"Tell me about the Neanderthals," Reacher said. "In your office."
She nodded. "That was my first thought, too."
"It's a definite possibility," he said. "Some guy gets all jealous and resentful, lays all this stuff on you and hopes you'll crack up and look stupid."
"My first thought," she said again.
"Any likely candidates in particular?"
She shrugged. "On the surface, none of them. Below the surface, any of them. There are six guys on my old pay grade who got passed over when I got the promotion. Each one of them has got friends and allies and supporters in the grades below. Like networks inside networks. Could be anybody."
"Gut feeling?"
She shook her head. "I can't come up with a favorite. And all their prints are on file. Condition of employment for us too. And this period between the election and the inauguration is very busy. We're stretched. Nobody's had time for a weekend in Vegas."
"Didn't have to be a weekend. Could have been in and out in a single day."
Froelich said nothing.
"What about discipline problems?" Reacher asked. "Anybody resent the way you're leading the team? You had to yell at anybody yet? Anybody underperforming?"
She shook her head. "I've changed a few things. Spoken to a couple of people. But I've been tactful. And the thumbprint doesn't match anybody anyway, whether I've spoken to them or not. So I think it's a genuine threat from out there in the world."
"Me too," Neagley said. "But there's some insider involvement, right? Like, who else could wander around your building and leave something on your boss's desk?"
Froelich nodded.
"I need you to come see the office," she said.
They rode the short distance in the government Suburban. Reacher sprawled in the back and Neagley rode with Froelich in the front. The night air was damp, suspended somewhere between drizzle and evening mist. The roads were glossy with water and orange light. The tires hissed and the windshield wipers thumped back and forth. Reacher glimpsed the White House railings and the front of the Treasury Building before Froelich turned a corner and drove into a narrow alley and headed for a garage entrance straight ahead. There was a steep ramp and a guard in a glass booth and a bright wash of white light. There were low ceilings and thick concrete pillars. She parked the Suburban on the end of a row of six identical models. There were Lincoln Town Cars here and there, and Cadillacs of various vintages and sizes with awkward rebuilt frames around the windows where bulletproof glass had been installed. Every vehicle was black and shiny and the whole garage was painted glossy white, walls and ceiling and floor alike. The place looked like a monochrome photograph. There was a door with a small porthole of wired glass. Froelich led them through it and up a narrow mahogany staircase into a small first-floor lobby. There were marble pilasters and a single elevator door.
"You two shouldn't really be here," Froelich said. "So say nothing, stick close to me and walk fast, OK?"
Then she paused a beat. "But come look at something first."
She led them through another inconspicuous door and around a corner into a vast dark hall that felt the size of a football field.
"The building's main lobby," she said. Her voice echoed in the marble emptiness. The light was dim. White stone looked gray in the gloom.
"Here," she said.
The walls had giant raised panels carved out of marble, reeded at the edges in the classical style. The one they were standing under was engraved at the top: The United States Department Of The Treasury. The inscription ran laterally for eight or nine feet. Underneath it was another inscription: Roll Of Honor. Then starting in the top left corner of the panel was an engraved list of dates and names. Maybe three or four dozen of them. The next-to-last name on the list was J. Reacher, 1997. Last was M. B. Gordon, 1997. Then there was plenty of empty space. Maybe a column and a half.
"That's Joe," Froelich said. "Our tribute."
Reacher looked up at his brother's name. It was neatly chiseled. Each letter was maybe two inches high and was inlaid with gold leaf. The marble looked cold, and it was veined and flecked like marble everywhere. Then he caught a glimpse in his mind of Joe's face, maybe twelve years old, maybe at the dinner table or the breakfast table, always a millisecond faster than anyone else to see a joke, always a millisecond slower to start a smile. Then a glimpse of him leaving home, which at that time was a service bungalow somewhere hot, his shirt wet with sweat, his kitbag on his shoulder, heading out to the flight line and a ten-thousand-mile journey to West Point. Then at the graveside at their mother's funeral, which was the last time he had seen him alive. He'd met Molly Beth Gordon, too. About fifteen seconds before she died. She had been a bright, vivacious blond woman. Not so very different from Froelich herself.
