Without Fail
Chapter 12

It was the familiar high-white letter-size sheet. It was lying precisely aligned with the oak flooring strips. It was in the geometric center of the hallway, near the bottom of the stairs, exactly where Reacher had dumped his garbage bag of clothes two nights previously. It had a simple statement printed neatly on it, in the familiar Times New Roman computer script, fourteen point, bold. The statement was five words long, split between two lines in the center of the page: It's going to happen soon. The three words It's going to made up the first line on their own. The happen soon part was alone on the second line. It looked like a poem or a song lyric. Like it was divided up that way for a dramatic purpose, like there should be a pause between the lines, or a breath, or a drum roll, or a rim shot. It's going to... bam!... happen soon. Reacher stared at it. The effect was hypnotic. Happen soon. Happen soon.
"Don't touch it," Froelich said.
"Wasn't going to," Reacher replied.
He ducked his head back out the door and checked the street. All the nearby cars were empty. All the nearby windows were closed and draped. No pedestrians. No loiterers in the dark. All was quiet. He came back inside and closed the door slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb the paper with a draft.
"How did they get it in here?" Froelich said.
"Through the door," Reacher said. "Probably at the back."
Froelich pulled the SIG Sauer from her holster and they walked through the living room together and into the kitchen. The door to the backyard was closed, but it was unlocked. Reacher opened it a foot. Scanned the outside surroundings and saw nothing at all. Eased the door back wide so the inside light fell onto the exterior surface. Leaned close and looked at the scratch plate around the keyhole.
"Marks," he said. "Very small. They were pretty good."
"They're here in D.C.," she said. "Right now. They're not in some Midwest bar."
She stared through the kitchen into the living room.
"The phone," she said.
It was pulled out of position on the table next to the fireside chair.
"They used my phone," she said.
"To call me, probably," Reacher said.
"Prints?"
He shook his head. "Gloves."
"They've been in my house," she said.
She moved away from the rear door and stopped at the kitchen counter. Glanced down at something and snatched open a drawer.
"They took my gun," she said. "I had a backup gun in here."
"I know," Reacher said. "An old Beretta."
She opened the drawer next to it.
"The magazines are gone too," she said. "I had ammo in here."
"I know," Reacher said again. "Under an oven glove."
"How do you know?"
"I checked, Monday night."
"Why would you?"
"Habit," he said. "Don't take it personally."
She stared at him and then opened the wall cupboard with the money stash in it. He saw her check the earthenware pot. She said nothing, so he assumed the cash was still there. He filed the observation away in the professional corner of his mind, as confirmation of a long-held belief: people don't like searching above head height.
Then she stiffened. A new thought.
"They might still be in the house," she said, quietly.
But she didn't move. It was the first sign of fear he had ever seen from her.
"I'll check," he said. "Unless that's an unhealthy response to a challenge."
She just handed him her pistol. He turned out the kitchen light so he wouldn't be silhouetted on the basement stairs and walked slowly down. Listened hard past the creaks and sighs of the house, and the hum and trickle of the heating system. Stood still in the dark and let his eyes adjust. There was nobody there. Nobody upstairs, either. Nobody hiding and waiting. People hiding and waiting give off human vibrations. Tiny hums and quivers. And he wasn't feeling anything. The house was empty and undisturbed, apart from the displaced telephone and the missing Beretta and the message on the hallway floor. He came back to the kitchen and held out the SIG, butt-first.
"Secure," he said.
"I better make some calls," she said.
Special Agent Bannon showed up forty minutes later in a Bureau sedan with three members of his task force. Stuyvesant arrived five minutes after them in a department Suburban. They left both vehicles double-parked in the street with their strobes going. The neighboring houses were spattered with random bursts of light, blue and red and white. Stuyvesant stood still in the open doorway.
"We weren't supposed to get any more messages," he said.
Bannon was on his knees, looking at the sheet of paper.
"This is generic," he said. "We predicted we wouldn't get specificity. And we haven't. The word soon is meaningless as to time and place. It's just a taunt. We're supposed to be impressed with how smart they are."
"I was already impressed with how smart they are," Stuyvesant said.
Bannon looked up at Froelich. "How long have you been out?"
