“There’s so much blood,” the man said.
“It’s a scalp wound, they’re like that. What’s your name?”
“Effrem.”
Jack had a long list of other questions, but they would have to wait.
“We need to get out of here, Effrem,” Jack said. “Can you move?”
“I think so.”
Jack helped Effrem to a sitting position, his back against the tire, then walked around and opened the rear hatch. Inside the cargo area was a yellow hard-sided roller suitcase. Jack unzipped it and rummaged around until he found some white tube socks. He tied three of them together, end to end, then returned to Effrem.
“Hold this against your head,” Jack told him. “Like that.”
Jack guided his hand, pressing one of the sock’s knots into the wound. He circled the loose ends around Effrem’s skull and cinched the makeshift bandage with a square knot.
“My head really hurts,” Effrem repeated.
“You’re going to be okay. Lift up your shirt.”
“What?”
Jack was already doing it, jerking Effrem’s shirt and jacket up toward his shoulders. Effrem caught on and helped with his free hand. “Anything?” he asked. Jack could hear the fear in his voice now. The shock was starting to wear off a bit, replaced by the realization of what had just happened.
Jack turned him around, scanned his back. He saw no wounds.
Effrem asked, “What about my legs?”
“If he’d hit an artery, we’d know about it. Trust me. Can you drive? We need to get out of here.”
“Okay, I think so. Are you the police?”
“Yell if you see him coming back,” Jack replied.
He walked back to the Malibu, paused to pick up the Glock’s two spent shell casings, then opened the driver’s-side door. He pressed the trunk release, then walked around and searched it. Empty. He returned to the car and did a rapid search — glove compartment, center console, under the seats… On the floor of the passenger seat were two balled-up fast-food bags, one Arby’s and one McDonald’s. In each of these was a cash receipt, which he pocketed. Tucked behind the driver’s-side floor mat next to the gas pedal he found a burgundy-colored passport bearing Germany’s coat-of-arms eagle and the words Europäische Union, Bundesrepublik Deutschland, and Reisepass. The name inside the passport was Stephan Möller. The identification picture showed an early-forties man with short black hair and a thick, hipsterish beard. Jack doubted this was Trench Coat’s real name, but it was a start, another thread he could hopefully unravel.
He returned to Effrem, who had managed to climb to his feet and was leaning against the SUV on shaky legs. Jack dropped to his knees beside the rear tire and began probing the dirt.
“What are you looking for?” asked Effrem.
“My bullet.” The other one was gone, either in Möller’s leg or lost in the trees on the other side of the road.
It took two minutes, but Jack finally found the bullet’s impact point. He got out his multi-tool, pried the bullet free, and dropped it into his pocket. He stood and faced Effrem.
“Give me your wallet.”
“What?”
“Your wallet. And your passport and cell phone.”
Frowning, Effrem dug into his back pocket and handed Jack a Belgian passport and a slim brown leather wallet containing a few credit cards, an EU driver’s license, and one from Belgium: Effrem Likkel.
“Are you robbing me?” Effrem asked, handing over his cell phone.
Despite it all, Jack couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, I’m not robbing you. Where are you staying, what hotel?”
“Uh, the Embassy Suites in Old Town.”
“Room?”
“Four twelve.”
“Go straight there,” Jack said, handing back Effrem’s wallet and passport. “Wait for me.”
On Effrem’s cell phone Jack navigated to the address book, found the phone’s number, then typed it into his own cell phone.
“Why should I trust you?” asked Effrem, taking the phone back.
“Because you’re still alive.”
“Good point. What’re you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Can you tell me anything about that guy? His name, where he’s staying?”
“No. I was just following him.”
Jack wanted to ask the obvious question — Why? — but instead said, “Can you get to your room without going through the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“Do that. Get on the 495, find a gas station bathroom, clean yourself up, and then get into your room and stay there. Don’t answer the door until you hear my voice.”
10
Jack sprinted back to his car and, five minutes after sending Effrem on his way, was heading down Cardinal Drive. He crossed over the 495 and onto the Georgetown Pike. At the first stoplight he spotted a gas station. He pulled into a parking spot.
He had one shot at this, he knew, and it was fifty-fifty at best. Despite taking a bullet from Jack’s Glock, Möller had been moving at a decent clip through the trees and the man had already proven himself cool in a crisis. Therefore Jack had to assume Möller had tended to his wound, regrouped, and either was lying low in the nature preserve or was already out of the area. The question was, Would the man go back to his hotel or did he have a fallback exfiltration plan? Things had gone very bad for Möller: There were witnesses and he’d been in a firefight. How would he react?
He dug the fast-food receipts out of his pocket, then used his phone’s Yelp app to map both restaurants. Each was located within a quarter-mile of the other, off Richmond Highway. Next Jack dropped a pin on the app’s screen and searched for nearby motels. There were three within walking distance of the restaurants, a Holiday Inn, a Days Inn, and a Comfort Inn, all similar to the hotel Eric Weber had chosen — mid-priced, nice, but not extravagant. Maybe that meant something, maybe not.
The outcome of Jack’s scheme depended on human nature. Most people looking for a quick meal in a strange city chose restaurants close to their motel. Whether a man like Möller would allow himself such a convenience Jack didn’t know, but it was all he had. He’d already made one mistake by leaving his passport in the Malibu; perhaps he’d make another. A common problem with professionals of any trade is self-assurance, the mother of complacency. It had happened to Jack before — perhaps as recently as the Supermercado. Even John Clark had once — just once, over a few beers — admitted his own occasional tradecraft blunder. The question was, What do you do after the mistake? What would Möller do after his?
Jack pulled out of the gas station and got back on the highway.
Twenty minutes later he reached Richmond Highway, turned south, then took the first exit. He chose the first motel he came to, the Holiday Inn, pulled in, and parked outside the lobby. Inside, using what he hoped was a decent German accent, he gave the name Stephan Möller to the front desk attendant and claimed he was a bit confused. Was he staying here? The answer was no. Jack moved on to the second motel, the Days Inn, and got the same results. At the third motel, he got lucky.
“Yes, sir, you sure are,” the young Hispanic man said. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes, please,” Jack said, rubbing his eyes. “It has been a long day. I have been lost much of the time, and now I realize I have left my key in my room.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have a driver’s license or passport?”
Jack handed over Möller’s passport. As the attendant studied it, Jack said with a sheepish chuckle, “About the beard, please do not ask. My wife is only now forgiving me.”
Jack held his breath. Sans beard, Jack’s appearance was close to that of Möller’s. Whether it was close enough now depended on the attendant’s observation skills.