Without Fail

Chapter 8

Stuyvesant led them straight back toward the conference room. Neagley walked next to Reacher, close by his shoulder in the narrow corridors.
"Great suit," she whispered.
"First one I ever wore," he whispered back. "We on the same page with this?"
"On the same page and out of a job, probably," she said. "That is, if you're thinking what I'm thinking."
They turned a corner. Walked on. Stuyvesant stopped and shepherded them into the conference room and came in after them and hit the lights and closed the door. Reacher and Neagley sat together on one side of the long table and Stuyvesant sat next to Froelich on the other, like he foresaw an adversarial element to the conversation.
"Explain," he said.
Silence for a second.
"This is definitely not an inside job," Neagley said.
Reacher nodded. "Although we were fooling ourselves by ever thinking it was entirely one thing or the other. It was always both. But it was useful shorthand. The real question was where the balance lay. Was it fundamentally an inside job with trivial help from the outside? Or was it basically an outside job with trivial help from the inside?"
"The trivial help being what?" Stuyvesant asked.
"A potential insider needed a thumbprint that wasn't his. A potential outsider needed a way to get the second message inside this building."
"And you've concluded that it's the outsider?"
Reacher nodded again. "Which is absolutely the worst news we could have gotten. Because whereas an insider messing around is merely a pain in the ass, an outsider is truly dangerous."
Stuyvesant looked away. "Who?"
"No idea," Reacher said. "Just some outsider with a loose one-time connection to an insider, sufficient to get the message in and nothing more."
"The insider being one of the cleaners."
"Or all of them," Froelich said.
"I assume so, yes," Reacher said.
"You sure about this?"
"Completely."
"How?" Stuyvesant asked.
Reacher shrugged.
"Lots of reasons," he said. "Some of them small, one of them big."
"Explain," Stuyvesant said again.
"I look for simplicity," Reacher said.
Stuyvesant nodded. "So do I. I hear hoofbeats, I think horses, not zebras. But the simple explanation here is an insider trying to get under Froelich's skin."
"Not really," Reacher said. "The chosen method is way too complex for that. They'd be doing all the usual stuff instead. The easy stuff. I'm sure we've all seen it before. Mysterious communications failures, computer crashes, bogus alarm calls to nonexistent addresses in the bad part of town, she arrives, calls in for backup, nobody shows, she gets scared, she panics on the radio, a recording gets made and starts to circulate. Any law enforcement department has got a stack of examples a yard high."
"Including the military police?"
"Sure. Especially with women officers."
Stuyvesant shook his head.
"No," he said. "That's conjecture. I'm asking how you know."
"I know because nothing happened today."
"Explain," Stuyvesant said for the third time.
"This is a smart opponent," Reacher said. "He's bright and he's confident. He's in command. But he threatened something and he didn't deliver."
"So? He failed, is all."
"No," Reacher said. "He didn't even try. Because he didn't know he had to. Because he didn't know his letter arrived today."
Silence in the room.
"He expected it to arrive tomorrow," Reacher said. "It was mailed on Friday. Friday to Monday is pretty fast for the U.S. mail. It was a fluke. He banked on Friday to Tuesday."
Nobody spoke.
"He's an outsider," Reacher said. "He's got no direct connection to the department and therefore he's unaware his threat showed up a day early, or he'd have delivered today for sure. Because he's an arrogant son of a bitch, and he wouldn't have wanted to let himself down. Count on it. So he's out there somewhere, waiting to deliver on his threat tomorrow, which is exactly when he expected he'd have to all along."
"Great," Froelich said. "There'll be another contributor reception tomorrow."
Stuyvesant was quiet for a beat.
"So what do you suggest?" he asked.
"We have to cancel," Froelich said.
"No, I meant long-term strategy," Stuyvesant said. "And we can't cancel anything. We can't just give up and say we can't protect our principal."
"You have to tough it out," Reacher said. "It'll only be a demonstration. Designed to torment you. My guess is it'll specifically avoid Armstrong altogether. It'll penetrate somewhere he has been or will be some other time."
"Like where?" Froelich asked.