"All day," Froelich said. "We left at six-thirty this morning to meet with you."
"We?"
"Reacher's staying here," she said.
"Not anymore, he's not," Bannon said. "Neither of you is staying here. It's too dangerous. We're putting you in a secure location."
Froelich said nothing.
"They're in D.C. right now," Bannon said. "Probably regrouping somewhere. Probably got in from North Dakota a couple hours after you did. They know where you live. And we need to work here. This is a crime scene."
"This is my house," Froelich said.
"It's a crime scene," Bannon said again. "They've been here. We'll have to rip it up some. Better that you stay away until we put it back together."
Froelich said nothing.
"Don't argue," Stuyvesant said. "I want you protected. We'll put you in a motel. Couple of U.S. marshals outside the door, until this is over."
"Neagley, too," Reacher said.
Froelich glanced at him. Stuyvesant nodded.
"Don't worry," he said. "I already sent somebody to pick her up."
"Neighbors?" Bannon asked.
"Don't really know them," Froelich answered.
"They might have seen something," Bannon said. He checked his watch. "They might still be up. At least I hope so. Dragging witnesses out of bed generally makes them very cranky."
"So get what you need, people," Stuyvesant called. "We're leaving, right now."
Reacher stood in Froelich's guest room and had a strong feeling he would never come back to it. So he took his things from the bathroom and his garbage bag of Atlantic City clothes and all of Joe's suits and shirts that were still clean. He stuffed clean socks and underwear into the pockets. Carried all the clothes in one hand and Joe's cardboard box under the other arm. He came down the stairs and stepped out into the night air and it hit him that for the first time in more than five years he was leaving a place carrying baggage. He loaded it into the Suburban's trunk and then walked around and climbed into the backseat. Sat still and waited for Froelich. She came out of her house carrying a small valise. Stuyvesant took it from her and stowed it and they climbed into the front together. Took off down the street. Froelich didn't look back.
They drove due north and then turned west all the way through the tourist sites and out again on the other side. They stopped at a Georgetown motel about ten blocks shy of Armstrong's street. There was an old-model Crown Vic parked outside, with a new Town Car next to it. The Town Car had a driver in it. The Crown Vic was empty. The motel itself was a small neat place with dark wood all over it. A discreet sign. It was hemmed in by three embassies with fenced grounds. The embassies belonged to new countries Reacher had never heard of, but their fences were OK. It was a very protected location. Only one way in, and a marshal in the lobby would take care of that. An extra marshal in the corridor would be icing on the cake.
Stuyvesant had booked three rooms. Neagley had already arrived. They found her in the lobby. She was buying soda from a machine and talking to a big guy in a cheap black suit and patrolman's shoes. A U.S. marshal, without a doubt. The Crown Vic driver. Their vehicle budget must be smaller than the Secret Service's, Reacher thought. As well as their clothing allowance.
Stuyvesant did the paperwork at the desk and came back with three key cards. Handed them around in an embarrassed little ceremony. Mentioned three room numbers. They were sequential. Then he scrabbled in his pocket and came out with the Suburban's keys. Gave them to Froelich.
"I'll ride back with the guy who brought Neagley over," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, seven o'clock in the office, with Bannon, all of you."
Then he turned and left. Neagley juggled her key card and her soda and a garment bag and went looking for her room. Froelich and Reacher followed behind her, with a key card each. There was another marshal at the head of the bedroom corridor. He was sitting awkwardly on a plain dining chair. He had it tilted back against the wall for comfort. Reacher squeezed his untidy luggage past him and stopped at his door. Froelich was already two rooms down, not looking in his direction.
He went inside and found a compact version of what he had seen a thousand times before. Just one bed, one chair, a table, a normal telephone, a smaller TV screen. But the rest was generic. Floral drapes, already closed. A floral bedspread, Scotchgarded until it was practically rigid. No-color bamboo-weave stuff on the walls. A cheap print over the bed, pretending to be a hand-colored architectural drawing of some part of some ancient Greek temple. He stowed his baggage and arranged his bathroom articles on the shelf above the sink. Checked his watch. Past midnight. Thanksgiving Day, already. He took off Joe's jacket and dropped it on the table. Loosened his tie and yawned. There was a knock at the door. He opened up and found Froelich standing there.
