Jack opened the Sonata’s rear door, grabbed his jacket, and put it on. He pushed through the doors and walked straight to the counter. A teenage boy with a wispy light brown mustache and acne on his chin stood at the register. Jack’s odds had just improved.
“Evening,” Jack said.
“Hey.”
“Wondering if you can help me.” Jack pulled his private investigator’s badge out, showed it to the kid, returned it to his blazer pocket. “What’s your name?”
If the kid was going to balk at Jack’s credentials, it would happen now.
“Uh, Nate.”
“How long have you been here, Nate?”
“Eight months, I guess.”
“Tonight,” Jack replied.
“Oh. Since four.”
“I’m looking for a guy. He bought gas here at five thirty-five.” From his pocket Jack took the photocopy he’d made of Stephan Möller’s passport folder. “Does he look familiar?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Jack put a little steel in his voice. “He was here, you were here. He came in and bought snacks. Do you recognize him?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Jack gestured at the trio of tiny black-and-white video monitors sitting on the counter beside the register. “Do those work?”
“Yeah, but just the pumps. The one in here is busted.”
“Show me,” Jack replied. Without waiting to be invited, he walked behind the counter. The kid hesitated a bit now, so Jack nudged him. “It was about five-thirty. Which pump did he use?”
“Uh, okay, just a sec.” Nate knelt before a DVD-like box on the shelf beneath the monitors and rewound the footage until the counter read 1725.
“You’re doing good. Think back. Which pump?”
“Three. No, two. That monitor on the left.”
“Okay, hit fast-forward,” Jack replied. “Easy, not too fast . . .”
When the counter clicked over to 1731 a dark blue or black sedan pulled up to the pump. The driver’s-side door opened. Out climbed Stephan Möller.
“Hey, that’s him,” Nate blurted, apparently warming to the task. “It’s him, right? That beard.”
“Yep, that’s him. You’ve got a good eye. What’d he buy? Don’t think, just say the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Chocolate milk, tuna sandwich, bag of Fritos.”
“Can you enlarge that pump picture? I need the license plate.”
“I can zoom in, but it’s not optical, y’know. Just digital. It’ll get all pixelated. It might be better on the office TV, though.”
“Where?”
“Straight down that hall on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Jack followed Nate’s directions and pushed through a swinging door bearing the scrawled words “Employees Only” in red permanent marker. At the front of the store a warning bing-bong chime sounded. Jack glanced over his shoulder to see Nate giving him a thumbs-up. Most exciting day of the kid’s life, Jack thought.
He was in a storeroom. On the left-hand wall was a steel shelving unit holding rolls of toilet paper, bottles of floor cleaner, and cases of soda and water. In the corner on a small card table sat an eighteen-inch flat-screen television. Nate had already transferred the security camera image to it.
“Zooming in,” Nate called enthusiastically.
“Ten-four,” Jack replied.
Slowly the image enlarged, panning and tightening on Möller’s license plate as it expanded.
“Hold,” Jack called. The image froze.
Nate was right. The image was growing badly pixelated, but it would have to do. Emblazoned across the bottom of the plate were the words TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION, which made it a Washington, D.C., plate, but the camera angle was such that Jack could make out only the first two letters: EB. The four characters to the right of the D.C. flag icon were blurred.
Jack returned to the front of the store. Nate asked, “Get it?”
“Got it. I owe you, Nate. See you later.”
Jack was halfway to the door when Nate called, “Hey, he took a map or something, too, if that’s important.”
“What map?” asked Jack.
“From the rack beside the chips. Behind you.”
Jack turned. The rack was waist high, with vertical slots for twenty to thirty travel brochures, maps, bus and train schedules, and restaurant coupons. “Nate, did you see which one he took?”
“No. Sorry, man.”
“Just one, or a bunch?”
Nate screwed up his face, thinking. “Not a bunch. One, maybe two.”
—
Jack returned to the Sonata and climbed in beside Effrem, who asked, “Any luck?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Möller took something—a map or brochure.”
“So?” asked Effrem.
“How long between the time he got gas and he checked into the Best Western in Hartford? Five hours, give or take? But it’s at most an hour drive. What was he doing the rest of the time?”
Jack was missing something. He could feel it nibbling at the back of his brain like a song you can hear but can’t name. He closed his eyes and mentally backtracked . . .
“Huh,” he muttered.
He got out of the car and went back into the store. “Hey, Nate, you still have that picture on the office TV?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re the man. Be right back.”
Jack walked to the office and sat down at the card table and stared at the image of Möller standing beside his car. Jack leaned in, squinted.
The car was a Ford Fusion Hybrid.
Jack walked out, gave Nate a “Dude” and a thumbs-up, then returned to the car.
“Effrem, Google this: Ford Fusion Hybrid tank size and range.”
It took thirty seconds. “Fourteen gallons, forty-three miles per gallon, highway. So that makes the range . . . six hundred miles per tank.”
“It’s three hundred miles from D.C. to here, and he put in thirteen bucks’ worth of gas. That’s, what, seven gallons?”
