The kitchen crew swarmed into the pen and the cooks passed
pans of food out through the kitchen window. Reacher leaned
on the shelter wall at the end of the line of serving tables, on the
public side. He put his back flat on the bricks between the
kitchen window and the first hall window. He would be looking
straight down the food line. A half-turn to his left, he would be
looking at the approach line. A half-turn to his right, he would
be looking into the pen. People would have to skirt round him
with their loaded plates. He wanted a close-up view. Neagley
stood six feet away, in the body of the yard, in the angle the
sawhorses made. Froelich paced near her, nervous, thinking
through the last-minute checks for the hundredth time.
‘Arrival imminent,’ she said into her wrist microphone.
‘Driver says they’re two blocks away. You guys on the roof see
them yet?’
She listened to her earpiece and then spoke again.
Two blocks away,’ she repeated.
The kitchen crew finished loading the food warmers and
disappeared. Reacher couldn’t see because of the brick walls
but he heard the motorcade. Several powerful engines, wide
tyres, approaching fast, slowing hard. A Metro cruiser pulled
past the entrance, then a Suburban, then a Cadillac limo that
stopped square in the gateway. An agent stepped forward and
opened the door. Armstrong stepped out and turned back and
offered his hand to his wife. Cameramen pressed forward. The
Armstrongs stood up straight together and paused a moment by
the limo’s door and smiled for the lenses. Mrs Armstrong was a
tall blonde woman whose genes had come all the way from
Scandinavia a couple of hundred years ago. That was clear. She
was wearing pressed jeans and a puffed-up goose-down jacket a size too large to accommodate her vest. Her hair was lacquered
back into a frame around her face. She looked a little uncomfortable
in the jeans, like she wasn’t accustomed to wearing
them.
Armstrong was in jeans too, but his were worn like he lived
in them. He had a red plaid jacket buttoned tight. It was a little
too small to conceal the shape of the vest from an expert eye.
He was bareheaded, but his hair was brushed. His personal
detail surrounded them and eased them into the yard. Cameras
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panned as they walked past. The personal agents were dressed
like Froelich. Black denim, black nylon jackets zipped over
vests. Two of them were wearing sunglasses. One of them was
wearing a black ball cap. All of them had earpieces and bulges
at their waists where their handguns were.
Froelich led them into the pen behind the serving tables. One
agent took each end and stood with arms folded for nothing
but crowd surveillance. The third agent and Froelich and the
Armstrongs themselves took the middle to do the serving. They
milled around for a second and then arranged themselves with
the third agent on the left, then Armstrong, then Froelich, then
Armstrong’s wife on the right. Armstrong picked up a ladle in
one hand and a spoon in the other. Checked the cameras were
on him and raised the utensils high, like weapons.
‘Happy Thanksgiving, everybody,’ he called.
The crowd swarmed slowly through the gateway. They were
a subdued bunch. They moved lethargically and didn’t talk
much. No excited chatter, no buzz of sound. Nothing like
the hotel lobby at the donor reception. Most of them were
swaddled in several heavy layers. Some of them had rope belts.
They had hats and fingerless gloves and downcast faces. Each
had to pass left and right and left and right through the six
screening agents. The first recipient looped past the last agent
and took a plastic plate from the first server and was subjected
to the full brilliance of Armstrong’s smile. Armstrong spooned a
turkey leg onto the plate. The guy shuffled along and Froelich
gave him vegetables. Armstrong’s wife added the stuffing. Then
the guy shuffled past Reacher and headed inside for the tables.
The food smelled good and the guy smelled bad.
It continued like that for five minutes. Every time a pan of