Point of Contact

by Tom Clancy

  —

  Jack wound up boiling water and making himself a bowl of ramen noodles—a flashback to his college days. As terrible for his body as they were—nothing but processed carbs and powdered chicken broth loaded with who knows what chemical compounds—the flavor was comfortingly familiar and he could use the carb boost for what he had planned tonight.

  While Jack was pouring himself a glass of cold unsweetened tea from the fridge, Paul fetched a bottle of Bushmills from the pantry. He tossed the first glass down and poured a second.

  Jack wanted to say something but held off. Paul’s soft eyes had turned to dark wounds in the last few minutes, and he shuffled around the kitchen as if Jack weren’t even there—or maybe it was Paul who was somewhere else. Jack needed to talk to him at some point about the drinking. Paul could definitely hold his liquor, but in the last few days he’d increased his intake considerably. It couldn’t be from stress—what the hell was there for him to be stressed about? So he must be battling an addiction, Jack reasoned, or a demon—a battle he was clearly losing at the moment. He’d talk to him tomorrow. Tonight he had other plans.

  Jack rinsed his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then scrambled upstairs. He changed into a pair of black jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, a pair of boots with thick laces, a dark raincoat, and a black-and-purple Baltimore Ravens ball cap. He checked his watch. It was 7:18 p.m. According to Google, sunset tonight would be at 7:21 p.m., and a glance outside his window told him much the same thing. It also confirmed his two Dalfan handlers were in their Range Rover, parked against the curb.

  Time to get going.

  Jack headed back downstairs and into the kitchen, where he found Paul at the stove, scrambling eggs. That was a good sign.

  “Smells good,” Jack said.

  “Want some?”

  “Already ate, but thanks.” Jack put his hand on the back door, the busted doorjamb recently repaired.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Back to the warehouse. I need to see what’s inside.”

  “I thought they wouldn’t let you in.”

  Jack smiled. “I made the mistake of asking for permission the first time.”

  “Be careful—and don’t get caught.”

  “I will, on both counts. First thing I need to do is ditch our friends out front.”

  Paul spooned his scrambled eggs onto a plate. “And call me if there’s a problem.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Paul glowered at Jack. Something violent stirred behind those pale gray eyes. It caught Jack off guard, but he ignored it.

  Too much to do.

  43

  Jack dashed for the garage, careful not to make too much noise. Gerry had told him this was a strictly white-side mission and that he wouldn’t need any tools of the trade for his black-side work, but tonight he felt the need to take a few things along. He found a toolbox and quietly rifled through it, pulling out a couple pieces and pocketing them.

  He suddenly got the feeling he was being watched, and he checked the corners of the garage for remote cameras but didn’t see any. The Dalfan security team was making him jumpy. He shrugged it off.

  Jack stepped outside, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible, just in case the crew out front had their window down and might hear the noise in the backyard and get curious.

  He scaled the painted concrete wall facing the property in the rear. He crossed through the neighbor’s yard onto Goodman Street, which ran perpendicular to Crescent Road, where the Dalfan team was parked and, he hoped, still oblivious of his movement.

  Jack headed west along Goodman, past a series of beautifully maintained homes, a blend of traditional, modern, and ultramodern middle-class dwellings, all fronting a tree-lined school of some sort. He could’ve been in a suburb of Los Angeles or Dallas—only the occasional Buddha statue, Singapore national flag, or cars driving on the other side of the road would have told him otherwise.

  He walked swiftly but was careful not to run or draw attention to himself, and he kept his face down and away from any prying cameras, but not so down that he appeared suspicious in the prosperous suburban neighborhood. He didn’t want to look like he was casing the joint or running from the cops, and he assumed the Singaporeans organized vigilant neighborhood-watch programs like they did back in the States.

  When he arrived at the corner of Goodman and Broadrick he pulled out his phone and tapped the Uber icon he’d registered under an alias and linked to an untraceable Campus credit card.

  Fifteen minutes later a Lexus sedan picked him up, and they shot across town west on the PIE and exited south on Pioneer Road North toward the address that Jack had uploaded into his Uber app—not his actual destination. In fact, he was dropped off several hundred feet away from the warehouse he had intended to infiltrate, taking advantage of Singapore’s lush tropical topography.

  Crowding both sides of all the streets in this part of town were steel buildings and concrete prefab structures housing every form of industrial and commercial enterprise, and many of them serviced Singapore’s extensive shipping and oil-refining industries.

  Jack had scouted out a shipyard adjacent to the Dalfan warehouse after he had left there. It was fronted by a stand of tall trees that rustled in the moderate breeze that was blowing down here by the water. All he had to do was jump the waist-high fence when traffic cleared and he’d be able to work his way around back.

  Jack paused, suddenly aware of his surroundings. Why am I doing this? He was supposed to be conducting a white-side audit, not running a black-side op. Technically, he was about to break the law and, if caught, get himself and Hendley Associates in big trouble, and no doubt blow the merger.

