“Idahoans refuse to jump on the opponent’s bandwagon, which is built solely on manufactured fear. They understand that we live in a changing world that requires a change in policies. The students here today on the lawn are an indication that even the most freedom-loving Americans understand a need for a revamped immigration policy.”
According to the senator’s staff, the crowd at the university was six hundred strong.
It all gave Jake the creeps. Not only the thought of a bugged world but also the political process—the deception and the posturing.
“What a mess,” Jake mumbled under his breath as Molly clanged down his breakfast.
“What’s that, sweetie? Something else?”
“More coffee. Thanks.”
Jake turned to the local news, with pleasant headlines like “Wrestler Eric Brighton: This Year’s High School State Champion.”
His phone buzzed. Divya again. Dammit. Why did I even go to DC? He pressed ignore. She hadn’t left a voice mail last night. Was she calling to apologize? He doubted it.
The coffee came.
Something had seemed off from the moment he arrived in DC. The party in Divya’s apartment, the way the Divya acted, the men and women composing the lobby. It was all canned politics. It didn’t fit with his recollections of Divya. Was she faking it just to climb the ladder? It made Jake sick to his stomach.
Or maybe it was the grease-marinated hash.
Jake left twenty bucks on the table, a good tip for a cheap meal. He turned to the breakfast club, but they were arguing over the nutritional values of various cattle feeds.
* * *
The drive back to Jackson passed smoothly, save for a slightly slick surface on the top of Teton Pass. Driving into the valley brought on a sense of relief. Here, Jake could live, like the King Cutty, safe and sound but for the occasional stinging ant. The sneaky little devils.
At the bottom of the pass, Jake turned right onto Trout Creek Road, which followed the stream past the back of the bed-and-breakfast and to its confluence with the Snake.
He turned left into the driveway. Chayote showed himself immediately upon Jake’s arrival. He had been left out, probably roaming the neighborhood and looking for something smelly to roll in. The cattle dog reacted aggressively at first, guarding his territory, but when Jake rolled down the window and called to him, his tail wagged and he bounded alongside the vehicle.
He reached the guesthouse at the end of the driveway. There was no sign of J.P. The lights were off and his old truck was missing. Jake figured they were still on their way home.
It was 1:15 p.m. Plenty of time left in the afternoon to go collect the wood from the Millers’ property below the Wilson faces. It was a good temperature for working outside too. Fifty degrees with intermittent clouds.
Jake opened the tailgate of the 4Runner and folded down the backseats to make room for the cargo. Without beckoning, Chayote hopped up into the back and lay down.
“Fair enough, buddy. You’ve been alone too long.”
* * *
As Jake passed the old Stagecoach Bar, a pair of mountain bikers stuck out their thumbs, hoping to hitch a ride back to the top of the pass for another descent. Soon, they would be in ski gear. Jake headed north on the upper portion of Trout Creek Road, on the other side of Highway 22. Chayote joined him up front, sitting on the passenger seat and intently watching the scenery roll by.
Three miles up the road, Jake turned left onto a two-track and stopped. He got out of the vehicle, opened the cattle gate to the Miller ranch, and closed it behind him. He had taken the Millers fishing, and in exchange they offered him access to their woodpile. He switched the truck’s transmission to four-wheel drive and proceeded slowly through the ruts, muddy from early season mountain snow.
The Millers’ horses wandered over and followed the moving car, thinking the visitor might be bearing gifts—apples, carrots, or at least some affection. Chayote, true to cattle-dog form, recognized the difference between bovine and equine and didn’t yap.
A mile and a half past the gate, the slope of the mountains began and the vegetation changed from sagebrush and the occasional willow to all conifers. In a small pull-off on the right lay stacks of freshly cut wood.
After pulling a pair of gloves from his camping pack, Jake opened the rear hatch. Chayote bounded out and began working his nose. Satisfied they were alone, he walked with Jake to the woodpile.
It was a daunting task. Jake sighed, rolled his neck, and loaded up. Four or five pieces at a time. He loaded the logs first through the rear doors and then progressively worked his way back.
An hour later, the 4Runner was full.
Jake made one more trip in the afternoon and called it quits. He showered, put on clean clothes, and started a fire. It wasn’t all that cold in the guesthouse, but it seemed apropos.
He was physically tired, but restless. He played on his laptop for a minute, checked fishing reports, and then lay down on the couch by the fire. Closing his eyes didn’t work. His mind wandered. Shouldn’t have had all that diner coffee. It was only 4:15 p.m., and Jake had nothing to do. With the King Cutty gone from his lair, Jake didn’t feel like pursuing small fish.
Sitting up, he grabbed his phone from the side table and flipped it around in his hands a few times. In frustration, he scratched at his head, then unlocked the phone. What the hell. He dialed Divya.
“Jake, I’m glad you called.” The bubbly tone was gone.
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to do something for us.”
“Listen, I told you, I’m not interested.”
“Jake, please.” Her voice sounded stilted—under duress? Jake couldn’t tell.
“Look, I’m with you on this; the senator is off his rocker. I just can’t commit to anything right now.” He didn’t mention that the mere thought of being involved made him feel anxious.
