Without Fail - Lee Child [125]
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to change first.”
They used the Suburban that Stuyvesant had arrived in. It was still Thanksgiving Day and D.C. was still quiet. They saw almost no civilian activity. Almost everything out and moving was law enforcement. There was a double ring of hasty police roadblocks on every thoroughfare around the White House. Stuyvesant kept his strobes going and was waved through all of them. He showed his ID at the White House vehicle gate and parked outside the West Wing. A Marine sentry passed them to a Secret Service escort who led them inside. They went down two flights of stairs to a vaulted basement built from brick. There were plant rooms down there. Other rooms with steel doors. The escort stopped in front of one of them and knocked hard.
The door was opened from the inside by one of Armstrong’s personal detail. He was still wearing his Kevlar vest. Still wearing his sunglasses, although the room had no windows. Just bright fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. Armstrong and his wife were sitting together on chairs at a table in the center of the room. The other two agents were leaning against the walls. The room was silent. Armstrong’s wife had been crying. That was clear. Armstrong himself had a smudge of Froelich’s blood on the side of his face. He looked deflated. Like this whole White House thing was no longer fun.
“What’s the situation?” he asked.
“Two casualties,” Stuyvesant said quietly. “The sentry on the warehouse roof, and M.E. herself. They both died at the scene.”
Armstrong’s wife turned away like she had been slapped.
“Did you get the people who did it?” Armstrong asked.
“The FBI is leading the hunt,” Stuyvesant said. “Just a matter of time.”
“I want to help,” Armstrong said.
“You’re going to help,” Reacher said.
Armstrong nodded. “What can I do?”
“You can issue a formal statement,” Reacher said. “Immediately. In time for the networks to get it on the evening news.”
“Saying what?”
“Saying you’re canceling your holiday weekend in North Dakota out of respect for the two dead agents. Saying you’re holing up in your Georgetown house and going absolutely nowhere at all before you attend a memorial service for your lead agent in her hometown in Wyoming on Sunday morning. Find out the name of the town and mention it loud and clear.”
Armstrong nodded again.
“OK,” he said. “I could do that, I guess. But why?”
“Because they won’t try again here in D.C. Not against the security you’re going to have at your house. So they’ll go home and wait. Which gives me until Sunday to find out where they live.”
“You? Won’t the FBI find them today?”
“If they do, that’s great. I can move on.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then I’ll find them myself.”
“And if you fail?”
“I don’t plan to fail. But if I do, then they’ll show up in Wyoming to try again. At Froelich’s service. Whereupon I’ll be waiting for them.”
“No,” Stuyvesant said. “I can’t allow it. Are you crazy? We can’t secure a situation out West on seventy-two hours’ notice. And I can’t use a protectee as bait.”
“He doesn’t have to actually go,” Reacher said. “There probably won’t even be a service. He just has to say it.”
Armstrong shook his head. “I can’t say it if there isn’t going to be a service. And if there is a service, I can’t say it and not show up.”
“If you want to help, that’s what you’ve got to do.”
Armstrong said nothing.
They left the Armstrongs in the West Wing basement and were escorted back to the Suburban. The sun was still shining and the sky was still blue. The buildings were still white and golden. It was still a glorious day.
“Take us back to the motel,” Reacher said. “I want to get a shower. Then I want to meet with Bannon.”
“Why?” Stuyvesant asked.
“Because I’m a witness,” Reacher said. “I saw the shooter. On the roof. Just a glimpse of his back as he moved away from the edge.”
“You got a description?”
“Not really,” Reacher said. “It was only a glimpse. I couldn’t describe him. But there was something about how he moved. I’ve seen him before.”