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

by Grant Blackwood

  “Uh, the Embassy Suites in Old Town.”

  “Room?”

  “Four twelve.”

  “Go straight there,” Jack said, handing back Effrem’s wallet and passport. “Wait for me.”

  On Effrem’s cell phone Jack navigated to the address book, found the phone’s number, then typed it into his own cell phone.

  “Why should I trust you?” asked Effrem, taking the phone back.

  “Because you’re still alive.”

  “Good point. What’re you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Can you tell me anything about that guy? His name, where he’s staying?”

  “No. I was just following him.”

  Jack wanted to ask the obvious question—Why?—but instead said, “Can you get to your room without going through the lobby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do that. Get on the 495, find a gas station bathroom, clean yourself up, and then get into your room and stay there. Don’t answer the door until you hear my voice.”

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Jack sprinted back to his car and, five minutes after sending Effrem on his way, was heading down Cardinal Drive. He crossed over the 495 and onto the Georgetown Pike. At the first stoplight he spotted a gas station. He pulled into a parking spot.

  He had one shot at this, he knew, and it was fifty-fifty at best. Despite taking a bullet from Jack’s Glock, Möller had been moving at a decent clip through the trees and the man had already proven himself cool in a crisis. Therefore Jack had to assume Möller had tended to his wound, regrouped, and either was lying low in the nature preserve or was already out of the area. The question was, Would the man go back to his hotel or did he have a fallback exfiltration plan? Things had gone very bad for Möller: There were witnesses and he’d been in a firefight. How would he react?

  He dug the fast-food receipts out of his pocket, then used his phone’s Yelp app to map both restaurants. Each was located within a quarter-mile of the other, off Richmond Highway. Next Jack dropped a pin on the app’s screen and searched for nearby motels. There were three within walking distance of the restaurants, a Holiday Inn, a Days Inn, and a Comfort Inn, all similar to the hotel Eric Weber had chosen—mid-priced, nice, but not extravagant. Maybe that meant something, maybe not.

  The outcome of Jack’s scheme depended on human nature. Most people looking for a quick meal in a strange city chose restaurants close to their motel. Whether a man like Möller would allow himself such a convenience Jack didn’t know, but it was all he had. He’d already made one mistake by leaving his passport in the Malibu; perhaps he’d make another. A common problem with professionals of any trade is self-assurance, the mother of complacency. It had happened to Jack before—perhaps as recently as the Supermercado. Even John Clark had once—just once, over a few beers—admitted his own occasional tradecraft blunder. The question was, What do you do after the mistake? What would Möller do after his?

  Jack pulled out of the gas station and got back on the highway.

  —

  Twenty minutes later he reached Richmond Highway, turned south, then took the first exit. He chose the first motel he came to, the Holiday Inn, pulled in, and parked outside the lobby. Inside, using what he hoped was a decent German accent, he gave the name Stephan Möller to the front desk attendant and claimed he was a bit confused. Was he staying here? The answer was no. Jack moved on to the second motel, the Days Inn, and got the same results. At the third motel, he got lucky.

  “Yes, sir, you sure are,” the young Hispanic man said. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, please,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes. “It has been a long day. I have been lost much of the time, and now I realize I have left my key in my room.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have a driver’s license or passport?”

  Jack handed over Möller’s passport. As the attendant studied it, Jack said with a sheepish chuckle, “About the beard, please do not ask. My wife is only now forgiving me.”

  Jack held his breath. Sans beard, Jack’s appearance was close to that of Möller’s. Whether it was close enough now depended on the attendant’s observation skills.

  The attendant laughed. “I hear you. Just a moment, please. I’ll be right back.” The man disappeared through a door behind the desk.

  Two minutes, Jack thought, half imagining the attendant already on the phone with the police. Any more than that and he’d leave.

  The attendant reappeared. He handed back Möller’s passport along with a new key card. “Here you go. Let me know if you need directions or a map.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Jack started to walk away, then turned a short circle as though trying to get his bearings. “My room is . . .”

  “One twenty-five. Out through the door you came in, then left down the side of the building.”

  Jack thanked him again and left.

  —

  He parked his car four stalls down from Möller’s room and shut off the engine.

  The room’s window curtain was parted about an inch. Through the gap Jack saw a faint yellow light. He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes had elapsed since Möller had fled the preserve’s parking lot. If he’d had an accomplice waiting at the preserve he could already be back in his room. Otherwise, his options were to hitchhike or call a taxi. He wouldn’t risk the former, Jack decided. Taxi, then. Which meant he was probably ahead of Möller; if he was coming back here, Jack’s lead was very slim.

  Jack’s question from earlier popped back into his mind: Did he snatch up Möller, or try to track him? He reached the same conclusion. Track him. Jack had to assume that unless Möller was working for himself he’d already reported the incident up his chain of command, regardless of whether he’d recognized Jack at the preserve.

  With Möller wounded and on the run, he would be hypervigilant for any sign of pursuit. Jack thought it unlikely he could maintain a one-man surveillance of Möller without being spotted. That left him with one option: Track the man remotely, passively.