"His house, maybe," Reacher said. "Either here or in Bismarck. His office. Somewhere. It'll be theatrical, like these damn messages. It'll be some spectacular thing in a place Armstrong just was or is heading for next. Because right now this whole thing is a contest, and the guy promised a demonstration, and I think he'll keep his word, but I'm betting the next move will be parallel somehow. Otherwise why phrase the message the way he did? Why talk about a demonstration? Why not just go ahead and say, Armstrong, you're going to die today?"
Froelich made no reply.
"We have to identify this guy," Stuyvesant said. "What do we know about him?"
Silence in the room.
"Well, we know we're fooling ourselves again," Reacher said. "Or else still speaking in shorthand. Because it's not a him. It's them. It's a team. It always is. It's two people."
"That's a guess," Stuyvesant said.
"You wish," Reacher said back. "It's provable."
"How?"
"It bothered me way back that there was the thumbprint on the letter along with clear evidence of latex gloves. Why would he swing both ways? Either his prints are on file or they aren't. But it's two people. The thumbprint guy has never been printed. The gloves guy has been. It's two people, working together."
Stuyvesant looked very tired. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning.
"You don't really need us anymore," Neagley said. "This isn't an internal investigation now. This is out there in the world."
"No," Stuyvesant said. "It's still internal as long as there's something to get from the cleaners. They must have met with these people. They must know who they are."
Neagley shrugged. "You gave them lawyers. You made it very difficult."
"They had to have counsel, for God's sake," Stuyvesant said. "They were arrested. That's the law. It's their Sixth Amendment right."
"I guess it is," Neagley said. "So tell me, is there a law for when the Vice President gets killed before his inauguration?"
"Yes, there is," Froelich said quietly. "The Twentieth Amendment. Congress chooses another one."
Neagley nodded. "Well, I sure hope they've got their short list ready."
Silence in the room.
"You should bring in the FBI," Reacher said.
"I will," Stuyvesant replied. "When we've got names. Not before."
"They've already seen the letters."
"Only in the labs. Their left hand doesn't know what their right hand is doing."
"You need their help."
"And I'll ask for it. Soon as we've gotten names, I'm going to give them to the Bureau on a silver platter. But I'm not going to tell them where they came from. I'm not going to tell them we were internally compromised. And I'm sure as hell not bringing them in while we still are internally compromised."
"Is it that big of a deal?"
"Are you kidding? CIA had a problem with that Ames guy, remember? The Bureau got hold of it and they laughed up their sleeves for years. Then they had their own problems with that Hanssen guy, and they didn't look so smart after all. This is the big leagues, Reacher. Right now the Secret Service is number one, by a very healthy margin. We've only recorded one defeat in our entire history, and that was almost forty years ago. So we're not about to take a dive down the league table just for the fun of it."
Reacher said nothing.
"And don't get all superior with me," Stuyvesant said. "Don't tell me the Army reacted any different. I don't recall you guys running to the Bureau for assistance. I don't recall your embarrassing little secrets all over the Washington Post."
Reacher nodded. Most of the Army's embarrassments were cremated. Or six feet under. Or sitting in a stockade somewhere, too scared even to open their mouths. Or back home, too scared to tell their own mothers why. He had arranged some of those circumstances himself.
"So we'll take it a step at a time," Stuyvesant said. "Prove these guys are outsiders. Get their names from the cleaners. Lawyers or no lawyers."
Froelich shook her head. "First priority is getting Armstrong to midnight alive."
"It's only going to be a demonstration," Reacher said.
"I heard you before," she said. "But it's my call. And you're just guessing. All we've got is nine words on a piece of paper. And your interpretation might be plain wrong. I mean, what better demonstration would there be than actually doing it? Really getting to him would demonstrate his vulnerability, wouldn't it? I mean, what better way is there of demonstrating it?"
Neagley nodded. "And it would be a way of hedging their bets, also. An attempt that fails could be passed off as a demonstration, maybe. You know, to save face."
"If you're right to begin with," Stuyvesant said.
