Lee Child: Without Fail

“I want an outsider to do it,” Froelich said.

Stuyvesant squared the file on the desk corner and ran his fingers along the spine and the adjacent edge, like he was checking the angle was exact.

“You think that’s a good idea?” he asked.

Froelich said nothing.

“I suppose you’ve got somebody in mind?” he asked.

“An excellent prospect.”

“Who?”

Froelich shook her head.

“You should stay outside the loop,” she said. “Better that way.”

“Was he recommended?”

“Or she.”

Stuyvesant nodded again. The modern world .

“Was the person you have in mind recommended?”

“Yes, by an excellent source.”

“In-house?”

“Yes,” Froelich said again.

“So we’re already in the loop.”

“No, the source isn’t in-house anymore.”

Stuyvesant turned again and moved his file parallel to the long edge of the desk. Then back again parallel with the short edge.

“Let me play devil’s advocate,” he said. “I promoted you four months ago. Four months is a long time. Choosing to bring in an outsider now might be seen to betray a certain lack of self-confidence, mightn’t it? Wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t worry about that.”

“Maybe you should,” Stuyvesant said. “This could hurt you. There were six guys who wanted your job. So if you do this and it leaks, then you’ve got real problems. You’ve got half a dozen vultures muttering told you so the whole rest of your career. Because you started second-guessing your own abilities.”

“Thing like this, I need to second-guess myself. I think.”

“You think?”

“No, I know. I don’t see an alternative.”

Stuyvesant said nothing.

“I’m not happy about it,” Froelich said. “Believe me. But I think it’s got to be done. And that’s my judgment call.”

The office went quiet. Stuyvesant said nothing.

“So will you authorize it?” Froelich asked.

Stuyvesant shrugged. “You shouldn’t be asking. You should have just gone ahead and done it regardless.”

“Not my way,” Froelich said.

“So don’t tell anybody else. And don’t put anything on paper.”

“I wouldn’t anyway. It would compromise effectiveness.”

Stuyvesant nodded vaguely. Then, like the good bureaucrat he had become, he arrived at the most important question of all.

“How much would this person cost?” he asked.

“Not much,” Froelich said. “Maybe nothing at all. Maybe expenses only. We’ve got some history together. Theoretically. Of a sort.”

“This could stall your career. No more promotions.”

“The alternative would finish my career.”

“You were my choice,” Stuyvesant said. “I picked you. Therefore anything that damages you damages me, too.”

“I understand that, sir.”

“So take a deep breath and count to ten. Then tell me that it’s really necessary.”

Froelich nodded, and took a breath and kept quiet, ten or eleven seconds.

“It’s really necessary,” she said.

Stuyvesant picked up his file.

“OK, do it,” he said.

She started immediately after the strategy meeting, suddenly aware that doing it was the hard part. Asking for permission had seemed like such a hurdle that she had characterized it in her mind as the most difficult stage of the whole project. But now that felt like nothing at all compared with actually hunting down her target. All she had was a last name and a sketchy biography that might or might not have been accurate and up to date eight years ago. If she even remembered the details correctly. They had been mentioned casually, playfully, late one night, by her lover, part of some drowsy pillow talk. She couldn’t even be sure she had been paying full attention. So she decided not to rely on the details. She would rely solely on the name itself.

She wrote it in large capital letters at the top of a sheet of yellow paper. It brought back a lot of memories. Some bad, most good. She stared at it for a long moment, and then she crossed it out and wrote UNSUB instead. That would help her concentration, because it made the whole thing impersonal. It put her mind in a groove, took her right back to basic training. An unknown subject was somebody to be identified and located. That was all, nothing more and nothing less.

Her main operational advantage was computer power. She had more access to more databases than the average citizen gets. UNSUB was military, she knew that for sure, so she went to the National Personnel Records Center’s database. It was compiled in St. Louis, Missouri, and listed literally every man or woman who had served in a U.S. military uniform, anywhere, ever. She typed in the last name and waited and the inquiry software came back with just three short responses. One she eliminated immediately, by given name. I know for sure it’s not him, don’t I ? Another she eliminated by date of birth. A whole generation too old . So the third had to be UNSUB . No other possibility. She stared at the full name for a second and copied the date of birth and the Social Security number onto her yellow paper. Then she hit the icon for details and entered her password. The screen redrew and came up with an abbreviated career summary.

Bad news. UNSUB wasn’t military anymore. The career summary dead-ended five whole years ago with an honorable discharge after thirteen years of service. Final rank was major. There were medals listed, including a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. She read the citations and wrote down the details and drew a line across the yellow paper to signify the end of one era and the start of another. Then she plowed on.

Next logical step was to look at Social Security’s Master Death Index. Basic training . No point trying to chase down somebody who was already dead. She entered the number and realized she was holding her breath. But the inquiry came back blank. UNSUB was still alive, as far as the government knew. Next step was to check in with the National Crime Information Center. Basic training again . No point trying to sign up somebody who was serving time in prison, for instance, not that she thought it was remotely likely, not in UNSUB ’s case. But you never knew. There was a fine line, with some personality types. The NCIC database was always slow, so she shoved drifts of accumulated paperwork into drawers and then left her desk and refilled her coffee cup. Strolled back to find a negative arrest-or-conviction record waiting on her screen. Plus a short note to say UNSUB had an FBI file somewhere in their records. Interesting . She closed NCIC and went straight to the FBI’s database. She found the file and couldn’t open it. But she knew enough about the Bureau’s classification system to be able to decode the header flags. It was a simple narrative file, inactive. Nothing more. UNSUB wasn’t a fugitive, wasn’t wanted for anything, wasn’t currently in trouble.

She wrote it all down, and then clicked her way into the nationwide DMV database. Bad news again. UNSUB didn’t have a driver’s license. Which was very weird. And which was a very big pain in the butt . Because no driver’s license meant no current photograph and no current address listing. She clicked her way into the Veterans’Administration computer in Chicago. Searched by name, rank, and number. The inquiries came up blank. UNSUB wasn’t receiving federal benefits and hadn’t offered a forwarding address. Why not? Where the hell are you ? She went back into Social Security and asked for contributions records. There weren’t any. UNSUB hadn’t been employed since leaving the military, at least not legally. She tried the IRS for confirmation. Same story. UNSUB hadn’t paid taxes in five years. Hadn’t even filed.