Point of Contact

“Yes, and it’s the most important one. You must get this drive inserted into a computer that’s connected to the Dalfan mainframe no later than midnight local, six days from now.” Rhodes took the drive from Paul’s hand and pointed at a tiny LED light on the far end of the thumb drive. “Just insert the drive into any USB port and the program will automatically launch. When you insert it, the light here will turn red. As the program executes, it will begin flashing red, and when the program is ready to launch, the light will turn blue. The program then asks for a four-digit passcode that you’ll provide, and then you’re done. The whole thing should take no more than thirty seconds.”

He handed the drive back to Paul. “I take it you’re in?”

“Yeah, I’m in.”

“Good, then there’s just one more thing.”

While Rhodes opened up his buffalo-leather laptop case, he explained that the USB drive he was giving to him needed to be biometrically encrypted, setting it up exclusively with Paul’s thumbprint so that only Paul could use the drive, and nobody else, including Rhodes. Using the software on Rhodes’s computer, they finished the brief procedure and Paul pocketed the drive.

“Can’t have this falling into anyone else’s hands, can we?”

“No worries, Wes. I’ll guard it with my life.”

Rhodes smiled. “I doubt it will come to that, old boy.” His smile faded. “But whatever you do, don’t fail the mission.”

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

After kissing his young wife good night and watching her ascend the staircase to their master suite, Weston Rhodes retired to his private study and locked the door.

It had been a good day — and a close call, for sure. He knew he could handle Brown, though he was surprised at the man’s initial resistance. It was Jack Ryan, Jr., that was the hard sell. Thank God for Gerry Hendley.

Rhodes unlocked a lower cabinet on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and removed the small fingerprint-activated gun safe. The hinge popped open, revealing a Kimber Micro Crimson .380 ACP pistol with a checkered walnut grip — not his primary weapon.

Lying next to the Kimber was a small black Faraday bag, designed to block Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and cellular signals. A no-name generic cell phone was inside. He removed the burner phone from the bag and placed it on the blotter of his Italian nineteenth-century turned-walnut writing desk. He then opened a desk drawer and removed a box of paper clips, opened it, pulled out a SIM card from the box, and inserted it into the phone. He powered the phone up with an instant cell-phone charger he kept in yet another drawer, then dialed a number. It rang until the man on the other end picked up.

“It’s in play,” Rhodes said. A barrage of questions followed. He answered each. “He’ll contact me as soon as the drive is installed. No need to worry. Like I said, Paul’s the best. I’ll keep you posted.”

Rhodes rang off when the conversation had run its course. He never mentioned Jack Ryan, Jr. That was his affair.

Jack was his insurance.

13

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Gerry Hendley had kindly arranged for a Town Car to pick them up and shuttle them to the airport after they both went home to pack. They were dropped at the airport in plenty of time for their red-eye flight to London.

Jack led the way through the terminal. He was rolling just one smartly designed eBag, his clothes neatly folded and stacked in packing cubes. He liked to travel light and figured the hotel where they would stay would have laundry service, so there was no need to pack a lot. Hendley also told him that because it was a strictly white-side assignment, he wouldn’t be allowed to bring his sat phone or any other covert gear. He wouldn’t need it, and there was no point in raising any kind of red flags as he traveled through various customs and security stations along the way. No arrangements were made for him to pick up any weapons locally in Singapore, either.

Paul followed behind, pushing a luggage cart that carried his overstuffed garment bag, a yellow hard-sided American Tourister that had seen better days, a bulky nylon duffel bag, and his laptop carrying case.

Jack wasn’t surprised that Paul had a valid passport. It was a requirement for current employment at Hendley Associates — The Campus, too. “You never know where your work will take you on short notice” was the company policy. Fortunately, Singapore didn’t require a visa from an American traveler staying less than thirty days.

They made their way to the Virgin Atlantic check-in counter, where their boarding passes awaited them, and checked their baggage.

Paul’s carry-on was the nylon duffel bag that pushed the size and weight limit, along with the laptop slung over one of his shoulders. He was in the same gray suit he had been wearing earlier in the day.