"Come in," he said.
"Just for a minute," she said. He walked back and sat on the end of the bed, to let her take the chair. Her hair was a mess, like she had just run her fingers through it. She looked good like that. Younger, and vulnerable, somehow.
"I am over him," she said.
"OK," he said.
"But I can see how you might think I'm not."
"OK," he said again.
"So I think we should be apart tonight. I wouldn't want you to be worried about why I was here. If I was here."
"Whatever you want," he said.
"It's just that you're so like him. It's impossible not to be reminded. You can see that, can't you? But you were never a substitute. I need you to know that."
"Still think I got him killed?"
She looked away.
"Something got him killed," she said. "Something on his mind, in his background. Something made him think he could beat somebody he couldn't beat. Something made him think he was going to be OK when he wasn't going to be OK. And the same thing could happen to you. You're stupid if you don't see that."
He nodded. Said nothing. She stood up and walked past him. He caught her perfume as she went by.
"Call me if you need me," he said.
She didn't reply. He didn't get up.
A half hour later there was another knock at the door and he opened it up expecting to find Froelich again. But it was Neagley. Still fully dressed, a little tired, but calm.
"You on your own?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Where is she?" Neagley asked.
"She left."
"Business or lack of pleasure?"
"Confusion," he said. "Half the time she wants me to be Joe, the other half she wants to blame me for getting him killed."
"She's still in love with him."
"Evidently."
"Six years after their relationship ended."
"Is that normal?"
She shrugged. "You're asking me? I guess some people carry a torch for a long time. He must have been quite a guy."
"I didn't really know him all that well."
"Did you get him killed?"
"Of course not. I was a million miles away. Hadn't spoken to him for seven years. I told you that."
"So what's her angle?"
"She says he was driven to be reckless because he was comparing himself to me."
"And was he?"
"I doubt it."
"You said you felt guilty afterward. You told me that too, when we were watching those surveillance tapes."
"I think I said I felt angry, not guilty."
"Angry, guilty, it's all the same thing. Why feel guilty if it wasn't your fault?"
"Now you're saying it was my fault?"
"I'm just asking, what's the guilt about?"
"He grew up under a false impression."
He went quiet and moved deeper into the room. Neagley followed him. He lay down on the bed, arms outstretched, hands hanging off the edges. She sat down in the armchair, where Froelich had been.
"Tell me about the false impression," she said.
"He was big, but he was studious," Reacher said. "The schools we went to, being studious was like having 'Kick my ass' tattooed across your forehead. And he wasn't all that tough, really, although he was big. So he got his ass kicked, regular as clockwork."
"And?"
"I was two years younger, but I was big and tough, and not very studious. So I started to look after him. Loyalty, I guess, and I liked fighting anyway. I was about six. I'd wade in anywhere. I learned a lot of stuff. Learned that style was the big thing. Look like you mean it, and people back off a lot. Sometimes they didn't. I had eight-year-olds all over me the first year. Then I got better at it. I hurt people bad. I was a madman. It got to be a thing. We'd arrive in some new place and pretty quick people would know to lay off Joe, or the psycho would be coming after them."
"Sounds like you were a lovely little boy."
"It was the Army. Anyplace else they'd have sent me to reform school."
"You're saying Joe grew to rely on it."
Reacher nodded. "It was like that for ten years, basically. It came and went, and it happened less as we got older. But more serious when it actually did. I think he internalized it. Ten years is a significant chunk of time when you're growing up, internalizing things. I think it became part of his mind-set to ignore danger because the psycho always had his back. So I think Froelich's right, in a way. He was reckless. Not because he was trying to compete, but because deep down he felt he could afford to be. Because I had always looked after him, like his mother had always fed him, like the Army had always housed him."
"How old was he when he died?"
"Thirty-eight."
"That's twenty years, Reacher. He had twenty years to adjust. We all adjust."
"Do we? Sometimes I still feel like that same six-year-old. Everybody looking out of the corner of their eye at the psycho."
"Like who?"
"Like Froelich."
"She been saying things?"
"I disconcert her, clearly."