“Yeah, half a tank,” Effrem confirmed.
“Then he drives forty miles up the road to Hartford and checks into the Best Western. Why stop here? Why not push through?”
“Maybe he was hungry.”
“And why use a credit card for such a small purchase? Möller’s too savvy to not be carrying emergency cash.”
“You think he’s leading us? Leaving bread crumbs?”
“It’s very possible.” The idea that Möller would use the credit card Jack had found in the Alexandria motel had been a stretch from the beginning. Wanting to believe in something isn’t the same as it being real, Jack reminded himself.
On the other hand, why would Möller bother playing them at all? Why not disappear? Jack had no answer.
He grabbed his phone and called up the last Enquestor alert on Möller’s credit card: Best Western Hartford Hotel & Suites, 185 Brainard Road, Hartford, CT 06114. Pre-auth room charge. Jack showed Effrem the screen and said, “It’s a pre-authorization, not a charge.”
“Oh, man, sorry.”
“Forget it. I should have caught it. Möller doesn’t have a passport or he would’ve gotten on a plane, and you can’t rent a room without showing identification.”
“What now? Have we lost him?”
“Go back inside and grab brochures for Amtrak, Metro-North, and Greyhound. Nate’s seen my face too much.”
Effrem did as Jack asked and returned a minute later with the schedules. He handed them to Jack. “What’re you thinking, Jack?”
“Greyhound allows prepaid or gift tickets. Someone else buys it and the passenger picks it up at the station with a password. As for trains, it�
�s not as easy to get a ticket without ID, but it’s doable. Once you’re aboard, if you can bypass the random checks, you’re set. Somebody like Möller would find a way to make it work.”
Jack scanned the schedules. Greyhound, Amtrak, and Shore Line East were hubbed at New Haven’s Union Station, about ten minutes to the north. But the Metro-North Railroad had a station in West Haven itself—about two hundred yards south of Mike’s Mini Mart.
Jack explained his thinking to Effrem, who said, “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say he stopped here because it’s close to the West Haven Station. Where could he go from here?”
“And why not drive another ten minutes to New Haven?” Jack added. “Union Station would give him a lot more travel options.”
Jack could feel his brain spiraling as it tried to plot all the variables. He caught himself and pulled back. He’d learned the hard way that the only way to stop the spiral was to make a choice, to take action, whether right or wrong.
Jack studied the schedules again. On instinct, he dismissed Greyhound. Too confined, he decided. If pressed, it would be easier to maneuver and hide on a train. That left trains: Amtrak, Shore Line East, Metro-North.
Jack said, “Let’s think it through: If Möller’s goal is still the Canadian border, he’d want as straight a shot as possible. Shore Line only goes as far north as New London, so scratch that. If he takes Amtrak up to Boston, he’s got a lot more destination options, but more transfers.”
Effrem added, “More chances for delays and complications.”
“Bigger stations, tighter security.”
“That leaves Metro-North,” Jack said. “And leaves him . . .” He traced his finger down the schedule grid. “The Waterbury line. Two departures: seven-thirty and ten-fifty.”
Effrem checked his watch. “It left over an hour ago.”
—
The train had left, but Jack was by no means certain Möller had been on either it or the earlier one. As reasoned as their speculation was, it was still speculation.
But maybe there was a way to confirm it.
In that moment Jack felt the absurdity of the situation crash down on him. One phone call to the Secret Service and Möller’s chances of escape would drop to almost nil. Yet here he was sitting in the parking lot of a gas station posing as a private investigator with a rookie journalist while studying train schedules.
Just hit speed-dial, Jack thought. And it’s finished.
No.
He could sense he was locked into the same course he’d chosen just hours after he’d been attacked. He was being impulsive, undisciplined. Focused on the trees rather than the forest. All the things Gerry Hendley had cited as reason for his exile from The Campus.
Jack didn’t care.
—
With Effrem navigating, Jack drove south down Saw Mill Road to Railroad Avenue and turned right. The station’s parking lot, divided into north and south areas that sat astride the tracks and the red-brick and glass terminal building, was several acres of blacktop enclosed by a hurricane fence. Under the glow of streetlamps Jack could see that this lot, the northernmost one, was a quarter full of cars, but there were no pedestrians visible. It made sense. The evening’s last train had left.
“You really think he’d park in here?” asked Effrem.
“No, but I would if I were him. As long as you’re paid up, nobody’ll give your car a second glance. If I were on the run, I wouldn’t bother hunting for public parking in the middle of the night.”
“A lot of cars.”
“Don’t kill the mood,” Jack replied.
When Jack reached the lot entrance he turned in, then followed the pavement arrow into the west side of the lot.
“We’re looking for a dark Ford Fusion Hybrid,” Jack said.
“D.C. plates, right? EB something.”
“Right, but don’t key on that. He might have swapped plates.”
Jack started down the first row, eyes fixed on the cars out his window while Effrem did the same on his side, murmuring to himself, “No, wrong color . . . Uh-huh, that’s an SUV . . . Oh, close but not quite right . . .”
Jack had to smile. It was hard not to like the kid.
