Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel)

by Grant Blackwood

  “Built by the very hand of Charlemagne himself,” Effrem read from his phone’s screen. “Or at least he commissioned the original church on the site. It’s almost a thousand years old, if you can believe it.”

  The bright morning sun highlighted a façade and stonework that were obviously well cared for. Jack replied, “Doesn’t look a day over eight hundred.”

  “Turn left here.”

  Jack made the turn, then one more, and pulled onto Limmatquai, which ran abreast of the river. As they approached it, Jack found himself surprised. Rather than a model of imposing medieval architecture, Bossard’s eight-story office building was just one among a line of unremarkable structures with cream or white façades and sharply pitched red-tiled roofs. If he hadn’t known better he might have mistaken them for hotels. The entrance to Bossard’s building was a lone bronze door beneath a green awning. A small gold plaque beside the door read 94 LIMMATQUAI.

  “Did you ever go inside?” Jack asked.

  “No, you want me to?”

  “You feel up to it?”

  Effrem nodded. “What am I looking for?”

  Jack passed the building, found an open parking spot at the curb, and pulled in.

  “Security cameras and/or guards, whether there’s a manned reception desk and if so what’s on it—computer, telephone, intercom, and so on. Are the elevators open or access-controlled—”

  “You mean by key?”

  “Or card. Same question if there’s only a stairwell. Also, is there a visible emergency exit or any doors that look like they might lead to a utility room or closet? When you get inside, if there’s a desk, just walk past it and head toward the stairs or elevators. See if you get a reaction, but don’t push it. Don’t be memorable.”

  “And while I’m collecting this plethora of intelligence, what’s my excuse for being there?”

  “Confused tourist.”

  “If there are cameras, do I hide my face?”

  Jack shook his head and smiled. “No, don’t do that. I also need a rough map of the lobby and its approximate dimensions. And if you see a business directory, find out which businesses are directly above and below Bossard’s floor.”

  “Jeez, anything else?”

  “No.”

  Effrem pursed his lips and exhaled heavily. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got a stellar memory.”

  “Don’t spend more than three minutes in there. Get moving.”

  —

  Jack had chosen Effrem’s time limit arbitrarily. He’d seen John Clark milk a first reconnoiter for twenty or thirty minutes and walk out best friends with the person he’d just subtly interrogated. In this case, Jack wanted to see if Effrem was going to follow orders.

  Two and a half minutes later he emerged from the bronze door, walked back to the car, and climbed in. “Got it.”

  They drove a few blocks and found a café overlooking the Quay Bridge, which separated Lake Zurich from the Limmat River.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  As though he’d given a surveillance report a hundred times before, Effrem described the building’s lobby: “Forty feet square, with a long horseshoe reception desk to the right, manned by a receptionist and a man in a business suit.”

  “Did he stand when you came in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he smooth his tie or fiddle with his buttons when he stood up?”

  Effrem frowned. “Uh, yes, actually. Why?”

  “Habit. A lot of bodyguards pick it up. In a controlled environment, when someone unfamiliar pops onto their radar it’s a way of having their shooting hand halfway to their weapon. Keep going.”

  “On the reception desk, there’s two telephones, one computer workstation, and a key-card reader mounted on the raised counter. Past the desk, a bank of elevators, stairwell door, and an emergency exit. I counted three cameras: one overlooking the reception desk, one over the front door pointing inward, and one at the elevators.”

  The waitress returned with their coffee, then left again.

  Jack asked, “Panning cameras or stationary?”

  “Stationary.”

  “Exposed or shielded by a hood?”

  “The latter,” Effrem replied. “It didn’t look like the elevators or stairs required a key or card, but I didn’t get very close to them before the guard called me back to the desk. He was very polite, but very firm: This wasn’t the place I was looking for; please leave now.”

  “Business directory?”

  “None in sight.”

  Jack took all this in and nodded. “Good job.”

