Tom Clancy Duty and Honor by Grant Blackwood Page A

he saw Jack he stopped short, his eyes wide. His hair was wet, probably freshly shampooed. There was no sign of the bullet graze.
    Effrem said, “I thought—”
    “Did you have any trouble getting back?” asked Jack.
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “Let’s go to your room. You lead.”
    Jack followed him back down the hallway to his hotel room.
    “Stop,” Jack said. “Look at me.” When Effrem did so, Jack asked, “Is there anyone in there?”
    “No.” Effrem’s reply was immediate, firm. He held Jack’s gaze.
    “Go in first,” Jack told him.
    Effrem swiped his key card and stepped inside. Jack followed. He stopped Effrem at the bathroom door, cleared that, then followed him the rest of the way into the room. It was empty. Jack ordered him to sit down on the bed.
    Jack pulled the Glock from his jacket pocket and reholstered it. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. He smiled at Effrem; the man had been through a lot. Jack needed to put him at ease before he shut down, decided to call the police, or took the first opportunity to leave town.
    “I’m sorry about all that. How’s your head?”
    Absently, Effrem reached up and touched the side of his head. “It feels like the mother of all hangovers, but I took some aspirin. It’s getting better.”
    “How did you stop the bleeding?”
    “Superglue. I saw it on one of the survival shows.”
    “Any blurry vision, dizziness? Nausea? Loss of consciousness?”
    “None of those. I’m very lucky, I think.”
    “I’d say so. If you get any symptoms, call me. I’ll get someone here.”
    “Okay.”
    “Don’t go to the hospital. They’ll recognize that wound for what it is.”
    “Yes, I understand.”
    An awkward silence hung in the air between them. Jack was unsurprised, given the nature of their first meeting. It wasn’t as if they’d run into each other at a coffee shop and realized they shared a love of the New York Jets and Aerosmith.
    “Your English is very good,” Jack said.
    “I spent my third year at NYU. Do you want some coffee or tea?”
    “No, thanks. Let’s talk about what happened. I assume you didn’t call the police.”
    Effrem shook his head.
    Jack believed him. Interesting . Most people would have dialed 911 the moment Jack disappeared from their rearview mirror. Having already admitted to following Möller, Effrem had just told Jack the pursuit was something he preferred to keep secret.
    “I am guessing you didn’t call them, either,” said Effrem.
    “No. Listen, Effrem, if you’d like we can part company right here, right now. No harm done. Or we can help each other. It’s pretty clear we were both following the same man.” While this wasn’t technically true, it was close enough for now, Jack decided.
    Effrem said, “Perhaps so. I don’t know your name.”
    “Jack.”
    They shook hands.
    “Jack what?” asked Effrem.
    “For now, Jack will do.”
    If Effrem recognized him, he gave no sign of it. Jack did a decent job of keeping out of the spotlight. Plus, since leaving The Campus he’d cropped his hair, switched to a loosely enforced biweekly shaving regimen, and put on ten pounds of muscle at the gym.
    “How do I know I can trust you?” asked Effrem.
    “Over the last couple hours we’ve both had plenty of chances to turn on each other.”
    Effrem nodded begrudgingly. “And there is the whole saving-my-life aspect, I suppose. Thank you for that, by the way.”
    “No problem.”
    Effrem hesitated, then started again: “You know my name, you know I am from Belgium. I’m a journalist, but only freelance right now.”
    This further complicated things, Jack knew. The last thing he needed was to have his name in the newspapers: America’s First Son, assassins, and a murder conspiracy with international connections.
    “I’m hoping to, you know, make a name for myself,” Effrem said hesitantly. “I just got out of university three years ago. I’ve been working on this story for a long, long