Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (6 page)

Jack nodded. “Anything more on my guy from last night? Witnesses? Did anyone come forward to claim the body? How about an autopsy?”

“No and no. As for an autopsy, there really wasn’t much left to cut on. I’m sure the M.E. will run a tox screen and his fingerprints, but that’s about it. Chances are, unless some next of kin show up, he’ll end up a guest of the city.”

“What’s that mean?”

“In the city cemetery. After a month, unidentified bodies are classified as destitute. The taxpayers foot the funeral bill. Anyway . . .” Butler downed the rest of the beer and set it on the counter. “Thanks for that. Gotta run.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

“Yep. And Jack, one more thing: Maybe think about calling that Secret Service detail, huh? At least for the near
future.”

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

F
or the second morning in a row, Jack awoke before dawn.

He’d slept in fits and starts, glancing at the clock and getting up to stare out the window before lying back down and trying again. He was restless and there was no outlet for it. No action to take. Somebody was hunting him. The first time his survival had depended on mistaken identity; the second, the luck of the roll. Tumbling down that slope with Weber, it could have just as easily been Jack’s head that had smacked into the concrete barrier. Weber would’ve had no trouble finishing him off.

Pure chaos and chance.

—

S
hort of waiting for them to try again, Jack had one card left to play, and it was at best a long shot. Assuming the mystery man was Weber’s accomplice, the man would have three options: Leave the area, make another try for Jack, or tidy up and then go to ground. Jack was counting on option three.

They knew he’d survived. They would assume he now knew about both attempts on his life. They would assume Jack had reported this to the Secret Service. They would assume the full investigative might of the federal government was being mustered. With Weber gone and an untraceable John Doe in the morgue, there was only one fragile investigative thread left to pluck: Weber’s belongings at the motel. If anyone was coming to collect these, it would be Weber’s accomplice.

—

A
fter stocking up on food and water and a few paperback mysteries from his wanna-read shelf, Jack drove back to Springfield and used another item from his rucksack—a fake driver’s license—to check into the Motel 6. Citing a “very special anniversary” with his soon-to-arrive girlfriend, Jack asked for room 144. The vaguely goth, nerdy teenage girl behind the reception desk gave him a sotto voce “Whatever, dude . . . have fun” and handed him the key card.

Jack drove back to the side exit, parked, and went inside. At the door to room 142 he paused to listen. The
PRIVACY PLEASE
placard was still in place. Hearing nothing, he swiped the key card and went inside and made a quick inspection. The room was unchanged.

He left and entered the room next door and settled in.

—

J
ack’s gambit depended largely on the accomplice. Why he’d failed to intervene on Weber’s behalf was a mystery. Had he gotten spooked? It was possible. If so, how likely was it that kind of man would show up to collect Weber’s belongings? Maybe, if the decision wasn’t his to make. Jack had found nothing of use in the room; perhaps there was nothing of use to find. Did the accomplice or whoever was pulling his strings know this?

—

T
he morning passed slowly. Jack, afraid he’d miss hearing the double beep of Weber’s door lock, had assembled a reading nook of bed pillows on the hallway floor. The maids and their squeaky-wheeled carts slowly but steadily made their rounds, tapping on doors and softly calling “Housekeeping” before either stopping to clean or moving on to the next room. Out of boredom, Jack timed them. They averaged twelve minutes per room.
Was this good, bad, or average?
he wondered. Finally one of the maids reached his door.

“Housekeeping . . . Do you need anything? Clean towels or soap?”

Jack didn’t answer. His
PRIVACY PLEASE
placard was in place. Did management make them ask anyway, just to cover their bases? Maybe the maids got a secret thrill from interrupting the occasional carnal union. The job was probably boring; you took fun where you found it.

After five seconds the maid and her cart continued down the hallway.

—

B
y midafternoon he’d finished one novel and started a second. He alternately dozed, snacked on trail mix, and drank bottled water. There was a better-than-average chance he was wasting his time here. But he had nothing else, no other lead. Perhaps it was time to call Gerry, maybe Clark. Bringing his dad—and thereby the FBI and the Secret Service—into the loop would create more problems than it would solve, especially for The Campus.

—

S
unset came and then faded into night.

Shortly after nine, Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He reached for the Glock beside his leg. He’d heard a double
beep. Or had he? From where? He rolled to one side and pressed his ear to the wall in time to hear the door to room 142 click shut.

I’ll be damned
.

For a full minute there was only silence—then a voice, male and heavily muffled through the wall. Jack couldn’t make out any words. He crawled into the bathroom, grabbed a glass off the sink, then crawled back. Did this work anywhere outside of the movies? he wondered. He felt idiotic. He pressed the rim against the wall, then his ear to the bottom. The sound was no better. He moved the glass a few inches left, tried again. The voice, though still faint, was clearer.

