Tom Clancy Duty and Honor by Grant Blackwood Page B

time.”
    “Involving Stephan Möller,” Jack said.
    “If you say that’s his name, I believe you, but it’s the first I’ve heard it. I found Möller through another man I was following. Eric Schrader.”
    “Describe him.”
    “Tall, skinny, short hair, very blond. Does that name mean something to you?”
    “Maybe. Go on.”
    “A few days ago I followed Schrader to a restaurant in Falls Church. That’s where he met the other one, this Stephan Möller. I knew where Schrader was staying, so I decided to take a chance and switch to Möller, hoping to find out more. Do you think that’s why he shot me? Do you think he saw that I was following him and lured me to that preserve?”
    “To your first question, probably; to your second, I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “He was there for another reason.”
    “What reason?”
    “Later. Go on.”
    “Anyway, when I went back to find Schrader, I couldn’t. He hasn’t been back to his hotel. There was someone driving him around, but I lost him—an older man in a white Nissan. I don’t know his name, but I have the license-plate number.”
    The recently deceased Peter Hahn. Two of the three people Effrem Likkel had been following were dead and he didn’t know it.
    “Tell me about Schrader.”
    Likkel shifted nervously on the bed. “No, I don’t think so. Sorry. I’ve told you a lot; you’ve told me nothing. Why were you at the preserve?”
    Jack had been hoping to get more information before Likkel demanded quid pro quo. He needed to keep both dialogue and his options open. “I was following the man in the white Nissan,” Jack replied. “I found him through Schrader, who I knew as Eric Weber.”
    “How do you know him?”
    “Our paths crossed briefly.”
    “How?”
    “I don’t want to answer that,” Jack replied. “Not yet. You’re a journalist, Effrem. That’s not a bad thing in itself, but the hunt for a story makes journalists do strange things—especially young journalists looking to earn a name for themselves. No offense.”
    “I understand. But consider this: I know things you don’tknow, and you know things I don’t know. If we share information, we can get further. Besides, something tells me you are not the headline to my story.”
    “Instinct from years of hard-won experience?” Jack said with a grin.
    “Not that, for sure. Genetics, maybe.”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Look into me. You’ll have no trouble finding plenty of information. If after that you want to talk, you know where to find me. If not . . .” Effrem shrugged. “Well, I’ve gotten this far on my own. I can keep going on myown.”

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
    E ffrem had piqued his interest, but looking into the journalist’s pedigree would have to wait a while longer. He had one more stop to make. One that he should have made earlier.
    He drove back to Rose Hill and circled Peter Hahn’s neighborhood, looking for signs of police activity. If someone had found the body at the preserve and called 911, the responding Homicide detective would immediately dispatch uniformed police officers to Peter Hahn’s home, either looking for further victims or hoping to notify next of kin.
    Seeing no police cars or anything extraordinary in the neighborhood, Jack turned onto Climbhill Road. When he reached Hahn’s home he turned off his headlights and pulled to the curb. It was fully dark now and the rain had slowed toa drizzle that sparkled in the light of the streetlamps lining the block. A few houses away a dog started yipping in the backyard. A woman’s voice snapped, “Snickers, get in here,” and the barking stopped.
    What he was about to do would be damned hard to explain if the police showed up. He hoped it would be worth the risk.
    After making sure his car’s dome light was off, Jack opened the door and climbed out. He didn’t look around but strode up the driveway with purpose, a friend coming to visit his old friend Pete. At least that was the demeanor