Reacher said nothing. The meeting came to an end a couple of minutes later. Stuyvesant made Froelich run through Armstrong's schedule for the day. It was an amalgam of familiar parts. First, intelligence briefings from the CIA at home, like on Friday morning. Then afternoon transition meetings on the Hill, the same as most days. Then the evening reception at the same hotel as Thursday. Stuyvesant noted it all down and went home just before two-thirty in the morning. Left Froelich on her own at the long table in the bright light and the silence, opposite Reacher and Neagley.
"Advice?" she said.
"Go home and sleep," Reacher said.
"Great."
"And then do exactly what you've been doing," Neagley said. "He's OK in his house. He's OK in his office. Keep the tents in place and the transfers are OK too."
"What about the hotel reception?"
"Keep it short and take a lot of care."
Froelich nodded. "All I can do, I guess."
"Are you good at your job?" Neagley asked.
Froelich paused.
"Yes," she said. "I'm pretty good."
"No, you're not," Reacher said. "You're the best. The absolute best there has ever been. You're so damn good it's unbelievable."
"That's how you've got to think," Neagley said. "Pump yourself up. Get to the point where it's impossible to think that these jerky guys with their silly notes are going to get within a million miles of you."
Froelich smiled, briefly. "Is this military-style training?"
"For me it was," Neagley said. "Reacher was born thinking that way."
Froelich smiled again.
"OK," she said. "Home and sleep. Big day tomorrow."
Washington, D.C., is quiet and empty in the middle of the night and it took just two minutes to reach Neagley's hotel and only another ten to get back to Froelich's house. Her street was crowded with parked cars. They looked like they were asleep, dark and still and inert and heavily dewed with cold mist. The Suburban was more than eighteen feet long and they had to go two whole blocks before they found a space big enough for it. They locked it up and walked back together in the chill. Made it to the house and opened the door and stepped inside. The lights were still on. The heating was still running hard. Froelich paused in the hallway.
"Are we OK?" she asked. "About earlier?"
"We're fine," he said.
"I just don't want us to get our signals mixed."
"I don't think they're mixed."
"I'm sorry I disagreed with you," she said. "About the demonstration."
"It's your call," he said. "Only you can make it."
"I had other boyfriends," she said. "You know, after."
He said nothing.
"And Joe had other girlfriends," she said. "He wasn't all that shy, really."
"But he left his stuff here."
"Does that matter?"
"I don't know," he said. "Got to mean something."
"He's dead, Reacher. Nothing can affect him now."
"I know."
She was quiet for a second.
"I'm going to make tea," she said. "You want some?"
He shook his head. "I'm going to bed."
She stepped into the living room on her way to the kitchen and he walked upstairs. Closed the guest room door quietly behind him and opened up the closet. Stripped off Joe's suit and put it back on the wire dry-cleaner's hanger. Hung it on the rail. Took off the tie and rolled it and put it back on the shelf. Took off the shirt and dropped it on the closet floor. He didn't need to save it. There were four more on the rail, and he didn't expect to be around longer than four more days. He peeled off the socks and dropped them on top of the shirt. Walked into the bathroom wearing only his boxers.
He took his time in there and when he came out Froelich was standing in the guest room doorway. Wearing a nightgown. It was white cotton. Longer than a T-shirt, but not a whole lot longer. The hallway light behind her made it transparent. Her hair was tousled. Without shoes she looked smaller. Without makeup she looked younger. She had great legs. A wonderful shape. She looked soft and firm, all at the same time.
"He broke up with me," she said. "It was his choice, not mine."
"Why?"
"He met somebody he preferred."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter who. Nobody you ever heard of. Just somebody."
"Why didn't you say so?"
"Denial, I guess," she said. "Trying to protect myself, maybe. And trying to protect his memory in front of his brother."
"He wasn't nice about it?"
"Not very."
"How did it happen?"
"He just told me one day."
"And walked out?"
"We weren't really living together. He spent time here, I spent time there, but we always kept separate places. His stuff is still here because I wouldn't let him come back to get it. I wouldn't let him in the door. I was hurt and angry with him."
"I guess you would be."
She shrugged. The hem of her nightgown rode up an inch on her thigh.
"No, it was silly of me," she said. "I mean, it's not like things like that never happen, is it? It was just a relationship that started and then finished. Hardly unique in human history. Hardly unique in my history. And half the times it was me who did the walking away."
