Without Fail

nothing else. And you are not to reveal anything about the current situation. He doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to find out from you. Is that understood?”
    Reacher nodded.
    “Understood,” Neagley said.
    “Don’t upset him and don’t harass him. Remember who he is. And remember he’s preoccupied with his mother.”
    “OK,” Reacher said.
    Stuyvesant looked away. “I’ve decided I don’t want to know why you want to see him. And I don’t want to know what happens afterward, if anything. But I do want to say thanks for everything you’ve already done. Your audit will help us, and I think you probably saved us in Bismarck, and your hearts have been in the right place throughout, and I’m very grateful for all of that.”
    Nobody spoke.
    “I’m going to retire,” Stuyvesant said. “I’d have to fight to save my career now, and the truth is I don’t like my career enough to fight for it.”
    “These guys were never your agents,” Reacher said.
    “I know that,” Stuyvesant said. “But I lost two people. Therefore my career is over. But that’s my decision and my problem. All I mean to say to you is I’m glad I got the chance to meet Joe’s brother, and it was a real pleasure working with you both.”
    Nobody spoke.
    “And I’m glad you were there at the end for M.E.”
    Reacher looked away. Stuyvesant took the envelopes out of his pocket again.
    “I don’t know whether to hope you’re right or wrong,” he said. “About Wyoming, I mean. We’ll have three agents and some local cops. That’s not a lot of cover, if things turn out bad.”
    He passed the envelopes across the desk.
    “There’s a car waiting downstairs,” he said. “You get a one-way ride to Georgetown, and then you’re on your own.”
    They went down in the elevator and Reacher detoured into the main hall. It was vast and dark and gray and deserted, and the cold marble echoed with his footsteps. He stopped underneath the carved panel and glanced up at his brother’s name. Glanced at the empty space where Froelich’s would soon be added. Then he glanced away and walked back and joined Neagley. They pushed through the small door with the wired glass porthole and found their car.

    The white tent was still in place across the sidewalk in front of Armstrong’s house. The driver pulled up with the rear door tight against the contour and spoke into his wrist microphone. A second later Armstrong’s front door opened and three agents stepped out. One walked forward through the canvas tunnel and opened the car door. Reacher got out and Neagley slid out beside him. The agent closed the door again and stood impassive on the curb and the car drove away. The second agent held his arms out in a brief mime that they should stand still and be searched. They waited in the whitened canvas gloom. Neagley tensed while strange hands patted her down. But it was superficial. They barely touched her. And they missed Reacher’s ceramic knife. It was hidden in his sock.
    The agents led them inside to Armstrong’s hallway and closed the door. The house was larger than it appeared from the outside. It was a big substantial place that looked like it had been standing for a hundred years and was good for maybe a hundred more. The hallway had dark antiques and striped paper on the walls and a clutter of framed pictures everywhere. There were rugs on the floors laid over thick wall-to-wall carpeting. There was a battered garment bag resting in a corner, presumably ready for the emergency trip to Oregon.
    “This way,” one of the agents said.
    He led them deep into the house and through a dogleg in the hallway to a huge eat-in kitchen that would have looked at home in a log cabin. It was all pine, with a big table at one end and all the cooking equipment at the other. There was a strong smell of coffee. Armstrong and his wife were sitting at the table with heavy china mugs and four different newspapers. Mrs. Armstrong was wearing a jogging suit and a sheen of sweat, like there might be a home gym in the basement. It looked like she wasn’t going to Oregon with her husband. She had no makeup on. She looked a little tired and dispirited, like the events of Thanksgiving Day had altered her feelings in a fundamental way. Armstrong himself looked composed. He was wearing a clean shirt under a jacket with the sleeves pulled up over his forearms. No tie. He was reading the editorials from The New York Times and The Washington Post side by