  “Thanks. What’s all that info mean?”

  “That unless we want to go in hard, breaking into Bossard’s office after hours would probably get us caught, or killed, or both. Let’s hope the villa pans out.”

  They sipped their coffee in silence for a while, watching the boats on the lake and soaking in the sun. Finally Jack asked, “What did that security guard look like?”

  “Six-two, maybe, broad shoulders and blond hair. Why?”

  “In the past ten minutes a green Opel cargo van has passed us three times. Now it’s parked down the street and across from that Starbucks. No one’s gotten out.”

  To his credit, Effrem resisted the urge to turn around and look. He asked, “Can you see anyone inside?”

  “Just one behind the wheel, but the sun’s on the windshield. I can’t see his face.” Jack wondered how many men could fit in the back of the van.

  “What do we do?”

  “Drink our coffee and wait.”

  Their shadow belonged to either Rostock or Bossard, but how had Jack and the others been tracked here? While their foray to Zurich wasn’t unpredictable, the city was sizable and the bad guys had picked up their trail in record time.

  Belinda. Jack dialed her cell phone, this one a burner she had no choice but to use, and waited through four rings before she answered. “Just checking in,” Jack said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. Why? When are you coming back?”

  “Soon as we can. Just make sure the door is locked. Don’t answer it for anyone but us.”

  Jack disconnected. What now? He wasn’t about to lead this van back to the motel. The trick would be to either turn the tables on their shadow or shake him in such a way that it appeared unintentional. Once again here was a task where many hands would make short work, but Jack had limited hands, only one vehicle, and too little time for an elaborate plan.

  He said to Effrem, “Get on your phone. I need a place that’s remote, but within fifteen or twenty minutes of here. Preferably somewhere with dead ends.”

  “I doubt I’ll find it on Yelp, but I’ll have a look,” Effrem replied. He browsed for a few minutes then said, “There are a lot of little villages in the mountains west of here. The roads up there look pretty snaky.”

  “That’ll do.”

  They took their time finishing their coffee, then paid the bill and walked back to the Citroën. “Don’t look for him,” Jack warned Effrem as they climbed in and Jack started the engine.

  With Effrem navigating again, Jack crossed the Quay Bridge, merged onto Bederstrasse with the rest of the lunch traffic, and headed west toward the foothills.

  “He’s with us,” Jack said, glancing in his side mirror. “Four cars back, lane one.”

  “Anyone in the passenger seat?”

  “No.”

  For the next ten minutes Jack kept heading west until finally they left the city behind and began climbing into the mountains. Almost immediately the van began losing ground. It pulled onto the shoulder, waited for a line of cars to go by, then did a U-turn and headed back toward Zurich.

  “He’s not playing,” Jack announced.

  “Or he wasn’t following us,” Effrem replied.

  “Maybe.”
<
br />   ZURICH, SWITZERLAND

  At nine p.m. they left the hotel and retraced their southerly route along Lake Zurich to Wädenswil. Here, just fifteen miles outside Zurich proper, its night skyline appeared as a hazy dome of light on the horizon. Although it frequently passed through villages—there were fifteen on the left, or western, shoreline—the road south was dark and lightly traveled. Lake Zurich was more impressive than Jack had realized, reaching some twenty-five miles from Zurich in the north to Schmerikon in the south and, according to the fishing brochure at the hotel, more than five hundred feet deep in several spots.

  As seemed to be par for the course, Jack had in his mind only a vaguely outlined plan. From their earlier reconnoiter, Jack knew getting over the villa’s wall would present no problem, but the house itself was an unknown. Google Earth’s overhead view had shown little of the structure beyond a hip-and-valley roof that was barely visible through the canopy, a lush lawn, and an acre-size English-style garden on the property’s western edge. For all Jack knew, the grounds were actively patrolled by a cadre of guards similar to the one Effrem had seen in Bossard’s office building. If so, Jack would probably be scrambling back over the wall before the lawn had a chance to moisten his shoes.