"No, that's not Joe," he said. "Or Molly Beth. Those are just names."
Neagley glanced at him and Froelich said nothing and led them back to the small lobby with the single elevator. They went up three floors to a different world. It was full of narrow corridors and low ceilings and businesslike adaptations. Acoustic tile overhead, halogen light, white linoleum and gray carpet on the floors, offices divided into cubicles with shoulder-high padded fabric panels on adjustable feet. Banks of phones, fax machines, piles of paper, computers everywhere. There was a literal hum of activity built from the whine of hard drives and cooling fans and the muted screech of modems and the soft ringing of phones. Inside the main door was a reception counter with a man in a suit sitting behind it. He had a phone cradled in his shoulder and was writing something on a message log and couldn't manage more than a puzzled glance and a distracted nod of greeting.
"Duty officer," Froelich said. "They work a three-shift system around the clock. This desk is always manned."
"Is this the only way in?" Reacher asked.
"There are fire stairs way in back," Froelich said. "But don't get ahead of yourself. See the cameras?"
She pointed to the ceiling. There were miniature surveillance cameras everywhere there needed to be to cover every corridor.
"Take them into account," she said.
She led them deeper into the complex, turning left and right until they ended up at what must have been the back of the floor. There was a long narrow corridor that opened out into a windowless square space. Against the side wall of the square was a secretarial station with room for one person, with a desk and file cabinets and shelves loaded with three-ring binders and piles of loose memos. There was a portrait of the current President on the wall and a furled Stars and Stripes in a corner. A coatrack next to the flag. Nothing else. Everything was tidy. Nothing was out of place. Behind the secretary's desk was the fire exit. It was a stout door with an acetate plaque showing a green man running. Above the exit was a surveillance camera. It stared forward like an unblinking glass eye. Opposite the secretarial station was a single blank door. It was closed.
"Stuyvesant's office," Froelich said.
She opened the door and led them inside. Flicked a switch and bright halogen light filled the room. It was a reasonably small office. Smaller than the square anteroom outside it. There was a window, with white fabric blinds closed against the night.
"Does the window open?" Neagley asked.
"No," Froelich said. "And it faces Pennsylvania Avenue, anyway. Some burglar climbs up three floors on a rope, somebody's going to notice, believe me."
The office was dominated by a huge desk with a gray composite top. It was completely empty. There was a leather chair pushed exactly square against it.
"Doesn't he use a phone?" Reacher asked.
"Keeps it in the drawer," Froelich said. "He likes the desktop clear."
There were tall cabinets against the wall, faced with the same gray laminate as the desk. There were two visitor chairs made of leather. Apart from that, nothing. It was a serene space. It spoke of a tidy mind.
"OK," Froelich said. "The mail threat came on the Monday in the week after the election. Then, on the Wednesday evening, Stuyvesant went home about seven-thirty. Left his desk clear. His secretary left a half hour later. Popped her head in the door just before she went, like she always does. She confirms that the desk was clear. And she'd notice, right? If there was a sheet of paper on the desk, it would stand out."
Reacher nodded. The desktop looked like the foredeck of a battleship made ready for inspection by an admiral. A speck of dust would have stood out.
"Eight o'clock Thursday morning, the secretary comes in again," Froelich said. "She walks straight to her own desk and starts work. Doesn't open Stuyvesant's door at all. Ten after eight, Stuyvesant himself shows up. He's carrying a briefcase and wearing a raincoat. He takes off the raincoat and hangs it up on the coatrack. His secretary speaks to him and he sets his briefcase upright on her desk and confers with her about something. Then he opens his door and walks into his office. He's not carrying anything. He's left his briefcase on the secretary's desk. About four or five seconds later he comes back out. Calls his secretary in. They both confirm that at that point, the sheet of paper was there on the desk."
Neagley glanced around the office, at the door, at the desk, at the distance between the door and the desk.