Ли Чайлд - The Sentinel

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 tried 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.

‘I guess you’ve answered one question,’ Reacher said. ‘The one I asked you at the courthouse when we first met. About why you were so desperate to sweep Rutherford’s attempted kidnapping under the rug.’

Goodyear didn’t respond.

‘That means there’s one question left,’ Reacher said. ‘Why were you helping Klostermann? Money? Blackmail? What?’

‘Principle,’ Goodyear spat back. ‘Mr Klostermann was working to save our country. Our race. I was proud to help him.’

‘Stand up.’

Goodyear didn’t move.

Reacher pushed away from the desk.

Goodyear hauled himself to his feet.

‘Take off your jacket,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear slipped his arms out of his sleeves and dropped the coat.

‘Open your shirt.’

Goodyear undid his buttons, one by one, starting at the top, working down to his waist.

‘All the way,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear slowly pulled the sides of the shirt apart. Reacher looked at his chest. At the left side. Where there was a tattoo. Of an eagle. With a swastika.

‘You might have heard that I met some of your so-called brothers the other night,’ Reacher said. ‘They all resigned from your little band. With orders to explain that anyone who didn’t would get their house burned down. With them inside.’

‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘Don’t do that. Please. I’ll resign.’

‘You will. But not just yet. Your buddies told me Klostermann was planning to recreate Hitler’s Cathedral of Light. They were too stupid to understand what that was. I’m hoping you have a better grasp of history.’

‘You’re damn right I do. I helped Mr Klostermann with every stage of the planning.’

‘So you know about bringing people in from all the other states.’

‘Damn right.’

‘So you have contacts. With similar sad-ass groups in other places.’

‘You can stop right there. I’ll go to jail before I betray my brothers.’

‘Refuse, and jail will be the least of your worries. But let me ask you one thing about your cause. You shared it with Klostermann?’

‘Correct.’

‘Henry Klostermann was your brother?’

Goodyear nodded.

‘He wasn’t your brother,’ Reacher said. ‘He was a Russian agent. He was playing you for a fool. Using you every step of the way. I bet he laughed himself to sleep every night, thinking about how dumb you are.’

‘Nice try, Reacher. But I’ll never believe that.’

‘That picture.’ Reacher pointed at the wall above the filing cabinets. ‘Was it always up when you came here?’

Goodyear stood and threw out a sharp salute. He winced as he tried to straighten his hand. ‘Always.’

‘Take it down. See what’s on the other side.’

Goodyear stayed where he was. ‘Touching it would be sacrilege.’

‘I’ll do it then.’ Reacher stepped forward, but Goodyear darted in front of him.

‘No,’ Goodyear said. ‘If anyone’s going to, it should be me.’

Goodyear paused in front of the picture as if saying a prayer. Then he stretched out and took hold of it. He used both hands. One on each side of the frame. Lifted it down. Paused again. And turned it over.

‘You know who that is, right?’ Reacher said. ‘Klostermann’s true idol. Henry Klostermann dedicated his entire life to destroying everything you believe in. And he tricked you into helping him. The journalist who was murdered? Toni Garza? Klostermann killed her. Because she was going to expose him. Only you buried the investigation. Because he told you to. You helped him get away with it.’

Goodyear shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Doesn’t matter if you believe me or not,’ Reacher said. ‘The FBI will explain it to you. I wasn’t lying when I told you the agents are on their way. You can stay and help them round up the other groups. Which would be doing your brothers a favour, honestly. It would stop anyone with a double-digit IQ being able to exploit them. Or if you don’t like that idea we can go to your house.’ Reacher pulled a cigarette lighter out of his pocket. ‘We can pick up some gas on the way.’

Goodyear sank back down on to the floor. ‘No. I’ll stay.’

‘Take out your cuffs,’ Reacher said.

Goodyear pulled them from a leather pouch on his belt.

‘Secure yourself to a filing cabinet. To the drawer handle.’

Goodyear did what he was told.

‘OK,’ Reacher said. ‘Two last things before I go.’ First he took the painting and smashed it over Goodyear’s head, leaving the frame hanging like a necklace. Then Reacher punched Goodyear in the face. Normally he would have used his left hand. Maybe dialled back the power a little too. But making an exception seemed the right thing to do.