The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25) - Lee Child Page 0,101

have a subconscious tendency to infer associations based on physical proximity. You see a guy standing at a crosswalk, you assume he wants to cross the street. Reacher didn’t want to be so close to Klostermann’s house that it looked like he was waiting outside it. He wanted to appear unconnected, beyond the intangible boundary linking him to the place. But neither did he want to be too far away. It wouldn’t help his cause if he was unable to get a clear look at Klostermann’s guests.

If he had any.

Reacher felt under the dashboard to make sure he could locate the hood release lever. He called Sands to let her know what was happening. Then he leaned his head against the rest.

Nothing stirred for half an hour. Then a mail truck trundled past. A minute later a woman went by in a silver SUV. Neither driver paid Reacher any attention. Nothing else moved. Reacher sat tight until he figured he had five minutes until people would start arriving for Klostermann’s meeting. If it was happening at all. Then he climbed out, lifted the hood, and pretended to examine the engine. His face and head were hidden. And he had a clear view of Klostermann’s driveway along the passenger side of the car.

Nothing moved for seven minutes. Then a Mercedes rolled up. A sedan. It was long and black and shiny. Reacher made a note of the licence plate and watched it approach Klostermann’s house. It stopped at the gate. An arm in a white shirt sleeve stretched out of the driver’s window. Aiming for the intercom, Reacher thought. But the guy hit four keys, not one. He was entering a code. The gate slid aside and the car moved forward and headed for the parking area in front of the house. The next vehicle to arrive was a Dodge Ram. It was blood red, and even shinier. The driver used the intercom, waited for the gate, and drove inside. After that an F150 showed up. Then a white panel van with Gerrard’s Generators – Power 2 U painted on the side in jagged letters. Both their drivers used the intercom, too. Finally a motorcycle rattled into sight. It was some kind of customized machine with flames painted on the fuel tank, tall wide handlebars, and pegs for the rider’s feet set way out in front. The guy sitting on it had black boots. Black leather pants. A black leather vest with a picture of a giant spider stitched into the back. A pair of round, mirrored sunglasses. And a Stars and Stripes bandana in place of a helmet. He pulled up short of the gate and took a phone out of his vest pocket. This was the guy who had been early, Reacher thought. Now he was late. The guy hit a button then raised the phone to his ear. Held it there for thirty seconds. Then lowered it, jabbed a button, and jammed it back into his pocket. He pulled the bike into the tightest turn he could manage. Revved the engine a few times. Then released the clutch and screeched away. Smoke poured from his back wheel and the tyre left a long wide strip of rubber on the asphalt.

He was dispensable. The housekeeper had made that clear.

Reacher waited another five minutes to see if anyone else tried to get in, then dropped the hood into place and climbed back inside the car. He started the engine to get the air going and Wallwork called him before he could shift into Drive.

‘News?’ Reacher said.

‘Some,’ Wallwork said. ‘But nothing from Fisher. This is about Klostermann. Some background on his family. On his father. Henry senior. Or Heinrich, as he was originally called. He did immigrate from Germany. That’s confirmed. We have him getting processed through the Port of Entry in New York in 1946, then showing up in Tennessee. He got married in fifty, and little Henry was born the same year. Heinrich bought the Spy House in fifty-two, directly from the spies, and lived there until his death in 1960. Not very exciting, all told. Nothing that sounds like it could be worth ten grand.’

‘He went to fifteen in the end.’

‘What did you do? Threaten to break his legs?’

‘Told him there was a supplement if he wanted the only copy.’

‘Nice move, Reacher. If he really wanted it for family history research, why would he care if there were copies? Let alone pay through the nose to stop any