  So many ifs and maybes. Too many.

  Without giving himself a chance to come up with more of them, Jack got out of the car, strode toward Möller’s door. It was late afternoon, heading toward twilight, and the rain was still falling. Jack glanced around. No one was about. He stopped at Möller’s door, drew his Glock, and held it tight against his leg. He took a breath, let it out. He swiped the key card, pushed open the door, stepped inside, then used his heel to force the door shut. He raised the Glock.

  To his right in the corner the floor lamp was on.

  Jack reached back over his shoulder with his free hand and eased closed the door’s cross-latch lock.

  “Hello? Manager, Mr. Möller,” Jack called. “Are you here? Hello . . . manager . . .”

  Jack moved now, quickly clearing the front room, then the bathroom and closet.

  As he’d done in Weber’s room, Jack searched the room, taking care to leave everything as he found it. Like Weber’s, Möller’s clothes were nondescript, either tagless or bought locally at a Target or Walmart. No identification, no airline boarding passes, no scribbled notes or credit card receipts.

  He turned his attention to the less obvious hiding spots—inside the chair’s zippered cushion or the cover of the ironing board, taped to the underside of a drawer, or down the back of the toilet tank. Nothing.

  He lifted the shower-curtain rod free of its wall bracket, gave it a shake, then tilted it downward. From inside the plastic tube came a scraping sound. Jack pulled off the rod’s cap and out slid a screw-top aluminum cylinder. He caught it in his palm, then laid down the curtain rod, unscrewed the top, and checked the interior.

  Bullets.

  He turned to the sink, closed the drain plug, and dumped out the rounds.

  They were .22-caliber short bullets, bu
t the tips were coated black. It took Jack a moment to realize what he was seeing. These were Glaser Safety Slugs, frangible bullets designed to blow rat holes in whatever they struck. The black coating was a polymer cap; beneath this, the bullet’s hollowed-out core was packed with No. 12 birdshot. Glasers had devastating stopping capacity but poor penetrative power. This could have been the reason Möller had chosen to shoot Hahn in the eye rather than in the skull.

  Jack picked up one of the bullets. It felt light in his hand. He put it next to his ear and shook it. Not Glasers. In fact, most Glasers came with a blue polymer cap, not black. Here was the answer to the unaccountably soft report of Möller’s pistol. These frangibles were subsonic, containing less propellant than it took to accelerate the round past the sound barrier. Without the sonic crack, all that remained was the explosion of the propellant’s gas, and judging by the feel of the one Jack was holding, there wasn’t much powder inside the casing. Past thirty or thirty-five feet the bullet’s trajectory probably dropped like a mortar round—which made Möller’s snap shot at Jack all the more impressive.

  So this was a custom-made frangible. Whether there was a booming business for this kind of ammunition or it came from a niche market Jack didn’t know, but it was worth a check. He pocketed the round. He hoped Möller wouldn’t notice the discrepancy.

  After taking a picture of the loose bullets, Jack wiped them down with a piece of toilet paper, returned them to the cylinder, and slid that back into the curtain rod.

  He continued his search and struck pay dirt again a few minutes later.

  Slipped into the folds of the wrapper of a bar of soap, he found a credit card in Möller’s name. He photographed it, front and back, then returned it to its hiding place.

  No second passport. If Möller had one, he either was carrying it or had stashed it elsewhere. If this was the case, the chances were good Möller’s exit plan involved air travel and Jack would lose him. If not, Möller would be looking for an alternative route out of the country and would, Jack hoped, use this credit card to make it happen.

  Time to go, Jack.

  He gave the room one last quick inspection, saw nothing out of place, then left.

  —

  Once back in his car, Jack drove a few blocks away, pulled to the curb, and used his phone to log in to The Campus’s Enquestor Services portal. He entered Möller’s credit card information and toggled the real-time alerts slider beside the entry. He scanned for previous hits on the credit card but found none; it had never been used.

  He got back on the Richmond Highway, headed north for five minutes, then turned left onto Duke Street. Effrem’s hotel, the Embassy Suites, sat across the street from John Carlyle Square Park. Jack found a parking spot on a nearby side street and walked the remaining distance. The rain was coming more heavily now, blown diagonally by a cold wind.

  He ducked under the hotel’s awning, then through the lobby doors. He took off his jacket and shook the rain from it, using the time to consider his next step. Whoever Effrem Likkel was and whatever his reason for following Möller, the man was a lead Jack couldn’t afford to ignore. The downside was he’d be entangling himself with an unknown commodity, which would bring up questions Jack would prefer not to answer. He’d have to deal with them as they arose.

  Jack walked to the elevators and took one up to the fourth floor. When he got there he took the right-hand hallway, found room 412, then walked back to the elevators. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Effrem’s number, and Effrem answered on the first ring. Jack said, “It’s me.”

  “The man from—”

  “Yes. Are you in your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come down to the lobby.”

