Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel)

by Grant Blackwood

  “That’ll do,” Jack whispered. Clearly Mr. Hahn was not a technophile who needed his phone nearby at all times. Jack’s dad was the same way.

  From his pocket Jack pulled a small canvas case and unzipped it. He sorted through the contents until he found the micro USB adapter, which he slid into the phone’s charging port. Into the adapter itself he plugged his thumb-size DRS—data recovery stick—a commercial and less versatile version of the tailor-made models Gavin Biery produced for The Campus’s personnel. This version would skim only the most basic info from the phone—contacts, text messages, call and browser history—but no DNS (domain name system) data that could tell him more about the sites the owner visited and people he e-mailed.

  Jack powered up the phone. A light on the DRS started blinking green. When the light flashed red Jack disconnected and returned the phone to the console. Finally he planted a GPS tracker, a commercial model about the size of a deck of playing cards, Velcroing it around a cable cluster beneath the passenger-side dashboard.

  He gave the car a quick once-over, making sure everything was where and how he’d found it, then eased shut the door and left the garage.

  —

  From his left side a flashlight beam blinded him.

  Cop. He resisted the instinct to reach for his gun.

  “If you move, I will shoot you,” a voice said from the darkness. Jack detected a faint accent, perhaps German. Was this Peter Hahn? Jack had checked left; the man must have posted himself at the corner of the garage wall and waited. Crafty.

  Jack took a gamble: “Hey, man, I was just looking for a little cash. I’ll put it back, okay. It was just some quarters.”

  “Turn around,” Hahn ordered. His voice was even, without the slightest trace of anxiety. This wasn’t the first time the German had held someone at gunpoint.

  “C’mon, just lemme go. I won’t come back, I swear.”

  “I said turn around. Slowly. Hands out to the side.”

  Dammit. Rusty, Jack. You’ve gotten rusty.

  Slowly Jack turned around. He squinted against the glare of the flashlight and lowered his head slightly so the brim of his cap would shade his face. He could see nothing of Hahn behind the beam of his flashlight.

  Hahn muttered, “You little assholes, why don’t you just stop . . .”

  Jack felt a tinge of relief. Definitely not a cop.

  “. . . wait,” Hahn said. “Take off your hat. Let me see your face.”

  You’re done, Jack. He took off his cap.

  “Look at me,” Hahn ordered.

  Squinting, Jack turned his face into the light and lifted his chin.

  There were a few seconds of silence before Hahn said, “You know, it would make my life much easier if I shot you right here.” If Hahn was surprised to find Jack standing in his backyard, the man betrayed none of it in his voice.

  “You didn’t kill me the other night when you had the chance,” Jack replied. “Why do it now?”

  Hahn didn’t reply.

  Jack pushed on: “Killing me wouldn’t solve your problems. They’d only get worse. I assume you know who I am.” Even in this context the phrase tasted sour in Jack’s mouth, but he was arguing for his life.

  “Yes, I know who you are. Still, it might solve my biggest problem,” Hahn replied.

  Good. Still talking, Jack thought.

  “Which is what? Dealing with whoever ordered you to clean out Weber’s hotel room?”

  “You followed me.”

  “You and your friend tried to kill me. I want to know why.”

  Again Hahn was silent for a moment. “He’s not my friend.”

  Jack said, “Mr. Hahn, can you take the light out of my eyes?”

  “Lift up your jacket with your left hand and slowly turn around.” Jack complied and Hahn said, “Remove the gun and place it on the ground in front of you.” Jack did so and Hahn ordered him to back up and sit down at the picnic table.

  Hahn stepped forward, his gun never wavering, and picked up Jack’s Glock, stuffed it into his belt, then lowered the flashlight beam to Jack’s chest.

  “I have questions,” Hahn said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Why do they want you dead?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t even know who they are. Why did you leave the parking lot? Why didn’t you finish me?”

