Point of Contact

by Tom Clancy

  A flash of lightning revealed more detail.

  “Criminy. It’s a pick-n-pull,” Paul said.

  “What?” Lian asked.

  “A junkyard,” Jack explained, as booming thunder echoed overhead.

  Paul counted thirty cars in the yard, but they were all parted out. Some were stacked three and four high, wheels missing, engines gone. A large steel garage stood at the back of the lot.

  “Well, at least there are plenty of cars to choose from,” Jack said, grinning and grimacing at the same time.

  Lian said, “Let’s get out of the rain.”

  “Maybe there’s a clunker down there that actually runs,” Paul said hopefully. He eyed the steep, grassy embankment. It wouldn’t be easy for Jack to traverse it. Farther up, there was fencing along the expressway, which prevented a descent, and the embankment got even steeper, so this was as good as it was going to get.

  Paul’s eye caught sight of movement north, up on the expressway. He pointed. “Is that a car?”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed, trying to focus. Two miles away, a pair of headlights barreled toward them.

  “They’re flying,” Jack said.

  “An emergency vehicle?” Paul wondered.

  “No emergency flashers? Not likely,” Lian said.

  “Then who?” Paul asked.

  “Something’s not right,” Jack said.

  A flash of lightning cracked overhead.

  The vehicle’s xenon high beams popped on, pointing right at them.

  Lian shouted, “Run!”

  —

  A flash of lightning illumined the three figures standing on the expressway.

  All four North Koreans saw them, but it was the section chief in the front seat who shouted and pointed at them.

  The driver popped the xenon high beams on and stomped the accelerator to the floorboard. The two men in back drew their pistols and checked mags just as the Sorento hit a puddle and the SUV hydroplaned.

  A collective “Ah!” rose from the three men not driving, but the driver was too busy concentrating. He avoided the natural inclination to tap the brakes; instead, he took his foot off the accelerator and pointed the steering wheel at a dry patch farther up.

  The section chief shouted, “Faster!”

  “I can’t, sir! Too wet!”

  The station chief cocked his pistol and held it to the driver’s head. “FASTER!”

  72

  Paul tracked the Sorento’s movement for a moment before turning his attention to the embankment. He put one foot down and planted it before easing Jack down into his position.

  “I figure we’ve got a two-minute head start on those guys,” Paul said.

  “Lian, run ahead and scout that place out for us, will you?” Jack said through gritted teeth.

  “Done.” She bolted like a gazelle down the slick grassy hill, heading for the steel building. In a few moments her feet splashed in the flooded two-lane road running perpendicular beneath the expressway.

  Paul cut a diagonal across the face of the embankment to lessen the angle, fighting to keep Jack upright. Jack slipped a few times in the descent, but Paul’s sturdy grip kept the two of them on their feet.

  Jack glanced up when he heard the chain-link fence rattle in front of them. He barely made out Lian’s figure dropping over the top of the fence and into the yard.

  Paul and Jack had finally reached the bottom of the embankment when they heard brakes screeching hard above them.

  “Let’s haul ass,” Jack said. The two of them picked up the pace to the sound of steel banging on steel, rattling the fence wire in front of them.

  Three steps farther and they heard voices shouting in Korean above their heads. Paul instinctively turned a slight right, away from a direct line to the fencing, assuming the Koreans had guns and were taking aim—

  Pistols cracked from on high, muffled by the sound of the rain. Extra-large splashes boiled up on either side of them—hail or bullets, Paul wasn’t sure. More gunfire erupted, but this time in front of them as Lian took aim at the SUV high up on the embankment behind the fencing.

  “Come on!” she shouted at Paul and Jack, as they ran the last hundred feet toward the open fence in a three-legged gait. Lian provided more covering fire.

  Jack and Paul hobbled through. Jack’s foot nearly stumbled on the big and rusted pipefitter’s wrench Lian had used to bust the chain.

  Lian stood and watched the Koreans jump back into their SUV and rocket away, then ran in and shut the gate behind them and wrapped what was left of the chain around the gatepost. She pointed at the side entrance door to the steel garage.

  Paul felt Jack’s weight give under his arm; he was definitely losing steam. Jack needed rest, badly, and a doctor. Ten yards away Paul spotted an electric golf cart parked next to a giant yellow forklift with huge front wheels—no doubt used to move and stack the junked cars.

  They hobbled past the empty frame of an old Volkswagen Beetle before pushing through the doorway, and Lian slammed the door shut behind them.

  “They’re gone,” Lian said, panting. She flicked on a flashlight she found on a workbench.

  “What do you mean they’re gone?” Jack asked.

  Lian flashed the light around the open garage, checking it out as she spoke. “They just drove away.”

  “No way.” Jack fell into a folding metal chair, exhausted, cradling his forearm with his good hand. “They’re not leaving, they’re moving.”

  Paul didn’t like the sound of Jack’s fading voice. In Lian’s flashlight, Jack’s skin looked ashen.

  “What do we have here?” Lian approached a squatting shape under a heavy cloth in the middle of the neatly ordered garage. She yanked it off. “Wow.”

