by Trevor Scott
“Based on what my colleague told you?”
Someone tried to push into the door, which made the man turn his head over his shoulder, allowing Tramil to check his watch. The train would stop at Whitefish in just twenty-five minutes.
“It’s occupied, asshole,” the man yelled. “Find another one.”
Fully recovered from the thrust to his gut, Tramil ran scenarios through his brain on how to escape from this man. Most of the outcomes were not favorable. Only one made any sense, and that had worked before.
“I don’t even have a computer with me,” Tramil explained.
“Amtrak has wi-fi running throughout,” the man said. “You can download it to my smart phone. That’s why they call them smart.”
Stall, Tramil. “How much internal memory do you have?”
The man’s expression was blank.
Tramil continued, “Because my research, with all its attachments, is over fifty gig.”
Now the guy looked like a third-grader trying to do calculus in his mind. He had a dilemma. It was obvious he couldn’t kill Tramil without the research, and he had no way of downloading it on the train. At least not without finding something to download it to.
Maybe Tramil could help him with this mental gymnastics. Move him toward a favorable solution. He checked his watch again. “Maybe they sell some data storage in Whitefish. The train stops there for about a half hour.”
Smiling, the man said, “Good idea. Nobody says we have to continue on this train.”
Perhaps he’d been too helpful. He hadn’t thought of that possible outcome.
“All right,” the man said. “We’ll go sit down and get off in Whitefish.” He turned and pushed through the door.
Standing there was the porter, a huge black man with a flat top, along with an old woman who seemed to have her legs crossed. When the porter saw two men coming out together, his brows rose. The old woman looked shocked.
Tramil took this distraction as a sign. He pushed past the man with the knife and hurried toward the front of the train. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the porter had grasped the man by the arm. But he quickly pulled his arm away and followed Tramil.
Hurrying through the aisle, Tramil glanced back occasionally. People were awake now. Some looked out the windows at the snow falling outside. Others were standing and stretching their legs from the long night sleeping in uncomfortable chairs.
Run, Tramil. It was his only defense against this man. He picked up speed, but then realized he would quickly run out of train if he went too fast. He went through to the next car and continued forward. He needed to get off this train. It had been a good idea to pay cash and take the train, but had now turned into a trap of his making. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that this man had probably been ordered to not kill him. Of course the same was probably true of his friend Stephan.
As he rushed forward he saw some bags between cars. A few people were planning to get off in Whitefish. Without hesitation, Tramil grasped a hard-sided metal suitcase and slid out of sight. When he heard the door open, he timed his strike just right, swinging it up and smashing it into the man’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Then he dropped the bag on the guy’s feet and ran back the way he’d just come, heading toward the back of the train now.
Tramil heard the man mumble something in another language, but he didn’t stick around long enough to guess the translation. He saw possible salvation ahead. The porter had followed the two of them and was now heading right for Tramil.
“Help me,” Tramil said when he reached the porter. “That man is trying to kill me.” He slipped one of his college business cards from his pocket and shoved it into the porter’s hand. “I’m a college professor. That man shot and killed my friend a couple days ago and is now trying to kill me.”
“What?” the porter asked. “Who?”
Turning quickly, Tramil couldn’t see the man who had been chasing him. “The man from the bathroom. He has a knife and threatened to kill me.”
The big porter got on his radio and said, “We got a situation here.”
8
Jake Adams spent most of the day trying to get his shit together. But mostly he tried to get some feeling in his extremities. After so much time in the cold water, and then running through the frozen city with only wet pants on, his core body temperature had surely dropped a few degrees.
Yet, he had gotten away without giving these men any information. His escape had almost been too easy. Maybe he had done exactly what they wanted him to do. If so, he’d have to be much more vigilant.
He suspected those who had taken him would think he would never go back to his hotel, but that’s what he had done, grabbing his clothes and checking out in just a half hour. His room had been trashed, so he had simply shoved everything into his rolling duffle bag, which consisted mostly of dirty hunting clothes anyway.
Jake’s encounter with the Slavic men had done a couple of things for him. First, it had put him back into the game—made him much more aware of his surroundings—like his days with the Agency, always checking his six and observing people who might be taking too much interest in him. And second, they had pissed him off. He could still taste the acrid water and smell the rotting rat. Despite his best efforts, some of that water had gotten into his lungs. He could only imagine how his lungs were fighting to remove all that crap. It would take days, or weeks, to get rid of everything not supposed to be there.
Away from the hotel now, he rode in a taxi toward Ronald Reagan Airport. He checked his phone, but it was dead. However, he always kept a spare battery so he could swap one for the next while on the road. Having pulled the charged battery from his bag before leaving his room, he popped open his phone and immediately shook his head once he looked into the battery compartment. Inside was a tiny chip that would keep his GPS working off an unused sector of his battery. Yeah, his escape had been nearly predetermined. Those guys wanted to get him heading off to find the professor. They would be able to track him and maybe even listen to his calls in real time. Nice technology. Without removing the tracking chip, he put in the new battery. He could play this game.
