Without Fail Read Free Page B

Maybe some other stuff, too. They certainly felt heavy enough.
    “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.