Lee Child: MatchUp

He thought about that, but not for long.

“If Ali Reynolds and her people can find Martin’s phone, she sounds like someone I should have met yesterday.”

BRAVO DISCOVERED THAT ALI REYNOLDS and her husband, B. Simpson, lived in a large midcentury modern house in Sedona. As he stepped up onto the wisteria-shaded front porch, a tall, fit woman somewhere in her fifties opened the door to welcome and beckon him inside.

“You must be Father Shaw. I’m Ali,” she said as she escorted him into the house. “My office is this way. I’ve asked the butler to serve coffee.”

He followed her through a spacious living room and a pair of French doors into a cozy office. The desk in front of the window was littered with files. She motioned him into one of a pair of wingback chairs set in front of a burning gas-log fireplace. He had no more than sat down when a miniature long-haired dachshund leaped into his lap.

“That’s Bella,” she said with a smile. “That’s also a good sign. She’s pretty picky when it comes to making friends with strangers.”

“I’m assuming Sister Anselm told you why I’m here?”

“She did. The Reader’s Digest condensed version, but now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to tell me more.”

Before he could reply, an older gentleman wearing a suit and tie stepped through the French doors bearing a tray laden with coffee, cups and saucers, sugar and cream, and a plate of gingerbread cookies.

“Fresh out of the oven,” he said, placing the tray on the coffee table between them.

“Thank you, Leland.” Reaching toward the carafe, she asked, “Coffee, Father Shaw?”

“Call me Bravo, please. And yes, coffee is perfect.”

While Ali poured, he examined his surroundings. The house was impressive in an understated yet elegant way, and the fact that a manservant had delivered the coffee spoke of a certain amount of money. As for the woman seated across from him? Even in jeans and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she had a classy, no-nonsense way about her.

She passed him a brimming cup and saucer, then settled back in her chair. “Sister Anselm filled me in as best she could with the information you provided. Finding your injured associate’s cell phone is something my people can do. However, to be honest, Sister Anselm seems to think it is highly unlikely that the actual veil exists. She says that according to Bishop Gillespie, several items alleged to be the veil have shown up at the Vatican over the centuries and that each in turn has been proven to be a fake.”

“I don’t believe this one is a fake. Martin sent me a text to that effect just as they came under attack.”

“You call it an attack, but it was more than that,” she observed. “It was an assault with intent. Martin Price was severely injured and two of his teammates are missing and presumed dead. Sister Anselm mentioned your reasoning against involving local law enforcement.” She hesitated for a beat. “So your contention is that you’re above the rule of law?”

“Not so much above, as outside. If a local law enforcement agency were to try to lay hands on Anson Stone or one of his team members, they’d forfeit their lives. Believe me, Ms. Reynolds, this is not something you’ve encountered before. And, other than helping locate Martin Price’s cell phone, you’d be well advised to stay out of it now.”

She set down her coffee. “One thing puzzles me. If you’re a priest, I’m a bit confused about why I’m supposed to address you by your given name.”

“The Gnostic Observatines are a lay order. Addressing our members as ‘Father’ is unnecessary.” He tossed her a wry smile. “A distinction your Sister Anselm refuses to acknowledge.”

She nodded, slightly amused. “Yes, that certainly sounds like her.”

Her phone rang.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It’s Sister Anselm.” She listened for a moment. “Good,” she said, before turning to Bravo. “She says Martin Price is out of surgery. They’ve removed his spleen and one of his kidneys. He’s in critical condition and has been moved to the ICU.”

“Please thank her for me. I’m sure Martin will appreciate her tender mercies.”

She relayed the message. “Yes,” she answered, apparently a question from Sister Anselm. “Stuart has the hospital surveillance in place. And yes, we’ll have eyes and facial rec on all exits and entrances. And yes, if push comes to shove, that’s probably a good plan.”

She ended the call.

“What’s a good plan?” he asked.

“We’ve created a backup security plan at the hospital.”

“I have additional personnel flying in to Flagstaff even as we speak.”

“Who may or may not arrive,” she said, “since by all accounts there’s a blizzard on its way. And if you have people showing up to help out, we need to have photos of them. Otherwise, our facial recognition program will have no way to tell good guys from bad guys. Neither will Sister Anselm.”

He pulled out his phone. “Where should I send them?”

She gave him an e-mail address for Stuart Ramey. She waited until he’d pressed Send before adding, “If you want us to try locating that phone, you’ll need to send along both Martin’s number and yours.”

He keyed in more information and sent that off too.

“Do you really think any of this is going to work?” he asked, pocketing his phone. “I only came here at Sister Anselm’s insistence, but the idea of your getting a good result doesn’t seem likely. I’m quite sure Martin would have been using a burner phone for the purposes of this expedition, and all our in-house communications systems are encrypted and supposedly secure.”

“But what if they’re not?” she asked. “What if your encryption program has somehow been penetrated? Suppose someone managed to gain access to your phone. In that case, the Knights may have learned that Martin had found the veil at the same time you did.”

Looking troubled, he made as if to rise. “I should go back to the hospital. That way, when Martin comes around, maybe he’ll be able to tell me exactly what happened and where I should look.”

“My understanding is that the hunters who rescued Martin Price found him on the back side of Mingus Mountain. Going there from here will be a shorter trip than it will be starting from Flagstaff. Besides, if and when Martin recovers enough to speak, Sister Anselm will pass along that information.”

The words were barely out of her mouth when her phone rang again. “It’s Sister Anselm again.”

She answered and switched the phone to speaker.

“I just spoke to him,” Sister Anselm said. “He was able to tell me his name. When I asked if he knew Bravo, he nodded and said something about a boulder. I couldn’t make out any more than that, but I suspect it has something to do with the location of the veil.”

“But no indication of the location of said boulder?”

“None.”

“Keep us posted.”

The call ended.

Ali turned back to him. “At the time Martin was delivered to the hospital, no one knew who he was. How did you know he was there?”

“All Gnostic Observatines are outfitted with medical alert chips that can be scanned if one of us is hospitalized. It gives hospital personnel access to our medical records, but it also notifies us so we can come in and do damage control.”

“So you can make sure your so-called war casualties don’t end up in any official police or hospital records?”

He smiled and nodded. “Exactly. But it would seem I wasn’t the only one who had that information. I’m not sure about his sources, but Sister Anselm’s friend, Bishop Gillespie, must have known something about it as well. Is he trustworthy enough?”