"Why are you telling me?"
"You know why," she said.
He nodded. Didn't speak.
"So you can start with a blank slate," she said. "How you react to me can be about you and me, not about you and me and Joe. He took himself out of the picture. It was his choice. So it's none of his business, even if he was still around."
He nodded again.
"But how blank is your slate?" he asked.
"He was a great guy," she said. "I loved him once. But you're not him. You're a separate person. I know that. I'm not looking to get him back. I don't want a ghost."
She took one step into the room.
"That's good," he said. "Because I'm not like him. Hardly at all. You need to be real clear about that from the start."
"I'm clear about it," she said. "The start of what?"
She took another step into the room and then stood still.
"The start of whatever," he said. "But the end will turn out the same, you know. You need to be real clear about that, too. I'll leave, just like he did. I always do."
She came closer. They were a yard apart.
"Soon?" she asked.
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
"I'll take my chances," she said. "Nothing lasts forever."
"Doesn't feel right," he said.
She glanced at his face. "What doesn't?"
"I'm standing here wearing your ex-lover's clothes."
"Not many of them," she said. "And it's a situation that can be easily remedied."
He paused.
"Is it?" he said. "Want to show me how?"
He stepped forward again and she put her hands on his waist. Slipped her fingers under the elastic waistband of his boxers and remedied the situation. Stepped back a little and raised her arms above her head. Her nightgown slipped off very easily. Fell to the floor. They barely made it to the bed.
They got three hours' sleep and woke up at seven when her alarm started ringing in her own room. It sounded far away and faint through the guest room wall. He was on his back and she was curled under his arm. Her thigh was hooked over his. Her head was resting against his shoulder. Her hair touched his face. He felt comfortable in that position. And warm. Warm and comfortable. And tired. Warm and comfortable and tired enough that he wanted to ignore the noise and stay put. But she struggled free and sat up in the bed, dazed and sleepy.
"Good morning," he said.
There was gray light from the window. She smiled and yawned and pulled her elbows back and stretched. The clock in the next room kept on making noise. Then it went into a new mode and got louder. He slid his hand flat against her stomach. Moved it up to her breasts. She yawned again and smiled again and twisted around and ducked her head and nuzzled into his neck.
"Good morning to you too," she said.
The alarm blared on through the wall. It clearly had a feature that made it get more and more urgent if it was ignored. He pulled her down on top of him. Smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her. The distant clock started chirping and howling like a cop car. He was glad he wasn't in the same room with it.
"Got to get up," she said.
"We will," he said. "Soon."
He held her. She stopped struggling. They made love breathlessly, like the alarm clock was spurring them on. It sounded like they were in a nuclear bunker with missile sirens ticking off the last moments of their lives. They finished, panting, and she heaved herself out of bed and ran through to her own room and shut the noise off. The silence was deafening. He lay back on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling. An oblique bar of gray light from the window showed some imperfections in the plaster. She came back, naked, walking slowly.
"Come back to bed," he said.
"Can't," she said. "Got to go to work."
"He'll be OK for a spell. And if he isn't, they can always get another one. That Twentieth Amendment thing. They'll be lining up around the block."
"And I'll be lining up for a new job. Maybe flipping burgers."
"You ever done that?"
"What, flipped burgers?"
"Been out of work."
She shook her head. "Never."
He smiled. "I haven't really worked for five years."
She smiled back. "I know. I checked the computers. But you're working today. So get your ass out of bed."
She gave him a fine view of her own ass as she walked away to her own bathroom. He lay still for a second longer with Dawn Penn's old song coming back at him: you don't love me, yes I know now. He shook it out of his head and threw back the covers and stood up and stretched. One arm up to the ceiling, then the other. He arched his back. Pointed his toes and stretched his legs. That was the whole of his fitness routine. He walked to the guest bathroom and went for the full twenty-two minute ablution sequence. Teeth, shave, hair, shower. He dressed in another of Joe's old suits. This one was pure black, same brand, same tailoring details. He paired it with another fresh shirt, same Somebody amp; Somebody label, same pure white cotton. Clean boxers, clean socks. A dark blue silk tie with tiny silver parachutes all over it. There was a British manufacturer's label on it. Maybe it was from the Royal Air Force in England. He checked himself in the mirror and then ruined the look by putting his new Atlantic City coat over the suit. It was coarse and clumsy in comparison and the colors didn't match, but he figured to be spending some time out in the cold today, and it didn't seem that Joe had left any overcoats behind. He must have skipped out in summer.
