Without Fail (43 page)

"I don't know," Neagley said.

"I think it's three. Can you name them?"

"No."

"Would you recognize any of them on the street?"

"No."

"Oklahoma?"

"Don't know. Five?"

"Six, I think. Can you name them?"

"One of them is an asshole, I know that. Can't remember his name."

"Senators from Tennessee?"

"What's your point?"

Reacher stared out of the window.

"We've got Beltway disease," he said. "We're all caught up in it. We're not looking at this thing like real people. To almost everybody else out there in the country all these politicians are absolute nobodies. You said it yourself. You said you're interested in politics but you couldn't name all hundred senators. And most people are a thousand times less interested than you. Most people wouldn't recognize another state's junior senator if he ran up and bit them in the ass. Or she, as Froelich would have said. She actually admitted nobody had ever heard of Armstrong before."

"So?"

"So Armstrong did one absolutely basic, fundamental, elemental thing in the campaign. He put himself in the public eye, nationally. For the very first time in his life ordinary people outside of his home state and outside of his circle of friends saw his face. Heard his name. For the first time ever. I think this all could be as basic as that."

"In what way?"

"Suppose his face came back at somebody from way in the past. Completely out of the blue. Like a sudden shock."

"Like who?"

"Like you're some guy somewhere and long ago some young man lost his temper and smacked you around. Some situation like that. Maybe in a bar, maybe over a girl. Maybe he humiliated you by doing so. You never see the guy again, but the incident festers in your mind. Years pass, and suddenly there's the guy all over the papers and the TV. He's a politician, running for vice president. You never heard of him in the years before, because you don't watch C-SPAN or CNN. But now, there he is, everywhere, in your face. So what do you do? If you're politically aware you might call the opposing campaign and dish the dirt. But you're not politically aware, because this is the first time you've ever seen him since the fight in the bar a lifetime ago. So what do you do? The sight of him brings it all back. It's been festering."

"You think about some kind of revenge."

Reacher nodded. "Which would explain Swain's thing about wanting him to suffer. But maybe Swain's been looking in the wrong place. Maybe we all have. Because maybe this isn't personal to Armstrong the politician. Maybe it's personal to Armstrong the man. Maybe it's really personal."

Neagley stopped pacing and sat down in the chair. "It's very tenuous," she said. "People get over things, don't they?"

"Do they?"

"Mostly."

Reacher glanced down at her. "You haven't gotten over what ever makes it that you don't like people to touch you."

The room went quiet.

"OK," she said. "Normal people get over things."

"Normal people don't kidnap women and cut thumbs off and kill innocent bystanders."

She nodded. "OK," she said again. "It's a theory. But where can we go with it?"

"Armstrong himself, maybe," Reacher said. "But that would be a difficult conversation to have with a vice president-elect. And would he even remember? If he inherited the kind of temper that gets a guy thrown out of the army he could have had dozens of fights long ago. He's a big guy. Could have spread mayhem far and wide before he got a handle on it."

"His wife? They've been together a long time." Reacher said nothing.

"Time to get going," Neagley said. "We meet with Bannon at seven. Are we going to tell him?"

"No," Reacher said. "He wouldn't listen."

"Go shower," Neagley said.

Reacher nodded. "Something else first. It kept me awake last night for an hour. It nagged at me. Something that's not here, or something that hasn't been done."

Neagley shrugged. "OK," she said. "I'll think about it. Now get your ass in gear." He dressed in the last of Joe's suits. It was charcoal grey and as fine as silk. He used the last of the clean shirts. It was stiff with starch and as white as new snow. The last tie was dark blue with a tiny epeated pattern. When you looked very closely you saw that each element of the pattern was a diagram of a pitcher's hand, gripping a baseball, preparing to throw a knuckleball. He met Neagley out in the lobby and ate a muffin from the buffet and took a cup of coffee with him in the Secret Service Town Car. They were late into the conference room. Bannon and Stuyvesant were already there. Bannon was still dressed like a city cop. Stuyvesant was back in a Brooks Brothers suit. Reacher and Neagley left one seat unoccupied between themselves and Stuyvesant. Bannon stared at the empty place, as if maybe it was supposed to symbolize Froelich's absence.

"The FBI is not going to have agents in Grace, Wyoming," he said. "Special request from Armstrong, via the Director. He doesn't want a circus out there."

"Suits me," Reacher said.

"You're wasting your time," Bannon said. "We're complying only because we're happy to. The bad guys know how this stuff works. They were in the business. They'll have understood his statement was a trap. So they won't show up."

Reacher nodded. "Won't be the first trip I ever wasted."

"I'm warning you against independent action."

"There won't be any action, according to you."

Bannon nodded. "Ballistics tests are in," he said. The rifle we found in the warehouse is definitely the same gun that fired the Minnesota bullet."

"So how did it get here?" Stuyvesant asked.

"We burned more than a hundred man-hours last night," Bannon said. "All I can tell you for sure is how it didn't get here. It didn't fly in. We checked all commercial arrivals into eight airports and there were no firearms manifests at all. Then we traced all private planes into the same eight airports. Nothing even remotely suspicious."

"So they drove it in?" Reacher said.

