Reacher finished his last mouthful of coffee and walked down toward Armstrong’s house. He stepped off the sidewalk where the tent blocked it. It was a white canvas tunnel leading directly to Armstrong’s front door. The door was closed. He walked on and stepped back on the sidewalk and met Neagley coming up from the opposite direction.

“OK?” he asked her.

“Opportunities,” she said. “Didn’t see anybody about to exploit any of them.”

“Me neither.”

“I like the tent and the armored car.”

Reacher nodded. “Takes rifles out of the equation.”

“Not entirely,” Neagley said. “A.50 sniper rifle would get through the armor. With the Browning AP round, or the API.”

He made a face. Either bullet was a formidable proposition. The standard armor-piercing item just blasted through steel plate, and the alternative armor-piercing incendiary burned its way through. But in the end he shook his head.

“No chance to aim,” he said. “First you’d have to wait until the car was rolling, to be sure he was in it. Then you’re putting a bullet into a large moving vehicle with dark windows. Hundred-to-one you’d hit Armstrong himself inside.”

“So you’d need an AT- 4.”

“What I thought.”

“Either with the high-explosive against the car, or else you could use it to put a phosphorous bomb into the house.”

“From where?”

“I’d use an upper-floor window in a house behind Armstrong’s. Across the alley, in back. Their defense is mostly concentrated on the front.”

“How would you get in?”

“Phony utility guy, water company, electric company. Anybody who could get in carrying a big toolbox.”

Reacher nodded. Said nothing.

“It’s going to be a hell of a four years,” Neagley said.

“Or eight.”

Then there was the hiss of tires and the sound of a big engine behind them and they turned to see Froelich easing up in her Suburban. She stopped alongside them, twenty yards short of Armstrong’s house. Gestured them into the vehicle. Neagley got in the front and Reacher sprawled in the back.

“See anybody?” Froelich asked.

“Lots of people,” Reacher said. “Wouldn’t buy a cheap watch from any of them.”

Froelich took her foot off the brake and let the engine’s idle speed crawl the car along the road. She kept it tight in the gutter and stopped it again when the nearside rear door was exactly level with the end of the tent. Lifted her hand from the wheel and spoke into the microphone wired to her wrist.

“One, ready,” she said.

Reacher looked to his right down the length of the canvas tunnel and saw the front door open and a man step out. It was Brook Armstrong. No doubt about it. His photograph had been all over the papers for five solid months and Reacher had spent four whole days watching his every move. He was wearing a khaki raincoat and carrying a leather briefcase. He walked through the tent, not fast, not slow. An agent in a suit watched him from the door.

“The convoy was a decoy,” Froelich said. “We do it that way, time to time.”

“Fooled me,” Reacher said.

“Don’t tell him this isn’t a rehearsal,” Froelich said. “Remember he’s not aware of anything yet.”

Reacher sat up straight and moved over to make room. Armstrong opened the door and climbed in beside him.

“Morning, M. E.,” he said.

“Morning, sir,” she replied. “These are associates of mine, Jack Reacher and Frances Neagley.”

Neagley half-turned and Armstrong threaded a long arm over the seat to shake her hand.

“I know you,” he said. “I met you at the party on Thursday evening. You’re a contributor, aren’t you?”

“She’s a security person, actually,” Froelich said. “We had a little cloak-and-dagger stuff going there. An efficiency analysis.”

“I was impressed,” Neagley said.

“Excellent,” Armstrong said to her. “Believe me, ma’am, I’m very grateful for the care everybody takes of me. Way more than I deserve. Really.”

He was magnificent, Reacher thought. His voice and his face and his eyes spoke of nothing but boundless fascination with Neagley alone. Like he would rather talk to her than do anything else in the whole world. And he had one hell of a visual memory, to place one face in a thousand from four days ago. That was clear. A born politician. He turned and shook Reacher’s hand and lit up the car with a smile of genuine pleasure.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reacher,” he said.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Reacher said. Then he found himself smiling back. He liked the guy, immediately. He had charm to burn. There was charisma coming off him like heat. And even if you discounted ninety-nine percent of it as political bullshit you could still like the fragment that was left. You could like it a lot.

“You in security too?” Armstrong asked him.

“Adviser,” Reacher said.

“Well, you guys do a hell of a great job. Glad to have you aboard.”

There was a tiny sound from Froelich’s earpiece and she took off down the street and made her way toward Wisconsin Avenue. Merged into the traffic stream and headed south and east for the center of town. The sun had disappeared again and the city looked gray through the deep tint in the windows. Armstrong made a little sound like a happy sigh and looked out at it, like he was still thrilled with it. Under the raincoat he was immaculate in a suit and a broadcloth shirt and a silk tie. He looked larger than life. Reacher had five years and three inches and fifty pounds on him but felt small and dull and shabby in comparison. But the guy also looked real. Very genuine. You could forget the suit and the tie and picture him in a torn old plaid jacket, out there splitting logs in his yard. He looked like a very serious politician, but a fun guy, too. He was tall and wired with energy. Blue eyes, plain features, unruly hair flecked with gold. He looked fit. Not with the kind of polish a gym gives you, but like he was just born strong. He had good hands. A slim gold wedding ring and no others. Cracked, untidy nails.

“Ex-military, am I right?” he asked.

“Me?” Neagley said.

“Both of you, I should think. You’re both a little wary. He’s checking me out and you’re checking the windows, especially at the lights. I recognize the signs. My dad was military.”

“Career guy?”

Armstrong smiled. “You didn’t read my campaign bios? He planned on a career, but he was invalided out before I was born and started a lumber business. Never lost the look, though. He always walked the walk, that’s for sure.”

Froelich came off M Street and headed parallel with Pennsylvania Avenue, past the Executive Office Building, past the front of the White House. Armstrong craned to look out at it. Smiled, with the laugh lines deepening around his eyes.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” he said. “Out of everybody who’s surprised I’m going to be a part of that, I’m the most surprised of all, believe me.”

Froelich drove straight past her own office in the Treasury Building and headed for the Capitol dome in the distance.

“Wasn’t there a Reacher at Treasury?” Armstrong asked.

Hell of a memory for names, too, Reacher thought.

“My elder brother,” he said.

“Small world,” Armstrong said.

Froelich made it onto Constitution Avenue and drove past the side of the Capitol. Made a left onto First Street and headed for a white tent leading to a side door in the Senate Offices. There were two Secret Service Town Cars flanking the tent. Four agents out on the sidewalks, looking cautious and cold. Froelich drove straight for the tent and eased to a stop tight against the curb. Checked her position and rolled forward a foot to put Armstrong’s door right inside the canvas shelter. Reacher saw a group of three agents waiting inside the tunnel. One of them stepped forward and opened the Suburban’s door. Armstrong raised his eyebrows, like he was bemused by all the attention.