  But he couldn’t help himself. His gut told him that there was something more going on behind the scenes, especially after the meeting with Dr. Heng and the whole quantum-cryptography conversation. This might be a real national security threat. That alone was worth taking the risk.

  Had Gerry actually suspected something was wrong at Dalfan? Gerry knew Jack’s tendency to break the mission profile. Maybe that’s the real reason why he sent him to Singapore in the first place.

  At least, Jack wanted to think so. But probably not. If he was being honest with himself, he’d admit he resented the white-side assignment. He was a black-side operator now. What did Gerry expect him to do? Just put all that away and sharpen his pencils?

  Jack sighed, watching the traffic stream by, weighing his options. He should call Clark right now and read him in on the situation and get his advice before doing something stupid. That would be the safe play.

  But what would his options be? He couldn’t go to the authorities with just a hunch. And he couldn’t confront the Fairchilds armed only with an accusation. If they were innocent, they’d be pissed, and the merger would get called off. If guilty, they wouldn’t admit it and, worse, would cover their tracks before he could collect any evidence they were selling secrets to the Chinese.

  So that’s why he was here, right now, getting ready to jump the fence. If he could get in and out of the warehouse without getting caught, he would have proof that something was going on between Dalfan and the Chinese—or not. Either way, the truth would be known.

  It was worth the risk. And technically, the break-in would be a problem only if he got caught.

  “So don’t get caught,” he whispered.

  As soon as the traffic cleared, Jack jumped the waist-high fence. Once over, he kept as close to the corrugated steel wall as he could, noting that the cameras fixed on the high walls were pointed toward the street and harbor. He made his way past the large commercial boats dry-docked on giant trailers waiting for repairs or refurbishment, careful to avoid the sight lines of the cameras behind him.

  He stopped frequently, crouching low in the shadows of the ships he was hiding behind. He marked the slow, methodical rounds
of the two security guards he’d counted so far, walking the wide expanse of the shipyard, talking and smoking as they patrolled. When he’d driven by the shipyard earlier, Jack saw only one security guard at the front gate, but the man was more focused on the boxed lunch in front of him than on any passing American. Jack bet that security would be even more lax at night, especially with the yard shut down, and so far that bet was paying off. Once the two guards passed to the far side of the yard, Jack bolted in a low crouch toward the cyclone fence bordering the Dalfan property and dropped down behind a rusted orange forklift parked against it.

  Unlike the shipyard, the rear of the Dalfan property was well lit and open. The rear of the warehouse featured four large rolling doors, all of which were shut for the night. Where he was kneeling, he didn’t hear any activity inside the building or out on the asphalt.

  Jack pulled out a pair of wire cutters. These were meant to snip electrical cords or household nails, not steel fencing. Jack thought about climbing the fencing, tossing his coat over the razor-wire barrier on top so he could scale the hazard, but the fence was eight feet high and the razor wire another eighteen inches taller. He could stand on top of the forklift and toss the coat up from there and probably land it properly, but he was certain security on the Dalfan side would be tighter and he didn’t want to be straddling razor wire nearly ten feet in the air if Dalfan security guards came charging at him with their guns drawn.

  Instead, he opted for patience and took his time, clamping down hard with the wire cutter and rotating it back and forth, forcing the sharp teeth to bite deeper into the steel mesh than they were designed to do. He had to switch hands frequently as they tired from the strenuous effort, the handles digging deep into his palms. He paused each time the cutter snipped through a wire link, shaking the fence, making sure the noise wasn’t raising any alarms on either side. Thirty minutes later Jack had managed to cut a hole big enough for him to scoot through. He just wasn’t sure what to do next. There wasn’t anyplace to hide on the other side. His only choice was to make a run straight for the building and hope there weren’t any guard dogs or security men hiding in the shadows. He saw evidence of neither. He wished he had a pair of NVGs to scope out the area, but why would he, since this was an easy, no-risk, white-side mission?

  He asked himself again, What the hell am I doing? If he got caught, there’d be hell to pay. And there was still the distinct possibility that the warehouse wasn’t even a Dalfan property.

  But his gut.

  His gut.

  Jack double-checked behind him to make sure the shipyard guards were still out of sight, then crawled through the fence and dashed across the empty yard, racing for the nearest wall of the warehouse, careful to keep his face down and away from the cameras he’d spotted on the corners of the roof.

  His pulse raced and his breath shortened as he sprinted the two hundred yards, expecting to hear gunshots or snarling dogs at every step. But he hit the corner of the building without raising any alarms.

  So far, so good.

  Jack caught his breath and glanced around again. Thanks to the bright sodium lights, he could see across the compound behind him, and all along the loading dock in front of him. Nothing.

  Strange.

  Whatever work they were actually doing in the building was clearly not being done at night. That was a lucky break for him.

  Jack leaped up onto the loading dock and ran past the first rolling door, testing it with an upward tug of his hand, but it didn’t budge. He dashed to the next two doors and tried them as well; both were locked down tight. The fourth door was bolted shut as well, but on the other side of it was a regular-access steel door at the top of the stairs leading down from the dock to the asphalt. He glanced around again to make sure he wasn’t in the line of sight of any cameras, then tried the doorknob, hoping against hope it would open.