"Secret Service is a civilian organization. Paramilitary at best. Nearly as bad as regular citizens."
He smiled. Said nothing.
"So, what's the verdict?" Neagley asked. "You going to be walking around from now on thinking you killed your brother?"
"A little bit, maybe," he said. "But I'll get over it."
She nodded. "You will. And you should. It wasn't your fault. He was thirty-eight. He wasn't waiting for his little brother to show up."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"About what?"
"Something else Froelich said."
"She wonders why we aren't doing it?"
"You're quick," he said.
"I could sense it," Neagley said. "She came across as a little concerned. A little jealous. Cold, even. But then, I'd just kicked her ass with the audit thing."
"You sure had."
"We've never even touched, you know that, you and me? We've never had any physical contact of any kind at all. You've never patted me on the back, never even shaken my hand."
He looked at her, and thought back through fifteen years.
"Haven't I?" he said. "Is that good or bad?"
"It's good," she said. "But don't ask why."
"OK," he said.
"Reasons of my own. Don't ask what they are. But I don't like to be touched. And you never touched me. I always figured you could sense it. And I always appreciated that. It's one of the reasons I always liked you so much."
He said nothing.
"Even if you should have been in reform school," she said.
"You probably should have been in there with me."
"We'd have made a good team," she said. "We are a good team. You should come back to Chicago with me."
"I'm a wanderer," he said.
"OK, I won't push," she said. "And look on the bright side with Froelich. Cut her some slack. She's probably worth it. She's a nice woman. Have some fun. You're good together."
"OK," he said. "I guess."
Neagley stood up and yawned.
"You OK?" he asked.
She nodded. "I'm fine."
Then she put a kiss on the tips of her fingers and blew it to him from six feet away. Walked out of the room without saying another word.
He was tired, but he was agitated and the room was cold and the bed was lumpy and he couldn't sleep. So he put his pants and shirt back on and walked to the closet and pulled out Joe's box. He didn't expect to find anything of interest in it. It would be abandoned stuff, that was all. Nobody leaves important things in a girlfriend's house when he knows he's going to skip out someday soon.
He put the box on the bed and pulled the flaps open. First thing he saw was a pair of shoes. They were packed heel-to-toe sideways across one end of the box. They were formal black shoes, good leather, reasonably heavy. They had proper stitched welts and toe caps. Thin laces in five holes. Imported, probably. But not Italian. They were too substantial. British, maybe. Like the Air Force tie.
He placed them on the bedcover. Put the heels six inches apart and the toes a little farther. The right heel was worn more than the left. The shoes were fairly old, fairly battered. He could see the whole shape of Joe's feet in them. The whole shape of his body, towering above them, like he was standing right there wearing them, invisible. They were like a death mask.
There were three books in the box, packed edge-up. One was Du côte de chez Swann, which was the first volume of Marcel Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu. It was a French paperback with a characteristic severe plain cover. He leafed through it. He could manage the language, but the content passed over his head. The second book was a college text about statistical analysis. It was heavy and dense. He leafed through it and gave up on both the language and the content. Piled it on top of Proust on the bed.
He picked up the third book. Stared at it. He recognized it. He had bought it for Joe himself, a long time ago, for his thirtieth birthday. It was Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. It was in English, but he had bought it in Paris at a used bookstore. He could even remember exactly what it had cost, which wasn't very much. The Paris bookseller had relegated it to the foreign-language section, and it wasn't a first edition or anything. It was just a nice-looking volume, and a great story.
He opened it to the flyleaf. He had written: Joe. Avoid both, OK? Happy Birthday. Jack. He had used the bookseller's pen, and the ink had smudged. Now it had faded a little. Then he had written out an address label, because the bookseller had offered to mail it for him. The address was the Pentagon back then, because Joe was still in Military Intelligence when he was thirty. The bookseller had been very impressed. The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia, USA.
He leafed past the title page to the first line: At the beginning of July, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, towards evening, a certain young man came down to the street from the room he was renting. Then he leafed ahead, looking for the ax murder itself, and a folded paper fell out of the book. It was there as a bookmark, he guessed, about halfway through, where Raskolnikov is arguing with Svidrigailov.
