Jack knife, p.16
Jack Knife, page 16
Her personal cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She fished it out. The text came from a number she didn’t recognize. She opened the text. Which began with two initials: CG. Carlos Gaspar. The rest consisted of two images.
The first had been snapped by a camera at a traffic light. The photo was enlarged. The two men sitting in the front seat were plainly visible.
The driver was Petey Burns. The passenger was Jack Reacher. No question.
The photo was time-stamped fifty-six minutes ago.
The second image was a map with a red locator pinned onto it, showing the location of the traffic cam.
Bethesda, Maryland.
Thirty minutes from downtown Washington, DC.
She texted back a thumbs-up and walked onto the plane.
-
Chapter 29
Wednesday, May 25
Washington, DC
Sullivan’s anger bubbled like a rancid sausage in his gut. He should have been one hundred percent focused on the Reacher problem.
Instead, the promised appearance of the mole had lured him to the Four Knights Club tonight.
A fully vetted legacy member of the Club turned by hard experience into a traitorous menace.
Unthinkable.
And yet true.
Sullivan’s resentment was compounded by the sheer gall the little twerp exhibited. Nothing worse than a little man with a little power turned loose on the world.
The idiot seemed to believe he could take on the man he knew as Patton and survive.
He’d learn otherwise soon enough.
Sullivan took a satisfied look in the mirror. He’d transformed himself into Patton, a titan of power befitting the position of every member of the Club.
Only one glance was required to recognize him as an insider worthy of the exclusive tribe to which he actually belonged.
From the thousand dollar gray wig and well-trimmed false goatee to his bench-made footwear, he was attired in expensive charcoal gray. A cashmere blazer over a silk polo, a pair of fine woolen trousers, and calf-length silk socks. The supple brown loafers which felt like bedroom slippers completed his sophisticated attire.
He secured the snow den’s monitoring systems and let himself out. He pulled on the tightly fitting latex gloves embedded with Patton’s biometrics and tucked them well into his sleeves. He walked a mile away to a coffee shop, where he contacted his usual car service.
The driver arrived promptly and asked no questions along the route.
Traffic was light. The driver pulled up in front of the historic Federal-style brick building in Georgetown without mishap.
From the backseat, Sullivan lowered the window. He scanned the historic old home and the surrounding area.
The four-story building rested twenty-five yards from the street, surrounded by majestic old trees, lush green lawns, and well-tended English flower gardens befitting its history.
A decorative brick retaining wall outlined the property and attached to the building’s front façade at the corners by two ornate wrought iron gates.
The clear message was that only invited guests were to enter and only through the front door.
Should they be so bold as to approach, uninvited visitors were turned away.
Surveillance cameras were posted throughout the property. Some were visible and others were not. Only a fool would assume the grand old place was without adequate security.
The visible security cameras were intended to reinforce the message that unauthorized visitors were not admitted here. The hidden cameras did the bulk of the work.
From here, Sullivan saw nothing suspicious and heard only the usual evening noises. Thus assured, he climbed out of the car at the curb.
When the driver rolled away into traffic, Sullivan mounted three short brick steps to the brick-paved walkway leading to the front entrance.
Three more steps led up to the fine old door painted shiny black with a shiny brass lantern perched above it. The door had a gleaming brass letter slot and a street number just above the brightly polished brass door knocker.
The door did not have a handle. Instead, a matching shiny brass orb had been affixed where a handle would have been.
The orb did not turn. It collected fingerprints instantly and surreptitiously from everyone who touched it. The prints were electronically matched to databases and stored in secure servers in the Club’s operations room.
One could never be too careful.
A small brass plaque affixed to the brick on the right side of the door, much newer than all the other hardware, said Four Knights Club.
There were hundreds of clubs in the Washington, DC area. On the outside, this one seemed no different from the rest.
Sullivan flipped the name plaque open and placed Patton’s palm on the biometric reader. When his identity was confirmed, he heard the door unlock. So far, everything was as it should be.
Sullivan closed the cover on the biometric panel and pushed the door into the foyer with his elbow. He stepped across the threshold into what had been built as an exceptionally affluent single-family home two hundred years ago.
The Club’s designers had been handsomely compensated to re-create the authentic period décor. He stepped into a wide, cool hallway decorated in pale yellow. The décor was Colonial style with brass candlesticks and clocks and richly polished mahogany wood and oil portraits of famous American patriots from centuries ago.
Members were milling about in the common areas. No women. The club was men only.
Men came here to enjoy themselves. Sometimes they stayed all night. Politicians and military and media and businessmen. Masters of the universe.
Well dressed, well-groomed, well behaved, well satisfied. Relaxed and unconcerned, serenity shed off them in waves of contentment only the privileged possessed.
Precisely as the Four Knights Club should have been.
Sullivan wandered toward the bar where he received a glass of warm whiskey in a crystal glass. He scanned the room, seeking the mole.
