Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [175]
That was far above his pay grade, however, and those who made such decisions rarely consulted the worker bees who live out where one’s ass was on the betting line. That fact had started for Clark in Vietnam, when his name had been Kelly. So maybe stuff like that never changed. That was a frightening thought, but frightening things came with the territory, and he’d signed on to that more than thirty years earlier. The entry procedures were not even perfunctory. His passport wasn’t even stamped, a considerable surprise. Another procedure change? Keep the ink from staining the clerk’s hand, maybe?
Okay, what’s happening?” Granger asked over the secure line.
“Clark took the same flight as our friend,” Jack replied. “We got a couple photos of him. With luck, he’ll shadow him to where he’s going.”
Not likely, the operations boss at the other end thought. Not enough troops, not enough resources. Well, you couldn’t do everything as a private corporation, and it kept the overhead down. “Okay, keep me posted. When will you guys be back?”
“We’re booked on a flight into D.C. National; leaves in thirty minutes. Be back in the building about five-thirty or six, probably.” Which amounted to a complete wasted day, unless you counted a couple of photos as a success, Jack thought. What the hell, it was more than what they’d had.
50
CLARK WAS in the subterranean walkway from one terminal complex to another. Mostly moving walkways, like conveyor belts; it certainly looked long enough. He’d watched Hadi step out into the open air and have another smoke before coming back in, running through the metal detectors—miraculously, his marshal’s badge did not trip it here—down into this lengthy tunnel, and then up the escalator to the outboard terminal, where it was time to go to work. Hadi turned left at the top. He’d gotten his gate assignment from an information monitor—without checking his ticket for the flight number. Did that make him a trained pro or just a guy with a good memory or a surfeit of confidence? Clark wondered. You pays your money and you takes your choice. At the top, Hadi turned left onto Concourse F. He was walking briskly. Maybe in a hurry? Clark wondered. If so, bad news for him. Sure enough, the subject turned to check a monitor, oriented himself, and angled to the left for Gate F-5, where he took a seat, looking as though he needed to relax. F-5 was a flight for … Las Vegas? McCarran International was a sizable airport with a huge number of connecting flights to Christ knew how many other destinations. Just one cutout for Hadi? Was that prudent? John wondered. Hmm. Who, if anyone, had trained this bird? A KGB type, or someone internal to his organization? Whatever the answer, the flight was leaving in fifteen minutes, not enough time for John to get back to the desk at Terminal 1 and get a ticket to allow him to follow. The tracking exercise would end at this point. Damn. He couldn’t even make the effort to eyeball the guy too obviously, even to observe very closely. Hadi may have looked around, and might, therefore, recognize his face. He might have been trained by a pro, and he might have the ability Clark had for remembering faces that appeared and disappeared in the course of life. For a field spook, that was a survival skill of considerable importance. Clark walked to a gift shop and bought a PayDay candy bar, along with a Diet Coke, just allowing his eyes to trace around the concourse. Hadi was sitting, not even looking around for a smoking booth where people could indulge their bad habit behind glass. Maybe he could control his passions, John thought. Such people could be dangerous. But the flight was called then, first-class tickets first, and Hadi stood, walked to the jetway gate, and showed his ticket. He even smiled at the male clerk, who checked his ticket and waved him aboard the elderly DC-9 for a wide leather seat and free booze for his trip to Vegas, where people could indulge