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.”
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
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.
Jack’s carry-on was a hand-tooled leather messenger bag for his Kindle, iPhone, and iPad. At home he showered again and changed into business-casual attire. He preferred comfortable athletic wear on long flights like this, but he was representing Hendley Associates and decided to dress it up a little bit. It was going to be a long seven-hour flight that started in Washington and landed in London tomorrow morning, where they would switch airplanes and catch an even longer thirteen-hour flight to Singapore.
In flight hours it was less than a day, but because of the time changes they landed two calendar days after they departed Dulles International. In Jack’s mind that meant fitful hours of uncomfortable boredom interrupted by bouts of intermittent sleep and the inevitable onset of jet lag, coming and/or going.
Yeah. Fun.
At least the security-check lines were short this time of night and they passed through quickly, making their way to Terminal A to catch their flight. The flight was full but mercifully not oversold, and they boarded shortly after the first-class passengers. Hendley said he couldn’t spare the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550 for the flight over and certainly couldn’t leave it parked on a tarmac for ten days waiting for the return flight. That meant flying commercial, and Rhodes’s executive assistant wasn’t able to secure upper or first class on this last-minute booking.
Jack couldn’t help noticing Paul’s pronounced limp as he made his way down the aisle through the first-class cabin, then the upper-class section, and finally toward their premium-economy-class seats. He offered to carry Paul’s heavy duffel, but Paul politely declined. “Window or aisle?” he asked when they arrived at their row.
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s best for you,” Jack said.
“Same for me.”
“It might be better for your leg if you can stretch it out. The aisle might be the way to go,” Jack offered.
“If you really don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Jack set his carry-on in the overhead compartment and slid into the window seat as Paul heaved his bag onto his empty seat and unzipped it, pulling out a small down pillow and an inflatable neck pillow before zipping the bag back up and tossing it into the same compartment. A few impatient passengers huffed in line behind him until Paul finally fell into his seat with a big sigh of relief.
They both buckled up, Paul shoving the small pillow behind his lower back. He saw Jack watching him. “L4–L5 disk degeneration.”
“Must not be comfortable.”
“It’s hard to sit for long periods of time.”
“I get antsy myself,” Jack offered. Just twenty hours and fifty-nine minutes to go, he thought.
“I should probably tell you now that I’m not a very good flier,” Paul said.
“Nervous?”
“Airsick. Well, and nervous.”
“My dad hates flying, too.”
Jack tried to keep from rolling his eyes. It was going to be a very long flight.
“I brought some Dramamine from home.” Paul shook the pill bottle. “It’s beyond the expiration date, but it should still work.” He craned his head around. “Maybe the stewardess can get me some water.”
Stewardess? Geez, when was the last time this guy flew on a plane? Jack wondered. “I’m sure the flight attendant will be glad to get you some.” Jack pushed the call button and a handsome middle-aged woman appeared a few moments later with two small glasses of champagne on a tray and passed one to each of them.