He unfolded the paper. It was Army issue. He could tell by the color and the texture. Dull cream, smooth surface. It was the start of a letter, in Joe's familiar neat handwriting. The date was six weeks after his birthday. The text said: Dear Jack, thanks for the book. It got here eventually. I will treasure it always. I might even read it. But probably not soon, because things are getting pretty busy here. I'm thinking of jumping ship and going to Treasury. Somebody (you'd recognize the name) offered me a job, and
That was it. It ended abruptly, halfway down the page. He laid it unfolded next to the shoes. Put all three books back in the box. He looked at the shoes and the letter and listened hard inside his head like a whale listens for another whale across a thousand miles of freezing ocean. But he heard nothing. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. So he crammed the shoes back into the box and folded the letter and tossed it in on top. Closed the flaps again and carried the box across the room and balanced it on top of the trash can. Turned back to the bed and heard another knock at the door.
It was Froelich. She was wearing her suit pants and jacket. No shirt under the jacket. Probably nothing at all under the jacket. He guessed she had dressed quickly because she knew she had to walk near the marshal in the corridor.
"You're still up," she said.
"Come in," he said.
She stepped into the room and waited until he closed the door.
"I'm not angry at you," she said. "You didn't get Joe killed. I don't really think that. And I'm not angry at Joe for getting killed. That just happened."
"You're angry at something," he said.
"I'm angry at him for leaving me," she said.
He moved back into the room and sat on the end of the bed. This time, she sat right next to him.
"I'm over him," she said. "Completely. I promise you. I have been for a long time. But I'm not over how he just walked out on me."
Reacher said nothing.
"And therefore I'm angry at myself," she said, quietly. "Because I wished him harm. Inside of me. I so wanted him to crash and burn afterward. And then he did. So I feel terribly guilty. And now I'm worried that you're judging me."
Reacher paused a beat.
"Nothing to judge," he said. "Nothing to feel guilty about, either. Whatever you wished was understandable, and it had no influence on what happened. How could it?"
She was silent.
"He got in over his head," Reacher said. "That's all. He took a chance and got unlucky. You didn't cause it. I didn't cause it. It just happened."
"Things happen for a reason."
He shook his head.
"No, they don't," he said. "They really don't. They just happen. It wasn't your fault. You're not responsible."
"You think?"
"You're not responsible," he said again. "Nobody's responsible. Except the guy who pulled the trigger."
"I wished him harm," she said. "I need you to forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive."
"I need you to say the words."
"I can't," Reacher said. "And I won't. You don't need forgiving. It wasn't your fault. Or mine. Or Joe's, even. It just happened. Like things do."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded, just slightly, and moved a little closer to him.
"OK," she said.
"Are you wearing anything under that suit?" he asked.
"You knew I had a gun in the kitchen."
"Yes, I did."
"Why did you search my house?"
"Because I've got the gene that Joe didn't have. Things don't happen to me. I don't get unlucky. You carrying a gun now?"
"No, I'm not," she said.
There was silence for a beat.
"And there's nothing under the suit," she said.
"I need to confirm those things for myself," he said. "It's a caution thing. Purely genetic, you understand."
He undid the first button on her jacket. Then the second. Slipped his hand inside. Her skin was warm and smooth.
They got a wake-up call from the motel desk at six o'clock in the morning. Stuyvesant must have arranged it last night, Reacher thought. I wish he'd forgotten. Froelich stirred at his side. Then her eyes snapped open and she sat up, wide awake.
"Happy Thanksgiving," he said.
"I hope it will be," she said. "I've got a feeling about today. I think it's the day we win or lose."
"I like that kind of a day."
"You do?"
"Sure," he said. "Losing is not an option, which means it's the day we win."
She pushed back the covers. The room had gone from too cold to too hot.
"Dress casual," she said. "Suits don't look right on a holiday at a soup kitchen. Will you tell Neagley?"
"You tell her. You'll be passing her door. She won't bite."
"She won't?"
"No," he said.