He met Froelich at the bottom of the stairs. She was in a feminine version of his own outfit, a black pant suit with an open-necked white blouse. But her coat was better. It was dark gray wool, very formal. She was putting her earpiece in. It had a curly wire that straightened after six inches to run down her back.
"Want to help?" she said. She pulled her elbows back in the same gesture she had used when she woke up. It pushed her jacket collar off the back of her neck. He dropped the wire down between her jacket and her blouse. The tiny plug on the end acted like a counterweight and took it all the way to her waist. She pulled her coat and her jacket aside and he found a black radio unit clipped to her belt in the small of her back. The microphone lead was already plugged in and threaded up her back and down her left sleeve. He plugged the earpiece in. She let her jacket and her coat fall back into place and he saw her gun in a holster clipped to her belt near her left hip, butt forward for easy access by her right hand. It was a big, boxy SIG-Sauer P226, which he was happy about. Altogether a better proposition than the previous-issue Beretta in her kitchen drawer.
"OK," she said. Then she took a deep breath. Checked her watch. Reacher did the same thing. It was nearly a quarter to eight.
"Sixteen hours and sixteen minutes to go," she said. "Call Neagley and tell her we're on our way."
He used her mobile as they walked back to her Suburban. The morning was damp and cold, exactly the same as the night had been except now there was some grudging gray light in the sky. The Suburban's windows were all misted over with dew. But it started on the first turn of the key and the heater worked fast and the interior was warm and comfortable by the time Neagley climbed on board outside the hotel.
Armstrong slipped a leather jacket over his sweater and stepped out of his back door. The wind caught his hair and he zipped the coat as he walked to his gate. Two paces before he got there he was picked up in the scope. The scope was a Hensoldt 1.5-6x42 BL originally supplied with a SIG SSG 3000 sniper rifle, but it had been adapted by the Baltimore gunsmith to fit its new home, which was on top of a Vaime Mk2. Vaime was a word registered by Oy Vaimennin Metalli Ab, which was a Finnish weapons specialist that correctly figured it needed a simplified name if it was going to sell its excellent products in the West. And the Mk2 was an excellent product. It was a silenced sniper rifle that used a low-powered version of the standard 7.62 millimeter NATO round. Low-powered, because the bullet had to fly at subsonic speeds to preserve the silence that the built-in suppressor created. And because of the low power and the suppressor's complex exhaust gas management scheme there was very little recoil. Almost none at all. Just the gentlest little kick imaginable. It was a fine rifle. With a good scope like the Hensoldt it was a guaranteed killer at any range up to two hundred yards. And the man with his eye to the scope was only a hundred and twenty-six yards from Armstrong's back gate. He knew that for an exact fact, because he had just checked the distance with a laser range finder. He was exposed to the weather, but he was adequately prepared. He knew how to do this. He was wearing a dark green down coat and a black hat made of synthetic fleece. He had gloves made from the same material, with the right-hand fingertips cut off for control. He was lying down out of the wind, which kept his eyes clear of tears. He anticipated absolutely no problems at all.
The way a man goes through a gate works like this: he stops walking momentarily. He stands still. He has to, whichever way the gate hinges. If it hinges toward him, he reaches out for the latch and flips it open and pulls the gate and kind of stands on tiptoe and arches his legs so the gate can swing past them. If it hinges away from him, he stands still while he finds the latch and pushes it open. That's faster, but there's still a moment where there's no real forward motion at all. And this particular gate opened toward the house. That fact was clearly visible through the Hensoldt. There was going to be a two-second window of perfect opportunity.