Bannon nodded. "But Bismarck to D.C. is more than thirteen hundred miles. That's more than twenty hours absolute minimum, even driving like a lunatic. Impossible, in the time frame. So the rifle was never in Bismarck. It came in direct from Minnesota, which was a little more than eleven hundred miles in forty-eight hours. Your grandmothercould do that."

"My grandmother couldn't drive," Reacher said. "Still figuring on three guys?"

Bannon shook his head. "No, on reflection we're sticking at two. The whole thing profiles better that way. We figure the team was split one and one between Minnesota and Colorado on Tuesday and it stayed split afterwards. The guy pretending to be the Bismarck cop was acting solo at the church. We figure he had the sub-machine gun only. Which makes sense, because he knew Armstrong was going to be buried in agents as soon as the decoy rifle was discovered. And a sub-machine gun is better than a rifle against a cluster of people. Especially an H&K MP5. Our people say it's as accurate as a rifle at a hundred yards and a lot more powerful. Thirty-round magazines, he would have chewed through six agents and gotten to Armstrong easy enough."

"So why was the other guy bothering to drive here at the time?" Stuyvesant asked.

"Because these are your people," Bannon said. "They're realistic professionals. They knew the odds. They knew they couldn't guarantee a hit in any one particular place. So they went through Armstrong's schedule and planned to leapfrog ahead of each other to cover all the bases."

Stuyvesant said nothing.

"But they were together yesterday," Reacher said. "You're saying the first guy drove the Vaime here and I saw the guy from Bismarck on the warehouse roof."

Bannon nodded. "No more leapfrogging, because yesterday was the last good opportunity for a spell. The Bismarck guy must have flown in, commercial, not long after the air force brought you back."

"So where's the H&K? He must have abandoned it in Bismarck somewhere between the church and the airport. You find it?"

"No," Bannon said. "But we're still looking."

"And who was the guy the State trooper saw in the subdivision?"

"We're discounting him. Almost certainly just a civilian."

Reacher shook his head. "So this solo guy hid the decoy rifle and legged it back to thee church with the H&K all by himself?"

"I don't see why not."

"Have you ever hidden out and lined up to shoot a man?"

"No," Bannon said.

"I have," Reacher said. "And it's not a lot of fun. You need to be comfortable, and relaxed, and alert. It's a muscle thing. You get there well ahead of time, you settle in, you adjust your position, you figure out your range, you check the wind, you assess the angle of elevation or depression, you calculate the bullet drop. Then you lie there, staring through the sight. You get your breathing slow, you let your heart rate drop. And you know what you want at that point, more than anything else in the whole world?"

"What?"

"You want somebody you trust watching your back. All of your concentration is out there in front Of you, and you start to feel an itch in your spine. If these guys are realistic professionals like you say they are, then no way would one of them work that church tower alone."

Bannon was silent.

"He's right," Neagley said. "Best guess is the guy in the subdivision was the back-watcher, on his way from hiding the decoy. He was looping round, well away from the fence. The shooter was hiding out in the church, waiting for him to get back."

"Which begs a question," Reacher said. "Like, who was it on the road from Minnesota at the time?"

Bannon shrugged. "OK," he said. "So there are three of them."

"All ours?" Stuyvesant asked, neutrally.

"I don't see why not," Bannon said.

Reacher shook his head. "You're obsessed. Why don't you just arrest everybody wh,o ever worked for the Secret Service? There are probably some hundred-year-olds left over from FDR's first term."

"We're sticking with our theory," Bannon said.

"Fine," Reacher said. "Keeps you out of my hair."

"I warned you against vigilantism, twice."

"And I heard you twice."

The room went silent. Then Bannon's face softened. He glanced across at Froelich's empty chair.

"Even though I would completely understand your motive," he said.

Reacher stared down at the table. "It's two guys, not three," he said. "I agree with you, it profiles better. A thing like this, the best choice would be one guy on his own, but that's never practical, so it's got to be two. But not three. A third guy multiplies the risk by a hundred."

"So what happened with the rifle?"

"They messengered it, obviously," Reacher said. "FedEx or UPS or somebody. Maybe the USPS itself. They probably packaged it up with a bunch of saws and hammers and called it a delivery of tool samples. Some bullshit story like that. Addressed to a motel here, awaiting their arrival. That's what I would have done, anyway."

Bannon looked embarrassed. Said nothing. Just stood up and left. The door clicked shut behind him. The room went quiet.

Stuyvesant stayed in his seat, a little awkward. "We need to talk," he said.

"You're firing us," Neagley said.

He nodded. Put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and came out with two slim white envelopes.

"This isn't internal any more," he said. "You know that. It's gotten way too big."

"But you know Bannon is looking in the wrong place."

"I hope he'll come to realize that," Stuyvesant said. "Then maybe he'll start looking in the right place. Meanwhile we'll defend Armstrong. Starting with this craziness in Wyoming. That's what we do. That's all we can do. We're reactive. We're defensive. We've got no legal basis to employ outsiders in a proactive role."

He slid the first envelope along the shiny tabletop. Gave it enough force that it carried exactly six feet and spun to a stop in front of Reacher. Then the second, with a gentler motion, so it stopped in front of Neagley.