  It was a vintage motorcycle with a sidecar, painted olive drab. Lian read the logo on the teardrop gas tank. “Royal Enfield.”

  “That’s an Indian bike,” Jack said. “Guy must be a collector.”

  Lian flashed her light over it again. “It has keys, too.”

  “Moving where, Jack?” Paul asked.

  “What?”

  “Where are they moving to?” Paul repeated.

  “They’ll try and find a way down here, and finish the job.”

  Paul turned around and faced the door. “We passed a traffic tunnel that runs underneath the expressway. If they can find that road, they can get down here.”

  “There’s a turnaround three kilometers north on the expressway,” Lian said. “The road out front of this building connects to it.”

  “That gives us four minutes, tops,” Paul said.

  Lian unscrewed the cap. “Plenty of petrol.”

  “If they get down here, we’re all dead,” Paul said.

  “At least we have guns,” Jack said.

  “But we don’t know how many more of them there are, and they might be getting reinforcements,” Paul said.

  Jack nodded toward the Royal Enfield. “Can you drive one of those?”

  “I can,” Lian said. She slung a leg over the motorcycle, turned on the gas, switched the key, and kicked it over. The small engine fired up instantly. She smiled. “There’s room for all three of us.”

  Jack stood and limped over to the chain that opened the rolling back door of the building. He kicked away the latch that locked the door in place and started pulling on the chain as Lian rolled the bike toward the rear exit. He spoke to Paul over his shoulder.

  “You and Lian hit the road out front and head due west. It’s got to connect somewhere—”

  “It does,” Lian said. “About eight kilometers up the road it curves around north, and in another twenty it reconnects with the expressway.” She looked at her watch. “We can’t make it all the way to Kuala Lumpur in time, but maybe we can get within working cell-phone distance and make a call.”


  “That’s the plan then. I’ll stay here and hold them—” Jack collapsed in mid-sentence. Paul caught him.

  “Help me get him in the sidecar,” Paul said.

  Lian jumped off the bike and lifted Jack’s feet as Paul cradled him by the upper torso. They wrestled Jack’s heavy, limp frame into the sidecar and secured him.

  “We need to get him to hospital now—and make that call.” Lian jumped onto the saddle and scooted forward. “Get on behind me and let’s go!”

  Paul pointed at the motorcycle. “That’s a lawnmower engine. Jack and I have over five hundred pounds between us. Those guys in the car will catch us and run us down on that thing.”

  “Paul—”

  Paul checked the one mag he had in his Makarov. “You’ve got three minutes max now. Get going.”

  “Paul?” Lian’s eyes finished the question.

  Paul shoved his cell phone into Lian’s pocket. “Gerry Hendley’s direct number is on there. Call him the second you get a signal. Tell him to contact the CIO at the Hang Seng—or anybody else in charge. He’ll make it happen—and then get Jack to a hospital. Now go!”

  Lian grabbed Paul’s jowly face and kissed him on the cheek, then gunned the engine and roared out of the garage.

  Paul didn’t watch her go. He hobbled to the front door, running through the plan in his mind. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

  He also knew there wasn’t enough time left to do it.

  73

  The North Korean driver made the hard right turn onto the narrow two-lane road and gunned the engine, pointing the front of the Sorento directly at the black hole of the traffic tunnel five hundred yards up ahead.

  The four of them had already worked out a plan to assault the steel building. The driver would crash the SUV through the cyclone fence, then the four of them would egress and approach the building from four sides. Besides their pistols, they carried two shotguns, an assault rifle, and a dozen flash-bangs in the trunk—more than enough to get the job done.

  The Sorento bounced on the uneven pavement as it rocketed toward the narrow one-way tunnel. The other tunnel for traffic in the opposite direction was clearly flooded, as was the other road. No matter, the driver thought. I need only one.

  The SUV plowed full speed into the tunnel. In a hundred yards he’d be through, then he’d have to angle the vehicle right toward the fence. He gripped the wheel tighter and pressed the accelerator—

  The driver froze for just a moment as he tried to make out the hulking shape turning the corner at the far end of the tunnel. He slammed the brakes.

  Too late.

  —

  Paul stomped the big forklift’s throttle into the floorboard as soon as he made the turn into the tunnel. The turbo-charged Cummins diesel engine roared, launching the big high-capacity forklift straight into the narrow passage, its long steel forks high off the ground. Paul hoped he’d guessed the height right.

  He had.

  The right fork plowed through the Sorento’s windshield, severing the driver’s screaming face in half, just above the bridge of his nose. The section chief in the passenger seat ducked at the last second; the right fork harmlessly sheared the headrest off his seat but nearly speared the man behind him.

  The forklift slammed into the SUV with a shuddering crash that rattled Paul’s teeth and nearly snapped his neck as he gunned the motor again, powering up the lift and raising the Sorento by the roof until it smashed against the tunnel ceiling, pinning it there.

  The three surviving Koreans shouted as they kicked open their doors and tumbled several feet onto the wet pavement below while Paul scrambled out of the left side of the cab. He pointed his Makarov forward and took aim at the section chief, sprawled on the pavement, his ankles broken, raising his weapon. But Paul fired first and put two rounds in the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

  The two surviving Koreans fired back. Bullets ricocheted off the tunnel walls and spanged against the forklift.