Once the new battery was in, he saw he had a number of new messages. In fact, more than twenty, which was really out of the ordinary. If he got one message a week, he would be amazed. Why? He was retired, and not many people had his cell number.
When he heard the first message, he guessed what the rest might say as well. They were almost all from people at FOX News wanting him to come on various shows to talk about his testimony before congress. He called just one of those back and said he would be available within the hour. Then he instructed the driver to divert to the local studio.
Jake had never been interviewed by a major news outlet. During his time with the Agency he avoided the spotlight. It could be the death of a field operative’s career, or real death if the opponents caught the broadcast. But this was different. He already had millions of hits on the internet for how he had dressed-down the congressman from California.
After he got to the FOX News studio, he realized that their security was better than what he had gone through before entering the congressional subcommittee chambers. He guessed FOX had more enemies and they knew it. Congress actually had more enemies, but they thought everyone loved them. Ostriches with their head in the sand, or up their own asses.
Jake had devised his strategy while on the drive to the studio. He would need at least ten minutes to get his point across, assuming they’d let him talk without too much interruption.
Bill O’Reilly had the largest audience on cable. Hell, he had the largest audience in the country on television. Although Jake agreed with the man about eighty percent of the time, he really didn’t have time to watch him. Also, he was starting to lean a little too far to the left for Jake’s taste. Besides the fact that the man was a self-aggrandizing, bloviating blow-hard. Realistically, Jake was about as independent as possible. He didn’t have
much use for politicians in general, regardless of which side of the aisle they sat on. He believed in the Constitution, and had put his life on the line to defend it. That was as political as Jake would ever get.
The interview would be taped by satellite and air later that evening. After the normal pleasantries, Bill got right into it.
“You really shook up the congressional subcommittee yesterday, Mister Adams,” Bill said. “Did you plan on dressing down the congressman from California?”
Jake laughed. “No, it was just an added benefit of my time there.”
“You’ve really set the internet on fire,” Bill said.
“Yeah, too bad I don’t have a book to sell.”
“Right. You could call it How to Eviscerate a Congressman. I’d buy that.”
“Talk to your publisher,” Jake said. “Put in a good word for me.”
“I will. Do I get fifteen percent as your agent?”
“I’ll give you ten.”
“Deal. Now, seriously, why did you decide to engage congress the way you did?”
“Because I was sick of assholes. . .can I say that on cable?”
“Sure. You just did.”
“Okay, I was sick of assholes spewing their political positions ad nauseam and not actually asking me a straight question. They use their entire time trying to get their point into the congressional record. They didn’t want to know what happened. The facts had already come out on that. I had been cleared of all wrongdoing. These people are supposed to represent us in congress, and all they’re concerned about is making themselves look good for reelection. They’re the poster children for term limits.”
Bill laughed and sat back in his chair. “Whoa. Why don’t you say what you really think? Are you sure you don’t want to run for office.”
“I’d have to lose at least fifty points on my intelligence exam,” Jake said. “Maybe get a frontal lobotomy.”
Bill laughed again. “What about your own congresswoman, Lori Freeman.”
“I admire her,” Jake said. “She says what she means and means what she says. She gives people the benefit of the doubt until she doubts their benefit.”
“Do you know the congresswoman from Montana?” Bill asked.
“We’ve met now,” he said. “And let me make one thing perfectly clear to anyone listening out there. If any harm comes to her, I will hunt you all down and kill you.”
Bill looked shocked, but he cleared his throat and said, “Where did that come from Mister Adams?”
“I was kidnapped from my hotel last night and tortured for hours,” Jake said. “And I’m not talking about water boarding here. The kidnappers made threats to me and the congresswoman.” Well, they had to Jake, but not the congresswoman directly. He continued, “I was able to escape.”
Now Bill looked stunned. “Are you serious? What did they want from you?”
“I can’t discuss that. But I’m just putting them on notice right here on your show. If anything happens to anyone I know. If an associate of mine stubs his toe. If Congresswoman Lori Freeman so much as comes down with an unexplained cold. I will find you.” He pointed his finger at the camera now. “I will hunt you down. And you will pay. You can count on it. You know what I can do.”
For the first time in years, Bill O’Reilly was speechless, his mouth hanging open.
Jake pulled out his ear piece and left his chair in front of the camera.
Before leaving the building he found a land-line and made a quick call.
“Lori,” he said. “Jake. Where are you?”
“I’m at home,” she said. “Why?”
“What are your plans this weekend?”
“Jake Adams. Are you asking me out?”
He hesitated as he glanced around the dark corridor outside the studio. “Maybe,” he said.
“Well, you must be psychic. I was just about to call you. Our professor is in custody in Whitefish, Montana.”
“What the hell’s he doing there?”
“Not over the phone.”
They agreed to meet and then hung up.
Outside and in a taxi, Jake looked at his cell phone and wondered if he should get rid of the tracking chip inside. Not yet.
The cab dropped him off at a coffee shop down the block from Congresswoman Freeman’s condo complex. She was already waiting at a table away from the front window in a corner booth. She had a large coffee half full in front of her and a medium backpack on the bench next to her. Good, she had taken his advice.
