Froelich was still and silent for a spell. Then she nodded.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you a driver. Be back here at nine in
the morning. There’ll be another strategy meeting. Exactly a
week after the last one.’
The morning was damp and very cold, as if nature wanted to be
done with fall and get started with winter. Exhaust fumes
drifted down the streets in lov( white clouds and pedestrians
hurried by on the sidewalks with their faces ducked deep into
scarves. Neagley and Reacher met at eight forty at the cab line outside the hotel and found a Secret Service Town Car waiting
for them. It was double-parked with .the engine running and the
driver standing next to it. He was maybe thirty years old,
dressed in a dark overcoat and gloves, and he was up on his
toes, scanning the crowd anxiously. He was breathing hard and
his breath was pluming in the air.
‘He looks worried,’ Neagley said.
The inside of the car was hot. The dri.ver didn’t speak
once during the journey. Didn’t even say his name. Just bulled
through the morning traffic and squealed into the underground
garage. Led them at a fast walk into the interior lobby and into
117
the elevator. Up three floors and across to the reception desk. It
was manned by a different guy. He pointed down the corridor
towards the conference room.
‘Started without you,’ he said. ‘You better hurry.’
The conference room was empty, apart from Froelich and
Stuyvesant sitting face to face across the width of the table.
They were both still and silent. Both pale. On the polished wood
between them lay two photographs. One was the official FBI
crime scene eight-by-ten of yesterday’s ten-word message: The
day upon which Armstrong will die is fast approaching. The other
was a hasty Polaroid of another sheet of paper. Reacher stepped
close and bent to look.
‘Shit,’ he said.
The Polaroid showed a single sheet of letter-sized paper,
exactly like the first three in every detail. It followed the same
format, a printed two-line message nearly centred near the
middle of the page. Nine words: A demonstration of your vulnerability
will be staged today.
‘When did it come?’ he asked.
Fhis morning,’ Froelich said. ‘In the mail. Addressed to
Armstrong at his office. But we’re bringing all his mail through
here now.’
‘Where is it from?’
‘Orlando, Florida, postmarked Friday.’
‘Another popular tourist destination,’ Stuyvesant said.
Reacher nodded. ‘Forensics on yesterday’s?’
‘Just got a heads-up by phone,’ Froelich said. ‘Everything’s
identical, thumbprint and all. I’m sure this one will be the same.
They’re working on it now.’
Reacher stared at the pictures. The thumbprints were completely
invisible, but he felt he could just about see them there,
like they were glowing in the dark.
‘I had the cleaners arrested,’ Stuyvesant said.
Nobody spoke.
‘Gut call?’ Stuyvesant said. ‘Joke or real?’
‘Real,’ Neagley said. ‘I think.’
‘Doesn’t matter yet,’ Reacher said. ‘Because nothing’s
happened yet. But we act like it’s for real until we know otherwise.’
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Stuyvesant nodded. hat was Froelich’s recommendation.
She quoted Karl Marx at me. The Communist Manifesto.’
‘Das Kapital, actually,’ Reacher said. He picked up the
Polaroid and looked at it again. The focus was a little soft and
the paper was very white from the strobe, but there was no
mistaking what the message meant.
I’wo questions,’ he said. ‘First, how secure are his movements
today?’
‘As good as it gets,’ Froelich said. ‘I’ve doubled his detail.
He’s scheduled to leave home at eleven. I’m using the
armoured stretch again instead of the Town Car. Full motorcade.
We’re using awnings across the sidewalks at both ends.
He won’t see open air at any point. We’ll tell him it’s another
rehearsal procedure.’
‘He still doesn’t know about this yet?’
‘No,’ Froelich said.
‘Standard practice,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘We don’t tell them.’
Fhousands of threats a year,’ Neagley said.
Stuyvesant nodded. ‘Exactly. Most of them are background
noise. We wait until we’re absolutely sure. And even then, we
don’t always make a big point out of it. They’ve got better
things to do. It’s our job to worry.’
‘OK, second question,’ Reacher said. ‘Where’s his wife? And