“Can I help you?”

He turned around and saw a young woman standing right behind him.

“Are these coats good for the weather up here?” he asked.

“They’re perfect,” the woman said. She was very animated. She told him all about some kind of special stuff sprayed on the canvas to repel moisture. She told him all about the insulation inside. She promised it would keep him warm right down to a subzero temperature. He ran his hand down the rail and pulled out a dark olive XXL.

“OK, I’ll take this one,” he said.

“You don’t want to try it on?”

He paused and then shrugged into it. It fit pretty well. Nearly. Maybe it was a little tight across the shoulders. The sleeves were maybe an inch too short.

“You need the 3XLT,” the woman said. “What are you, a fifty?”

“A fifty what?”

“Chest.”

“No idea. I never measured it.”

“Height about six-five?”

“I guess,” he said.

“Weight?”

“Two-forty,” he said. “Maybe two-fifty.”

“So you definitely need the big-and-tall fitting,” she said. “Try the 3XLT.”

The 3XLT she handed him was the same dull color as the XXL he had picked. It fit much better. A little roomy, which he liked. And the sleeves were right.

“You OK for pants?” the woman called. She had ducked away to another rail and was flicking through heavy canvas work pants, glancing at his waist and the length of his legs. She came out with a pair that matched one of the colors in the flannel lining inside the coat. “And try these shirts,” she said. She jumped over to another rail and showed him a rainbow of flannel shirts. “Put a T-shirt underneath it and you’re all set. Which color do you like?”

“Something dull,” he said.

She laid everything out on top of one of the rails. The coat, the pants, the shirt, a T-shirt. They looked pretty good together, muddy olives and khakis.

“OK?” she said brightly.

“OK,” he said. “You got underwear too?”

“Over here,” she said.

He rooted through a bin of reject-quality boxers and selected a pair in white. Then a pair of socks, mostly cotton, flecked with all kinds of organic colors.

“OK?” the woman said again. He nodded and she led him to the register at the front of the store and bleeped all the tags under the little red light.

“One hundred and eighty-nine dollars even,” she said.

He stared at the red figures on the register’s display.

“I thought this was a discount store,” he said.

“That’s incredibly reasonable, really,” she said. He shook his head and dug into his pocket and came out with a wad of crumpled bills. Counted out a hundred and ninety. The dollar change she gave him left him with four bucks in his hand.

The senior colleague from the other side of the organization called Froelich back within twenty-five minutes.

“You get a home address?” she asked him.

“One hundred Washington Boulevard,” the guy said. “Arlington, Virginia. Zip code is 20310- 1500.”

Froelich wrote it down. “OK, thanks. I guess that’s all I need.”

“I think you might need a little more.”

“Why?”

“You know Washington Boulevard?”

Froelich paused. “Runs up to the Memorial Bridge, right?”

“It’s just a highway.”

“No buildings? Got to be buildings.”

“There is one building. Pretty big one. Couple hundred yards off the east shoulder.”

“What?”

“The Pentagon,” the guy said. “This is a phony address, Froelich. One side of Washington Boulevard is Arlington Cemetery and the other side is the Pentagon. That’s it. Nothing else. There’s no number one hundred. There are no private mailing addresses at all. I checked with the Postal Service. And that zip code is the Department of the Army, inside the Pentagon.”

“Great,” Froelich said. “You tell the bank?”

“Of course not. You told me to be discreet.”

“Thanks. But I’m back at square one.”

“Maybe not. This is a bizarre account, Froelich. Six-figure balance, but it’s all just stuck in checking, earning nothing. And the customer accesses it via Western Union only. Never comes in. It’s a phone arrangement. Customer calls in with a password, the bank wires cash through Western Union, wherever.”

“No ATM card?”

“No cards at all. No checkbook was ever issued, either.”

“Western Union only? I never heard of that before. Are there any records?”

“Geographically, all over the place, literally. Forty states and counting in five years. Occasional deposits and plenty of nickel-and-dime withdrawals, all of them to Western Union offices in the boonies, in the cities, everywhere.”

“Bizarre.”

“Like I said.”

“Anything you can do?”

“Already done it. They’re going to call me next time the customer calls them.”

“And then you’re going to call me?”

“I might.”

“Is there a frequency pattern?”

“It varies. Maximum interval recently has been a few weeks. Sometimes it’s every few days. Mondays are popular. Banks are closed on the weekend.”

“So I could get lucky today.”

“Sure you could,” the guy said. “Question is, am I going to get lucky too?”

“Not that lucky,” Froelich said.

The lounge manager watched Reacher step into his motel lobby. Then he ducked back into a windy side street and fired up his cell phone. Cupped his hand around it and spoke low and urgently, and convincingly, but respectfully, as was required.

“Because he’s dissing me,” he said, in answer to a question.

“Today would be good,” he said, in answer to another.

“Two at least,” he said, in answer to the final question. “This is a big guy.”

Reacher changed one of his four dollars for quarters at the motel desk and headed for the pay phone. Dialed his bank from memory and gave his password and arranged for five hundred bucks to be wired to Western Union in Atlantic City by close of business. Then he went to his room and bit off all the tags and put his new clothes on. Transferred all his pocket junk across and threw his summer gear in the trash and looked himself over in the long mirror behind the closet door. Grow a beard and get some sunglasses and I could walk all the way to the North Pole, he thought.

Froelich heard about the proposed wire transfer eleven minutes later. Closed her eyes for a second and clenched her hands in triumph and then reached behind her and pulled a map of the Eastern Seaboard off a shelf. Maybe three hours if the traffic cooperates. I might just make it. She grabbed her jacket and her purse and ran down to the garage.

Reacher wasted an hour in his room and then went out to test the insulating properties of his new coat. Field trial, they used to call it, way back when. He headed east toward the ocean, into the wind. Felt rather than saw somebody behind him. Just a characteristic little burr down in the small of his back. He slowed up and used a store window for a mirror. Caught a glimpse of movement fifty yards back. Too far away for details.

He walked on. The coat was pretty good, but he should have bought a hat to go with it. That was clear. The same buddy with the opinion on coats used to claim that half of total heat loss was through the top of the head, and that was certainly how it felt. The cold was blowing through his hair and making his eyes water. A military-issue watch cap would have been valuable, in November on the Jersey shore. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for surplus stores on his way back from the Western Union office. In his experience they often inhabited the same neighborhoods.

He reached the boardwalk and walked south, with the same itch still there in the small of his back. He turned suddenly and saw nothing. Walked back north to where he had started. The boards under his feet were in good shape. There was a notice claiming they were made from some special hardwood, the hardest timber the world’s forests had to offer. The feeling was still there in the small of his back. He turned and led his invisible shadows out onto the Central Pier. It was the original structure, preserved. It looked like he guessed it must have way back when it was built. It was deserted, which was no surprise considering the weather, and which added to the feeling of unreality. It was like an architectural photograph from a history book. But some of the little antique booths were open and selling things, including one selling modern coffee in plastic cups. He bought a twenty-ounce black regular, which took all his remaining cash, but warmed him through. He walked to the end of the pier as he drank it. Dropped the cup in the trash and stood and watched the gray ocean for a spell. Then he turned back and headed for the shore and saw two men walking toward him.