Without Fail

“We know they aren’t Bismarck cops,” Reacher said. “Maybe they’re cops from someplace else.”

Swain was still waiting for them. He looked unhappy. Not necessarily with the waiting. He looked like a man with bad news to hear, and bad news to give. He looked a question at Reacher, and Reacher nodded, once.

“His name was Andretti,” he said. “Same situation as Nendick, basically. He’s holding up better, but he’s not going to talk, either.”

Swain said nothing.

“Your score,” Reacher said. “You made the co

“I don’t specialize in firearms,” Swain said.

“You need to tell us what you know about the campaign. Who got mad at Armstrong?”

There was a short silence. Then Swain looked away.

“Nobody,” he said. “What I said in there wasn’t true. Thing is, I finished the analysis days ago. He upset people, for sure. But nobody very significant. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So why say it?”

“I wanted to get the FBI off their track, was all. I don’t think it was one of us. I don’t like to see our agency getting abused that way.”

Reacher said nothing.

“It was for Froelich and Crosetti,” Swain said. “They deserve better than that.”

“So you’ve got a feeling and we’ve got a hyphen,” Reacher said. “Most cases I ever dealt with had stronger foundations than that.”

“What do we do now?”

“We look somewhere else,” Neagley said. “If it’s not political it must be personal.”

“I’m not sure if I can show you that stuff,” Swain said. “It’s supposed to be confidential.”

“Is there anything bad in it?”

“No, or you’d have heard about it during the campaign.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Is he faithful to his wife?” Reacher asked.

“Yes,” Swain said.

“Is she faithful to him?”

“Yes.”

“Is he kosher financially?”

“Yes.”

“So everything else is deep background. How can it hurt to let us take a look?”

“I guess it can’t.”

“So let’s go.”

They headed through the back corridors toward the library, but when they got there the phone was ringing. Swain picked it up and then handed it to Reacher.

“Stuyvesant, for you,” he said.

Reacher listened for a minute and then put the phone down.

“Armstrong’s coming in,” he said. “He’s upset and restless and wants to talk to everybody he can find who was there today.”

They left Swain in the library and walked back to the conference room. Stuyvesant came in a minute later. He was still in his golf clothes. He still had Froelich’s blood on his shoes. It was splashed up on the welts, black and dry. He looked close to exhaustion. And mentally shattered. Reacher had seen it before. A guy goes twenty-five years, and it all falls apart in one terrible day. A suicide bombing will do it, or a helicopter crash or a secrets leak or a furlough rampage. Then the retributive machinery clanks into action and a flawless career spent garnering nothing but praise is trashed at the stroke of a pen, because it all has to be somebody’s fault. Shit happens, but never in an official inquiry commission’s final report.

“We’re going to be thin on the ground,” Stuyvesant said. “I gave most people twenty-four hours and I’m not dragging them back in just because the protectee can’t sleep.”

Two more guys came in five minutes later. Reacher recognized one of them as a rooftop sharpshooter and the other as one of the agent screen around the food line. They nodded tired greetings and turned around and went and got coffee. Came back in with a plastic cup for everybody.

Armstrong’s security preceded him like the edge of an invisible bubble. There was radio communication with the building while he was still a mile away. There was a second call when he reached the garage. His progress into the elevator was reported. One of his personal detail entered the reception area and a

He had changed into casual clothes that didn’t suit him. He was in corduroy pants and a patterned sweater and a suede jacket. All the colors matched and all the fabrics were stiff and new. It was the first false note Reacher had seen from him. It was like he had asked himself what would a Vice President wear? instead of just grabbing whatever was at the front of his closet. He nodded somber greetings all around and moved toward the table. Didn’t speak to anybody. He seemed awkward. The silence grew. It reached the point where it was embarrassing.

“How’s your wife, sir?” the sharpshooter asked.

It was the perfect political question, Reacher thought. It was an invitation to talk about somebody else’s feelings, which was always easier than talking about your own. It was collegial, in that it said we all are on the inside here, so let’s talk about somebody who isn’t. And it said: here’s your chance to thank us for saving her ass, and yours.

“She’s very shaken,” Armstrong said. “It was a terrible thing. She wants you to know how sorry she is. She’s been giving me a hard time, actually. She says it’s wrong of me to be putting you people at risk.”

It was the perfect political answer, Reacher thought. It invited only one reply: Just doing our job, sir.

“It’s our job, sir,” Stuyvesant said. “If it wasn’t you, it would be somebody else.”

“Thank you,” Armstrong said. “For being so gracious. And thank you for performing so superbly well today. From both of us. From the bottom of our hearts. I’m not a superstitious guy, but I kind of feel I owe you now. Like I won’t be free of an obligation until I’ve done something for you. So don’t hesitate to ask me. Anything at all, formal or informal, collective or individual. I’m your friend for life.”

Nobody spoke.

“Tell me about Crosetti,” Armstrong said. “Did he have family?”

The sharpshooter nodded.

“A wife and a son,” he said. “The boy is eight, I think.”

Armstrong looked away.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Silence in the room.

“Is there anything I can do for them?” Armstrong asked.

“They’ll be looked after,” Stuyvesant said.

“Froelich had parents in Wyoming,” Armstrong said. “That’s all. She wasn’t married. No brothers or sisters. I spoke with her folks earlier today. After I saw you at the White House. I felt I ought to offer my condolences personally. And I felt I should clear my statement with them, you know, before I spoke to the television people. I felt I couldn’t misrepresent the situation without their permission, just for the sake of a decoy scheme. But they liked the idea of a memorial service on Sunday. So much so that they’re going to go ahead with it, in fact. So there will be a service, after all.”

Nobody spoke. Armstrong picked a spot on the wall, and looked hard at it.

“I want to attend it,” he said. “In fact, I’m going to attend it.”

“I can’t permit that,” Stuyvesant said.

Armstrong said nothing.

“I mean, I advise against it,” Stuyvesant said.

“She was killed because of me. I want to attend her service. It’s the least I can do. I want to speak there, actually. I guess I should talk to her folks again.”

“I’m sure they’d be honored, but there are security issues.”

“I respect your judgment, of course,” Armstrong said. “But it isn’t negotiable. I’ll go on my own, if I have to. I might prefer to go on my own.”

“That isn’t possible,” Stuyvesant said.

Armstrong nodded. “So find three agents who want to be there with me. And only three. We can’t turn it into a circus. We’ll get in and out fast, una