Dover approached from his left. “There’s an impromptu tournament playing in the blue room,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the house with his drink.
Sullivan followed Dover past antiques and paintings and museum-quality furniture.
When they reached the blue room, four chess tables were occupied in total silence. He recognized the older players as longstanding Club members.
The fourth board displayed a close game between two younger men.
Dover lowered his voice to avoid disturbing the players’ concentration. “You recognize Major Milton, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” Sullivan replied politely.
“His opponent is playing especially well tonight. Perhaps you know him?” Dover said, inclining his head toward the mole, speaking as if his words might be overheard. “Rupert Adams. A relatively new member. He’s been with us about three years. His father was with us, too, before he passed.”
“Milton is an excellent chess master. Adams has a challenge ahead,” Sullivan said.
Dover nodded. “He’s relatively new to the game, but Adams is playing well enough.”
They stood watching until the current game was finished. The others continued to play with the intensity of great competitors, but Milton and Adams were free to take a break.
Dover waved Adams over and put a hand on his shoulder and murmured, “Congratulations. So far, so good.”
Sullivan nodded. “Milton is difficult to beat. I’ve lost to him many times myself.”
Adams smiled with satisfied humility. “The tournament isn’t over yet. I’ve got a long way to go if I hope to win.”
“Is there a wager involved?” Dover asked.
Adams blushed. He had the calmly satisfied look of a man who had spent an hour or so upstairs in his room with an opium pipe before the games began. “I’m hoping Milton will do me a favor if I win.”
“What sort of favor?” Dover asked, eyebrows raised.
“I’d rather not say. If I lose, it’ll seem presumptuous,” Adams replied.
Two of the other games had ended, and the players were milling about quietly while the last game continued.
Sullivan nodded toward Adams and said, “I recently heard about your friend. My deepest condolences.”
A flash of anger brightened Adams’s eyes and widened his nostrils before he stifled it. “Thank you. The grief is still a bit fresh.”
“I’m sure. Perfectly understandable,” Sullivan said as if he sympathetic. He might have been, if Adams weren’t trying to destroy the Club. “Any leads on where the product came from?”
Adams set his mouth into a grim line and swallowed hard. “Not yet.”
“It’s a shame there’s so much adulterated heroin on our streets. Well, do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Dover said smoothly, nodding toward the tables. “Looks like your game is about to start.”
Adams nodded and returned to his table, his serenity now disturbed. Another member sat across from him, and the next game began.
“Do you think that was wise?” Dover asked quietly. “Letting him know you were aware of his efforts to expose the Club?”
“Pushing his buttons. We need him to make a public mistake. We need witnesses who will testify that he was distraught and irrational,” Sullivan replied. “Be certain any footage of our conversation is deleted before the evening’s records go into storage.”
Dover held up a finger and listened to a message transmitted through his earpiece from the operations room.
He spoke quietly, leaning toward Sullivan’s ear, “We’ve got an intruder on the grounds.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sullivan replied, following Dover toward the threat.
-
Chapter 30
Wednesday, May 25
White Kings Palace
Jones had marched the two hostages back to the basement cells. The woman was a mess, crying, stumbling, making things more difficult than they needed to be.
The kid was trying to help his mother, but Jones could see he wanted to make a run for it. Jones shook his head. An escape was impossible. The kid was just wearing himself out for no good reason.
Jones was dead on his feet. He needed at least a few hours of sleep. The Palace was understaffed even before Smitty, Rudy, and Manny died. They needed reinforcements and soon.
When they reached the control room, Jones pushed the lock release button on the cell doors and called down. “Get your ass up here, Harvey.”
Harvey had the sense to look embarrassed when he climbed the steps two at a time and burst into the control room at the top of the stairs. He looked like he’d taken a good long nap, which just pissed Jones off. “Sorry, Jones.”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses right now, Harvey. Get these two back in their cell. And since you’ve had time to sleep more than any of the rest of us, you can stay on watch here for another shift,” Jones snarled.
Harvey gave Jake a little push. “Take your mom downstairs. Get her into bed. And get some sleep yourself. You won’t get another chance to break outta here tonight.”
Jake threw him a fierce look and escorted his mother down the stairs. When they had entered the cell and taken their places on the beds as before, Harvey pressed the electronic cell door locks. They were secure once again.
Jones gave Harvey a shove. “Get down there and clean up that mess. Be quick about it. I’ll wait ’til you’re done.”
Harvey picked up a spray bottle and a cleaning rag. He grabbed a trash bag, too. Jones watched as he cleaned the smeared food off the camera and picked up the food and service items which had been flung everywhere.
Jones stood, kneading his sore neck with one hand as he watched. The kid was the spitting image of Jack Reacher. But he didn’t have the destructive streak. Or, if he did, the reactions were less violent, less immediate, than Reacher’s reputation.