Armstrong reached the gate. Stopped walking. One hundred and twenty-six yards away the man with his eye to the scope nudged the rifle a fraction left until the target was exactly centered. Held his breath. Eased his finger back. Took up the slack in the trigger. Then he squeezed it all the way. The rifle coughed loudly and kicked gently. The bullet took a hair over four-tenths of a second to travel the hundred and twenty-six yards. It hit Armstrong with a wet thump high on the forehead. It penetrated his skull and followed a downward angle through his frontal lobe, through his central ventricles, through his cerebellum. It shattered his first vertebra and exited at the base of his neck through soft tissue near the top of his spinal cord. It flew on and struck the ground eleven feet farther back and buried itself deep in the earth.
Armstrong was clinically dead before he hit the ground. The bullet's path caused massive brain trauma and its kinetic energy pulsed outward through brain tissue and was reflected back by the inside of the skull bones like a big wave in a small swimming pool. The resulting damage was catastrophic. All brain function ceased before gravity dropped the body.
One hundred and twenty-six yards away the man with his eye to the scope lay perfectly still for a second. Then he cradled the rifle flat against his torso and rolled away until it was safe to stand. He racked the rifle's bolt and caught the hot shell case in his gloved hand and dropped it into his pocket. Moved backward into cover and then walked away, completely shielded from view.
Neagley was uncharacteristically quiet in the car. Maybe she was worried about the day ahead. Maybe she could sense the altered chemistry. Reacher didn't know, and either way he wasn't in a hurry to find out. He just sat quiet while Froelich battled the traffic. She looped northwest and used the Whitney Young bridge across the river and drove past the RFK football stadium. Then she took Massachusetts Avenue and stayed away from the congestion around the government part of town. But Mass. Ave. was slow itself, and it was nearly nine o'clock before they arrived in Armstrong's Georgetown street. She parked behind another Suburban near the mouth of the tent. An agent stepped off the sidewalk and rounded the hood to talk with her.
"The spook just got here," he said. "They'll be into Spying 101 by now."
"Should be 201 by now, surely," Froelich said. "He's been doing it long enough."
"No, CIA stuff is awful complicated," the guy said. "For plain folks, anyway."
Froelich smiled and the guy walked away. Took up station again on the sidewalk. Froelich buzzed her window up and half-turned to face Reacher and Neagley equally.
"Foot patrol?" she said.
"Why I wore my coat," Reacher said.
"Four eyes are better than two," Neagley said.
They got out together and left Froelich in the warmth of the car. The street side of the house was quiet and well covered so they walked north and turned right to get a view of the back. There were cop cars top and bottom of the alley. Nothing was happening. Everything was buttoned up tight against the cold. They walked onward to the next street. There were cop cars there, too.
"Waste of time," Neagley said. "Nobody's going to get him in his house. I assume the police would notice somebody hauling in an artillery piece."
"So let's get breakfast," Reacher said. They walked back to the cross street and found a doughnut shop. Bought coffee and crullers and perched on stools in front of a long counter built inside the store window. The window was misted with condensation. Neagley used a napkin and wiped crescent shapes to see through.
"Different tie," she said.
He glanced down at it.
"Different suit," she said.
"You like it?"
"I would if we still lived in the 1990s," she said.
He said nothing. She smiled.
"So," she said.
"What?"
"Ms. Froelich collected the set."
"You could tell?"
"Unmistakable."
"Free will on my part," Reacher said.
Neagley smiled again. "I didn't think she raped you."
"You going to be all judgmental now?"
"Hey, your call. She's a nice lady. But so am I. And you never come on to me."
"You ever wanted me to?"
"No."
"That's the point. I like my interest to be welcome."
"Which must limit your options some."
"Some," he said. "But not completely."
"Apparently not," Neagley said.
"You disapprove?"
"Hell no. Be my guest. Why do you think I stayed on in the hotel? I didn't want to get in her way, is all."
"Her way? Was it that obvious?"
"Oh please," Neagley said.
Reacher sipped his coffee. Ate a cruller. He was hungry and it tasted great. Iced hard on the outside, light in the middle. He ate another and sucked his fingertips clean. Felt the caffeine and the sugar hit his bloodstream.
"So who are these guys?" Neagley asked. "You got any feelings?"
"Some," Reacher said. "I'd have to concentrate hard to line them up. Not worth starting with that until we know if we're staying on the job."
