by Maden, Mike
On the other hand, why wouldn’t he want to talk about it? Buck would have to tell the truth to Ryan if he didn’t want to lose his contracts with the federal government—no way he’d spend tax dollars with a known liar. But shutting down White Mountain right now would put a lot of men and women in uniform at risk, and that was something Ryan couldn’t abide, either.
“I’ll call him and see what I can find out,” Ryan said as he climbed into the armored Cadillac.
“I appreciate that, sir. And also, what you did for young Shaffer today.”
“Compared to what he’s sacrificed for us? I haven’t done a damn thing. Keep me posted on this situation.”
“Will do, sir.”
Ryan had been scheduled for a lunch meeting with the secretary of agriculture but he’d bumped it for Shaffer. He’d asked Arnie van Damm, his chief of staff, to apologize to her and to reschedule for tomorrow. He pulled a protein bar out of his briefcase. It would have to do for his midday meal today.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.
Ryan cracked open one of the bottles of water that were always sitting in the cupholder in front of him. Time enough to grab a quick workout in the White House gym before his three o’clock with Senator Burns.
“Back to the barn, please. There’s a stack of iron calling my name.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stagecoach pulled out of the shadows and into the dull light of a gray autumn day. Ryan’s heart was heavy with both pride and grief over Shaffer’s sacrifice, knowing the battles the boy was now going to have to endure. Over the next several months he faced a number of corrective surgeries for his face and prosthetic limb fittings, followed by months of painful PT and training.
But the bombshell the CNO just dropped in the President’s lap was what occupied his mind, spinning with the terrible possibilities. Maybe Buck Logan would have the answers he needed.
He pulled out his phone and called Betty Martin, his longtime personal secretary, to place the call to the big Texan.
9
BARCELONA, SPAIN
UNITED STATES CONSULATE
Jack arrived without an appointment when the doors opened at nine o’clock, which was probably a mistake. A number of people were already queued up for business, mostly Spaniards, according to the passports they displayed at the security check-in.
The three-story beige Mediterranean-style building looked more like a producer’s home in Beverly Hills than a federal facility. It felt oddly comforting to know he was standing on a patch of U.S. soil even though it was smaller than the average Walmart parking lot. He suddenly felt a pang of homesickness, which surprised him.
In the lobby, Jack put his name and the purpose of his visit on the waiting list: “To report the death of an American citizen.” He was promptly moved to the front of the line.
After showing his passport to the very pleasant young Spaniard behind the counter, he was given a visitor’s tag to wear. She then escorted him to a waiting room on the second floor.
Moments later, a middle-aged brunette with green eyes, a kind smile, and sensible shoes approached him.
“Mr. Ryan? I’m Debbie Mitchell, the consular officer.”
Jack shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She escorted Jack into her small but tidy office and took a seat behind her desktop computer. “Can I get you a coffee or something to drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“I understand you have some bad news to report.”
“Yes, a friend of mine, an American citizen, was killed yesterday in the bombing over in the El Born district.”
“I saw the bombing on the news last night. I didn’t realize an American had been killed. No names have been released. Were you there?”
“I had just left.”
“Thank God you’re okay. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Mitchell turned to her computer. “Would you mind giving me his or her name?”
“Sure. Renée Moore. Renée Michelle Moore, I believe.”
Mitchell typed in the information. “You wouldn’t happen to know her passport or Social Security number, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Age?”
He wasn’t exactly sure. Close to his. “Thirty, plus or minus a few, I’d guess.”
“Race?”
“African American.”
Mitchell typed a few more keys, then stopped. She frowned at her screen for a moment, then glanced up at Jack, offering an awkward smile.
“Uh, Mr. Ryan. Would you mind waiting here for just a moment?”
“Sure.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” Mitchell rose from behind her desk and headed out the door, clearly on a mission.
Jack sighed. This was the part he worried about.
He wouldn’t trade his name for anything in the world but being the President’s son carried a few disadvantages in life, including unwanted attention, especially from U.S. government officials. His folks had done a fantastic job of shielding his identity from the public when he was younger, and both the Feds and Hendley Associates had worked miracles, constantly scrubbing the Web and almost every public and private database of any kind of reference to him and his siblings, particularly photographs, or any other information that might link him to his famous parents.
But sometimes a stray file lingering on a hard drive in some vast server farm had been missed. Nearly a hundred million photos and videos were posted just to Instagram every single day.
That lingering file could be anything. Someone’s uploaded yearbook that he had signed years ago or a cell-phone shot taken when he passed by unawares. It wasn’t the intentional posting that worried people. It was the accidental stuff, obscure and unimportant, that interested sleuths might find and exploit to their advantage.