  Jack’s eyes adjusted so he could now see Hahn’s silhouette. In the side glow of the flashlight he made out a snub-nosed revolver in Hahn’s right hand.

  “I’m not sure,” Hahn replied. “I’m not that kind of man, not anymore. I never was, I don’t think. What they were asking . . . it made no sense. It’s just murder.”

  “Were you there when Weber killed that kid on the side of the freeway?”

  Hahn exhaled heavily. He lowered the revolver to his side.

  “I tried to tell him he had the wrong person.” Hahn sounded weary, resigned. “He didn’t listen. Such a waste.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  “That I won’t answer. As it is, I don’t know if I’ve done enough to save her. I hope so.” Before Jack could ask the logical question, Hahn added, “They’d never made the threat plain, you know? But I know him. He just might do it.”

  “I might be able to help.”

  “No.”

  Jack realized Hahn hadn’t asked the obvious question: Why was the son of the President of the United States here in his backyard, rather than the Secret Service or FBI? If Madonna showed up to repossess your car, you’d want to know why her of all people. Jack suspected Hahn just didn’t care. Whatever mess he’d gotten into had pushed him to his limit.

  “I can make some calls,” Jack said, immediately recognizing the absurdity of the statement. He couldn’t begin to explain any of this.

  Hahn chuckled. “Calls. You can make some calls. How nice of you. No, what’s going to happen next is . . .” Hahn hesitated, as though searching for the right word. “Necessary.”

  Jack felt his chest tighten. He kept his eyes on Hahn’s gun hand, waiting. He had little chance of reaching Hahn in time, but he’d be damned if he was going to be killed sitting at a picnic table. Nor was he going to allow Hahn to take him anywhere. Secondary locations were graveyards.

  What Hahn said next surprised Jack: “Loyalty is an odd thing, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes. Tell me what’s going on. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Not possible. I can’t tell you. But I can point you in the right direction.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll have to do the rest. I assume you have means of following me? Never mind. Of course you do. It will happen soon, in the next day or two, so be ready.”

  —

  Jack was back at the Oronoco thirty minutes later.

  He’d tried to push Hahn for further explanation, for anything, but the man had simply laid Jack’s Glock on the ground, then turned and walked back into his house. Jack had been so stunned he sat in the darkness for nearly a minute, mind spinning, before returning to his car.

  Now he grabbed a beer, sat down in front of his laptop, and plugged the DRS stick into the USB port. He waited until the program started downloading Hahn’s cell-phone dump, then logged in to the Enquestor portal and typed in Hahn’s information. The results came back in ten seconds. Jack scanned them.

  Peter Hahn, sixty-three years old, naturalized citizen, emigrated from Germany sixteen years earlier. Retired from Xerox as a “facilities maintenance manager” three years ago. Widowed, one grown child, a daughter. Solid credit rating, mortgage to the Climbhill house paid off, almost no unsecured debt, no legal judgments past or pending. And so on.

  With higher-level access to The Campus’s system, Jack could have cross-checked both Hahn and Weber against Hendley’s raw and processed intelligenc
e databases, but that wasn’t an option. Something told him the search would have turned up nothing substantial, anyway.

  Peter Hahn was an average guy. No red flags. Aside from every word that had come out of the man’s mouth tonight, of course. And aside from the fact that he’d handled Jack like a man who’d seen his fair share of hairy situations.

  Jack’s laptop beeped, signaling that the DRS had finished downloading. Jack double-clicked the text document. The data dump was a block of plain, unformatted text. Already knowing what he was looking for, Jack was able to quickly separate the data into text messages, phone usage, and Web history.

  Peter Hahn didn’t use his phone for text messaging or Web browsing, and the call history was brief: pizza places, theaters, the public library, a man named “Larry, Bowling Night,” and someone named “BB.” Jack tapped on each of these in turn. The first person, Larry Neil, also lived in Rose Hill, a few blocks from Hahn. The next name, BB, came back with a German address and phone number:

  Kallmünzerstrasse 61

  81664 München

  011 49 89 23239779

  Germany again. That thread was thickening. Had he pissed off someone in Germany? Nothing came to mind.

