succeeding brilliantly in a largely male and progressive culture that wasn’t exactly known for waving American flags. More to the point, Watson had designed much of the cloud software to begin with, and designed the IC Cloud security program. If anyone would be able to answer the questions she now had, it would be Amanda.
Foley shot an e-mail to her executive assistant to arrange an immediate and secure face-to-face with Ms. Watson ASAP.
69
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Jack packed light.
It was going to be only three days and, worst-case scenario, he could wash his clothes in a river or something. Or, better yet, pull a Jack Reacher and just buy some cheap local stuff and not bother with doing any laundry.
The Uber driver, a polite and soft-spoken young Afghan immigrant named Mohammad—a former translator for the U.S. Army—picked him up in front of his apartment and headed for Dulles International in heavy rush-hour traffic. It was just after five.
* * *
—
Neither man noticed the battered blue Toyota Corolla following in the distance, nor the man driving it, an acne-scarred, ex–Pinkerton man by the name of Tyler. Hiding his bloodshot eyes behind a pair of Oakleys, Tyler was determined not to lose sight of Jack Ryan, Jr. He wanted to impress his new employer, Sandra Kyle, after losing John Clark on a previous tail a few days back. Reassigned to Junior, this was his chance to prove his worth.
The Uber driver dropped Jack off with his carry-on backpack at arrival door 6 at Dulles International Airport and sped away. Tyler managed to snap a photo of Jack as well as the Uber license plate before pulling back into traffic.
Tyler texted his photos to Kyle before calling her. She rang back immediately.
He couldn’t tell her what airline Jack was heading for or where he was going. Following Jack in wasn’t an option unless Jack was planning on buying a ticket at the counter, which was highly unlikely. He would simply pass through ticketed security and disappear into one of the two insanely long Dulles terminal buildings, where nobody could follow without a ticket.
Since Ryan had only a single piece of carry-on luggage, he was no doubt grabbing a domestic flight taking off within the hour, if not two. Tyler agreed that this information didn’t help narrow much of anything down. Several hundred flights were taking off in that two-hour window to all points of the compass connecting to the rest of the planet.
To prove his mettle, he requested and received permission to question the Afghan later that night, preferably in the man’s home with a gun to his young wife’s head. “Something a tribal man will understand,” he assured her.
Kyle agreed, and promised to forward the Afghan’s address within the hour.
In the meantime, the paunchy ex–Pinkerton man was feeling a powerful thirst. D.C. metro traffic was snarled at this time of day, but twenty minutes later he managed to shuffle into a busy strip-mall Irish pub he frequented.
Tyler climbed onto his favorite stool just as a shot glass of Jameson and a draft PBR were set on the bar in front of him. Two failed marriages cost him his house and wiped out his pension. At least the shitty per diem Kyle paid was in cash so he could avoid paying taxes and, more important, wage garnishments from his ex-wives’ blood-sucking attorneys. A couple of trips to O’Hare’s each week was his one solace, and the guy behind the bar—an ex-cop—charged him only half-price, thanks to some nasty PI photos of the man’s wife he’d provided in a vicious custody battle.
The second round arrived as a dark-eyed Mexican about his age took the stool next to him. They nodded a silent greeting before the bartender asked, “What’ll ya have?” The Mexican ordered a club soda.
Tyler fought back a grin as he tossed back the whiskey. What was the point of ordering a club soda? He chugged his beer and wiped the foam from his mouth with his hand, relishing the familiar burn in the back of his throat.
He pulled a ten from his wallet as he stood, tossing it onto the bar.
“Sit down.” The Mexican was talking to his club soda.
Tyler couldn’t believe his ears. “Excuse me?”
“You deaf? I said sit the hell down.”
The Mexican turned to him. Ding Chavez was a half-head shorter than Tyler, but the soul-snatching eyes boring into him suggested the smaller man was not to be trifled with.
“I won’t say it again.”
Tyler wobbled uneasily in place, weighing the options in his