Jack was back at his condo thirty minutes later. He heated up a bowl of slow-cooker chili, grabbed a Heineken from the fridge, and sat down on the couch with his laptop. Two minutes into his research into Effrem Likkel he realized the young Belgian hadn’t been exaggerating. Jack kicked himself for having not immediately recognized the name.
In Europe, Effrem Likkel was as close to journalistic royalty as you got, save his mother, who was, it seemed, the undisputed queen of journalism. Marie Likkel, now sixty-four, retired, and divorced, had been covering international politics, war, corruption, and legal abuse the world over for almost twenty years longer than Jack had been alive, and had done so across a spectrum of media from radio to television to print.
Effrem, having chosen to follow in her footsteps at an early age, was, as he’d told Jack, trying to make a name for himself, and had apparently been doing so without the largesse of his mother — and by mutual choice, most articles agreed. Both mother and son wanted the heir to the Likkel legacy to stand or fall on his own merits.
Unsurprisingly, this struck a chord with Jack. He knew what it felt like to live in a big shadow, and to be anxious to find a way into your own sun. No doubt Effrem Likkel was desperate for the same, while also being keenly and constantly aware he needed to do it better and cleaner than the next guy. Whether that meant Jack could trust him only time would tell. But did Jack want or need a partner? As had Effrem, he’d so far made decent inroads on his own.
Then again, Effrem had been working on his story, whatever it entailed, for a long damned time. Who knew how much information he’d collected?
Jack grabbed his cell phone, scrolled through his address book, and speed-dialed a number. “Alicia Dixon,” the voice on the other end said.
“Alicia, Jack Ryan. I didn’t know if you’d still be in the office.”
Alicia was a reporter for The Washington Post. They’d dated briefly, but it hadn’t worked out. Their schedules never meshed enough for them to form a bond, but they’d remained friends, occasionally having dinner or a drink.
“Jack Ryan…” She laughed. “If it’s before ten, I’m usually here. Are you calling to apologize for standing me up?”
“I didn’t stand you up, Alicia. I was just very, very late. And didn’t I already apologize?”
“Yeah, you did, but I never did see that movie.”
“I’ll buy you the DVD. Listen, I need your expertise.”
“Shoot.”
“What do you know about Effrem Likkel?”
“The last name I know. Marie Likkel — that’s her son, right?”
“Right. Give me the scoop.”
“Well, Marie’s a legend in Europe. She’s won just about every journalism award out there — the Pulitzer, SPJ, Bayeux-Calvados, Bastiat… The woman’s got schools named after her, for God’s sake.”
“No skeletons in her closet?” asked Jack.
“None,” Alicia replied. “And believe me, some powerful people have dug into her, especially the bigger fish she’s gone after. She’s above reproach. When I was at Northwestern I kept a picture of her taped next to my computer screen. Everyone thought it was Madeleine Albright.”
“So you’re a fan,” Jack said, deadpan.
“If she had a club, I’d be president.”
“And what about her son?”
“I’ve never met him, but rumor is he’s just like her — tenacious, righteous, all that,” Alicia said. “He’s a little green and maybe a little too eager, but that’s more the rule than the exception with cubs.”
“Has he cracked anything big?”
“Not really, but I’ve read some of his pieces. He’s solid, got a feel for it. Jack, why are you asking? Has Likkel contacted you for something?”
Though he hadn’t been prepared to answer this question, the lie came easily: “Not me, a buddy of mine. He just wanted to know if Likkel’s a straight shooter.”
When had that happened? While he wasn’t so squeaky clean he’d never told a lie, he could remember a time when doing so gave him pause, even a tinge of regret. Lying was a necessity of the job, that he knew, and he had to wonder if Clark and Chavez ever ruminated over it. You’re thinking too much, Jack.
Alicia replied, “It’s a safe bet. Given his family name, one step out of line and the journalism world would know about it — including Mommy. And he knows that, I’m sure. But remember, Jack: ‘Off the record’ only means as much as a journalist’s integrity weighs. Tell your friend to assume everything he says is going to end up in the papers.”
12
Jack was up early again the next morning. Having made his choice about Effrem Likkel, he didn’t want to waste any more time. After making a stop at Starbucks, he drove to the Embassy Suites and was knocking on Effrem’s door shortly before seven. The Belgian answered the door in flannel pajamas. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at Jack. Effrem was sporting a severe case of bed head, his shaggy blond hair flattened on one side.
“I told you not to open the door,” Jack said.
“I saw you through the peephole.”
“You drink coffee?”
“Copious amounts.”
He stepped into the room, handed Effrem one of the cups, then took one of the seats beneath the window. He parted the draperies slightly to let in some morning sun. The rain had stopped falling the night before and temperatures were going to reach the mid-seventies. Outside, the pavement was already steaming.
Yawning, Effrem shuffled to the table and sat down across from Jack, who said, “I checked into you. You’ve got some big shoes to fill.”
Effrem smiled. “At least she didn’t wear high heels. Of course, you’re living in a shadow of your own, aren’t you? I checked into you as well. I thought you looked familiar. You don’t look much like you do in the official family portrait.”
“You’re a journalist, and pretty good, from what I gather. If you’re after a juicy story, you’ve already got one. If you run with what happened yesterday—”
“I’m not,” Effrem said, taking a sip of coffee.
“Why?”
“Will you be offended if I say I’m after bigger fish?”
“If it’s true, no,” said Jack.
“Plus, cliché as it is, you did save my life. What kind of man would I be if I repaid that by feeding you to the wolves?”
“There are a lot of your colleagues who wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
“I’m not them, Jack. You have a saying here, yes? It’s not who wins or loses, but how you play the game. My mother believed that, and so do I.”
In theory Jack agreed, but in his business you didn’t always have the luxury of being a good sport. In journalism you certainly had that choice, though it probably tended to make the job much harder.
“So, what game are you playing?” asked Jack.
“Are we still quid pro quo?”
“Yes.”
Effrem took a sip of coffee, then stared into space for a few seconds as though assembling his thoughts. “Have you heard the name René Allemand?”
“It’s familiar. French soldier, right?”
“Correct, though he’s far from typical. I’ll get to that later. Last year Allemand disappeared from his post, Port-Bouët, in Ivory Coast. He was there as part of Operation Unicorn — a peacekeeping mission after the civil war began. Initially there were rumors he’d deserted, but they were discounted. The consensus is that he was captured by one faction or another and then executed.”
“No ransom or video?” Jack asked. “No one claiming credit?”