  Something punched Paul in the ribs. He touched his side. His hand was bloody.

  The agent behind the dead driver had dropped to his knees and was trying to pass unnoticed around the far side of the forklift. Paul saw the top of his head through the cab and fired through the glass but missed. He turned and ran around the back side of the forklift where the Korean had appeared, gun up. The Korean’s weapon fired twice at close range, tearing into Paul’s shoulder, shredding muscle and shattering bone. Paul’s hand dropped the gun. But the pain turned to rage. He charged forward with a shout, thrusting his good left hand into the Korean’s throat, crushing his windpipe with his bandaged fingers and smashing his skull against the wall in a spray of blood.

  Gunshots exploded from the back of the tunnel. Paul lifted the Korean and held him like a shield as he charged back into the tunnel toward the gunfire. Bullets thudded against the corpse as Paul lunged forward. But copper-jacketed rounds chopped into his shins like a fire ax until his legs collapsed beneath him. He tumbled to the asphalt with his shattered cargo.

  Paul rolled over onto his back in time to see the gaping black muzzle of a pistol in his face, and the final, deafening flash—

  —

  The surviving Korean spat on Paul’s corpse, then holstered his pistol. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket and wiped the bloody gore off his face. His ears rang from the gunfight, the sound magnified in the tunnel. He could hardly think. He walked to the edge of the tunnel and lit a cigarette to clear his head, staring at the empty road and the endless rain.

  Now what?

  No car, no cell signal, and the other two spies were nowhere to be seen. He’d failed the mission.

  His life was over.

  He turned around and stood over the corpse of the fat American, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He flicked the cigarette away and knelt down close to the body, examining the face.

  The Korean shook his head, haunted by the dead man’s smile.

  74

  FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

  Rhodes shut the burner phone and tossed it on his desk. Zvezdev hadn’t picked up in two days. The fat bastard was hanging him out to dry.

  Rhodes pulled the Kimber .380 from his wall safe and checked the magazine, then set it carefully on his desk next to the phone. He pulled out his legal passport, and a counterfeit one he’d purchased a week ago, just in case the whole thing went sideways. You don’t have a plan until you have a plan to escape, his father had taught him. Of course, that was in regard to fieldwork, but it was proving damn useful today.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he wouldn’t see his son grow up—at least, not for the next several years. But then again, his own father had been absent for most of his childhood, and he’d made out all right. Fatherhood, like most things in life, was overrated. The little nipper would be just fine.

  His wife? Well, a pretty girl for sure, but just another piece of ass. He was glad to be getting rid of her—for as little as she put out, she ran up a lot of bills. A twinge of guilt crept across his conscience. She’d have to file for bankruptcy, of course, and would undoubtedly lose the house. She might even have to get a job, poor thing. He couldn’t pay child support, let alone alimony. His bank accounts were drained, his trust fund depleted, and all of the offshore money he’d invested in his bet against Dalfan stock was gone now.

  And in an hour, he would be, too.

  But then again, she was screwing her Pilates instructor. A smile crept across his face as he imagined her shock when she finally figured out that he had fled the country and left her holding the bag.

  Rhodes startled as the library door swung open. He turned around.

  “Jack? What are you doing here—my God, son. What happened to you?”

  Jack Ryan, Jr., stepped up to Rhodes’s desk, his battered face as grim as death. His left forearm was in a cast, and his hands were badly
bruised and scraped.

  “Surprised, Senator?”

  “I thought you were in Singapore.”

  “I was. So was Paul.”

  Rhodes glanced over Jack’s broad shoulder. “Where is he?”

  “Dead.”

  Rhodes blanched. “Dead?”

  “Don’t play games, Wes. You called me and warned me he was in ‘hot water,’ remember?”

  Rhodes had, in fact, forgotten that he’d called Jack in a panic. Stupid. He took the measure of his merciless eyes. No point in lying to him now.

  Rhodes fell into his chair behind his desk, and stared out of the wide bay window across the snow-covered lawn. “I really didn’t mean for that to happen.” Rhodes’s imperious voice faded to a whisper.

  “He took out three North Korean RGB agents single-handedly, saving my ass, and Lian’s.”

  Rhodes sat up. “North Koreans?”

  “You should know. You sent them.”

  Rhodes shook his head. “No. I didn’t send anybody.”

  “At least one of us made it back.”

  “Thank God, Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought—”

  “Just tell me one thing. Why in the hell would you want to crash the world economy?”

  Rhodes scowled in disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

  “The USB drive?”

  “It was a software program to crash Dalfan stock. I was using it to place a bet against it and cash in.” The light turned on in Rhodes’s eyes. “At least, that’s what I was told.”

  “Bullshit. But even if you’re not lying, you got Paul killed to turn a dirty buck.”

  “I swear I didn’t mean to.” Rhodes’s face darkened. “Did Paul ever tell you how he and I knew each other?”

  “No.”

  “Take a seat. I’d like to tell you.”

  “You don’t have the time.”

  “Please. For Paul’s sake. I want you to know the kind of man he was.”

  “Make it quick.”