his wife contacted Kyle’s agency, wanted a surveillance on her husband, whom she suspected of having an affair. She wanted evidence—or, more accurately, her divorce attorney did. Kyle agreed. Came back empty-handed.
“You sure?” the captain’s wife replied, stunned and disbelieving.
“I never caught him with another woman” was Kyle’s honest answer. Honest, because Kyle was the woman the captain was sleeping with, and there was no other woman besides her that she ever saw. Saved the captain half of his pension and six figures in legal fees.
“Sandra? To what do I owe the pleasure?” the captain said.
“Need a favor.”
The gravelly-voiced captain chuckled. “The long favor or the short one?”
“I thought you and your wife were back together.”
“We are. But you know how it is.”
“Well, the favor I’m asking for is vertical, not horizontal. I need you to track a vehicle for me on the DAS—and on the down-low.”
“I’m just about to leave my shift.”
“It’s important.”
“Give me the details.”
Kyle gave the captain the plate number, along with the make, model, and color of the vehicle. She also suggested its final destination.
“How long will it take?”
“Depends on where it lands. If you’re right, probably no more than thirty minutes.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“And you know how I’ll want it paid back, don’t you?”
“Horizontal.”
“Next Tuesday. My place in Georgetown. Eight o’clock.”
“Deal.” She didn’t mind. Captain Merriweather was a legendary lay.
* * *
—
Twenty-three minutes later, Merriweather called.
“I just texted you a file. Your car arrived at Dulles ten minutes ago. Headed for the charter jet FBO.”
“Thanks, DeAndre.”
“Next Tuesday. Don’t forget.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
He laughed at the imagery. “Hope we don’t wake the neighbors.”
He hung up just as his text message arrived. It was all pictures, each taken from the D.C. DAS—the Microsoft-branded Domain Awareness System. The technology was straight out of the television show Person of Interest. The DAS was a surveillance software package that linked thousands of D.C. metro area cameras, allowing law enforcement to track the movement of people and vehicles in real time. It was even possible to track them twenty-four hours prior—everything was recorded, but the city budget allowed for only one day’s worth of data storage.
Tracking a vehicle was especially easy when the vehicle license plate was known. The DAS even provided a windshield shot of both Clark and Ryan in the front seat of their generic sedan. Exactly the kind of confirmation Kyle liked.
Clark had, indeed, driven aggressively to either avoid or shake any kind of tail. Kyle hoped it was the former. Dixon had been quite specific about not getting caught in the act. The final picture in Merriweather’s text was of the car passing through the general aviation gate toward the FBO terminal.
But why Dulles? Reagan National was far closer to the Hendley Associates building. Then Kyle remembered: Reagan was good only for domestic flights for private charters. A private charter had to go through either Baltimore or Dulles for international flights. Reagan National didn’t have the U.S. Customs and Border Protection facilities needed for international travel on private planes.
So Ryan was flying out of the country. But to where?
No way to tell from these photos. But Kyle had an idea. She jumped on her laptop and started digging into her favorite databases. Within an hour she had pieced it all together. Hendley Associates owned a Gulfstream G550. After procuring its tail number, it was a short jump to the FAA database to find the filed flight plan.
Bingo.
Jack Junior was heading for Warsaw, Poland.
She called Dixon with the intel.
Strangely, the senator didn’t seem surprised.
26
NEAR RIVAK, TAJIKISTAN,
CLOSE TO THE BORDER OF AFGHANISTAN
The big Chinese-built JAC diesel tractor-trailer rumbled down the narrow asphalt road at the foot of the gray-and-rust-colored Pamir Mountains, rising higher the farther west they traveled.
Giant sandstone boulders crowded the road shoulder. The driver, Lin, imagined the rocks crashing down from high above centuries ago—or maybe even this morning. Any one of them was big enough to catapult his big red diesel rig into the pale green Gunt River on the other side of the two-lane.
Despite his cushioned air-suspension seat, Lin’s rear end and lower back were trashed after sitting for so many kilometers from Kashgar in Xinjiang, China’s westernmost province, where the three-truck convoy had loaded up. His mouth was dry from the bitter tobacco he’d been forced to smoke for the last three days, but his screaming bladder told him not to drink any more warm soda.
The three-truck convoy was due at its destination in three hours, but Lin doubted they would