Without Fail

done?”
    He shook his head. “It was something not said .”
    “What wasn’t said?”
    He didn’t answer. Just gathered up both envelopes and slid them back along the tabletop. Stuyvesant stopped them dead with the flat of his hand. Picked them up and held them, uncertain.
    “I can’t let you talk to Armstrong without me,” he said.
    “You’ll have to,” Reacher said. “It’s the only way he’ll talk at all.”
    Stuyvesant said nothing. Reacher glanced at him. “Tell me about the mail system. How long have you been checking Armstrong’s mail?”
    “From the start,” Stuyvesant said. “Since he was picked as the candidate. That’s absolutely standard procedure.”
    “How does it work?”
    Stuyvesant shrugged. “It’s easy enough. At first the agents at his house opened everything delivered there and we had a guy at the Senate Offices opening the stuff that went there and a guy in Bismarck looking after the local items. But after the first couple of messages we centralized everything right here for convenience.”
    “But everything always got passed on to him except for the threats?”
    “Obviously.”
    “You know Swain?”
    “The researcher? I know him a little.”
    “You should promote him. Or give him a bonus. Or a big kiss on the forehead. Because he’s the only person around here with an original idea in his head. Us included.”
    “What’s his idea?”
    “We need to see Armstrong. As soon as possible. Me and Neagley, alone. Then we’ll consider ourselves fired and you’ll never see us again. And you’ll never see Bannon again, either. Because your problem will be over a couple of days later.”
    Stuyvesant put both envelopes back in his jacket.

    It was the day after Thanksgiving and Armstrong was in self-imposed exile from public affairs, but arranging a meeting with him was intensely problematic. Straight after the morning meeting Stuyvesant promoted one of Froelich’s original six male rivals to replace her, and the guy was full of all kinds of macho “Now we can do this properly ” bullshit. He kept it firmly under control in front of Stuyvesant because of sensitivity issues, but he threw up every kind of obstacle he could find. The main stumbling block was a decades-old rule that no protectee can be alone with visitors without at least one protection agent present. Reacher saw the logic in that. Even if they were strip-searched for weapons, he and Neagley could have completely dismembered Armstrong in about a second and a half. But they had to meet alone. That was vital. Stuyvesant was reluctant to overrule the new team leader on his first day, but eventually he quoted the Pentagon security clearances and decreed that the presence of two agents immediately outside the door would be sufficient. Then he called Armstrong at home to clear it with him personally. He got off the phone and said that Armstrong sounded a little concerned about something and would call right back.
    They waited and Armstrong called back after twenty minutes and told Stuyvesant three things: first, his mother’s health had taken a sudden turn for the worse, therefore second, he wanted to be flown out to Oregon that afternoon, therefore third, the meeting with Reacher and Neagley would have to be short and it would have to be delayed two hours while he packed.
    So Reacher and Neagley went to Froelich’s office to wait some more, but it had already been taken over by the new guy. The little plant was gone. Furniture had been moved. Things had been changed around. All that remained of Froelich was a faint trace of her perfume in the air. So they went back to the reception area and sprawled in the leather chairs. Watched the muted television. It was tuned to a news channel, and they saw Froelich die all over again, silently and in slow motion. They saw part of Armstrong’s subsequent statement. They saw Bannon interviewed outside the Hoover Building. They didn’t ask for the sound to be turned up. They knew what he would be saying. They watched football highlights from the Thanksgiving Day games. Then Stuyvesant called them back to his office.
    His secretary wasn’t there. She was clearly enjoying a long weekend at home. They walked through the empty area and sat down in front of Stuyvesant’s immaculate desk while he ran through the rules of engagement.
    “No physical contact,” he said.
    Reacher smiled. “Not even a handshake?”
    “I guess a handshake is OK,” Stuyvesant said. “But