The Sentinel (Jack Reacher #25) - Lee Child Page 0,110

Reacher figured that since he and Sands were both awake he might as well make his way to the diner as soon as the server was ready. Then he changed his mind. Getting there ahead of time would be pointless. He had to go through with the exchange, come what may. Even if the Russians had replaced the entire wait staff with paratroopers and locked all the customers in the basement, he still had to make sure they got the server. Otherwise their attention would turn back to Rutherford’s mother. The path he’d already ruled out. And there was another reason for playing it dumb. Fisher knew who he was. But the rest of her cell didn’t. They needed to see a not-very-bright part-time bodyguard chasing an easy payday. Any hint that he was something different and the whole house of cards could collapse. So he went back to bed. Plugged in the phone. Took three deep breaths. And fell back to sleep.

Reacher opened his eyes thirty seconds before his phone rang. It was Wallwork, checking in as agreed.

‘We’re good to go,’ he said. ‘Fisher sold them on it. Should be a piece of cake. Better than the ambush, in the end. Less complicated. No need for the fake suicide.’

‘OK. Let’s keep radio silence from here on in, except for emergencies. I’ll call you when it’s done.’

Reacher hung up and swung his legs over the side of the bed just as Sands came through the connecting door.

‘How’s Rusty?’ Reacher said.

‘No change,’ she said. ‘He’s totally out of it. But the good news is the copying went without a hitch. The clone is on the bed, next to Rusty’s laptop.’

‘Thanks, Sarah. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t thank me. Just be careful. Come back in one piece.’

Reacher paid a quick visit to the truck stop’s main building after he left the motel. He wanted something to carry the server in for the last part of his journey, when he would be on foot. The best he could find was a giant tote bag. It was made of coarse, brightly striped nylon with fluorescent yellow handles. The luggage equivalent of hiding in plain sight, Reacher thought. He picked up a cup of the extra-strong truckers’ coffee on his way out, continued to town, and parked four blocks behind Rutherford’s building.

Reacher timed his walk so that he arrived at the diner at 0802. He spotted one of the Russians on the street, acting like he was looking in a store window on the far side of the alley. Reacher pretended not to notice him and went inside. Four of the booths were occupied. Agent Fisher was in Reacher’s favourite. The one midway along the right-hand wall, beneath the turquoise Chevrolet. Then there was the other female Russian agent, evidently recovered from her exposure to the chlorine, alone, reading a magazine. A man in a suit, tucking into a mound of scrambled eggs and bacon. And a group of three women. They looked very similar, with maybe twenty-five years between each one. Three generations of the same family, Reacher thought. Maybe in town for a reunion. Or a wedding.

Reacher waited for Fisher to beckon to him then took the seat opposite her in the booth.

‘Reacher?’ she said.

Reacher nodded. ‘Dragon Tattoo 99?’

‘My screen name,’ Fisher said. ‘Is that it?’ She pointed at Reacher’s bag.

‘As promised,’ Reacher said. ‘All I need from you is the money.’

‘No problem. The money’s in my car. Out back. Come with me.’ Fisher started to pull a ten-dollar bill from her purse. She paused when it was a quarter of the way out, making sure to keep her body between it and the Russian woman in the next booth. Three words were printed in the margin, in pencil. AMBUSH. PLAY ALONG. She pulled the bill the rest of the way out and went to leave it on the table, but ended up dropping it in her water glass instead. ‘Damn it! I’m so clumsy today. Give me one second.’ She grabbed a wad of napkins from the dispenser by the wall, fished out the bill, and dabbed at it until it was almost dry. And completely free of handwriting.

Fisher led the way to the door that opened on to the alley. She pulled the handle then stood aside to let Reacher go through. A vehicle was waiting, three yards away. A black Lincoln Town Car. The old, square model. A retired limousine, Reacher thought. Or a stolen one. A guy climbed out of the