"We won't be," Neagley said. "Our job ends with the cleaners. And that's a waste of time in itself. No way will they have a name for us. Or if they do, it'll be phony. Best we'll get is a description. Which is bound to be useless."
Reacher nodded. Finished his coffee.
"Let's go," he said. "Once around the block for form's sake."
They walked as slowly as they could bear to in the cold. Nothing was happening. Everything was quiet. There were cop cars or Secret Service vehicles on every street. Their exhaust fumes clouded white and drifted in the still air. Apart from that absolutely nothing was moving. They turned corners and came up on Armstrong's street from the south. The white tent was ahead of them on the right. Froelich was out of her car, waving to them urgently. They hurried up the sidewalk to meet her.
"Change of plan," she said. "There was a problem on the Hill. He cut the CIA thing short and headed up there."
"He left already?" Reacher asked.
Froelich nodded. "He's rolling now."
Then she paused and listened to a voice in her earpiece.
"He's arriving," she said.
She lifted her wrist and spoke into her microphone.
"Situation report, over," she said, and listened again.
There was a wait. Thirty seconds. Forty.
"OK, he's inside," she said. "Secure."
"So what now?" Reacher said.
Froelich shrugged. "Now we wait. That's what this job is. It's about waiting."
They drove back to the office and waited the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. Froelich received regular situation reports. Reacher built up a pretty good picture of how things were organized. Metro cops were stationed outside the Senate Office buildings in cars. Secret Service agents held the sidewalk. Inside the street doors were members of the Capitol's own police force, one officer manning each metal detector, plenty more patrolling the hallways. Mingled in with them were more Secret Service. The transition business itself took place in upstairs offices with pairs of agents outside every door. Armstrong's personal detail stayed with him at all times. The radio reports spoke of a fairly static day. There was a lot of sitting around and talking going on. Plenty of deals being made. That was clear. Reacher recalled the phrase smoke-filled rooms, except he guessed nobody was allowed to smoke anymore.
At four o'clock they drove over to Neagley's hotel, which was being used again for the contributor function. Start time was scheduled for seven in the evening, which gave them three hours to secure the building. Froelich had a preplanned protocol that involved a squeeze search starting in the kitchen loading bay and the penthouse suites simultaneously. Metro cops with dogs were accompanied by Secret Service people and worked patiently, floor by floor. As each floor was cleared three cops took up permanent station, one at each end of the bedroom corridor and one covering the elevator bank and the fire stairs. The two search teams met on the ninth floor at six o'clock, by which time temporary metal detectors were in place inside the lobby and at the ballroom door. The cameras were set up and recording.
"Ask for two forms of ID this time," Neagley said. "Driver's license and a credit card, maybe."
"Don't worry," Froelich said. "I plan to."
Reacher stood in the ballroom doorway and glanced around the room. It was a vast space, but a thousand people were going to crowd it out to the point of discomfort.
Armstrong took the elevator down from his office and turned a tight left in the lobby. Pushed through an unmarked door that led to a rear exit. He was wearing a raincoat and carrying a briefcase. The corridor behind the unmarked door was a plain narrow space that smelled of janitorial supplies. Some kind of strong detergent cleaner. He had to squeeze past two stacks of cartons. One of the stacks was neat and new, made up from recent deliveries. The other was unsteady and ragged, made up of empty boxes waiting for the trash collector. He turned his body sideways to get past the second pile. Held his briefcase out behind him and led with his right forearm. He pushed open the exit door and stepped out into the cold.
There was a small square internal courtyard, partly open on the north side. It was an unglamorous space. Tin trunking for the building's ventilation system was clipped to the walls above head height. There were red-painted pipes and brass-collared valves at shin level, feeding the fire sprinklers. There was a line of three trash containers painted dark blue. They were large steel boxes the size of automobiles. Armstrong had to walk past them to get to the back street. He got past the first one. He got past the second one. Then a quiet voice called to him.
"Hey," it said. He turned and saw a man cramped into the small space between the second and the third containers. He registered a dark coat and a hat and some kind of brutal weapon. It was short and fat and black. It came up and coughed.
