Without Fail (37 page)

The door was opened from the inside by one of Armstrong's personal detail. He was still wearing his Kevlar vest. Still wearing his sunglasses, although the room had no windows. Just bright fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. Armstrong and his wife were sitting together on chairs at a table in the centre of the room. The other two agents were leaning against the walls. The room was silent. Armstrong's wife had been crying. That was clear. Armstrong himself had a smudge of Froelich's blood on the side of his face. He looked deflated. Like this whole White House thing was no longer fun.

"What's the situation?" he asked.

"Two casualties," Stuyvesant said quietly, "The sentry on the warehouse roof, and M.E. herself. They both died at the scene."

Armstrong's wife turned away like she had been slapped. "Did you get the people who did it?" Armstrong asked.

"The FBI is leading the hunt," Stuyvesant said. "Just a matter of time."

"I want to help," Armstrong said.

"You're going to help," Reacher said. Armstrong nodded. "What can I do?"

"You can issue a formal statement," Reacher said. "Immediately. In time for the networks to get it on the evening news."

"Saying what?"

"Saying you're cancelling your holiday weekend in North Dakota out of respect for the two dead agents. Saying you're holing up in your Georgetown house and going absolutely nowhere at all before you attend a memorial service for your lead agent in her home town in Wyoming on Sunday morning. Find out the name of the town and mention it loud and clear."

Armstrong nodded again. "OK," he said. "I could do that, I guess. But why?"

"Because they won't try again here in D.C. Not against the security you're going to have at your house. So they'll go home and wait. Which gives me until Sunday to find out where they live."

"You? Won't the FBI find them today?"

"If they do, that's great. I can move on."

"And if they don't?"

"Then I'll find them myself."

"And if you fail?"

"I don't plan to fail. But if I do, then they'll show up in Wyoming to try again. At Froelich's service. Whereupon I'll be waiting for them."

"No," Stuyvesant said. "I can't allow it. Are you crazy? We can't secure a situation out west on seventy-two hours' notice. And I can't use a protectee as bait."

"He doesn't have to actually go," Reacher said. "There probably won't even be a service. He just has to say it."

Armstrong shook his head. "I can't say it if there isn't going to be a service. And if there is a service, I can't say it and not show up."

"If you want to help, that's what you've got to do." Armstrong said nothing. They left the Armstrongs in the West Wing basement and were escorted back to the Suburban. The sun was still shining and the sky was still blue. The buildings were still white and golden. It was still a glorious day.

"Take us back to the motel," Reacher said. "I want to get a shower. Then I want to meet with Bannon."

"Why?" Stuyvesant asked.

"Because I'm a witness," Reacher said. "I saw the shooter. On the roof. Just a glimpse of his back as he moved away from the edge."

"You got a description?"

"Not really," Reacher said. "It was only a glimpse. I couldn't describe him. But there was something about the way he moved. I've seen him before."

FOURTEEN

He peeled off his clothes. they were stiff and cold and clammy with blood. He dropped them on the closet floor and stepped into the bathroom. Set the shower going. The tray under his feet ran red and then pink and then clear. He washed his hair twice and shaved carefully. Dressed in another of Joe's shirts and another of his suits and chose the regimental tie that Froelich had bought, as a tribute. Then he went back out to the lobby.

Neagley was waiting for him there. She had changed, too. She was wearing a black suit. It was the old army way. If in doubt, go formal. She had a cup of coffee ready for him. She was talking to the U.S. Marshals. They were a new crew. The day shift, he guessed.

"Stuyvesant's coming back," she told him. "Then we go meet with Bannon."

He nodded. The marshals were quiet around him. Almost respectful. Towards him or because of Froelich, he didn't know.

"Tough break," one of them said.

Reacher looked away. "I guess it was," he replied. Then he looked back. "But hey, shit happens," he said. Neagley smiled, briefly. It was the old army way. If in doubt, be flippant. Stuyvesant showed up an hour later and drove them to the Hoover Building. The balance of power had changed. Killing federal agents was a federal crime, so now the FBI was firmly in charge. Now it was a straightforward manhunt. Bannon met them in the main lobby and took them up in an elevator to their conference room. It was better than Treasury's. It was panelled in wood and had windows. There was a long table with clusters of glasses and bottles of mineral water. Bannon was conspicuously democratic and avoided the head of the table. He just dumped himself down in one of the side chairs. Neagley put herself on the same side, two places away. Reacher sat down opposite her. Stuyvesant chose a place three away from Reacher and poured himself a glass of water.

