Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

But sometimes a stray file lingering on a hard drive in some vast server farm had been missed. Nearly a hundred million photos and videos were posted just to Instagram every single day.

That lingering file could be anything. Someone’s uploaded yearbook that he had signed years ago or a cell-phone shot taken when he passed by unawares. It wasn’t the intentional posting that worried people. It was the accidental stuff, obscure and unimportant, that interested sleuths might find and exploit to their advantage.

Whatever it was, something in Mitchell’s computer had sent her scurrying to the consul general or some other high-ranking official.

Moments later, a gentleman appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Ryan,” Mitchell said, “this is Mr. Dick Dellinger. He’ll be taking over the rest of the interview. If you’ll excuse me. It was nice to meet you.”

“Igualmente,” Jack offered. His middle-school Spanish was improving.

Dellinger looked to be in his forties. He was shorter than Jack by four inches and at least forty pounds lighter. But Dellinger’s fierce brown eyes behind the rimless glasses and the knotty biceps beneath his tailored shirt told Jack this was a guy who knew how to handle himself.

He shook Jack’s hand before perching on the edge of Mitchell’s desk, giving him a height advantage over the larger, younger man.

“Mr. Ryan, I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your friend Renée Moore. What happened?”

“I was already at the restaurant when Renée walked in. We exchanged business cards and planned to get together later for a drink. I left, and moments later the bomb went off. I rushed back in, and she died.”

“My God, that’s awful. Any idea who might have done it?”

“A woman I spoke to last night said that Brigada Catalan had claimed responsibility.”

“What woman was that?”

“She was with the Spanish CNI.”

Dellinger’s eyes narrowed. “So you spoke with Spanish authorities about Ms. Moore?”

“Yeah, why?”

Dellinger shrugged. “I’m just surprised they haven’t contacted us about her, that’s all. It’s a professional courtesy. You talk to anybody else?”

“About Renée? No. Just her. She was on the scene pretty quickly, along with a dozen other uniformed officers from different departments.”

“Barcelona is a relatively small town, especially in the old city, and the cops here are pretty good. I’m not surprised they showed up like that, especially with everything going on these days.”

“Yeah, I’ve been reading about the protests, and the independence movement.”

“A lot of Americans have canceled their vacations because of the protests.” Dellinger smiled, a thin line across his clean-shaven face. “I take it you weren’t concerned?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did Ms. Moore happen to tell you why she was in Barcelona?”

“Not really. My impression was she was in the restaurant to meet somebody.”

“For what purpose?”

“She didn’t say.”

“She didn’t tell you who she was meeting?”

Jack felt the heat rising on the back of his neck. At least this wasn’t about his dad. But why the hell was he being interrogated?

“No, she didn’t.” Jack didn’t add, And she didn’t know who it was, either.

“Did she tell you what her line of work was?”

“She said she was with a fintech company called CrowdScope, out of California.”

“So she was here on business?”

“I really don’t know. She didn’t say.”

“And you’re here on vacation, I take it?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to visit this part of the world.”

“And what’s your line of work, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Mr. Dellinger.”

“Fair enough. And please, call me Dick.”

Dellinger pulled up a chair and sat down across from Jack. “I’m with the consulate’s Public Diplomacy Section. I work with the student exchange programs, university lecture series, you know, the cultural stuff.”

Now it was Jack’s turn to smile. “Field trips with high school students, wine tasting with the faculty wives—that sort of thing?”

“Pretty much. It’s not exciting work, but it’s important, or at least I like to think so.”

Bullshit.

And they both knew it.

“Now it’s your turn, Jack.”

“I’m a financial analyst with Hendley Associates. We’re based out of Alexandria, Virginia.” He pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to him.

“So, you were both working in finance.”

“Yes, I guess so. I actually met Renée at Georgetown. We had a couple of business classes together. She was phenomenal with numbers.”

“You’ve known her for several years.”

“Yeah. But I hadn’t seen her since we graduated.”

“Pretty close with her while in school?”

“What is it you really want to know, Dick?”

Dellinger sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers in front of his narrow face.

“We take the death of American citizens very seriously. I’m just trying to get all the information I can so that we can be sure that all Americans in Spain can live and travel safely here.”

Jack’s phone vibrated. “Excuse me.” He pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text from Brossa: MY OFFICE 10 AM?

Jack checked the time at the top of the screen. He could just make it. He texted back. ON MY WAY.

“Problem?” Dellinger asked.

Jack stood, ending the meeting. “Not at all. Gotta run, chief.” Jack stuck out his hand as Dellinger stood. He gripped it.

Yeah, the guy could probably handle himself.

“Thank you for bringing this information to our attention, Mr. Ryan. I hope the rest of your stay in Barcelona is uneventful. And please don’t hesitate to call me if you need any kind of assistance.”

“I appreciate it.”

Jack turned to leave.

“Oh, just one other thing, Jack. Who did you say you met with from CNI?”

Jack grinned. “I didn’t.”

10

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Mr. President, Buck Logan is on the line for you,” his secretary said.

“Thanks, Betty. I’ll take it from here.”

“Yes, sir.” She clicked off the line. One advantage of a heavily armored limo was the near utter silence inside the cabin. Perfect for calls.

“Buck? Jack Ryan here.”

“Mr. President, it’s quite an honor. How’s the weather in your neck of the woods?”

“Swampy, with yellow rain in the forecast and another shitstorm on the horizon.”

Logan laughed. “Gawd, how I hate D.C.!”

“It’s not always my favorite place, either, but we serve where we’re stationed, right?”

“Yes, sir. Speaking of which, how can I serve you?”

“Listen, Buck. I’ve just had a very disturbing brief from Admiral Talbot.”

“Talbot’s a good sailor. You can trust his judgment.”

“I do. But let’s cut to the chase. I understand his friends have had a hard time reaching you. They want to have a talk.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to figure out what that meant.

“Really? About what?”

“I think we both know the answer to that, Buck.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’m not sure I do.”

“Admiral Talbot believes you recently lost a ship, or at least a ship licensed to carry your cargo.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, that’s news to me.”

Ryan frowned. Why in the hell would Logan lie about something like this? Could Talbot be mistaken? Not likely.

“You sure, Buck?”

“Believe me, if something happened to one of my shipments, I’d be madder ’n a scalded cat.”