Without Fail - Lee Child [55]
“I’d use an upper-floor window in a house behind Armstrong’s. Across the alley, in back. Their defense is mostly concentrated on the front.”
“How would you get in?”
“Phony utility guy, water company, electric company. Anybody who could get in carrying a big toolbox.”
Reacher nodded. Said nothing.
“It’s going to be a hell of a four years,” Neagley said.
“Or eight.”
Then there was the hiss of tires and the sound of a big engine behind them and they turned to see Froelich easing up in her Suburban. She stopped alongside them, twenty yards short of Armstrong’s house. Gestured them into the vehicle. Neagley got in the front and Reacher sprawled in the back.
“See anybody?” Froelich asked.
“Lots of people,” Reacher said. “Wouldn’t buy a cheap watch from any of them.”
Froelich took her foot off the brake and let the engine’s idle speed crawl the car along the road. She kept it tight in the gutter and stopped it again when the nearside rear door was exactly level with the end of the tent. Lifted her hand from the wheel and spoke into the microphone wired to her wrist.
“One, ready,” she said.
Reacher looked to his right down the length of the canvas tunnel and saw the front door open and a man step out. It was Brook Armstrong. No doubt about it. His photograph had been all over the papers for five solid months and Reacher had spent four whole days watching his every move. He was wearing a khaki raincoat and carrying a leather briefcase. He walked through the tent, not fast, not slow. An agent in a suit watched him from the door.
“The convoy was a decoy,” Froelich said. “We do it that way, time to time.”
“Fooled me,” Reacher said.
“Don’t tell him this isn’t a rehearsal,” Froelich said. “Remember he’s not aware of anything yet.”
Reacher sat up straight and moved over to make room. Armstrong opened the door and climbed in beside him.
“Morning, M. E.,” he said.
“Morning, sir,” she replied. “These are associates of mine, Jack Reacher and Frances Neagley.”
Neagley half-turned and Armstrong threaded a long arm over the seat to shake her hand.
“I know you,” he said. “I met you at the party on Thursday evening. You’re a contributor, aren’t you?”
“She’s a security person, actually,” Froelich said. “We had a little cloak-and-dagger stuff going there. An efficiency analysis.”
“I was impressed,” Neagley said.
“Excellent,” Armstrong said to her. “Believe me, ma’am, I’m very grateful for the care everybody takes of me. Way more than I deserve. Really.”
He was magnificent, Reacher thought. His voice and his face and his eyes spoke of nothing but boundless fascination with Neagley alone. Like he would rather talk to her than do anything else in the whole world. And he had one hell of a visual memory, to place one face in a thousand from four days ago. That was clear. A born politician. He turned and shook Reacher’s hand and lit up the car with a smile of genuine pleasure.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reacher,” he said.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Reacher said. Then he found himself smiling back. He liked the guy, immediately. He had charm to burn. There was charisma coming off him like heat. And even if you discounted ninety-nine percent of it as political bullshit you could still like the fragment that was left. You could like it a lot.
“You in security too?” Armstrong asked him.
“Adviser,” Reacher said.
“Well, you guys do a hell of a great job. Glad to have you aboard.”
There was a tiny sound from Froelich’s earpiece and she took off down the street and made her way toward Wisconsin Avenue. Merged into the traffic stream and headed south and east for the center of town. The sun had disappeared again and the city looked gray through the deep tint in the windows. Armstrong made a little sound like a happy sigh and looked out at it, like he was still thrilled with it. Under the raincoat he was immaculate in a suit and a broadcloth shirt and a silk tie. He looked larger than life. Reacher had five years and three inches and fifty pounds on him but felt small and dull and shabby in comparison. But the guy also looked real. Very genuine.