Chapter 19

Reacher put the notebook back in its spot in the space beneath the floor. He replaced the piece of board, including the hair in case Paris was practicing old-school fieldcraft to reveal if her cache had been discovered, then rolled out the rug and followed Knight downstairs. He found her in what he guessed was originally the dining room. It was a large, rectangular space with a long table in the center, panels on the walls, and a bay window. The drapes were closed and a projection screen was hanging down in front of them. A projector was fixed to the ceiling at the opposite end of the room. There was a rose in the center of the ceiling. Reacher imagined it was designed for an elaborate chandelier but now a low profile LED light was wired into it. Anything hanging lower would get in the way of whatever was being beamed onto the screen.

Knight was sitting at the head of the table. There was a laptop computer in front of her. It was plugged into a power supply and another cable snaked away and disappeared through a grommet at the center of the tabletop. The computer's screen was filled with a picture of a yacht under full sail. A box had popped up across its spinnaker with a message stating that either a password or a Touch ID was required to proceed.

Knight sighed. "Any ideas?"

Reacher said, "How about the password from the security system?"

"First thing I tried. No luck."

"Whose computer is it?" Reacher had a pretty good track record at guessing passwords and PIN numbers. He had a technique. But to make it work he needed to understand the individual who had chosen them. To know their tastes and priorities and habits and hobbies. Without that kind of detail he'd be shooting in the dark.

"It's wired up to the projector so it's probably shared. Anyone who wants to present anything probably loads up whatever files they need. It's not networked so they'd need to use a thumb drive. So either they're behind the curve, technology-wise, or they've gone full Battlestar Galactica."

"Meaning what?"

"It was a TV show. Sci-fi. Bad things happened because of connecting computers together. Anyway, the details don't matter. I just mean either they're out-of-date or they're paranoid about security. Probably paranoid, because this computer is actually pretty new."

Reacher said, "We don't need to project anything, so why would we care?"

Knight said, "Think about what kind of things Fletcher or Vidic or whoever would want to present. Probably not vacation photos, right? I'm guessing they use it for briefings. Probably about forthcoming jobs."

"Makes sense."

"If I'm right, there's a good chance they load their presentation files onto the computer itself, rather than run them off the thumb drive. Now, they might delete them afterward. But they might not. There could be all kinds of details in here. That's why we need the damn password."

"It says password or Touch ID. What's that?"

"Just a fingerprint, basically. The on/off key has a sensor in it. If you have clearance you touch the key, and boom, the computer unlocks."

"Which of them has clearance?"

"No way to tell."

"If you don't have clearance, does it do any harm to try?"

"No. The system would just refuse to unlock."

"Do you have to be alive to try?"

—

Knight unplugged the computer and carried it to the walk-in refrigerator. She set it down on Gibson's chest, just like she had done with the notebook when she took his prints. Then she looked up at Reacher.

"Is he a righty or a lefty?"

Reacher said, "His watch is on the left."

Knight took hold of Gibson's right hand and twisted it around until the tip of his index finger made contact with the computer's key. The screen unlocked. She mouthed a silent thank you and took the computer into the kitchen. She rested it on the counter and set about scrolling through a list of files until she found one she liked the lookof.

—

Paris was sitting behind the wheel of her Land Rover. Her arms were crossed. Her lips were pressed together. Her purse was on the passenger seat next to her, propped open. Her Walther PPK was within easy reach. She caught sight of Vidic hurrying toward her and she was tempted to grab it. And use it. But instead she just locked her door and turned away.

Vidic tapped on the window.

Paris didn't look at him. She said, "Go away."

"I'm here to apologize. You're right to be mad at me. Just not for the reason you think."

Paris didn't answer.

"Open the window. Come on. We've only got a minute. Don't ruin everything now."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Open the window. Please. It's important."

"Fine." Paris cranked the handle until the glass dropped halfway down into the door. "What?"

Vidic leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "Listen carefully. I told the stranger we were going to rob the safe first and Fletcher's job would be second. Truth is, the job happens first. Fletcher and Kane are not coming back from it. I'll bring the stranger here. He'll move the safe. His eyes will be on me as I make a big show of breaking into it. He'll be dreaming of his million dollars. And you'll put a .38 in the back of his head."

"Me?"

"What? You just said you were capable. You shoot him, we take the cash, and we dump his body at the Russians' place. It's another layer of insulation. We were never there. We jumped ship with Bowery. Fletcher and Kane ran the job. They brought in the stranger. That was a mistake. Everything went to hell."

Paris blinked her eyes four times. Five. "How do you know Fletcher and Kane aren't coming back?"

Vidic didn't answer.

"Oh. That's why you want me to stay here?"

"No point both of us getting blood on our hands."

"Do you have to kill them?"

"I'm not leaving hostages to fortune. We have too much at stake. We leave them alive, either one day they come after us themselves, or they get caught and use us as bargaining chips. We need a clean break. No risk of blowback. This is it."

"I guess."

"I'll text you when I'm fifteen minutes out. Hide in the cave. Be ready."

Paris thought for another moment. "We'll have to leave my gun at the Russians' place."

"Correct."

"Shame. I like this gun."

"You can get another."

"What about Fletcher's? And Kane's?"

"They both use 9mm parabellum. They like the same brand. Hornady. I'll make it look convincing. And it's not like the Russians will be in a rush to call 911. There'll be no ballistics labs working their magic on this one."