She put her suit back on and left. He padded over to the closet and pulled out the bag full of his Atlantic City clothes. He spilled them on the bed and did his best to flatten out the wrinkles. Then he showered without shaving. She wanted me to look casual, he thought. He found Neagley in the lobby. She was wearing her jeans and her sweatshirt with a battered leather jacket over it. There was a buffet table with coffee and muffins. The U.S. marshals had already eaten most of them.
"You two kiss and make up?" Neagley asked.
"A little of each, I guess," he said.
He took a cup and filled it with coffee. Selected a raisin bran muffin. Then Froelich showed up, newly showered and wearing black denim jeans with a black polo shirt and a black nylon jacket. They ate and drank whatever the marshals had left and then they walked out together to Stuyvesant's Suburban. It was before seven in the morning on Thanksgiving Day and the city looked like it had been evacuated the night before. There was silence everywhere. It was cold, but the air was still and soft. The sun was up and the sky was pale blue. The stone buildings looked golden. The roads were completely empty. It took no time at all to reach the office. Stuyvesant was waiting for them in the conference room. His interpretation of casual was a pair of pressed gray pants and a pink sweater under a bright blue golf jacket. Reacher guessed all the labels said Brooks Brothers, and he guessed Mrs. Stuyvesant had gone to the Baltimore hospital as was usual on a Thursday, Thanksgiving Day or not. Bannon was sitting opposite Stuyvesant. He was in the same tweed and flannel. He would look like a cop whatever day it was. He looked like a guy without too many options in his closet.
"Let's get to it," Stuyvesant said. "We've got a big agenda."
"First item," Bannon said. "The FBI formally advises cancellation today. We know the bad guys are in the city and therefore it's reasonable to assume there may be some kind of imminent hostile attempt."
"Cancellation is out of the question," Stuyvesant said. "Free turkey at a homeless shelter might sound trivial, but this is a town that runs on symbols. If Armstrong pulled out the political damage would be catastrophic."
"OK, then we're going to be there on the ground with you," Bannon said. "Not to duplicate your role. We'll stay strictly out of your way on all matters that concern Armstrong's personal security. But if something does go down, the closer we are the luckier we'll get."
"Any specific information?" Froelich asked.
Bannon shook his head.
"None," he said. "Just a feeling. But I would urge you to take it very seriously."
"I'm taking everything very seriously," Froelich said. "In fact, I'm changing the whole plan. I'm moving the event outdoors."
"Outdoors?" Bannon said. "Isn't that worse?"
"No," Froelich said. "On balance, it's better. It's a long low room, basically. Kitchen at the back. It's going to get very crowded. We've got no realistic chance of using metal detectors on the doors. It's the end of November, and most of these people are going to be wearing five layers and carrying God knows what kind of metal stuff. We can't search them. It would take forever and God knows how many diseases my people would catch. We can't wear gloves to do it because that would be seen as insulting. So we have to concede there's a fair chance that the bad guys could mingle in and get close, and we have to concede we've got no real way of stopping them."
"So how does it help to be outdoors?"
"There's a side yard. We'll put the serving tables in a long line at right angles to the wall of the building. Pass stuff out through the kitchen window. Behind the serving table is the wall of the yard. We'll put Armstrong and his wife and four agents in a line behind the serving table, backs to the wall. We'll have the guests approach from the left, single file through a screen of more agents. They'll get their food and walk on inside to sit down and eat it. The television people will like it better, too. Outside is always better for them. And there'll be orderly movement. Left to right along the table. Turkey from Armstrong, stuffing from Mrs. Armstrong. Move along, sit down to eat. Easier to portray, visually."
"Upside?" Stuyvesant asked.
"Extensive," Froelich said. "Much better crowd security. Nobody can pull a weapon before they get near Armstrong, because they're filtering through an agent screen the whole time until they're right across the table from him. Whereupon if they wait to do it at that point, he's got four agents right alongside him."
"Downside?"
"Limited. We'll be screened on three sides by walls. But the yard is open at the front. There's a block of five-story buildings directly across the street. Old warehousing. The windows are boarded, which is a huge bonus. But we'll need to put an agent on every roof. So we'll have to forget the budget."
Stuyvesant nodded. "We can do that. Good plan."
"The weather helped us for once," Froelich said.
"Is this basically a conventional plan?" Bannon asked. "Like normal Secret Service thinking?"