  Jack pulled into the Jachtklub Wädenswil parking lot and doused the headlights but left the engine running. The villa’s outer wall was a quarter-mile south through a cluster of trees.

  “Questions?” Jack asked.

  “No, sir,” Effrem replied with a mock salute. “Orbit a half-mile route between Horgen and Wädenswil and then wait until I hear from you. If you text ‘evac,’ I get back here at best speed. If I don’t hear from you within ninety minutes, I pick up Belinda, move to the secondary hotel, wait another day, then leave, head to Brussels, and contact the U.S. embassy there.”

  “Right.” This last bit of instruction would likely prove worthless if Jack’s penetration of the villa went bad; more than anything else, it was designed to get Effrem and Belinda back to relatively safe territory. It would also have the added benefit of ruining Effrem’s investigation. If there was no story left to pursue, he might live to see thirty.

  “Why the Brussels embassy?” Effrem asked. “Why not the one in Bern?”

  “They know my name in Brussels. You’ll get more immediate action.”

  Though Jack had a hard time saying this with a straight face, the explanation seemed to satisfy Effrem. “Consider it done,” he said. “Good hunting.”

  —

  As Effrem pulled the Citroën out of the lot and back onto the road, Jack walked into the trees, where he paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness before continuing on until the villa’s stone wall came into view. The trees were thicker here and probably hadn’t been trimmed for years; branches crisscrossed the top of the wall and jutted over the property. While the overgrowth lessened the likelihood of any surveillance cameras picking him up, it also surrounded him in almost complete darkness. Now he regretted his decision to not replace the night-vision goggles he’d lost in Munich.

  Deal with it, Jack.

  He turned right and followed the wall to its western corner. Here was the most likely place for a camera; corner-positioned cameras offered the most bang for the buck, but they also had built-in blind spots. Jack saw no camera.

  Now came the less-than-glamorous part of being a special operator—the waiting and watching. Stealth was as much about stillness as it was about skulking. If his approach had attracted attention, he’d be getting visitors soon enough.

  He sat cross-legged on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, and donned his portable radio’s headset. He keyed the talk button. “Effrem, you there?”

  “I’m here. Making the turn back north. I’ll be driving past the gate again in about two minutes.”

  Ten minutes passed. Aside from some faint boat engine sounds coming from the direction of the lake, all was quiet. A rabbit hopped into view along the wall, spotted Jack, then sprinted away.

  Long enough. He was anxious to get in and get out.

  He approached the wall, grabbed its top with both hands, and hop-vaulted so his chin was level with the capstone. On the other side was a mulched planting bed interspersed with white tulips and cedar bushes.

  Jack pulled himself up, flipped his leg over the wall’s crest, then rolled over and dropped to the ground behind one of the bushes. Ahead he could see the curved black edge of the asphalt driveway. The main gate was somewhere to his right. He headed that way until the wrought-iron gate came into view, then crossed the driveway and ducked behind a hedgerow.

  Jack continued like this for another fifteen minutes, partly to hunt for any patrolling guards, partly to get a better look at the villa itself, a two-story structure done in French farmhouse style. Switzerland was a country of four official languages—German, French, Italian, and a bit of Romansh—and the architecture and culture reflected this. The more expensive homes along Lake Zurich seemed to be a mixture of design styles, from old-world Tuscan to German neo-modern.

  By the time Jack reached the villa’s lake side he was convinced he was alone on the grounds. He’d seen no lights and no movement in or around the villa, so unless the occupants had turned in very early, no one was home.

  Jack emerged from his hiding spot and strode across the lawn to the villa’s rear patio, a slab of herringbone paving stones complete with a sunken grotto hot tub whose surface was choked with leaves and twigs. Jack switched his penlight to red, clicked it on, checked the patio doors and nearby windows for signs of an alarm system. Again, there was nothing. Apparently, Lake Zurich wasn’t known for its high crime rate. Jack half wondered if the villa’s doors were locked, but a quick check of the patio door answered his question.