  “It will happen soon, so be ready,” Hahn had said.

  What will happen?

  And who is “her”?

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Hahn’s version of soon was the following afternoon.

  Jack was again killing time, having spent the morning trying to piece together what he had and watching the rain clouds gather through his balcony window. By noon a steady drizzle had begun to fall.

  Jack continued to wrestle with the course he’d chosen. The attempt on his life had to have something to do with The Campus. Nothing else made sense. If so, Gerry Hendley deserved to be in the loop. Especially if he wasn’t the only one who’d been targeted. Ysabel was safe, but what about everyone else?

  He grabbed his phone and speed-dialed John Clark’s direct line. Clark answered on the second ring: “Hey, Jack, what’s cooking?”

  Clark’s tone was untroubled. In the field, the man was impossible to read, a poker opponent’s worst nightmare, but around the office as Hendley’s director of operations he wore his feelings plainly enough. If someone was going after anybody at The Campus, Jack would have heard it in his voice.

  “Just checking in. Making sure everyone’s alive and kicking.”

  “All is well.” If this weren’t true, Clark wouldn’t have said so outright, but he would have gotten his point across. Besides, if someone had come after Dom or Chavez or anyone else, Jack would’ve heard about it already. Though he was in exile, he was still part of the Hendley family. Clark asked, “What’ve you been up to?”

  The question was a natural one, but Jack couldn’t help but feel the absurdity of it. What’ve I been up to? Busy not getting murdered. Instead, he said, “Not much. Going to the gym, watching Real Housewives—you know, the usual.”

  Clark chuckled. “I record all mine on the DVR. Keeps me up all night. So, you’re coming back into the fold soon, right? You talk to Gerry yet?”

  “No. Still thinking about it.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Clark said, “Ding was asking about you. Maybe let’s grab a beer next week, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you.”

  Jack disconnected. The conversation seemed to confirm what he suspected: This was about him specifically, not about The Campus as a whole.

  —

  Shortly after three his cell phone beeped. He checked the screen: Tracking. The accelerometer in the GPS unit had detected movement. Peter Hahn’s car was pulling out of the garage—presumably with Hahn inside. The possibility that Jack was being lured—invited was a better word—into a trap had crossed his mind. Either Hahn was trying to lead Jack in the right direction or he was hoping to finish the job Weber had started, but he hadn’t wanted to do it in his own backyard.

  It didn’t matter. This was his only lead.

  He grabbed his rucksack and headed for the door.

  —

  Hahn was moving slowly, heading north and west away from Rose Hill.

  After pulling out of the parking garage, Jack pulled to the curb, stuck his cell phone in the dashboard mount, and synced it to the Chrysler’s onboard navigation system. On the bright, bigger screen the pulsing blue pop was easy to see.

  Hahn’s car reached Highway 495, where it paused momentarily before merging and heading due west. Unless Hahn exited soon, the highway would turn north up toward Annandale and Dunn Loring and Tysons Corner. Even with Hahn moving as slowly as he was, Jack couldn’t catch up. For now, he’d have to settle for parallel.

  He made his way to George Washington Memorial Parkway, and headed north. Traffic was light but wouldn’t stay that way for long once rush hour started. His car’s wipers intermittently squeaked and bumped across the windshield, keeping pace with the light rain. Jack kept one eye on the road and one eye on Hahn’s blip, which was still headed north and approaching Annandale. In his mind’s eye Jack ran through his options, should Hahn turn west. Once past Arlington Cemetery he could jump on the Custis Parkway and, he hoped, make up the eight-mile gap before Hahn got too far ahead.

  For the next ten minutes they both continued north, Hahn still on the 495, Jack following the GW Parkway along the Potomac River, each angling toward the other. Eventually the two highways would intersect before crossing the river and turning into the Capital Beltway.