"I don't really want to comment on that," Froelich said. "Secret Service doesn't discuss procedure."
"Work with me, ma'am," Bannon said. "We're all on the same side here."
"You can tell him," Stuyvesant said. "We're already in hip-deep."
Froelich shrugged.
"OK," she said. "I guess it's a conventional plan. Place like that, we're pretty limited for options. Why are you asking?"
"Because we've done a lot of work on this," Bannon said. "A lot of thinking."
"And?" Stuyvesant said.
"We're looking at four specific factors here. First, this all started seventeen days ago, correct?"
Stuyvesant nodded.
"And who's hurting?" Bannon asked. "That's the first question. Second, think about the demonstration homicides out in Minnesota and Colorado. How were you alerted? That's the second question. Third, what were the weapons used out there? And fourth, how did the last message end up on Ms. Froelich's hallway floor?"
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying all four factors point in one single direction."
"What direction?"
"What's the purpose behind the messages?"
"They're threats," Froelich said.
"Who are they threatening?"
"Armstrong, of course."
"Are they? Some were addressed to you, and some were addressed to him. But has he seen any of them? Even the ones addressed directly to him? Does he even know anything about them?"
"We never tell our protectees. That's policy, always has been."
"So Armstrong's not sweating, is he? Who's sweating?"
"We are."
"So are the messages really aimed at Armstrong, or are they really aimed at the United States Secret Service? In a real-world sense?"
Froelich said nothing.
"OK," Bannon said. "Now think about Minnesota and Colorado. Hell of a demonstration. Not easy to stage. Whoever you are, shooting people down takes nerve and skill and care and thought and preparation. Not easy. Not something you undertake lightly. But they undertook it, because they had some kind of point to make. Then what did they do? How did they tip you off? How did they tell you where to look?"
"They didn't."
"Exactly," Bannon said. "They went to all that trouble, took all that risk, and then they sat back and did nothing at all. They just waited. And sure enough, the NCIC reports were filed by the local police departments, and the FBI computers scanned through NCIC like they're programmed to do, and they spotted the word Armstrong like they're programmed to do, and we called you with the good news."
"So?"
"So tell me, how many Joe Publics would know all that would happen? How many Joe Publics would sit back and take the risk that their little drama would go unconnected for a day or two until you read about it in the newspapers?"
"So what are you saying? Who are they?"
"What weapons did they use?"
"An H amp;K MP5SD6 and a Vaime Mk2," Reacher said.
"Fairly esoteric weapons," Bannon said. "And not legally available for sale to the public, because they're silenced. Only government agencies can buy them. And only one government agency buys both of them."
"Us," Stuyvesant said, quietly.
"Yes, you," Bannon said. "And finally, I looked for Ms. Froelich's name in the phone book. And you know what? She's not there. She's unlisted. Certainly there was no boxed ad saying, 'I'm a Secret Service crew chief and this is where I live.' So how did these guys know where to deliver the last message?"
There was a long silence.
"They know me," Froelich said, quietly.
Bannon nodded. "I'm sorry, folks, but as of now the FBI is looking for Secret Service people. Not current employees, because current employees would have been aware of the early arrival of the demonstration threat and would have acted a day sooner. So we're focusing on recent ex-employees who still know the ropes. People who knew you wouldn't tell Armstrong himself. People who knew Ms. Froelich. People who knew Nendick, too, and where to find him. Maybe people who left under a cloud and are carrying some kind of grudge. Against the Secret Service, not against Brook Armstrong. Because our theory is that Armstrong is a means, not an end. They'll waste a Vice President-elect just to get at you, exactly like they wasted the other two Armstrongs."
The room was silent.
"What would be the motive?" Froelich asked.
Bannon made a face. "Embittered ex-employees are walking, talking, living, breathing motives. We all know that. We've all suffered from it."
"What about the thumbprint?" Stuyvesant said. "All our people are printed. Always have been."
"Our assumption is that we're talking about two guys. Our assessment is that the thumbprint guy is an unknown associate of somebody who used to work here, who is the latex gloves guy. So we're saying they and them purely as a convenience. We're not saying they both worked here. We're not suggesting you've got two renegades."
"Just one renegade."
