He rolled down both windows a couple inches and pulled ahead, scanning the trees on either side until he reached the entrance access road.
Jack’s inner warning voice was talking to him: Leave. Call Hendley.
Not yet. His gut was also talking to him: something about Hahn, about his demeanor, that told Jack the man could be trusted. No, trusted was the wrong word, but twice Hahn had passed up a chance to kill Jack. Whoever was pulling the man’s strings, he’d chosen a different path. What that was Jack didn’t know. And he was about to find out which of his two voices was right.
Jack drew his Glock and tucked it under his thigh.
He eased the nose of the Chrysler between the posts and drove on.
9
The road wound its way north, generally following the course of a creek Jack could hear gurgling through his driver’s-side window. Occasionally through the trees he glimpsed the Nissan’s red taillights or the white of its trunk. Hahn was moving slowly, less than twenty miles an hour. The trees continued to thicken and soon the road veered slightly right, east, away from the river, and the grade steepened.
Ahead, Hahn’s brake lights flashed, then went out. Hahn had stopped with his passenger-side tires on the dirt shoulder. Beyond the car the access road curved right, following the contour of the Potomac’s banks, Jack guessed.
Jack coasted to a stop, then put the car in reverse and backed down the road until he could barely see Hahn’s car through the trees.
Hahn got out of his car. He opened a green-and-white golf umbrella. Without so much as a glance in Jack’s direction he walked across the road, down into the ditch, and disappeared from view.
Jack gave him a thirty-second head start, then climbed out, pulled the brim of his cap lower over his eyes, and followed. The rain had picked up slightly and the drops pattered the loam alongside the road.
When he drew even with the spot where Hahn had left the road, Jack saw there was a narrow trail heading north and west as it skirted the base of a rocky hill. If there was high ground to be had, Jack was going to take it. And if someone was lying in wait for him, chances were good that was where they would be.
Jack continued down the road another fifty feet until he found a natural break in the trees, then hopped down into the ditch and started up the slope. The leaves were slick underfoot, but by using roots and exposed rock Jack was able to slowly pick his way upward, stopping occasionally to scan the terrain.
Another few minutes of hiking brought him to a shallow cliff face. He picked his way up to a ledge where the rocks formed a natural stairway, then began climbing.
Jack paused. Where is Hahn? The trail he’d taken had to be somewhere to his left and below. He kept climbing until the stairs broadened into a rock shelf covered in scrub trees. He crept ahead until he was a few feet from the far edge, then crouched and peeked over. Below him lay a ravine bisected by the creek. To his left, at the mouth of the ravine, a waterfall plunged into a churning catch basin before emptying into a lagoon, itself spanned by a flagstone ford. Traversing the waterfall was a wooden footbridge.
Jack sensed movement to the left. He lay down on his belly and aimed the binoculars in that direction. It was Peter Hahn’s green-and-white umbrella, emerging from the trail. Hahn reached the bridge and started across. At the halfway point, he stopped. He placed his hand on the railing and leaned forward for a better view of the waterfall. Rain dribbled from the edge of his umbrella.
Five minutes passed.
A lone figure wearing a khaki trench coat and carrying a black umbrella mounted the bridge from the opposite side of the ravine and walked toward Hahn. Jack zoomed in, but at this angle he could see nothing above the man’s chest. His gait and build told Jack the man was younger than Hahn.
Hahn saw Trench Coat and turned toward him. He extended his hand in greeting. Trench Coat motioned to do the same. His hand came out of his coat pocket holding a palm-size semiautomatic pistol.
“What the—” Jack muttered. He drew his Glock, but too late.
The pistol’s muzzle flashed orange. In the rush of the waterfall the shot was silent. Hahn took a step backward as though someone had punched him in the belly. Trench Coat fired again. Hahn’s right leg buckled and he fell sideways, back against the handrail, then slid down onto his butt. His umbrella slipped from his hand, bounced off the footbridge’s wooden treads, and rolled away. Trench Coat lifted the pistol and shot Hahn in the right eye. He shoved the gun into his jacket pocket, turned, and walked away. From the first shot to the coup de grâce, less than five seconds had elapsed.
Jack’s natural instinct was to run to Hahn, but he quashed it. The German was dead, without a doubt. Next, run down Hahn’s killer. This, too, he resisted. Had Hahn brought him here to witness this or to find the next link in the chain? Or both? Whatever the answer, it lay with the man walking back across the bridge.
Jack raised the binoculars and tracked him. Trench Coat’s pace was unhurried, as if he were out for a casual nature walk. At the foot of the bridge he turned right onto a trail and Jack lost sight of him behind the trees.
Jack stood up and crouch-walked to the far edge of the rock shelf, then lay down again and started scanning with the binoculars. According to his car’s nav screen, this preserve’s border was marked by the creek below, which meant Trench Coat had parked somewhere within the preserve, farther down the access road, or somewhere in the residential areas to the west; this seemed less likely, he judged, given the exclusivity of this area of McLean. A nonnative vehicle in a well-to-do and tight-knit neighborhood would quickly attract attention.
How much time did he give Trench Coat? Jack wondered. Ninety seconds, he decided. He started counting and focused the binoculars on the lagoon’s flagstone pads.
When Jack’s count reached forty, Trench Coat emerged from the screen of trees and stepped onto the bank of the lagoon. He started across the ford. Jack zoomed in. Still the man’s face was blocked by the umbrella.
Jack backed away from the edge, turned around, and retraced his path, moving as fast and as quietly as possible. When he reached the ditch bordering the road, he stopped and looked left to where he guessed Trench Coat would emerge. Clear. He sprinted across it and into the trees beyond.
He needed to get ahead of Hahn’s killer.
After fifty feet, he veered left toward the access road, slowing his pace as he drew closer. When he could see the road’s berm through the trees, he stopped and crouched. He raised the binoculars and panned back along the road.
Where are you…?
There.
Trench Coat was coming down the road, still strolling without a care in the world. Jack had a lead, but not much of one. He recalled his rough mental map of the preserve: Eventually this access road would have to curve south before reaching Highway 495 and heading back toward Cardinal Drive.
He stood up, backed through the trees until he lost sight of the road, then turned and started moving again, keeping the road on his left. Jack adjusted course to the south, ran for another sixty seconds, then again veered left until the road came back into view.
Ahead through the trees he glimpsed a flash of metallic-blue car paint. He crouched beside a stump and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. It was the hood of a midsize sedan. He’d found a second parking lot, this one smaller than the first, a horseshoe-shaped clearing with enough spaces for ten to fifteen cars. All but one of them was empty. The access road entered on the left and exited on the right.