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 ro
om, 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&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.”
&n
bsp; “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.”
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