There were several lots for sale across this arm of the reservoir, and it was a simple matter for Clark to park and pretend to be an interested customer. He would eventually work his way closer, but a pair of 18-power marine binoculars from a quarter-mile away helped him rough out the beginnings of a plan.
Zambrano had gone a step further than most and picked a site in a secluded bay, cut back approximately fifty meters from the main body of the lake. The home itself was a gray brick two-story, tucked in at the head of the bay in between two limestone ridges that were covered with cedar trees. The eastern ridge jutted out farther than the one on the west and looked like it would make a good vantage point when he did decide to move closer. A long grassy hill, as manicured as any fairway at Augusta, ran down from a raised deck on the front of the house to the water’s edge. A runabout, gleaming white in the Texas sun, was tied up to a set of floating docks. To the right of the house, a swimming pool had been cut into the side of the hill along with a brick cabana that matched the house. The cabana, as well as a small utility shed partway down the hill, hid much of the pool from any boats that happened to venture too close to the property. For Clark’s purposes, the outbuildings conveniently created a blind spot from above, leaving a good portion of the dock invisible from the upper portion of the property.
Clark watched long enough to count seven different men wandering the grounds. There was something going on up at the pool, but the angle was wrong so he couldn’t tell what it was. He took a swig of bottled water before pouring the remainder into the dirt and replacing it with about a half-cup of brake fluid. He re-capped the bottle and put it in the CamelBak with the unopened sack of pool shock. After one final gear check, he drove to the other side of the lake.
Clark had arrived early enough in the day that he could take his time. He drove past Zambrano’s nondescript steel gate and left the rental in the trees nearly a mile down the gravel road. From there he traveled cross-country, going up and over two scrubby hills before arriving at the eastern ridge overlooking Zambrano’s docks. His dark blue windbreaker and khaki slacks melded perfectly with the mottled shadows of scrub cedar and caliche rock.
Clark often thought that he’d spent at least a quarter of his adult life flat on his belly peering through one kind of scope or another, watching, waiting. There was, to him, a great virtue in stillness.
His initial assessment had been correct. The ridge offered a near perfect vantage point of the house, the expansive deck and hot tub, the pool, and the docks below. He was much closer than before but, at just over a hundred meters and in the trees, was far enough away that he didn’t have to worry too much about being seen. Still, years of discipline forced him to move slowly and deliberately, staying off the ridgeline to keep from silhouetting himself.
Making himself comfortable, he set the binoculars on the ground beside him and took out the notebook and pencil again, entering data in more detail now that he was close enough for a better look. His first course of business was to identify as many of Zambrano’s men as he could. From the looks of things, Pacheco had been right. Security here was the Sun Yee On triad, likely employed by Lily Chen.
It wasn’t like the movies—the men did not wear any kind of uniform or patrol with open firearms that might draw attention from a passing bass boat or party barge. The man farthest down by the docks was carrying a fishing rod in his left hand, though he never used it to fish. His T-shirt was a size too small for his husky frame, making the imprint of a pistol easy to see if you looked for it, but that wouldn’t draw any attention in Texas, particularly out here, where water moccasins and rattlesnakes were common encounters.
Clark printed “Muffin Top” on the top line of a new page in his notebook. In a matter of fifteen minutes, he’d written “Pigeon” (for the man’s propensity to jut his neck out when he peered back and forth to look for threats), “Richie Rich” (because of his fancy gold watch that provided an eye-catching target), and “Geezer,” “Rattail,” and “Sasquatch”—all for obvious reasons. All of them were Asian, heavily tattooed, and apart from Muffin Top, they looked to be in reasonably good condition. Clark was beginning to think he’d miscounted when the seventh man walked out from under the deck. While the others on the security team kept their weapons hidden, this one carried a short CZ Scorpion SMG on a single-point sling around a thick neck. Short and blocky, he was nearly as wide as he was tall.
Clark picked up his pencil again and scribbled another name in the notebook.
“I will call you Mini Fridge.”
52
President Jack Ryan stepped across the corridor to the Roosevelt Room, where Dr. Miller was setting up shop on the long oak table. The White House never slept completely, even on the weekends, so there were still a few staffers pecking away at keyboards up and down the halls or compiling reports that had to be ready by Monday morning. Al Chadwick in the communications office came in every Sunday to watch the morning shows at his desk while his wife took the kids to church.
Ryan carried two paper cups of coffee and the Saturday edition of The Wall Street Journal he’d never gotten around to reading. Miller shot to her feet when she saw him, but he gave her a friendly toss of his head and set both cups on the table.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re the one giving up your weekend. Cream and sugar?”
Miller shook her head, stricken. “I can’t believe the President of the United States brought me coffee.”
“I make terrible coffee,” Ryan said. “Lucky for you I only had to open the spigot to get this stuff.” He nodded to the three notebooks and multiple colored pencils with which the mathematician was taking notes. “I don’t want you to feel rushed, but I can reinstitute the draft if you want to recommend a few coworkers to come in and help you out . . .”
“I’ll be fine, Mr. President,” Miller said. “Frankly, my process is somewhat . . . odd.”
“Odd?” Ryan said. He didn’t intend to stay long, but sat down so Miller would follow suit. “How so?”
“I don’t mean to brag,” she said, “but I was born with a near perfect photographic memory. It drives my boyfriend crazy . . .”
Ryan smiled, enjoying the young woman’s forthrightness.
Dr. Miller continued. “You know those color-blind tests where you see a number or a letter among a bunch of squiggled nonsensical globs?”
Ryan nodded.
“Well, if you were to show me a bunch of globs that formed an unintelligible half of a letter or number, and then an hour—or even a day—later showed me a bunch of globs with the corresponding half of that original letter or number, my brain would recall the first image and then superimpose the two, filling in the blanks and giving me the whole picture.”
Ryan said, “Here’s to you filling in some blanks for us, then.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Miller said.