“Then why did you come?”
Jake forced a laugh. “I really don’t know, Divya. Boredom. Sense of responsibility.”
“Listen, Jake, just hear me out.” More stress in her tone, almost melancholy.
“I can’t. I’m gonna go.” He felt relief. Whatever he needed to keep himself busy for the winter, this wasn’t it.
Suddenly Divya cut in, blurting something out in a rush of words. But it couldn’t have been what he thought.
Jake was silent for several seconds. “Say that again, Divya.”
“Paris. 1995.”
Jake’s mind was racing. “Listen to me, Divya. I have no idea what you think you know—”
“I know it all.”
“No.” Jake was angry now. “If you knew it all, you wouldn’t try to blackmail me with it.”
“Then you can explain it to me. After you do one small favor for us.”
Jake hung up the phone and slammed it on the table.
30
TRAM VILLAGE, CHINA.
Catatonic.
Wait, are you catatonic if you have the ability to recognize that you’re catatonic? Charlotte didn’t know. She knew she was trying to tell the giant that yes, she did want a glass of water, but nothing was coming out.
She also suspected that she should have been crying for the last two days, but why cry about something that wasn’t real? It was a dream. She pinched herself again hard on the back of the arm. The giant scrambled over and pulled her hand away. She looked at her bare arm where he was pointing. Bruises everywhere.
It’s okay, she tried to tell him. Nothing came out.
She was back in the hotel suite where the crazy dream had started. Just a few blocks from home, she figured. The dream wouldn’t end until she got there to see the kids.
The stocky boss man came in again. Ciao, Shaw, Zhe . . . Xiao, that was it. He’d been sticking around the dream for a while now.
Charlotte
could hear him talk, but it was muffled as though he were underwater. “I need you wake up.”
I’d love to wake up, she thought. Can you help?
“Wake up!” This time it was less garbled. Louder. A slap across her face. She didn’t feel it, just as she didn’t feel the pinches.
“Get the phone!” she heard him say to the giant, who had also been in the dream for too long.
He held it to her ear. “It’s the deputy, Charlotte. Talk!”
She must have dreamt that she was older. Her husband—what was his name?—was the deputy when they were in their thirties. Maybe she was dreaming the future. Someday he would be the chief. He would love that.
Finally, words came. “Honey?” she called softly into the phone.
“Charlotte? What the hell is going on?”
“Don’t be mad.”
“This is Layle, Charlotte. What’s going on over there?”
Layle was his name. Oh well. She thought she remembered something different.
“Nothing. Sleeping.”
Xiao yanked the phone from Charlotte’s ear. “She’s not well.”
Snarky bastard.
She couldn’t hear Layle’s response.
Xiao spoke again. “Nothing. She’s had some . . . what do you call . . . trauma.”
I’m fine, Charlotte thought.
“So you’ve not found my daughter?” Xiao was getting angry. “We’ll talk about Terrell when you give better news.”
Terrell, Charlotte recognized, is my last name.
* * *
Layle dropped the phone back in its cradle. It was 6 p.m. but he was nowhere near going home. Keeping the secret was driving him crazy, but Xiao seemed to know everything. If he enlisted help, he had no doubt the man would do something insane. If he hadn’t already.
Jess, Layle’s fiancée, was calling on his cell again. Goddammit!
“Hello?”
“Jesus, what’s up your ass?”
“Honey, I . . . nothing, I just can’t talk right now. Work is crazy.”
“Sure. You better not be with some woman.” She was kidding, but it sent him over the edge.
“Why do you always do this? Can’t you tell I don’t have time for this shit?”
No response.
He looked at the phone’s screen. Call ended.
Layle cursed and slammed his fist down on the desk. A few files of census data slid off and fell all over the floor. He tilted his head back and sighed, trying to compose himself. In the last few days, he had focused solely on finding Meirong Xiao, except for the brief meeting with Noelle Klimpton to close the wolf case.
He’d searched old county and state cases back to 1980. All arrest records. Census data, phone books, and online. Real estate transactions, old newspapers, business records, articles of incorporation, and civil complaints. Even in surrounding areas. There was no trace of her.
He had run out of resources. Nothing to do but climb up on the roof and yell her damned name.
For the second time that day, Deputy Layle looked through the FBI contact folder from the chief’s desk. He knew what he was looking for: CIRG or Critical Incident Response Group. This was the department that provided emergency assistance for hostage situations, kidnappings, and crises. He dialed the main line but hung up, wondering whether Xiao might intercept the call. Instead, he walked across the hall to the DMV, overrode the network’s email password protection with his county-clearance code, and typed up a message to the address listed under “Tips.”
Layle filled the email with as much detail as he could without revealing his own identity. He took a deep breath and sent it, then returned to his desk, where he unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the hook and pulled on a U of Wyoming football sweatshirt. He grabbed the keys to his pickup and locked his office.
