fountain with his eyes focused on the middle distance and saw
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nothing that worried him. Poor cover, no close windows. There
were people in the park, but no assassin hangs around all day
just in case somebody’s schedule changes unexpectedly.
He walked on. C Street restarted on the far side of the plaza,
just about opposite the obelisk. It was more of an upright slab,
really. There was a sign pointing towards it: Tail Memorial. C Street crossed New Jersey Avenue and then Louisiana Avenue.
There were crosswalks. Fast traffic. Armstrong was going to
spend some time standing still waiting for lights. The Armenian
Embassy was ahead on the left. A police cruiser was pulling up
in front of it. It parked on the kerb and four cops got out. He
heard a distant helicopter. Turned round and saw it low in
the north and west, skirting the prohibited airspace around the
White House. The Department of Labor was dead ahead. There
were plenty of convenient side doors.
He crossed C Street to the north sidewalk. Strolled back
fifty yards to where he could see into the plaza. Waited. The
helicopter was stationary in the air, low enough to be obvious,
high enough not to be deafening. He saw Froelich’s Suburban
come round the corner, tiny in the distance. It pulled over and
waited at the kerb. He watched people. Most of them were
hurrying. It was too cold for loitering. He saw a group of men
way on the far side of the fountain. Six guys in dark overcoats
surrounded a seventh in a khaki raincoat. They walked in the
centre of the sandstone path. The two agents on point were
alert. The others crowded tight, like a moving huddle. They
passed the fountain and headed for New Jersey Avenue. Waited
at the light. Armstrong was bareheaded. The wind blew his
hair. Cars streamed past. Nobody paid attention. Drivers and
pedestrians occupied different worlds, based on relative time
and space. Froelich kept her distance. Her Suburban idled
along in the gutter fifty yards back. The light changed and
Armstrong and his team walked on. So far, so good. The opera
tion was working well.
Then it wasn’t.
First the wind pushed the police helicopter slightly off
station. Then Armstrong and his team were halfway across the
narrow triangular spit of land between New Jersey Avenue
and Louisiana Avenue when a lone pedestrian did a perfect
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double-take from ten yards away. He was a middle-aged
guy, lean from neglect, bearded, long-haired, unkempt. He was
wearing a belted raincoat greasy with age. He stood completely
still for a split second and then launched himself towards
Armstrong with his legs taking long bouncing strides and his
arms windmilling uselessly and his mouth wide open in a snarl.
The two nearest agents jumped forward to intercept him
and the other four pulled back and crowded round Armstrong
himself. They jostled and manoeuvred until they had all
six bodies between the crazy guy and Armstrong. Which left
Armstrong totally vulnerable from the opposite direction.
Reacher thought decoy and spun round. Nothing there.
Nothing anywhere. Just the cityscape, still and cold and
indifferent. He checked windows for movement. He looked for
the flash of sun on glass. Nothing. Nothing at all. He looked at
cars on the avenues. All of them oblivious and moving fast.
None of them slowing. He turned back and saw the crazy guy
on the ground with two agents holding him down and two more
with guns covering him. He saw Froelich’s Suburban speeding
up and taking the corner fast. She stopped hard on the kerb and
two agents bundled Armstrong straight across the sidewalk
and into the back seat.
But the Suburban didn’t go anywhere. It just sat there with
traffic spilling around it. The helicopter drifted back on station
and lost a little altitude and came down for a closer look. Its
noise beat the air. Nothing happened. Then Armstrong got
back out of the car. The two agents got out with him and
walked him over to the crazy guy on the ground. Armstrong
squatted down. Rested his elbows on his knees. It looked like
he was talking. Froelich left her motor running and joined him