Jones had never met the kid’s father. Maybe Joe Reacher had been a different breed. Rumor and gossip said otherwise. That Joe was just as much a badass as his brother.
But with young Jake here, it seemed like this particular apple might have fallen a long way from the Reacher tree.
When Harvey returned to the control room, lugging the garbage, Jones pressed the lock button to secure the cells. Then he flipped the night switch for the basement, dimming the lights and activating the night vision in the 360 camera.
Maybe the kid and his mom would sleep awhile. She was exhausted, and they’d punched some of the vinegar out of the kid, too. Maybe.
Harvey said, “Okay. I’ve got it. You can go now.”
Jones gave him a steely stare. “Patton hears about you letting them get out, and your ass is done. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.” Harvey nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans.
“So do your job. No harm, no foul this time. I’ll cover for you. But don’t screw up again,” Jones said as he turned to leave.
“What’s going on outside?” Harvey asked.
“Helo just lifted off for DC and a quick turnaround. The jet’s already on the way back from Texas. We’re gonna grab some shuteye and then get back to it,” Jones said just before he ducked out into the corridor and trudged up the stairs to his room.
-
Chapter 31
Thursday, May 26
Washington, DC
The two men walked abreast down the long hallway to the back of the Club. The operations room was located in the north wing near the kitchen. Dover placed his palm on the biometric reader and the door lock clicked open.
Dover strode into the room and Sullivan followed, noting that the security door had remained open long enough for him to do so. Sloppy.
“Show me the intruder, Zed,” Dover ordered the man monitoring the screens that filled the walls.
Every room inside the building was monitored and recorded at all times. Sullivan glanced across the screens for a quick look to confirm that all was as it should be. So far.
Zed clacked a few keys and brought up the correct video feed on the large center screen.
The first images were recorded ten minutes ago under natural light. An intruder had scaled the brick wall at the back of the property and dropped into the garden.
Zed highlighted the dark figure with a bright yellow circle on the screen.
“Let’s see it with the night vision cameras,” Sullivan said.
Zed glanced at his boss for approval and Dover nodded. Zed clacked again and the rear gardens immediately popped into a brighter black and white view.
He increased the speed of the video. The intruder’s stealthy trek around the perimeter, hugging the retaining wall, staying in the shadows, seemed to finish quickly. But the recorded real elapsed time was eleven minutes, thirty-four seconds.
“Where is he now?” Dover asked.
“Near the garages,” Zed replied, clacking again to enhance the images from cameras aimed at what had once been the carriage house at the base of the driveway.
Zed brought the intruder into sharp focus.
He was shedding his concealing clothes, under which he wore a dark blazer, crisply pressed dress shirt, slacks, and dress shoes. The standard casual dress code at the Club.
He pulled the stocking cap off his head and organized his short brown hair with his fingers.
He collected the shed clothes and dropped them into one of the dumpsters behind the garage. He stepped onto the paved path along the edge of the grass and advanced toward the rear entrance to the house.
One of the cameras caught his face full-on.
Zed froze the image and snapped a screenshot.
“Do either of you recognize him?” Sullivan cocked his head. The face was familiar but not identifiable.
Zed shook his head in reply.
“Run his image against our facial recognition software, Zed. Do the member database first. It includes known associates of all members. This guy seems to have familiarity with our property, which suggests he may have been here before,” Dover said. “If you don’t find him in our databases, run all the databases we have access to, official and unofficial. I want to know who this threat is. Pronto.”
Sullivan said, “Enlarge the image, Zed. Let’s see what he does next.”
The intruder pushed both hands into the pockets of his trousers and strolled nonchalantly toward the entrance to the mud room at the back of the kitchen. He climbed the stairs and reached for the doorknob.
Up until this point, the intruder had made the invasion seem effortless. He was a pro. Sullivan was mildly impressed with his craft.
Attempting to simply walk inside the building through the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen was the intruder’s first mistake.
“Isn’t that door secured by a biometric lock?” Sullivan asked, frowning.
“Absolutely,” Dover replied. “He’ll be denied access to the premises. Unless he’s a member in good standing or authorized staff.”
“Not likely he fits in either box,” Zed replied. “He could simply have come inside through the front door if he was authorized. No sneaking required.”
As they watched the feed, the mudroom door opened from the inside, and the intruder slipped into the house.
Zed located a clear headshot of the man and pulled it up on the screen. “We have a positive identification. His name is John Templar. Son of Walter Templar, who is a Club member in good standing.”
Sullivan nodded as comprehension dawned. No wonder the intruder looked familiar. Walter Templar was a United States senator. Chairman of the recently established Veterans Assistance Committee.
His ridiculous mug was splashed across television screens everywhere several times a week as he tried to make himself famous before he became infamous. He was a lion in the Senate, but his popularity could take a fast nosedive very shortly.