It was a Heckler amp; Koch MP5SD6 silenced submachine gun, set to fire three-round bursts. It used standard nine-millimeter Parabellums. No need for low-powered versions, because the SD6's barrel has thirty holes in it to bleed gas and reduce muzzle velocity to subsonic speeds. It fires at a cyclic rate of eight hundred rounds per minute, so that each three-round burst was complete in a fraction over a fifth of a second. The first burst hit Armstrong in the center of his chest. The second hit him in the center of his face.
The basic H amp;K MP5 has a lot of advantages, including extreme reliability and extreme accuracy. The silenced version works even better because the weight of the integral suppressor mitigates the natural tendency that any submachine gun has toward muzzle climb during operation. Its sole drawback is the vigor with which it spits out its empty cartridge cases. They come out of the side almost as fast as the bullets come out of the front. They travel a long way. Not really a problem in its intended arenas of operation, which are confined to the necessary operations of the world's elite military and paramilitary units. But it was a problem in this situation. It meant the shooter had to leave six empty shell cases behind as he stuffed the gun under his coat and stepped over Armstrong's body and walked out of the small courtyard and away to his vehicle.
By six-forty there were almost seven hundred guests in the hotel lobby. They formed a long loose line from the street door to the coat check to the ballroom entrance. There was loud excited conversation in the air, and the heady stink of mingling perfumes. There were new dresses and white tuxedos and dark suits and bright ties. There were clutch purses and small cameras in leather cases. Patent shoes and high heels and the flash of diamonds. Fresh perms and bare shoulders and a lot of animation.
Reacher watched it all, leaning on a pillar near the elevators. He could see three agents through the glass on the street. Two at the door, operating a metal detector. They had its sensitivity set high, because it was beeping at every fourth or fifth guest. The agents were searching purses and patting down pockets. They were smiling conspiratorially as they did so. Nobody minded. There were eight agents roaming the lobby, faces straight, eyes always moving. There were three agents at the ballroom door. They were checking ID and inspecting invitations. Their metal detector was just as sensitive. Some people were searched for a second time. There was already music in the ballroom, audible in waves as the crowd noise peaked and died.
Neagley was triangulated across the lobby on the second step of the mezzanine staircase. Her gaze moved like radar, back and forth across the sea of people. Every third sweep she would lock eyes with Reacher and give a tiny shake of her head. Reacher could see Froelich moving randomly. She looked good. Her black suit was elegant enough for evening, but she wouldn't be mistaken for a guest. She was full of authority. Time to time she would talk to one of her agents face-to-face. Other times she would talk to her wrist. He got to the point where he could tell exactly when she was hearing messages in her earpiece. Her movements lost a little focus as she concentrated on what she was being told.
By seven o'clock most of the guests were safely in the ballroom. There was a small gaggle of latecomers lining up for the first metal detector and a corresponding number waiting at the ballroom door. Guests who had bought an overnight package at the hotel were drifting out of the elevators in couples or foursomes. Neagley was now isolated on the mezzanine staircase. Froelich had sent her agents into the ballroom one by one as the lobby crowd thinned out. They joined the eight already in there. She wanted all sixteen prowling around by the time the action started. Plus the three on the personal detail, and two on the ballroom door, and two on the street door. Plus cops in the kitchen, cops in the loading bay, cops on all seventeen floors, cops on the street.
"How much is all this costing?" Reacher asked her.
"You don't want to know," she said. "You really don't."
Neagley came down off the staircase and joined them by the pillar.
"Is he here yet?" she asked.
Froelich shook her head. "We're compressing his exposure time. He's arriving late and leaving early."
Then she stiffened and listened to her earpiece. Put her finger on it to cut out the background noise. She raised her other wrist and spoke into the microphone.
"Copy, out," she said. She was pale.
"What?" Reacher asked.
She ignored him. Spun around and called to the last remaining agent free in the lobby. Told him he was acting on-site team leader for the rest of the night. Spoke into her microphone and repeated that information to all the agents on the local net. Told them to double their vigilance, halve their perimeters, and further compress exposure time wherever possible.
"What?" Reacher asked again.
"Back to base," Froelich said. "Now. That was Stuyvesant. Seems like we've got a real big problem."