  Jack’s last chance to make a quick jaunt west, the Georgetown Pike, came and went, and still Hahn’s blip moved steadily north. Jack picked up speed until he was going eighty miles per hour, hoping against hope a passing cop didn’t spot him. Hahn’s route would take him straight across the Potomac, while Jack had to follow the loop, costing him almost four miles.

  Jack was halfway there, passing the midpoint of Langley Oaks Park, when the blip slowed and took the Georgetown Pike loop off-ramp, where it paused.

  “What’s over there?” Jack muttered to himself.

  To the west lay one of the more expensive residential areas in McLean, where houses ran well into the millions. Jack used his right hand to pan and zoom the car’s nav screen. To the west of the 495 was an open expanse. A nature preserve, it looked like. Secluded—and on a day like this, probably empty. The location made sense—for an isolated meeting place or for a trap. Or for whatever Peter Hahn was taking him to see.

  “Come on,” Jack told the blip. “Do something.”

  Jack was now passing Parkview Hills and approaching the Georgetown Pike/495 interchange. Hahn’s car was less than a mile ahead and stopped.

  The blip turned west onto the pike.

  Jack sped up and reached the exit turnoff forty seconds later. Here, west of the 495, the pike was known as Cardinal Drive. On Jack’s nav screen Hahn’s car was a half-mile ahead and slowing at Swinks Mill Road. It turned right into what looked like an elongated, winding parking lot.

  Jack took his foot off the gas pedal and coasted until he reached Swinks Mill. He stopped just short of the preserve entrance and eased ahead until he could see through the trees.

  Though the temperature was in the low sixties, the rain and wind made for miserable hiking weather, and it was still too early in the season for the die-hard mushroom collectors to be out.

  He saw no cars before the road curved and disappeared around a bend.

  This was a damned terrible idea, Jack thought. Tactically, there were many reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, the biggest of which was exfiltration. Once inside this parking lot he would be boxed with a lone narrow road for an escape route. And he had no backup. On the other hand, if he took the time to find another entrance and Hahn left his car, Jack would never find him.

  No choice. Nothing’s perfect; either you adapt or you
fail.

  He scanned the lot for surveillance cameras but saw none.

  He turned in and drove to the lot’s rear section, a cul-de-sac roughly a hundred yards long. At the far end Hahn’s Nissan was pulling onto a single-lane dirt access road. Jack grabbed his binoculars from the rucksack and zoomed in. A wooden sign with yellow letters read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Lying on the ground beside the sign’s post was a pile of chain. After a few moments the car’s taillights disappeared through the trees.

  “Shit.” He saw no other cars in the lot. Who was Hahn meeting? And where? This access road didn’t appear on the car’s navigation screen. Out his side window was a small roofed kiosk. On its wall, behind plexiglass, were what looked like a collection of enlarged historical photos. The box that should have contained maps was empty.

  He rolled down both windows a couple inches and pulled ahead, scanning the trees on either side until he reached the entrance access road.

  Jack’s inner warning voice was talking to him: Leave. Call Hendley.

  Not yet. His gut was also talking to him: something about Hahn, about his demeanor, that told Jack the man could be trusted. No, trusted was the wrong word, but twice Hahn had passed up a chance to kill Jack. Whoever was pulling the man’s strings, he’d chosen a different path. What that was Jack didn’t know. And he was about to find out which of his two voices was right.

  Jack drew his Glock and tucked it under his thigh.

  He eased the nose of the Chrysler between the posts and drove on.

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  The road wound its way north, generally following the course of a creek Jack could hear gurgling through his driver’s-side window. Occasionally through the trees he glimpsed the Nissan’s red taillights or the white of its trunk. Hahn was moving slowly, less than twenty miles an hour. The trees continued to thicken and soon the road veered slightly right, east, away from the river, and the grade steepened.