Kid, Jack thought. He didn’t have that many years on Effrem—not chronologically, at least.
They reached the end of the row, turned, and started down the next one.
“Ford Fusion,” Effrem called out. “Can’t tell if it’s a Hybrid. Maryland plates.”
“Check it,” Jack replied, braking to a stop. “Check the interior for a bottle of milk, sandwich wrapper, bag of Fritos.” As Effrem climbed out, Jack added, “And a rental agency sticker, or what looks like the remains of one.”
Effrem returned thirty seconds later. “Nothing. Not a Hybrid.”
They kept going and finished the remaining two rows without finding another match. Jack returned to the entrance, crossed over to the adjoining lot, and continued the search. More confident now, they made short work of the first and second rows and were turning into the final one when Effrem blurted, “Gotcha!”
Jack stopped the car and glanced out Effrem’s window.
Black Ford Fusion Hybrid, D.C. plates, EB 9836.
“Go,” Jack said.
Effrem hopped out, circled the car, peeking in windows as he went, then returned. He leaned down and said through the open window, “Frito bag, but no sign of a rental sticker.”
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
Jack had assumed Möller’s backup car would have also been a rental. If this was a privately owned vehicle, they had another lead. “Take a pic of the VIN,” he ordered.
WEST HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
They had a victory, but it was minor and fleeting. Möller was likely on Metro-North’s Waterbury branch, but there were six stops north of West Haven, from Derby-Shelton to Waterbury, and according to the schedule the train had already passed all but the final two: Naugatuck and Waterbury itself.
Jack said, “I need a route.”
“On it,” Effrem said, studying his phone’s screen. “Head back down 95. We’re looking for Prindle Road. It’s thirty-five minutes to Naugatuck. We’ll miss the train by five minutes.”
“Waterbury, then.”
“Forty minutes. It’s going to be very close.”
—
A few miles outside West Haven, as Prindle turned into Highway 114, Jack set the Sonata’s cruise control a couple miles an hour faster than the speed limit.
They drove in silence for a while, Jack lost in a game of “What if Möller does X?” and Effrem checking his e-mails. After a time he asked Jack, “Did you get a chance to sort through Hahn’s e-mail data?”
“Not yet. I don’t know how much I’ll find. Beyond the basics, it’s not my area of expertise.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I know a guy.”
“What guy?”
“A source,” Effrem said. “One of my many. Well, okay, he’s a friend. He’s trustworthy. I’ll shoot him an e-mail and see if he’s willing.”
“Okay.”
Jack had a list of questions he’d been compiling for Effrem, starting with how he got onto the disappearance of René Allemand in the first place. Next: How had he not only succeeded in discovering Allemand was alive, but also been able to track him down when both France’s military and civilian intelligence agencies had failed at the task? And why did Effrem believe the soldier had been false-flagged?
The list went on. For now Jack decided to satisfy his general curiosity about the man himself: “Tell me about Allemand.”
“He’s a lot like you and me, actually.”
“How so?”
“Born into a legacy,” Effrem replied. “René’s a fifth-generation soldier going back to the Napoleonic Wars and the Battle of Waterloo. René gr
aduated top of his class at Saint-Cyr, the first of his line to pull it off.”
Saint-Cyr, or the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr, was France’s version of West Point. Both of them had been founded at roughly the same time, in 1802. Jack had encountered a few Saint-Cyr graduates along the way. Without exception, they were superb soldiers.
Effrem went on. “After that, Allemand had his choice of assignments, but he took the hard route, which surprised no one, from what I gather. He requested and got the First Riflemen Regiment out of Épinal.”
“Standard infantry,” Jack replied.
“It had been his father’s last command. Whether he did it to honor his dad or to better himself is anyone’s guess.”
“Either way, he’s not the type to desert.”
“No chance. According to friends of his I interviewed, René loved the Army. He’d been wishy-washy about taking up the family business, so to speak, but once at Saint-Cyr he blossomed.”
“It stands to reason if he’d been captured and then managed to escape he would have let someone know.”
“I would think so. No one’s heard from him; not his father, not his friends, or even his fiancée. Unless he’s lost his mind, he’s doing what he’s doing for a reason.”
“How sure are you the man you saw in Lyon was René?”
“Ninety percent. I’ll show you the photos later. You can judge for yourself.”
“Good,” Jack replied. “And the next time we come up for air I’ll want details, Effrem. All of them.”
“Deal.”
—
They weren’t going to make it, Jack estimated, watching the Sonata’s dashboard clock. They were ten minutes from the Waterbury station; the train was only four minutes out. Unless Möller lingered, they would miss him.
Jack pressed harder on the gas pedal.
—
They passed Waterbury’s city limits sign eight minutes later. At Effrem’s direction, Jack turned onto Freight Street, crossed the Naugatuck River, then turned right onto Meadow. A couple hundred yards down, past a red-brick clock tower and across the street from a park, lay the train station, little more than a long, raised platform covered by an aluminum awning lit by sodium-vapor lights. There appeared to be no office and no parking lot attendant.
Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel) Page 10