The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25) - Lee Child Page 0,104

the centre of each wall. Steel, presumably, encased in concrete. The sides and back were solid. The roof was flat. And the front had two vehicle-width doors, both rolled up. Originally they would have led to two bays. The right-hand one was still in commission. It had a lift, banks of tools, pneumatic lines, the whole nine yards. A car was raised up with its wheels at head height. A two-door coupé with a long hood, maybe from the late sixties or early seventies. It was bright orange. A guy was standing under it, fiddling with something. Four others were next to it, giving advice. To the side of them the other bay had been converted into some kind of clubhouse. There were three leather couches. None of them matched. A fridge. A table made out of three tyres stacked on their sides with a circle of glass on top. And there were posters on the walls. Some of cars. Some of women. Some of cars and women.

Outside, five trucks were lined up on the forecourt. They were all American brands. All were black with chrome wheels and knobbly tyres. And all had versions of orange flames painted down the sides. Reacher pulled up at the end of the row. He got out and looked at the guys in the vehicle bay. Their ages ranged from late twenties to early forties, he guessed. Two were wearing black leather pants and vests. Two, jeans and T-shirts. One – the guy under the car – was wearing black coveralls. All were pale. All were blond. All were broad and stocky. Reacher could imagine them working out together. Maybe with some kind of improvised equipment. Maybe at one time in a prison yard. Maybe more than one time.

Another thing they had in common was that none of them was Zach.

‘Problem with your car, friend?’ The coveralls guy took a step forward. ‘Can’t help you here. Sorry. Private club. Not a commercial operation.’

‘I’m here for Zach,’ Reacher said.

The guy glanced at his buddies. ‘Don’t know any Zach. Sorry.’

A door opened at the back of the clubhouse area. Maybe from a storeroom. Maybe from a bathroom. Zach stepped out. He was still wearing his bandana and shades.

‘You don’t?’ Reacher said. ‘Here he is now. Want me to introduce you?’

‘Funny guy,’ Zach said. He made his way to the threshold. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Henry Klostermann.’

‘Don’t know any Henry Klostermann, do we, boys?’

The others shook their heads and grunted.

‘Sure you do,’ Reacher said. ‘He has some business up for grabs. There was a misunderstanding. You wound up on the back foot, I get that. But Mr Klostermann doesn’t like quitters. You should give it another shot. And here’s the good news. I can help you. If you help me first.’

‘Bullshit,’ Zach said.

‘No. It’s the truth. But I guess if you don’t want to work with Mr Klostermann …’

‘If you know Mr Klostermann you must be in the Brotherhood. So why haven’t I seen you at any meetings?’

Reacher shrugged. ‘I spend a lot of time on the road.’

‘So you are in the Brotherhood? Prove it.’

‘I don’t need to prove anything. I’m Mr Klostermann’s business associate. We just closed a deal today, as a matter of fact. At his house. I’ve been there more than once. That’s where I saw you. I overheard what happened. Just confirm a couple of details for me, and I can get you back on the books in no time.’

‘You can take your business deals and stick them in your ass. The Brotherhood. Are you a member? Yes or no? Because we all are. Show him, boys.’

As one, the guys with T-shirts lifted them. The guys with vests opened them. And the guy with the coveralls undid the tunic buttons. They all had the same tattoo. On the left side of their chests. A bald eagle. Holding arrows in both talons, not just one. And across the centre of the bird’s body, in place of the Stars and Stripes, there was a round shield containing a black swastika on a red background.

The blurry image that had been in Reacher’s head since talking to Wallwork snapped into focus. The white flowers in Klostermann’s living room. They were edelweiss. Adolf Hitler’s favourite. Which told him what Klostermann was hiding. His father had arrived from Germany in 1946. With at least one valuable painting to use as collateral to start a new life. He was a war criminal. A Nazi. And Henry was carrying on