

Thirty minutes passed. No trucks appeared. Fifteen more minutes passed with no arrivals. Then after another five minutes they heard a vehicle engine. A big diesel. Coming their way. Sands and Reacher simultaneously snapped upright. A garbage truck came into view at the far end of the road. It was full size. So not Thomassino’s. They watched it creep along the road, negotiate the gate, lumber across to the parking area, then settle to a halt with a long hiss of its air brakes. Two men jumped down. They were wearing blue coveralls like the guy at the recycling plant. They made their way to the line of cars. The first guy climbed into the Jeep. The second, the Chrysler. They set off together, driving side by side until they were close to the gate. Then the Jeep took the lead. They made it through while the barrier was still up from their entrance, accelerated hard, and soon disappeared from view.

Another truck appeared seven minutes later. Also full size. So not Thomassino’s. It followed the same routine. Its occupants took the Cadillac and the Volvo. That left three cars. The Hyundai. The Fiat. And the Porsche.

The next truck to arrive was smaller. They had to wait until it passed them to read the licence plate on the rear. It matched the entry on the recycling site log next to Thomassino’s ID number. It parked alongside the two larger trucks, but it pulled further in, vanishing from sight. A man appeared after thirty seconds. He was around five ten. He had blond hair, buzzed short. Mirrored aviator sunglasses. Shiny black boots. And the same blue coveralls, only darker and crisper, like in his mind he was wearing a flight suit. He walked towards them. Heading for the Porsche. Sands reached for her door handle, then paused. The guy was on the wrong side of the car. He went up to the Porsche’s passenger window. Leaned in close. Cupped his hand against the sun. Gazed inside for ten seconds. Then straightened up, shook his head, continued past the Fiat, and made his way between the Hyundai and the minivan. Sands jumped out and hurried around, holding her black wallet out in front.

‘David Thomassino?’ she said.

‘That’s me.’ The guy paused. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Federal agents. We need to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Get in the van for a second. I’ll explain everything.’

Rutherford twisted around in his seat and hit a button which caused the side door to slide open, revealing Reacher crammed inside like a caged gorilla.

‘I don’t think so.’ Thomassino stepped back. ‘I’m not getting in there with him. I’ll talk to you. But at the police station. I’ll drive. You can follow.’

‘Let me put it another way.’ Reacher leaned out, grabbed the front of Thomassino’s coveralls, and pulled him inside. Sands climbed in after Thomassino and guided him through to the bench seat at the very back. She pulled a lever that made her middle row seat swivel around so she was facing him, then hit the button to close the door. Reacher rotated his seat as well. Rutherford peered through the gap between the front seats.

‘Before we start it’s very important that you understand something,’ Sands said. ‘We’re not here for you. We’re not looking to jam you up or cause you trouble of any kind. We don’t care about you at all. All we want is one piece of information. Give it to us and you can go about your business. You’ll never see us again. And no one will ever know you helped us. Is that clear?’

Thomassino swallowed hard, then nodded.

‘Good,’ Sands said. ‘Now, your job is to collect unwanted electronic equipment and take it to the recycling facility outside town, correct?’

‘It’s just a sorting facility. The actual recycling’s done somewhere else.’

‘But you take the electronic things there?’

‘Right.’

‘This month you’ve made two collections from the town’s IT department.’

‘If you say so.’

‘That’s what the site log says.’

‘Then I’m sure it’s right.’

‘On one of those occasions you picked up eight network servers.’

‘I don’t know what they are.’

‘Boring-looking black boxes,’ Rutherford said. ‘But they were in a cabinet. In the equipment room. Right in the middle. With a broken glass door.’

‘Do you know how many things I move in a week?’ Thomassino said. ‘I can’t remember all of them.’

‘I see you’re wearing a wedding ring, Dave,’ Reacher said. ‘Do you have any kids? Or is it just you and your wife?’

‘One kid. On the way,’ Thomassino said. ‘Why?’

‘Boy or girl?’

‘A girl. Why?’