“Ford Fusion,” Effrem called out. “Can’t tell if it’s a Hybrid. Maryland plates.”
“Check it,” Jack replied, braking to a stop. “Check the interior for a bottle of milk, sandwich wrapper, bag of Fritos.” As Effrem climbed out, Jack added, “And a rental agency sticker, or what looks like the remains of one.”
Effrem returned thirty seconds later. “Nothing. Not a Hybrid.”
They kept going and finished the remaining two rows without finding another match. Jack returned to the entrance, crossed over to the adjoining lot, and continued the search. More confident now, they made short work of the first and second rows and were turning into the final one when Effrem blurted, “Gotcha!”
Jack stopped the car and glanced out Effrem’s window.
Black Ford Fusion Hybrid, D.C. plates, EB 9836.
“Go,” Jack said.
Effrem hopped out, circled the car, peeking in windows as he went, then returned. He leaned down and said through the open window, “Frito bag, but no sign of a rental sticker.”
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
Jack had assumed Möller’s backup car would have also been a rental. If this was a privately owned vehicle, they had another lead. “Take a pic of the VIN,” he ordered.
15
They had a victory, but it was minor and fleeting. Möller was likely on Metro-North’s Waterbury branch, but there were six stops north of West Haven, from Derby-Shelton to Waterbury, and according to the schedule the train had already passed all but the final two: Naugatuck and Waterbury itself.
Jack said, “I need a route.”
“On it,” Effrem said, studying his phone’s screen. “Head back down 95. We’re looking for Prindle Road. It’s thirty-five minutes to Naugatuck. We’ll miss the train by five minutes.”
“Waterbury, then.”
“Forty minutes. It’s going to be very close.”
A few miles outside West Haven, as Prindle turned into Highway 114, Jack set the Sonata’s cruise control a couple miles an hour faster than the speed limit.
They drove in silence for a while, Jack lost in a game of “What if Möller does X?” and Effrem checking his e-mails. After a time he asked Jack, “Did you get a chance to sort through Hahn’s e-mail data?”
“Not yet. I don’t know how much I’ll find. Beyond the basics, it’s not my area of expertise.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I know a guy.”
“What guy?”
“A source,” Effrem said. “One of my many. Well, okay, he’s a friend. He’s trustworthy. I’ll shoot him an e-mail and see if he’s willing.”
“Okay.”
Jack had a list of questions he’d been compiling for Effrem, starting with how he got onto the disappearance of René Allemand in the first place. Next: How had he not only succeeded in discovering Allemand was alive, but also been able to track him down when both France’s military and civilian intelligence agencies had failed at the task? And why did Effrem believe the soldier had been false-flagged?
The list went on. For now Jack decided to satisfy his general curiosity about the man himself: “Tell me about Allemand.”
“He’s a lot like you and me, actually.”
“How so?”
“Born into a legacy,” Effrem replied. “René’s a fifth-generation soldier going back to the Napoleonic Wars and the Battle of Waterloo. René graduated top of his class at Saint-Cyr, the first of his line to pull it off.”
Saint-Cyr, or the École Spéciale Militaire de Saint-Cyr, was France’s version of West Point. Both of them had been founded at roughly the same time, in 1802. Jack had encountered a few Saint-Cyr graduates along the way. Without exception, they were superb soldiers.
Effrem went on. “After that, Allemand had his choice of assignments, but he took the hard route, which surprised no one, from what I gather. He requested and got the First Riflemen Regiment out of Épinal.”
“Standard infantry,” Jack replied.
“It had been his father’s last command. Whether he did it to honor his dad or to better himself is anyone’s guess.”
“Either way, he’s not the type to desert.”
“No chance. According to friends of his I interviewed, René loved the Army. He’d been wishy-washy about taking up the family business, so to speak, but once at Saint-Cyr he blossomed.”
“It stands to reason if he’d been captured and then managed to escape he would have let someone know.”
“I would think so. No one’s heard from him; not his father, not his friends, or even his fiancée. Unless he’s lost his mind, he’s doing what he’s doing for a reason.”
“How sure are you the man you saw in Lyon was René?”
“Ninety percent. I’ll show you the photos later. You can judge for yourself.”
“Good,” Jack replied. “And the next time we come up for air I’ll want details, Effrem. All of them.”
“Deal.”
They weren’t going to make it, Jack estimated, watching the Sonata’s dashboard clock. They were ten minutes from the Waterbury station; the train was only four minutes out. Unless Möller lingered, they would miss him.
Jack pressed harder on the gas pedal.
They passed Waterbury’s city limits sign eight minutes later. At Effrem’s direction, Jack turned onto Freight Street, crossed the Naugatuck River, then turned right onto Meadow. A couple hundred yards down, past a red-brick clock tower and across the street from a park, lay the train station, little more than a long, raised platform covered by an aluminum awning lit by sodium-vapor lights. There appeared to be no office and no parking lot attendant.
“The lot’s coming up on our right,” Effrem warned.
Jack slowed the Sonata. He checked the dashboard clock. The train had pulled in five minutes ago.
Outside his window Jack glimpsed a figure — a man, based on his build and gait — passing beneath the trees bordering the sidewalk. He glanced that way, but in the darkness he could make out no details of the person’s face. As far as Jack could see the man carried neither luggage nor a briefcase.
“Is it?” asked Effrem.
“Can’t tell. You see anyone else around?”
Effrem was staring out his window at the train platform. “A couple people, but they’re too far away for faces.”
Jack pulled to the curb and watched in his side mirror as the figure continued down the sidewalk. After a few moments the person was swallowed by the shadows.
Jack made a snap decision. “You’re driving. Go down the block, then left on the next street. See if you can catch him coming the other way. Be careful. If it’s him, he knows your face. Stay in touch.”
Jack opened his door and climbed out. As Effrem slid into the driver’s seat, he asked, “What’re you going to do?”
“Check out the platform.”
As Effrem pulled away, Jack crossed the street to the entrance of the dirt parking lot and paused beside a tree. He pulled up the hood on his jacket; Waterbury was a good three hundred fifty miles north of Alexandria, and Jack could feel the difference in the chill night air.
The lot before him was large, enough for a few hundred cars, but he counted fewer than ten, all in a line before the platform. The area had an industrial feel, with what looked like warehouses on the opposite side of the tracks, and beyond these the highway cloverleaf. Jack got the impression the station had been placed here out of necessity rather than for convenience. In the distance Jack could hear the faint rush of cars on I-84.
After a minute of watching and seeing no one, Jack strode into the lot and headed for the platform. He broke into a jog, playing the desperate traveler afraid he’d missed the train. Fifty feet from the line of parked cars, one of them started backing out, its reverse lights bright in the darkness. It was a white Subaru.