Whatever it was, something in Mitchell’s computer had sent her scurrying to the consul general or some other high-ranking official.
Moments later, a gentleman appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Ryan,” Mitchell said, “this is Mr. Dick Dellinger. He’ll be taking over the rest of the interview. If you’ll excuse me. It was nice to meet you.”
“Igualmente,” Jack offered. His middle-school Spanish was improving.
Dellinger looked to be in his forties. He was shorter than Jack by four inches and at least forty pounds lighter. But Dellinger’s fierce brown eyes behind the rimless glasses and the knotty biceps beneath his tailored shirt told Jack this was a guy who knew how to handle himself.
He shook Jack’s hand before perching on the edge of Mitchell’s desk, giving him a height advantage over the larger, younger man.
“Mr. Ryan, I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your friend Renée Moore. What happened?”
“I was already at the restaurant when Renée walked in. We exchanged business cards and planned to get together later for a drink. I left, and moments later the bomb went off. I rushed back in, and she died.”
“My God, that’s awful. Any idea who might have done it?”
“A woman I spoke to last night said that Brigada Catalan had claimed responsibility.”
“What woman was that?”
“She was with the Spanish CNI.”
Dellinger’s eyes narrowed. “So you spoke with Spanish authorities about Ms. Moore?”
“Yeah, why?”
Dellinger shrugged. “I’m just surprised they haven’t contacted us about her, that’s all. It’s a professional courtesy. You talk to anybody else?”
“About Renée? No. Just her. She was on the scene pretty quickly, along with a dozen other uniformed officers from different departments.”
“Barcelona is a relatively small town, especially in the old city, and the cops here are pretty good. I’m not surprised they showed up like that, especially with everything goin
g on these days.”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading about the protests, and the independence movement.”
“A lot of Americans have canceled their vacations because of the protests.” Dellinger smiled, a thin line across his clean-shaven face. “I take it you weren’t concerned?”
“No, not at all.”
“Did Ms. Moore happen to tell you why she was in Barcelona?”
“Not really. My impression was she was in the restaurant to meet somebody.”
“For what purpose?”
“She didn’t say.”
“She didn’t tell you who she was meeting?”
Jack felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. At least this wasn’t about his dad. But why the hell was he being interrogated?
“No, she didn’t.” Jack didn’t add, And she didn’t know who it was, either.
“Did she tell you what her line of work was?”
“She said she was with a fintech company called CrowdScope, out of California.”
“So she was here on business?”
“I really don’t know. She didn’t say.”
“And you’re here on vacation, I take it?”
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to visit this part of the world.”
“And what’s your line of work, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Dellinger.”
“Fair enough. And please, call me Dick.”
Dellinger pulled up a chair and sat down across from Jack. “I’m with the consulate’s Public Diplomacy Section. I work with the student exchange programs, university lecture series, you know, the cultural stuff.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to smile. “Field trips with high school students, wine tasting with the faculty wives—that sort of thing?”
“Pretty much. It’s not exciting work, but it’s important, or at least I like to think so.”
Bullshit.
And they both knew it.
“Now it’s your turn, Jack.”
“I’m a financial analyst with Hendley Associates. We’re based out of Alexandria, Virginia.” He pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to him.
“So, you were both working in finance.”
“Yes, I guess so. I actually met Renée at Georgetown. We had a couple of business classes together. She was phenomenal with numbers.”
“You’ve known her for several years.”
“Yeah. But I hadn’t seen her since we graduated.”
“Pretty close with her while in school?”
“What is it you really want to know, Dick?”
Dellinger sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of his narrow face.
“We take the death of American citizens very seriously. I’m just trying to get all the information I can so that we can be sure that all Americans in Spain can live and travel safely here.”
Jack’s phone vibrated. “Excuse me.” He pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text from Brossa: MY OFFICE 10 AM?
Jack checked the time at the top of the screen. He could just make it. He texted back. ON MY WAY.
“Problem?” Dellinger asked.
Jack stood, ending the meeting. “Not at all. Gotta run, chief.” Jack stuck out his hand as Dellinger stood. He gripped it.
Yeah, the guy could probably handle himself.
“Thank you for bringing this information to our attention, Mr. Ryan. I hope the rest of your stay in Barcelona is uneventful. And please don’t hesitate to call me if you need any kind of assistance.”
“I appreciate it.”
Jack turned to leave.
“Oh, just one other thing, Jack. Who did you say you met with from CNI?”
Jack grinned. “I didn’t.”
10
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Mr. President, Buck Logan is on the line for you,” his secretary said.
“Thanks, Betty. I’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, sir.” She clicked off the line. One advantage of a heavily armored limo was the near utter silence inside the cabin. Perfect for calls.
“Buck? Jack Ryan here.”