“You want a coffee?” she asked him.
“No, I’m fine.” He sat down and shoved his rolling duffle bag under the table.
“If the tabloids see us,” she said, “they’ll guess we’re going off together for the weekend.”
“We are.”
“You know what I mean.”
He smiled and then said, “I’m guessing you watch FOX News and Bill O’Reilly.”
She admitted this with a shrug.
He explained what had happened to him since they had last met, including his kidnapping but leaving out some of the brutal details, and ending with his visit to Bill O’Reilly. “I won’t apologize for what I said there,” he said. “I needed to put them on notice.”
She leaned across the table closer to him. “Do you really think I’m in danger?”
“It’s possible. You might have been flagged with some of the inquiries you’ve made.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Regardless, you and I have been linked. So someone is making the assumption that I’m working for you. That’s not a good thing for either of us. We need to get out of town. What’s on the agenda next week?”
“We’re on a break until the State of the Union,” she said. “I have a trip to South Korea with a bi-partisan committee to attend six-party talks with the North.”
Jake thought about his next move. “So, you were planning on going back to Montana anyway?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure what you have in mind.”
“We’ll travel together alone.” He smiled at her and continued, “Let’s go Lori. We have a plane to catch and a professor to meet.”
Her sigh said everything as they got up and left the coffee shop.
9
Whitefish, Montana
The Whitefish Police Department consisted of ten patrol officers, a few sergeants and lieutenants, the assistant chief and the chief of police, Buddy Grimes, a gruff old guy with a beard who had spent most of his time in Army military police and as a Montana State Trooper before ‘retiring’ to sleepy Whitefish, where nothing much happened.
During the past dozen or so hours, Professor James Tramil had heard nearly every story the police chief could summon from his many years in law enforcement. Tramil thought the guy had a special place in his heart for his time in the Army. It took Tramil a couple of hours to convince Chief Grimes that he wasn’t a dirtbag. That he wasn’t trying to have sex with another man in the Amtrak bathroom. That the man had held a knife to his throat and had actually drawn a little blood. And that this same man had killed his friend and colleague back in Corvallis, Oregon. Once the chief confirmed his story, sort of, with the Oregon State University campus police and the Corvallis police, the man had calmed down some and started in with the story telling.
Part of Tramil wished he was still inside the small holding cell like the first few hours in custody. Somehow he’d felt safer in there. Also, the chief wouldn’t be recycling some of the same stories.
Now, ten p.m. quickly approaching, Tramil sat at a small table in the main area of the small police department building.
The police chief was on the phone again with Amtrak authorities. They had searched the train many times for the mysterious man, first as it sat at the Whitefish terminal, and then a few more times as it traveled east toward Minnesota.
Chief Grimes set the phone back down and said, “Still haven’t found the man. He’s like a ghost. One of the passengers admitted to taki
ng a picture of the man. We should get that by e-mail in a short while. You mentioned he looked like a 50s throwback, with a buzz cut and horned rimmed glasses. You want some more coffee? I could make a fresh pot.”
“No, thanks,” Tramil said. “I’ll be up all night as it is.” In fact, he wasn’t even sure where he would stay this night.
The chief of police shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go. Your story checks out. We’ve got no reason to hold you.”
Tramil didn’t think he was really being held. He was there more for his own protection from the killer. “Where do I go from here?”
“I don’t know. Back to Oregon.”
A young patrol officer approached cautiously, like a coyote sneaking up on a bear over an elk kill. “Sir, you have a call on line one.”
“Thanks, Johnny.” The chief picked up the phone and listened, his posture changing from somewhat slouched to nearly military attention. “We have no reason to hold him.” His eyes shifted toward Tramil. “Yes, ma’am. Will do. Is there anything else I can do for you?” He tightened his jaw, said goodbye, and then hung up the phone. Then he scratched his beard, a confused look on his weathered face.
“Everything all right?” Tramil asked.
“Don’t know. Our congresswoman from Montana will be here in the morning. She wants to talk with you about something. Very strange. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” Tramil said. “What does she want with me?”
“I have no clue. I told her we have no reason to hold you. She said to put you up in a hotel. It’s too late for you to go anywhere tonight anyway. You have no car. There are no more flights out of Kalispell this evening. And the next Amtrak train to come by will be tomorrow’s eastbound Empire Builder.” He checked his watch. “The westbound train just left about a half hour ago. There’s a nice old western historic hotel a couple blocks from here. They also make a great breakfast.”
Tramil didn’t really have a choice. He could decide in the morning where he would go next. “All right,” he agreed.
Just as Tramil stood to leave, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, a man came through the front door of the small police department office. Before Tramil could speak any warning, the man pulled a gun and shot the young patrol officer. Police Chief Grimes barely got his gun out of its holster when a shot blew through his shoulder and sent blood spray onto Tramil. Both police officers crashed to the floor as the man with the gun, the same man who had threatened Tramil on the train and killed his friend, moved around the police officer and picked up their guns and extra magazines, shoving them into his jacket pockets.
