Vantresca said, “Moscow would decree an entire Guards regiment, if it could.”
“I guess it depends how big the room is.”
Hogan said, “If it’s six laptops, it could be a broom closet. Could be anywhere. Could be a secret door in back of a broom closet.”
“No, Trulenko wants windows,” Abby said. “Especially these windows. I bet he loves the view. I bet he loves standing there, looking out through the glass, lording it over the earthlings below. Even though he’s actually a failure and practically a prisoner. I bet it makes him feel better.”
“Wait,” Reacher said again. He looked at Barton. “You said on the fourth floor you could walk all around the building’s core. It was blank on three sides. But on the fifth floor you couldn’t get all the way around. Because of bigger suites in back. Inside of which the long blank face of the core would become a wall inside a room.”
“Yes,” Barton said.
“It’s a pretty good wall to have,” Reacher said. “Isn’t it? It’s as close as you can get to all the risers and the services running up and down behind the elevators.” He looked at Vantresca. “Back in the day, if you had to lay wired communications, how long would you want your wires to be?”
“As short as humanly possible,” Vantresca said.
“Because?”
“Wires are vulnerable.”
Reacher nodded.
“Not mechanically robust,” he said. “Plus that wall gets first call on the power and the water, and whatever the generator kicks out in an emergency. I bet that’s the wall Moscow wanted.” He said the word. A hive or a nest or a burrow, full of something that hummed or buzzed or thrashed around. He said, “They built it out from the back of the elevator core, all the way to the windows opposite. Because Moscow wanted the wall, and guys like Trulenko wanted the view. What else could they do?”
Vantresca said, “That’s a big room.”
Reacher nodded.
“Same size and shape as the lobby downstairs,” he said. “Same space exactly, except flipped around 180.”
“Big enough for a Guards regiment.”
“Couple of rifle companies at the most.”
“Maybe nobody,” Abby said. “Because of human nature. These guys are from Ukraine. Moscow is like a patronizing big brother. They’ll make up their own rules. What does it matter if they’re actually in the room? They have the cage. Everywhere is equally safe. Maybe Trulenko doesn’t even want them in the room anyway, watching over his shoulder. That’s human nature, too.”
“Situation C,” Hogan said. “Got to be someone.”
“Maybe not anymore,” Abby said. “They’ve been cut off two hours. I think the instinct would be to come out and fight on the barricades. At the wire. I think it would be irresistible. Because of human nature. You wouldn’t want to hide in a corridor, waiting for the inevitable.”
Reacher said, “This is what the pointy-heads would call a wide range of baseline assumptions. Anywhere from no one in the room to a Guards regiment.”
“What’s your guess?”
“I don’t care,” he said again. “As long as Trulenko is one of them.”
“Seriously.”
“It’s a ratio. Depends how many nerds they have. There could be dozens packed in there. Rows and rows of them.”
“No,” Vantresca said. “This is the custom shop. This is the skunk works. The drones are elsewhere. In the cloud.”
“Or in their mom’s basement,” Hogan said.
“Wherever,” Vantresca said. “Trulenko is an artist. It’s him, and a small handful of others. Maybe one or two. Maximum.”
“OK,” Reacher said. “Then either four guards in the room, or one. Probably the close protection part of Situation C calls for a crew of four within arm’s-length contact at all times. Worst case, they’re maintaining discipline on that. Best case, Abby is right and Trulenko doesn’t like it. In which case maybe they came to a private arrangement. I saw it happen, time to time. Typically the watch leader sits in the corner like part of the furniture. Maybe they become friends. You could sell the movie rights. Meanwhile the other three from the crew go hang out someplace else, with whoever else Situation C has called for.”
“Which is it, one or four?”
The back of his brain said, one.
Out loud he said, “Four.”
They peered around the next corner, and Barton pointed out the corresponding door, that down on five had led to the big suites in back.
Chapter 50
The short end of the elevator core was at Reacher’s left shoulder. The door was dead ahead. Therefore outside of the width of the core. Therefore not part of the room itself. An exterior hallway, or an entrance lobby. Reacher pushed the door, with spread fingertips, slowly, carefully.
An anteroom. Empty. Three chairs, dragged in, casually arranged. The back part of Reacher’s brain said, this is where they hung out. The other three from the crew. Then they heard the commotion at the elevators. They ran over there. Now they’re dead. The front part of his brain saw another door. Ahead on the left. In the side wall. Perfectly in line with the short end of the core. Therefore the door into the room.
It was an impressive piece of hardware. Almost certainly soundproof. Like in movies Reacher had seen, about recording studios or radio stations. It hinged outward. Big and heavy. Slow to move. A security system all its own. To open it, a person would need to plant a hand on the wall, and curl about two hundred pounds with the other, all the time dragging his own center mass into a vulnerable gap he was making invitingly wider and wider by his own voluntary efforts. Nowhere to be found in the field manual. Because one guy or four inside, they would be guarding the point of entry pretty closely. Guns out and ready. Textbook. Their last stand.
Reacher went through it in sign language. He tapped his chest. I will. He mimed wrenching open the door, a sudden jerk, maximum strength. He tapped Abby on the shoulder. Mimed kneeling and aiming at the future gap. He tapped Vantresca on the shoulder and mimed crouching and aiming over Abby’s head. Then Hogan, over Vantresca’s head. He put Barton at ninety degrees, just in case the door opened to reveal a different trajectory.
The others got in position. Kneeling, crouching, standing. Reacher grasped the door, both hands. He braced his feet. He took a breath. He nodded, one, two, three.
He wrenched the door.
Abby fired. Vantresca fired. Hogan fired. All at once. One round each. Then nothing, except the clatter of a dropped gun, and the fleshy thump of a falling body, and hissing, ringing silence.