Lee Child - Without Fail

“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 shit-load 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 betting 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 right about that. If they were outside our community, they’d have pointed us toward 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 center of the table. He was still wearing his pink sweater. The bright color was reflected in the glossy surfaces of the eight-by-tens as he leaned over them. Neagley moved around 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 .