  Effrem’s voice came over Jack’s headset. “Jack, I’ve got a vehicle parked about a hundred meters north of the villa gate. I think it may be that green cargo van we saw earlier.”

  “Give me a percentage of certainty,” Jack replied.

  “Eight percent. This one’s got an electrician’s placard on the side, but it looked crooked. Might be a stick-on.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t there before?”

  “No, not sure at all. Sorry. You want me to get closer and check the license plate? Or maybe see if someone’s inside?”

  “No, leave it.” Effrem didn’t reply immediately, so Jack asked, “Are you hearing me? Stay away from it.”

  “Okay, I hear you.”

  “Tighten up your loop so you pass the van every few minutes. If he starts following you, drive into Horgen and find as public a place as you can find and stay there. Keep me posted.”

  In turn Jack checked each of the villa’s first-floor mullioned windows; all seemed to be bedrooms except for the corner room, which looked to be a study/library. A computer monitor sat atop the walnut desk.

  Jack pulled a roll of masking tape and a glass punch from his rucksack, then taped an asterisk over the window’s lower-left pane and pressed the punch into the glass until it shattered with a muffled tinkling. Carefully he peeled away the sections of taped glass, then reached inside and unlocked the window and climbed through.

  He went still and scanned the room for blinking lights or the telltale soft clicking of a triggered motion detector. There was neither. Too easy, Jack thought, a bit worried. In the United States, a luxury home of this caliber would be bristling with surveillance cameras and alarm systems.

  Count your good luck and keep moving.

  He pulled the window curtains closed, then sat down at the desk and powered up the computer. When the desktop appeared, a username/password dialogue box popped up.

  Jack switched his headset plug from the portable radio to his cell phone and dialed Mitch, whom he’d asked to stand by, should Jack run into this very problem. When Mitch answered, Jack explained the situation.

  “Well, there’s no sense trying to b
rute-force the thing,” Mitch said. “Permutations are in the billions. You got the flash drive I gave Effrem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s try this first. Restart the computer, but hold down the command and R buttons as you do it.”

  “Recovery mode?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, you know what it looks like, then? Let’s try the easy way first.”

  Once the computer’s recovery-mode dialogue box appeared, Mitch had Jack navigate to the Utilities drop-down menu. “You’re looking for ‘Terminal,’” Mitch explained.

  “It’s there, but it’s ghosted out. I can’t select it.”

  “Worth a shot. Okay, insert that flash drive and do a force restart.” Jack did this, and a black screen with a blinking orange cursor appeared. Mitch said, “Type ‘run’ into the command line, then sit back and wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Depends on the size of the hard drive and whether the owner’s running any third-party password or encryption protocols. Ten minutes, give or take. You should see a progress bar. The words ‘run stop’ will appear below the command line.”

  On Jack’s belt the portable radio flashed. He told Mitch, “I’ll call you back,” then switched the headset over, turned up the radio’s volume, and said, “Effrem, what—”

  “—over the wall.”

  “What? Say again.”

  “Whoever was in that van just hopped over the wall! They’re coming your way! Should I—”

  “No, keep circling, but stay close to the yacht club parking lot. Just one, you’re sure?”

  “I only saw one.”

  “Stay off the radio unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’ll be in touch. Same thing applies: Two hours and you run.”

  Jack turned the computer’s monitor so its light was shining away from the window, then peeked through the curtains in time to see a figure sprinting across the lawn and around to the villa’s lake side. Jack checked the computer’s progress bar: ninety percent to go.

  Did he sit tight or go hunting? If this new player was responding to Jack’s tampering with the computer, the chances were good he’d come straight to this study. Then again, why hop the wall rather than use the gate? Why post yourself outside the property rather than inside the villa itself? Those were questions for later. Right now he needed to be proactive.