“Mr. President, it’s quite an honor. How’s the weather in your neck of the woods?”
“Swampy, with yellow rain in the forecast and another shitstorm on the horizon.”
Logan laughed. “Gawd, how I hate D.C.!”
“It’s not always my favorite place, either, but we serve where we’re stationed, right?”
“Yes, sir. Speaking of which, how can I serve you?”
“Listen, Buck. I’ve just had a very disturbing brief from Admiral Talbot.”
“Talbot’s a good sailor. You can trust his judgment.”
“I do. But let’s cut to the chase. I understand his friends have had a hard time reaching you. They want to have a talk.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to figure out what that meant.
“Really? About what?”
“I think we both know the answer to that, Buck.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’m not sure I do.”
“Admiral Talbot believes you recently lost a ship, or at least a ship licensed to carry your cargo.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, that’s news to me.”
Ryan frowned. Why in the hell would Logan lie about something like this? Could Talbot be mistaken? Not likely.
“You sure, Buck?”
“Believe me, if something happened to one of my shipments, I’d be madder ’n a scalded cat.”
Interesting.
“Well, I suppose Talbot’s people might have got their wires crossed. Sorry to bother you, Buck.”
“Never a bother, Mr. President. By the way, I’m really looking forward to the Andrews fundraiser on the eleventh, if you can still make it.”
Ryan didn’t remember any fundraiser on the eleventh, let alone one at Joint Base Andrews.
“I’m sure it’s on the calendar. I’ll have Betty confirm later.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Take care of yourself, Buck.”
“You, too, sir.”
Logan rang off.
Ryan double-checked the calendar on his phone. He was right. There was no fundraiser at Andrews or on the eleventh.
That meant Buck Logan was in trouble.
11
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Jack grabbed a cab to the Guardia Civil annex just west of the old city, a ten-minute walk from the famous Las Ramblas boulevard, frequented by tourists and pickpockets from around the world.
He passed by a small café with a single entrance, its steel door rolled up to let diners and sunshine into the half-dozen tables inside, all occupied, and crowded with people devouring churros and hot chocolate for breakfast. The restaurant was part of the same building that housed the Guardia Civil.
Jack entered through a double-wide vehicle entrance gate and showed the security guard his passport before heading up to the second-story suite of offices subleased to CNI. They had established a temporary presence in the city when the protests first began.
“Jack, thanks so much for coming by,” Brossa said, ushering him into her office. Her smile was pleasant enough but she also looked exhausted, even fragile. Her shoulder holster and pistol hung on a coatrack behind her secondhand steel desk.
“Coffee?” She pointed at the American-style coffee maker, quite unusual for Spain.
“Sure.”
She poured him a cup from a freshly brewed pot she had on a stand near her desk. Though spartan like almost every other government office he’d ever been in, the room—one of dozens inside the renovated nineteenth-century neoclassical building—had an old-world char
m, with its high ceilings, bronze-and-glass light fixtures, and tall, heavy oaken doors.
Jack was glad for the meeting and the hospitality but he wanted to get down to business. The interrogation by Dellinger had already put him in a foul mood. If Dellinger was running the student exchange program, Jack would eat his Georgetown Hoyas sweatshirt. Dellinger was CIA, no doubt, and maybe even chief of station, judging by his age and demeanor.
Now his bad mood was getting worse. It felt like the investigation was already behind schedule and the longer it took to get things rolling, the less likely it was that Brossa or anybody would ever find the dirtbags that killed Renée.
Brossa took a sip of her coffee. “So, tell me, Jack, what exactly does a financial analyst do?”
“Nothing as interesting as what you do. A lot of reading, mostly corporate balance sheets, quarterly earnings reports. And crunching numbers. Pretty dull stuff.”
“You must be good at your job.”
“There’s always room to improve.”
“Your boss is a very important man, yes?”
“Gerry Hendley is a brilliant investor and a former United States senator. He’s been a great mentor to me.” Gerry’s name was better than an Amex black card when it came to impressing the right people.
“Ah, that explains why I was told to cooperate with you as much as possible in this investigation.” Her voice dripped with resentment.
“Let me guess. Gerry is friends with your boss—or more likely, your boss’s boss.” Jack hadn’t spoken to Gerry but his boss’s existing relationships and reputation were enough to open doors even here in Spain.
“I was informed that Mr. Hendley has known the director of my agency for many years.”
“I just want to lend a hand, Ms. Brossa. Anything I can do to help solve Renée’s case.”
“You do realize I can’t divulge anything to you that would harm the Spanish national interest.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Good.” She pulled out a photograph from a file folder and handed it to Jack.
It was the Bluetooth blonde.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah, I do. She was standing on the far side of the bar yesterday.”