"That's our theory," Bannon said. "But saying they and them is useful and instructive, too, because they're a team. We need to look at them as a single unit. Because they share information. Therefore what I'm saying is, only one of them worked here, but they both know your secrets."
"This is a very big department," Stuyvesant said. "Big turnover of people. Some quit. Some are fired. Some retire. Some get asked to."
"We're checking now," Bannon said. "We're getting personnel lists direct from Treasury. We're going back five years."
"You'll get a long list."
"We've got the manpower."
Nobody spoke.
"I'm real sorry, people," Bannon said. "Nobody likes to hear their problem is close to home. But it's the only conclusion there is. And it's not good news for days like today. These people are here in town right now and they know exactly what you're thinking and exactly what you're doing. So my advice is to cancel. And if you're not going to cancel, then my advice is to take a great deal of care."
Stuyvesant nodded in the silence.
"We will," he said. "You can count on that."
"My people will be in place two hours in advance," Bannon said.
"Ours will be in place an hour before that," Froelich replied.
Bannon smiled a tight little smile and pushed back his chair and stood up.
"See you there," he said.
He left the room and closed the door behind him, firmly, but quietly.
Stuyvesant checked his watch. "Well?"
They had sat quiet for a moment, and then strolled out to the reception area and got coffee. Then they regrouped in the conference room, in the same seats, each of them looking at the place Bannon had vacated like he was still there.
"Well?" Stuyvesant said again.
Nobody spoke.
"Inevitable, I guess," Stuyvesant said. "They can't pin the thumbprint guy on us, but the other one is definitely one of ours. It'll be all smiles over at the Hoover Building. They'll be grinning from ear to ear. Laughing up their sleeves at us."
"But does that make them wrong?" Neagley asked.
"No," Froelich said. "These guys know where I live. So I think Bannon's right."
Stuyvesant flinched, like the umpire had called strike one.
"And you?" he said to Neagley.
"Worrying about DNA on envelopes sounds like insiders," Neagley said. "But one thing bothers me. If they're familiar with your procedures, then they didn't interpret the Bismarck situation very well. They expected the cops would move toward the decoy rifle and Armstrong would move toward the cars, thereby traversing their field of fire. But that didn't happen. Armstrong waited in the blind spot and the cars came to him."
Froelich shook her head.
"No, I'm afraid their interpretation was correct," she said. "Normally Armstrong would have been well out in the middle of the field, letting people get a good look at him. Right there in the center of things. We don't usually make them skulk around the edges. It was a last-minute change to keep him near the church. Based on Reacher's input. And normally there's absolutely no way I would allow a rear-wheel-drive limo on the grass. Too easy to bog down and get stuck. That's an article of faith. But I knew the ground was dry and hard. It was practically frozen. So I improvised. That maneuver would have struck an insider as completely off the wall. It would have been the very last thing they were expecting. They would have been totally surprised by it."
Silence for a beat.
"Then Bannon's theory is perfectly plausible," Neagley said. "I'm very sorry."
Stuyvesant nodded, slowly. Strike two.
"Reacher?" he said.
"Can't argue with a word of it."
Strike three. Stuyvesant's head dropped, like his last hope was gone.
"But I don't believe it," Reacher said.
Stuyvesant's head came up again.
"I'm glad they're pursuing it," Reacher said. "Because it needs to be pursued, I guess. We need to eliminate all possibilities. And they'll go at it like crazy. If they're right, they'll take care of it for us, that's for sure. So it's one less thing for us to worry about. But I'm pretty sure they're wasting their time."
"Why?" Froelich asked.
"Because I'm pretty sure neither of these guys ever worked here."
"So who are they?"
"I think they're both outsiders. I think they're between two and ten years older than Armstrong himself, both of them brought up and educated in remote rural areas where the schools were decent but the taxes were low."
"What?"
"Think of everything we know. Think of everything we've seen. Then think of the very smallest part of it. The very tiniest component."
"Tell us," Froelich said.
Stuyvesant checked his watch again. Shook his head.
"Not now," he said. "We need to move. You can tell us later. But you're sure?"
"They're both outsiders," Reacher said. "Guaranteed. It's in the Constitution."