Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

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.

Fisher blocked his path. The SOCOM was in her hand. The suppressor was still attached. ‘Stop. Hands behind your head. Right now.’

Reacher glanced at the technician. She was still sitting, frozen, no sign of a weapon. He looked at the bedroom door. It was still closed. That simplified the geometry. He kicked the gun out of Fisher’s hand then moved half a step to his right so that his body was in a straight line between the two women. That way the technician could see him pull his arm back. Wind up for a punch. Launch his fist towards Fisher. But she couldn’t see what kind of connection he made. All she saw was Fisher crash down to the side, hit the floor, and lie there totally inert.

Reacher checked the bedroom door. It was still closed. He looked at the technician. Her training had finally kicked in. She was scrambling for her purse. Trying to pull out her Glock. Reacher stepped across and hit her on the side of the head, left-handed. Not too hard. Enough to put her lights out. But not to cause lasting amnesia.

Reacher retrieved the SOCOM from the floor. He looked at the bedroom door. The handle was turning. It was beginning to open. The muzzle of a Glock appeared in the gap. Held in two hands. Moving slowly forward. The woman was clearly cautious. Which was fortunate. It kept her out of danger when Reacher fired two quick rounds into the door frame. She ducked back inside the room and slammed the door. Reacher made for the exit. The shots hadn’t made an excessive noise, thanks to the suppressor. Like someone whacking a table with a rolled-up magazine. But it was possible the sound had carried to the next room. Maybe occupied by other members of the Russian crew. Maybe by civilians. Either way, Reacher figured that the charade had gone on long enough. He went outside. Identified the car. Climbed in. Started the engine. Nudged the lever into Drive. And pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Reacher drove fast for half a mile then pulled over to the side of the road. He slid the SOCOM under his seat and took out the phone Fisher had given him. He needed to call up the pictures she had taken and then send them to Wallwork. He hit the menu button. Then closed the phone.

Something was bothering him. Something about the situation was not right. He put the phone back in his pocket. Pulled back on to the road. And continued, as fast as he dared, to the truck-stop motel where he’d left Sands and Rutherford.

The same time Reacher was approaching the truck stop, Speranski’s secure phone was starting to ring.

‘The bait has been taken,’ the voice at the end of the line said.

Speranski smiled to himself. ‘How soon will they bring her?’

‘I said the bait’s been taken. Not swallowed. She gave the phone to the drifter. He left with it. But he hasn’t sent the message.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s holding out for more money. Maybe he doesn’t know how to work the phone. Maybe he got cold feet. We’ll find out. And we’re monitoring around the clock. The moment he sends it, you’ll know.’

Reacher parked the Chevy outside room eighteen and hurried inside. Sands was there. She was standing at the end of the second bed. Eyes wide. Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms straight. Holding her Colt in both hands. A classic shooter’s stance. The isosceles. Named for the triangle shape made by the back and the arms. A good stance for accuracy. Which could have been a problem for Reacher, given that Sands was aiming directly at his chest.

‘Reacher!’ Sands lowered the gun and hurried towards him. ‘Where have you been? I was worried sick. I kept calling and you didn’t pick up.’

‘Long story,’ Reacher said. ‘Major developments. I’ll explain everything, but right now I need your help.’ He pulled Fisher’s phone out of his pocket. ‘There’s a picture on here. Of a document. From the server I gave the Russians. Fisher thinks it’s the one with the spy’s ID. She wants me to send it to Wallwork.’