  It didn’t.

  Shit.

  Jack knelt down by the round steel knob and examined the simple key lock, then scanned the yard once again to make sure no one was watching him. He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out two large heavy metal paper clips he’d borrowed from his office-supply drawer at Dalfan earlier in the day.

  Dom had taught him last year how to pick just about any kind of lock with a set of Sparrows Vorax lock picks—some of the best picks in the business. The only problem on this trip was that carrying a set of thief’s tools in his luggage would have drawn the attention of the TSA or Singapore customs authorities. Besides, he’d had no idea he’d be breaking into a building.

  Fortunately, Dom had also taught him how to improvise with a pair of paper clips. The last time they did the paper-clip trick they turned it into a drinking game, the loser taking the vodka shot to further impede the manual dexterity needed to pick even a simple lock. Somehow after losing the first two rounds, Jack managed to finally beat Dom at the game. Maybe the booze loosened him up. If so, he really needed some now.

  Jack pulled out a pair of needle-nosed pliers and used them to fashion a right-angled tension rod with the first paper clip, which took only a few twists, then spent the next two minutes forming a W rake pick with the other paper clip. The W rake took longer because it meant bending the straightened end of the clip into semiprecise angles like the letter W, as well as reshaping the other looped end into a sturdy handle.

  Jack took the tension rod in his left hand and inserted it into the bottom of the door lock without applying any torque, then slid the W rake all the way to the back of the lock. Now using his sense of touch in his fingertips and listening carefully, he quickly dragged the W rake back toward him with upward pressure, trying to push the lock pins into their set position while maintaining a light torque on the cylinder.

  The first time he raked the lock he thought he heard two driver pins set into place, so he kept torquing the cylinder with the tension rod so the pins wouldn’t fall back out. He did this a few more times, his mind and his senses intensely focused on the task at hand. He thought he felt another pin set, and he hoped like hell it was a standard five-pin door lock.

  Jack was laser-focused on finding the next driver pin to set when the rolling steel door next to him rattled. For a split second he thought someone was opening it, but then he felt the gust of wind against his face and he knew the door wouldn’t be opening. That split second was just enough to distract him, and he dropped the tension on the cylinder just a fraction, and that was enough to cause all of the driver pins he’d already set to fall right back into place.

  Damn it!

  He repeated the process, more determined than ever to pick the lock and see what was inside, if for no other reason than so he could brag to Dom that he’d done it and make him buy a couple of rounds when he got back to town.

  It took Jack a good three minutes to knock out four pins, jiggling and popping the W rake, careful to keep the tension just right on the cylinder with the tension rod.

  Voices whispered in the dark. Jack froze again, but he was careful not to release the tension this time. He took a deep breath and glanced over at the sound in the distance. He could barely make out the two shadowy figures walking the yard on the other side of the fence—the two guards he’d dodged earlier, just making their rounds and making small talk. Jack seriously doubted they’d look this way, but if they did, they were more likely to call the police than intervene. But who knows? Best to get back to it and get out of the light.

  Knowing he had only one pin left, he used the W rake like a traditional pick, trying to imagine the first sharp bend of the rake as a single point, and used his mind and touch to will that single point to find the final driver pin. He felt it click into place and Jack was through.

  Thank God.

  Jack stepped inside and nearly shit his pants.

  44

  Empty.

  The whole damn warehouse was empty.

  Jack started to pull of
f his ball cap to scratch his head, but he caught himself. No point in winding up on a camera now.

  He was frustrated as all crap. Did he have the wrong address?

  No. Not possible.

  Whoever had cleaned the place out had kindly left all the lights on. And why shouldn’t they? There was nothing to see.

  And they obviously wanted him to see that.

  Jack knelt down and studied the narrow rubber tire tracks that had been left behind by a forklift turning sharp angles and obviously carrying a heavy load. They could’ve been made ten months ago, or ten hours ago.

  About the time Lian was keeping him occupied on the tour earlier today.

  Jack tried to imagine stacks of pallets or crates of something he wasn’t supposed to know existed. But what?

  He walked around the wide, empty floor, looking for clues. An oil stain, a piece of crumpled packing tape, a cigarette butt.

  Nothing.

  Whatever was in here yesterday, guarded by a platoon of burly goons without any official identification, was gone now.

  Moved in a hurry.

  Why?

  Where?

  Standing here with his metaphorical dick in his hands wasn’t answering any of those questions. But he thought he might know a way to get them.

  He pulled out his phone and tapped his Uber app again. If his hunch was right, time was not his friend.

  Time to play the Gavin card.

  —

  Sorry, Jack, I tried,” Gavin said, a rare note of humility in his voice.

  Jack couldn’t believe his ears. “I thought you said it would be a piece of cake.”

  “I know. I was wrong. The Singapore Police Force cloud server is better protected than I thought it would be. I can keep hammering on my end or even call in a few favors. But we’re talking several hours, maybe days.”