Autorentext

Tom Clancy was the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than eighteen books. He died in October 2013.

M. P. Woodward is a veteran of both US intelligence ops and the entertainment industry. As a naval intelligence officer with the US Pacific Command, he scripted scenario moves and countermoves for US war game exercises in the Middle East. In multiple deployments to the Persian Gulf and Far East, he worked alongside US Special Forces, CIA, and NSA. After leaving the Navy, Woodward ran international distribution marketing for Amazon Prime Video. Today, he is a full-time writer based in Washington State.

Leseprobe
1

Kowloon, Hong Kong

Tuesday, October 1

Jack Ryan, Jr., stood a foot taller than most of the passengers exiting Hong Kong's Star Ferry. With his tropical-weight suit jacket slung over a shoulder, his shirt sleeves rolled, and his tie askew, the American shortened his stride so he wouldn't bump into the people in front of him.

From behind his Wayfarer sunglasses, he scanned the commuters knotted at the ferry's prow, waiting to get off. He was in a hurry-desperate to get one more glimpse of the woman before she disappeared into this city of seven and a half million.

He dropped his eyes low, scanning briefcases, purses, and computer bags. She'd been carrying a string-handled white shopping bag, he remembered.

He felt elbows, shoulders, and knees pressing against him as the crowd packed together, ahead of the ferry's docking. The singsong Cantonese around him rose in pitch, the voices as indecipherable to Jack as squawking birds.

He kept searching, hoping to pick the woman out from the crowd. He etched what she'd looked like into his memory-shopping bag, surgical mask, sunglasses, long black hair, a fashionable charcoal skirt suit.

Jesus, he thought, scanning intently. More than half the women on this ferry looked like that. Provided the shopping bag hadn't been a figment of his imagination, it would be the only feature that distinguished her.

The ferry door opened. The first of the riders surged through it. Jack was swept onto the gangway with the crowd, over the pier, through the turnstile, and past the last security checkpoint.

He wondered if the woman might be behind him. He forced his way to the edge of the throng and stood still. Commuters flowed around him like rapids around a rock. He cleared enough space to put his computer bag at his feet and throw his jacket on. He reached into the jacket's lower right pocket. His fingers touched the note the woman had passed him.

Knowing he was under surveillance, Jack only touched the note. It wouldn't be safe to read it until he spotted his MSS minders again.

It took six minutes for the crowd to leave him behind. Before the onrushing set of passengers mobbed the ferry, Jack strode down the open quay. Dying autumn sunlight warmed his shoulders. A stew of cigarettes, fish, diesel exhaust, and salt air burned his nose. He heard the buzz that opened the gate for the new set of passengers headed from this side, Kowloon, to the island, Hong Kong.

Jack turned and walked along the ferry's hull, staying away from the rush that surged over the gangplank. He watched dockworkers loosen thick halyards from massive cleats bolted to the pier. He heard the engine rev.

Facing the harbor, he watched the ferry depart. Beyond it, at the far shore, he noted the tall buildings of Hong Kong's central business district. He turned around and looked up and down the quay. With his MSS surveillants at least a few hundred yards away, he chanced a last look at the note the woman had slipped him, making sure he had it right: Temple Street Night Market. Heirloom Watches, 2200.

He balled the paper in his fist and tossed it in the harbor.

He knew his MSS minders would be somewhere up the quay, waiting for him. Delaying the inevitable, Jack stood at the water's edge. It was a pleasure to see the ferry thread between freighters and junks and admire the glassy skyscrapers on the distant island shore, shining gold in the sunset.

Jack was happy to be across the harbor from those buildings. He'd spent the day trapped in one of them on the thirtieth floor, going blind as he worked over spreadsheets. He could see that very building now, the HSBC tower, right in the center.

Jack thought of Howard Brennan, the Hendley man who'd traveled with him to Hong Kong. Howard was Hendley's chief investment officer, the man who directed the firm's capital strategy.

He and Jack had come to Hong Kong to line up the financing for an acquisition. Gerry Hendley was making a bid for GeoTech, an acknowledged leader in the refinement of rare earth magnets, an incipient power player in the green energy revolution. Hendley was old friends with the company's CEO. The deal, they all thought, was a good one.

To pull it off, however, would require three hundred million dollars in borrowed capital. It was Howard's job to negotiate the terms for the loan with HSBC.

Jack could picture Howard up near the top of that tall building now, schmoozing the bankers, skillfully arguing to shave a point of interest here, add a few months of bond maturity there. Jack felt his phone buzz in his pants pocket. It was a text from Howard, right on cue, as though the banker had been reading his mind.

We're working through dinner to get the financing terms closed. You coming back?

Jack typed his response. No. Going to run the risk profile numbers in my room tonight. Will catch you in the morning and-

He stood still, thinking through his response. He knew MSS would be monitoring his communications. Before hitting send, he evaluated how they might read this note to Howard. After a moment's reflection, he decided it would fit with his plan. He sent it.

A fishy gust came in off the harbor. The sea air was gaining a raw edge in this first week of October. Glad for the suit jacket now, Jack closed one button. He hurried up the quay with his sunglasses still on, even though it was getting dark.

There.

He caught sight of his first MSS minder. It was the same man Jack had spotted that morning, the one in the blue suit jacket and gray trousers. Jack had mentally named him Blue.

Blue was standing by a bench on the wide promenade that abutted the harbor. He was trying to look natural, one foot up on the bench, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He was deliberately looking away from Jack.

Well, thought Jack, if Blue is looking away, then Brown must be around here somewhere.

There.

Jack spotted him at the far end of the quay, near the street. He wore a leather jacket and blue jeans. He had unkempt hair. He was younger and more athletic than Blue. Jack figured that Blue was the leader and Brown was the muscle.

Jack strode over the promenade and ascended the steps to the Peninsula Hotel, knowing they would follow.

Along the way, he wondered about his duty to report the contact with the woman on the ferry to John Clark. Though on a purely "white-side" assignment for Hendley, Jack could at least let Clark know he'd been approached by an unknown contact with a request for a meet. That seemed to be something he should do.

If he'd been on a "black-side" op, the decision would be easy. Hendley's black-side was The Campus, an embedded national security team that took direction from the President in operations that prized speed, discretion, and deniability above all else. Hendley's white-side private equity business was legitimate. It also happened to serve as both a funding source and cover for The Campus.

As Jack rode the hotel elevator up, he visualized how the conversation with Clark might go. Mr. C had pointedly sent Jack on this all-business white-side assignment to Hong Kong. He'd emphasized the importance of GeoTech, telling Jack the acquisition was more strategic than the Campus…