Instead of driving back over the pass and home to Victor, Layle headed to the brewpub. The first amber ale and whiskey shot went down too easy, but not as easy as the second round. The dinner crowd filtered in around 7 p.m., filling every available seat. For his third, Layle switched to the pale ale and omitted the whiskey. He started looking around: first, to see if someone fitting Meirong’s description might wander by, and second, to make sure there weren’t any Chinese henchmen stalking him.
His paranoia grew worse with beers four and five. That was when his phone rang. The caller ID said “Blocked,” like every call from Xiao.
“Be right back,” he told the bartender.
The sun was setting and it was cold outside. Snow King Mountain was making snow for the upcoming season.
“Hello?”
“Layle Statler?” Surprise. It was a pleasant woman’s voice, with a mild accent that he couldn’t place.
“Yeah?”
“I’m calling about the tip you left on the bureau’s website.”
Layle was uneasy. He looked around at the locals smoking in the parking lot.
“How’d you get this number?”
The woman sighed. “We’re the FBI.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a cop; you can’t find a personal cell phone number just from an IP address.”
“Our resources are extensive, Mr. Statler.”
The deputy doubted the woman, but went along. “What’s your name?”
“Agent Rachel Vandeleur.”
“Hang on, Agent Vandeleur.” Layle walked out of the brewpub’s parking lot and onto Millward Street, heading south to get away from anyone who might overhear. He stopped between two parked cars, checked his surroundings, and spoke. “Okay, let’s talk.”
“How have you been in contact with the people holding the chief?”
“Phone. Blocked number. Same as yours.”
Vandeleur ignored Layle’s suspicion. “We can get around that. Do you have any other information about the captors?”
“His name is Xiao, the one in charge. They are being held at a resort in China. Tram Village, China. That’s why the chief went there—to do publicity for this resort based on our town. But it was a ruse, I guess. The guy, Xiao, wants his daughter back; he’s totally obsessed. He says she’s somewhere here. But I . . .” Guilt washed over him. “I can’t find her, and I haven’t heard from the chief himself in a while.” Layle described the phone calls from China, Xiao’s increasing frustration, and the uncertainty of Terrell’s condition.
“It’s okay, Deputy. We’ll get them back safely.”
“What should I do?”
“It’s important that you don’t tell anyone about this. We must be discreet, or we risk creating an international incident. If the chief’s stay goes longer than expected, tell your department that the Terrells extended their vacation.”
“That’s it? What—what are you going to do?”
“Talk to my superior, discuss with Foreign Affairs, verify our jurisdiction, and then act.”
Vague.
“Can you keep me updated on the progress?” A hiccup from the craft beer.
“Yes, Deputy. We’ll be in touch. Call me if you hear from Xiao again.” She gave the deputy her number. It had a 202 area code.
The woman hung up. Layle glanced around once more, then headed back to the pub to try to forget about it for now.
31
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA. OCTOBER 24.
10 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
Assistant Director Wright didn’t sound pleased to be on the receiving end of Divya’s late-night phone call.
“We intercepted a message from Terrell’s stand-in, sir. The deputy.” Divya and Wright had jumped through a month of bureaucratic hoops over the summer to bug the police station. It hadn’t been easy. Since the mid-twentieth century, two congressional subcommittees, the Senate Select Committee for Intelligence (SSCI) and the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence (HPSCI), had overseen the actions of the CIA.
Neither had been too keen to investigate a fellow lawmaker, let alone bug the office of a state law-enforcement entity. But Wright had swayed them, highlighting the potential ramifications of taking no action.
Divya listened to Wright and cringed, hoping he approved of her intervening and improvising with the deputy.
“Yes, he contacted the FBI,” she replied. “CIRG, to be precise.” She scratched a few notes onto a pad. “Well, I told him we would get the chief back.”
A short rant from Wright, then: “Luckily, both oversight committees—SSCI and HPSCI—are on recess with the rest of Congress. Don’t ever tell them about going over the heads of CIRG and the feds. It’s between you and me.” He went on with a few more questions.
“Right. He has no reason to suspect anything more than a simple quid pro quo. The chief for the daughter.”
A few more notes.
“Thank you, sir.”
After hanging up, Divya grabbed her notepad and tossed it into her briefcase. Wright was never totally happy with anything, but he sounded relatively approving of her stratagem. She was instructed to carry on with the Agent-Rachel-Vandeleur ruse to see what she could find out.
Divya picked up the desk phone and called her favorite cab driver.
“It is late, Rashi, I know. Thank you.”
A few agents were still in various departments of Langley, men and women unfamiliar to her. She threw them weak smiles and nods. The CIA didn’t approve of too much socializing between units.
* * *
At home in Georgetown, Divya drew a bath. She did some of her best thinking there, although for this case it was really Wright’s job to do the thinking.
A simple task had become a mess. Figure out how and why an Idaho senator had come to be familiar with a Chinese technology that was not only top secret but also developed by one of the most elusive and dangerous Chinese spies in history. A spy who had allegedly given up his trade nearly a decade ago.
An Idaho senator, for God’s sake. How did these two individuals find each other?
How the daughter played into it all was another question, though of secondary importance to the agency. But finding her was paramount, if only because it would help get the chief’s widow back. Poor woman.
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