Power and Empire

Clark tried — and failed — to stifle a quiet chuckle. “Your dad doesn’t respond well to mights and maybes. I can’t remember a single time when Jack Ryan Senior or Junior listened to me when I warned either of them not to do something because it was dangerous.” More serious now, he whispered, “But I’ll make some calls and let the Secret Service know through channels that there’s a possible threat. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to any of those people who were around when the bomb went off in BA. I trust your Japanese intel officer will let her superiors know. Make sure she has the aliases for Chen that Gavin found. With any luck, they’ll grab him coming into the country.”

“Those are only the aliases we know about,” Jack said. “I’m not counting on it.”

“Me either,” Clark said, peering into the darkness. “Looks like you guys need to go to Japan. I’ll clear it with Gerry.”

“Ding’s on the phone with him now,” Jack said.

“Good,” Clark said. “Don’t get in the way of the Japanese, but it sounds like their interest may be with the Korean woman. You guys make Chen a priority.”

“Roger that—”

Clark’s phone chirped with another incoming call. He rolled on his side to look at the caller ID. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” Jack said.

“I have Dom on the other line,” Clark said, and ended the call with Ryan.

“Speak,” he said again.

“Can you talk?”

“Go.”

“Zambrano and Chen cleared out before we got here,” Caruso said. “Left behind a torched body. Probably one of their crew.”

Clark groaned. “No Magdalena Rojas?”

“Nothing, boss,” Caruso said. “Oh, I should tell you, though, that Callahan is hell-bent on throwing your ass in jail when she catches you.”

“It’s been tried before,” Clark said.

Far in the distance, a set of headlights arced through the night as a lone vehicle drove along the narrow farm-to-market road.

“Anyway,” Caruso said, “we’ll see what Forensics finds, but I’m not hopeful. All the bad guys are lawyering up as fast as we arrest them. We’re running out of leads.”

The oncoming vehicle slowed and turned up the narrow two-track that led to the empty Airstream.

“Sit tight,” Clark said. “I may have more information for you shortly.”

Caruso started to say something else, but Clark ended the call and began to work his way down the hill.

50

The man who arrived at the Airstream that was tucked back among the oak trees was at least sixty, and probably a little older. Clark was less than fifty feet away, watching from behind the doghouse, lying on his belly yet again. He looked at the photo of Ernie Pacheco that Caruso had sent him, and guessed this guy to be his father. Pacheco senior didn’t even go inside the trailer. Instead, he grabbed a shovel that was leaning against the makeshift wooden porch and headed for the chicken coop. Ducking down through a small doorway, he disappeared inside with the shovel, then came out a short time later carrying not only the shovel but also a large black duffel — and got back in his truck and drove away.

Travel cash, Clark thought. All his compatriots dropping dead around him had rattled his cage. He needed money to run, and he’d sent his daddy to get it for him.

Clark jogged around the base of the hill to his rental car, reaching it about the same time he saw the lights of Pacheco Senior’s pickup turn back onto the farm-to-market road. Clark stayed well back, following with his lights off and keeping his foot off the brakes until the pickup got on the highway. Traffic was light, but at least there were other cars on the road, making it far easier to tail.

He didn’t have to go far. Twenty minutes after he’d left the chicken coop, the pickup pulled up in front of a white stone house in a rural neighborhood of five- and ten-acre ranchettes on the outskirts of the small community of Glen Rose, about fifty miles southwest of Fort Worth. Clark killed his lights and watched from two lots up. He wished he’d brought some NVGs, but a nearby streetlight, out front of Pacheco’s place, gave him just enough light to make out what was happening.

Pacheco Senior didn’t seem all that thrilled about being a bagman. He cast worried glances over his shoulder when he got out of the truck, the kind of looks people used to bleed off nervous energy, but didn’t really see anything. A shadowed figure opened the door and then stepped out on the porch.

“Hello, Ernie,” Clark whispered. He’d stopped thinking of this idiot as Matarife. It imbued him with too much worth if he had a spooky nickname.

The old man all but threw the duffel bag at him and turned to go. Ernie looked like he might follow him back to the pickup, but he raised his hands in surrender and took the bag back inside.

“Not the reunion you were hoping for,” Clark said, an idea forming in his mind.