“. . . don’t know. Nothing that I can see.” The man sounded agitated, hesitant. “Uh, clothes . . . toiletries, a suitcase . . . Yes, okay. I will.”

Something banged against the wall beside Jack’s head. He jerked away, then thought,
Closet.
It was on the other side of the wall.
Collecting Weber’s suitcase?
he wondered.

Jack stood up, put on his jacket, grabbed his duffel, then holstered the Glock and slipped out of the room.
Which way?
Whoever was inside Weber’s room had come in either through the lobby or through the same side entrance Jack had used. Jack flipped a mental coin and chose the latter. Once outside, he headed for his car, scanning the parking spots as he went. In the fifth stall was a white late-model
Nissan Altima. As he passed the trunk he ducked into a crouch. He took out his cell phone, snapped a picture of the license plate, then stood up and walked the remaining distance to his car.

Five minutes later a man emerged from the side exit. In the glow of the sconce, Jack caught a glimpse of thinning gray hair and jowls. Jack judged him to be in his mid-fifties. The man was gone, heading toward the Nissan, pulling Weber’s black suitcase behind him.

A minute later the car backed out of the stall, turned, and headed for the lot’s exit. With his headlights off, Jack followed at a distance until the Nissan turned east onto Springfield Boulevard, then sped to the stop sign. He waited until another car had passed, then turned on his headlights and followed.

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

T
he Nissan headed east, away from Springfield and up 495, then took the South Van Dorn exit south. At Franconia the Nissan turned again and once more headed east.
Is he dry-cleaning, looking for tails?
Jack wondered. Another ten minutes of driving brought Jack to the Rose Hill area, where the Nissan turned into a residential area. Finally, on Climbhill Road, the Nissan slowed and pulled into the driveway of a rambler with sage-green paint, white shutters, and a line of squared-off yew bushes bracketing the front steps. A lone porch light burned beside the door. Across the street, instead of houses, there was a park with playground equipment.

As Jack drove past the house he glanced out the side window and saw the Nissan disappearing into a detached
garage. Jack continued to the end of the block, then pulled to the curb and shut off his lights.

The man’s destination was confusing. Rose Hill was a well-established lower-to-middle-class neighborhood of single-family homes, parks, and elementary schools. How did Eric Weber, the man who’d butchered Mark Macloon on the side of a highway and then tried to do the same to him in a grocery store parking lot, cross paths with the man behind the wheel of the Nissan?
Hell, not just cross paths. Conspire to murder.

Make a decision, Jack.
He couldn’t sit here for long and risk a visit from the police. Any cop who regularly patrolled the neighborhood would immediately pick out his Chrysler as an anomaly. He had the plate number and the house address; with his Enquestor access, those were enough to get a name. But he wanted more.

He checked his watch. Five minutes. It was worth the risk, he decided. He dug into his duffel, grabbed the items he needed, then made sure the car’s dome light was off and climbed out.

Keeping a slow but purposeful pace that he hoped gave off an “I belong” vibe, Jack walked back down the block. As he drew even with the house, he turned left off the sidewalk and followed a line of overgrown shrubs down the side of the house and into the backyard. To his left sat a gray, dilapidated shed, the kind you buy as a kit at a home-improvement
warehouse. To his right were the rear of the house and a raised wooden deck abutting a door. A window to the right of the deck was lit. Kitchen, Jack guessed. Directly across the lawn from him stood the garage; there was a side door, its upper half mullioned glass. Sitting beside the garage’s wall was a redwood picnic table.

Jack returned his attention to the lighted window. There was no movement.
Don’t think. Just walk.
Jack stood up and trotted across the lawn, eyes alternating between the lighted window and the deck’s sliding doors. When he reached the garage he crouched down and put on his gloves. He tried the door. It was locked, but the knob looked ancient and on its last legs.

Jack pulled out his multi-tool, levered open the flathead screwdriver, and slipped it into the keyhole up to the haft. Simultaneously he slowly turned the tool and the knob in opposite directions. With a clunk, the knob gave way, spinning freely in its socket. Jack eased open the door and slipped inside.

He clicked on his red penlight and scanned the interior. It was what Jack expected: exposed wood walls, cardboard boxes stacked on makeshift rafter shelves, a tool-laden pegboard and cramped workbench tucked against the wall, its drawers almost touching the bumper of the Nissan, whose engine ticked as it cooled in the night air.

Jack checked his watch. Almost two of his five minutes
had passed. Two more for a search, and a minute to get back to his car. Jack made his way to the passenger side, opened the door, then leaned in and switched off the dome light. He popped the glove compartment and sorted through the contents: owner’s manual, insurance card, car registration. The man’s name was Peter Hahn.
Huh. Another German surname,
Jack thought. He photographed the insurance card and registration, then returned everything to the glove compartment. He opened the center console. Inside, along with a few packs of chewing gum, an Altoids tin full of quarters, and a bottle of new-car-smell air freshener, was a Nokia cell phone.

“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.