"Quite a day," Bannon said in the silence. "My agency extends its deepest sympathies to your agency."

"You haven't found them," Stuyvesant said.

"We got a heads up from the medical examiner," Bannon said. "Crosetti was shot through the head with a NATO 7.62 round. Died instantly. Froelich was shot through the throat from behind, same gun, probably. The bullet clipped her carotid artery. But I guess you already know that."

"You haven't found them," Stuyvesant said again.

Bannon shook his head. "Thanksgiving Day," he said. "Pluses and minuses. Main minus was that we were short of personnel because of the holiday, and so were you, and so were the Metro cops, and so was everybody else. Main plus was that the city itself was very quiet. On balance it was quieter than we were shorthanded. The way it turned out we were the majority population all over town five minutes after it happened."

"But you didn't find them."

Bannon shook his head again. "No," he said. "We didn't find them. We're still looking, of course, but being realistic we would have to say they're out of the District by now."

"Outstanding," Stuyvesant said.

Bannon made a face. "We're not turning cartwheels. But there's nothing to be gained by yelling at us. Because we could yell right back. Somebody got through the screen you deployed. Somebody decoyed your guy off the roof." He looked directly at Stuyvesant as he said it.

"We paid for it," Stuyvesant said. "Big time."

"How did it happen?" Neagley asked. "How did they get up there at all?"

"Not through the front," Bannon said. "There was a shitload of cops watching the front. They saw nothing, and they can't all have fallen asleep at the critical time. Not down the back alley either. There was a cop on foot and a cop in a car watching, both ends. Those four all say they saw nobody either, and we believe all four of them. So we think the bad guys got into a building a block over. Walked through the building and out a rear door into the alley halfway down. Then they skipped ten feet across the alley and got in the back of the warehouse and walked up the stairs. No doubt they exited the same way. But they were probably running, on the way out."

"How did they decoy Crosetti?" Stuyvesant said. "He was a good agent."

"Yes, he was," Reacher said. "I liked him."

Bannon shrugged again. "There's always a way, isn't there?" Then he looked around the room, the way he did when he wanted people to understand more than he was saying. Nobody responded.

"Did you check the trains?" Reacher asked.

Bannon nodded. "Very carefully. It was fairly busy. People heading out for family dinners. But we were thorough."

"Did you find the rifle?"

Bannon just shook his head. Reacher stared at him. "They got away carrying a rifle?" he said. Nobody spoke. Bannon looked back at Reacher. "You saw the shooter," he said.

Reacher nodded. "Just a glimpse, for a quarter-second, maybe. In silhouette, as he moved away."

"And you figure you've seen him before."

"But I don't know where."

"Outstanding," Bannon said.

"There was something about the way he moved, that's all. The shape of his body. His clothing, maybe. It's just out of reach. Like the next line of an old song."

"Was he the guy from the garage video?"

"No," Reacher said.

Bannon nodded. "Whatever, it doesn't mean much. Stands to reason you've seen him before. You've been in the same place at the same time, in Bismarck for sure, and maybe elsewhere. We already know they've seen you. Because of the phone call. But it would be nice to have a name and face, I guess."

"I'll let you know," Reacher said.

"Your theory still standing?" Stuyvesant asked.

"Yes," Bannon said. "We're still looking at your ex-employees. Now more than ever. Because we think that's why Crosetti left his post. We think he saw somebody he knew and trusted." They drove the half-mile west on Pennsylvania Avenue and parked in the garage and rode up to the Secret Service's own conference room. Every inch of the short journey was bitter without Froelich.

"Hell of a thing," Stuyvesant said. "I never lost an agent before. Twenty-five years. And now I've lost two in a day. I want these guys, so bad."

"They're dead men walking," Reacher said.

"All the evidence is against us," Stuyvesant said.

"So what are you saying? You don't want them if they're yours?"

"I don't want them to be ours."

"I don't think they are yours," Reacher said. "But either way, they're going down. Let's be real straight about that. They've crossed so many lines I've given up counting."

"I don't want them to be ours," Stuyvesant said again. "But "I'm afraid Bannon might be right."

"It's either, or," Reacher said. "That's all. Either he's right or he's wrong. If he's right, we'll know soon enough because he'll bust his balls to show us. Thing is, he'll never look at the possibility that he's wrong. He wants to be right too much."

