Tom Clancy Duty and Honor by Grant Blackwood

journalist’s integrity weighs. Tell your friend to assume everything he says is going to end up in thepapers.”

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
    J ack 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. Heparted 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’talways 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?”
    “Not that I’ve found. And no unidentified bodies in the area that might match him. I’ve got a couple more leads I’m checking.”
    “You said ‘disappeared.’ Does that mean he wasn’t on patrol at the time? He was on the base?”
    “That’s another point of fuzziness,” Effrem replied. “I’ll come back to that. Anyway, I have reason to believe that notonly is René Allemand alive, but his disappearance was staged.”
    “For what reason?”
    “Quid pro quo, Jack,” Effrem replied.
    Though Jack had already decided to join forces with the journalist, the absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Nor were the pitfalls. But nothing was certain in life, was it?
    “A few nights ago the man you know as Eric Schrader tried to kill me.”
    Effrem leaned forward. “You’re serious.”
    “Yes. And the man in the white Nissan is named Peter Hahn. Both he and Schrader are dead