  Jack disconnected. He drew his Glock, stuffed it into his jacket’s side pocket, and left his hand there.

  Thirty seconds later he heard a room door click shut down the hallway.

  Effrem came around the corner. When he saw Jack he stopped short, his eyes wide. His hair was wet, probably freshly shampooed. There was no sign of the bullet graze.

  Effrem said, “I thought—”

  “Did you have any trouble getting back?” asked Jack.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s go to your room. You lead.”

  Jack followed him back down the hallway to his hotel room.

  “Stop,” Jack said. “Look at me.” When Effrem did so, Jack asked, “Is there anyone in there?”

  “No.” Effrem’s reply was immediate, firm. He held Jack’s gaze.

  “Go in first,” Jack told him.

  Effrem swiped his key card and stepped inside. Jack followed. He stopped Effrem at the bathroom door, cleared that, then followed him the rest of the way into the room. It was empty. Jack ordered him to sit down on the bed.

  Jack pulled the Glock from his jacket pocket and reholstered it. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. He smiled at Effrem; the man had been through a lot. Jack needed to put him at ease before he shut down, decided to call the police, or took the first opportunity to leave town.

  “I’m sorry about all that. How’s your head?”

  Absently, Effrem reached up and touched the side of his head. “It feels like the mother of all hangovers, but I took some aspirin. It’s getting better.”

  “How did you stop the bleeding?”

  “Superglue. I saw it on one of the survival shows.”

  “Any blurry vision, dizziness? Nausea? Loss of consciousness?”

  “None of those. I’m very lucky, I think.”

  “I’d say so. If you get any symptoms, call me. I’ll get someone here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t go to the hospital. They’ll recognize that wound for what it is.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air between them. Jack was unsurprised, given the nature of their first meeting. It wasn’t as if they’d run into each other at a coffee shop and realized they shared a love of the New York Jets and Aerosmith.

  “Your English is very good,” Jack said.

  “I spent my third year at NYU. Do you want some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thanks. Let’s talk about what happened. I assume you didn’t call the police.”

  Effrem shook his head.

  Jack believed him. Interesting. Most people would have dialed 911 the moment Jack disappeared from their rearview mirror. Having already admitted to following Möller, Effrem had just told Jack the pursuit was something he preferred to keep secret.

  “I am guessing you didn’t call them, either,” said Effrem.

  “No. Listen, Effrem, if you’d like we can part company right here, right now. No harm done. Or we can help each other. It’s pretty clear we were both following the same man.” While this wasn’t technically true, it was close enough for now, Jack decided.

  Effrem said, “Perhaps so. I don’t know your name.”

  “Jack.”

  They shook hands.

  “Jack what?” asked Effrem.

  “For now, Jack will do.”

  If Effrem recognized him, he gave no sign of it. Jack did a decent job of keeping out of the spotlight. Plus, since leaving The Campus he’d cropped his hair, switched to a loosely enforced biweekly shaving regimen, and put on ten pounds of muscle at the gym.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” asked Effrem.

  “Over the last couple hours we’ve both had plenty of chances to turn on each other.”

  Effrem nodded begrudgingly. “And there is the whole saving-my-life aspect, I suppose. Thank you for that, by the way.”

  “No problem.”

  Effrem hesitated, then started again: “You know my name, you know I am from Belgium. I’m a journalist, but only freelance right now.”

  This further complicated things, Jack kn
ew. The last thing he needed was to have his name in the newspapers: America’s First Son, assassins, and a murder conspiracy with international connections.

  “I’m hoping to, you know, make a name for myself,” Effrem said hesitantly. “I just got out of university three years ago. I’ve been working on this story for a long, long time.”

  “Involving Stephan Möller,” Jack said.

  “If you say that’s his name, I believe you, but it’s the first I’ve heard it. I found Möller through another man I was following. Eric Schrader.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Tall, skinny, short hair, very blond. Does that name mean something to you?”

  “Maybe. Go on.”

  “A few days ago I followed Schrader to a restaurant in Falls Church. That’s where he met the other one, this Stephan Möller. I knew where Schrader was staying, so I decided to take a chance and switch to Möller, hoping to find out more. Do you think that’s why he shot me? Do you think he saw that I was following him and lured me to that preserve?”

  “To your first question, probably; to your second, I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “He was there for another reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “Later. Go on.”

  “Anyway, when I went back to find Schrader, I couldn’t. He hasn’t been back to his hotel. There was someone driving him around, but I lost him—an older man in a white Nissan. I don’t know his name, but I have the license-plate number.”

  The recently deceased Peter Hahn. Two of the three people Effrem Likkel had been following were dead and he didn’t know it.

  “Tell me about Schrader.”

  Likkel shifted nervously on the bed. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry. I’ve told you a lot; you’ve told me nothing. Why were you at the preserve?”

  Jack had been hoping to get more information before Likkel demanded quid pro quo. He needed to keep both dialogue and his options open. “I was following the man in the white Nissan,” Jack replied. “I found him through Schrader, who I knew as Eric Weber.”

  “How do you know him?”