"Tell me he's wrong."

"I think he is wrong. And the upside is, if I'm wrong that he's wrong, it doesn't matter worth a damn. Because he's going to leave no stone unturned. We can absolutely rely on him. He doesn't need our input. Our responsibility is to look at what he's not looking at. Which I think is the right place to look anyway."

"Just tell me he's wrong."

"His thing is like a big pyramid balancing on its point. Very impressive, until it falls over. He's basing everything on the fact that Armstrong hasn't been told. But there's no logic in that. Maybe these guys are targeting Armstrong personally. Maybe they just didn't know you wouldn't tell him."

Stuyvesant nodded.

"I might buy that," he said. "God knows I want to. But there's the NCIC thing. Bannon was fight about that. If they were outside our community, they'd have pointed us towards Minnesota and Colorado personally. We have to face that."

"The weapons are persuasive too," Neagley said. "And Froelich's address."

Reacher nodded. "So is the thumbprint, actually. If we really want to depress ourselves we should consider if maybe they knew the print wouldn't come back. Maybe they ran a test from this end."

"Great," Stuyvesant said.

"But I still don't believe it," Reacher said.

"Why not?"

"Get the messages and take a real close look."

Stuyvesant waited a beat and then stood up slowly and left the room. Came back three minutes later with a file folder. He opened it up and laid the six official FBI photographs in a neat line down the centre of the table. He was still wearing his pink sweater. The bright colour was reflected in the glossy surfaces of the eight-by-tens as he leaned over them. Neagley moved round the table and all three of them sat side by side so they could read the messages the right way up.

"OK," Reacher said. "Examine them. Everything about them. And remember why you're doing it. You're doing it for Froelich."

The line of photographs was four feet long, and they had to stand up and shuffle left to right along the table to inspect them all.

You are going to die.

Vice-President-elect Armstrong is going to die.

The day upon which Armstrong will die is fast approaching.

A demonstration of your vulnerability will be staged today.

Did you like the demonstration?

It's going to happen soon.

"So?" Stuyvesant asked.

"Look at the fourth message," Reacher said. "Vulnerability is correctly spelled."

"So?"

"That's a big word. And look at the last message. The apostrophe in it's is correct. Lots of people get that wrong, you know, it's and its. There are periods at the ends, except for the question mark."

"So?"

"The messages are reasonably literate."

"OK."

"Now look at the third message."

"What about it?"

"Neagley?" Reacher asked.

"It's a little fancy," she said. "A little awkward and old fashioned. The upon which thing. And the fast approaching."

"Exactly," Reacher said. "A little archaic."

"But what does all this prove?" Stuyvesant asked.

"Nothing, really," Reacher said. "But it suggests something. Have you ever read the Constitution?"

"Of what? The United States?"

"Sure."

"I guess I've read it," Stuyvesant said. "A long time ago, probably."

"Me too," Reacher said. "Some school I was at gave us a copy each. It was a thin little book, thick cardboard covers. Very narrow when it was shut. The edges were hard. We used to karate-chop each other with it. Hurt like hell."

"So?"

"It's a legal document, basically. Historical, too, of course, but it's fundamentally legal. So when somebody prints it up as a book, they can't mess with it. They have to reproduce it exactly word for word, otherwise it wouldn't be valid. They can't modernize the language, they can't clean it up."

"Obviously not."

"The early parts are from 1787. The last amendment in my copy was the twenty-sixth, from 1971, lowering the voting age to eighteen. A span of a hundred and eighty-four years. With everything reproduced exactly like it was written down at the particular time."

"So?"

"One thing I remember is that in the first part, Vice President is written without a hyphen between the two words. Same in the latest part. No hyphen. But in the siuff that was written in the middle period, there is a hyphen. It's Vice-President with a hyphen between the words. So clearly from about the 1860s up to maybe the 1930s it was considered correct usage to have a hyphen there."

"These guys use a hyphen," Stuyvesant said.

"They sure do," Reacher said. "Right there in the second message."

"So what does that mean?"

"Two things," Reacher said. "We know they paid attention in class, because they're reasonably literate. So the first thing it means is that they went to school someplace where they used old textbooks and old style manuals that were way out of date. Which explains the third message's archaic feel, maybe. And which is why I figured they might be from a poor rural area with low school taxes.