“Thank God.” Jake went quiet for the next thirty miles. Then, out of nowhere: “Thank God.” Again.
* * *
They stopped just outside a small town in the Bear River area to refresh.
“You think it will work?” Divya had just returned to the parked 4Runner from a Conoco, where they stopped to get trail mix and coffee.
“I do.” Jake took one of the steaming cups from her and opened the door. “Thanks for the coffee.”
He pulled back onto Highway 15, headed south. They were approaching Ogden, where the northern reaches of the mountains that laid claim to Utah’s most famous powder snow began to rise to their left. The grayish outline of the peaks was visible against the dark eastern sky. The snow line here was higher than up north, and the weather in the valley, where the road ran, was warmer—in the upper forties, even though the sun had set.
They arrived in Salt Lake City at 10:30 p.m. It had taken some wheedling to get Wright to agree to let them come, and that was accomplished by Jake’s threatening to take the thing public.
The hectic nature of a city always caught Jake by surprise. The roads were wide and full of cars, even at night. The inky-black darkness of the western sky was polluted by glowing signs and parking-lot streetlamps. Businesses, mostly big-box stores and megagroceries, were still open and bustling.
The small detention center for women where Meirong was being kept was located between the famous Temple and Capitol Hill, on West 300 North, a dreadfully unimaginative moniker.
Jake pulled in to the campus after receiving a visitor pass for himself and Divya at the front gate. The building was low—just three stories—and its landscaping surprisingly elaborate, reminiscent more of a suburban hotel than a prison. The only giveaways were the high fence around the perimeter and the powerful xenon flood lamps.
On the way inside, Jake pondered his chances. He had no viable avenue other than to appeal to Wright’s sense of decency. That and his ego. The plan was reasonable, Jake thought, and would allow the assistant director to bury Terrell’s death with one last heroic act.
* * *
They were buzzed in by an imposing Latina woman in her early forties who wasn’t happy to be there.
“Thanks,” Jake said.
The woman responded only, “Follow me.”
Wright was sitting in an interrogation room—bright but austere. A place that might make you reconsider your decision not to cooperate.
A metal table sat in the middle of the room. Wright sat on an orange padded desk chair on one end and gestured for Jake and Divya to take a seat at the other, where there were two unpadded stools.
“So,” Wright started, “Divya says you have a plan to get Chief Terrell’s wife out of China.” He too was sipping on a large coffee.
Jake cleared his throat. “What do you know about Tiananmen Square?”
The assistant director frowned and took a swig of coffee. “I was there from early April to the middle of May, when things got too hot.”
Jake tried to hide his surprise. “And how would you describe it?”
“Chaotic. Hell, scary. I don’t know. What are you getting at?”
“The Chinese have a history of political protests. Riots, really, for social equality. I think we can use that to our advantage.”
He swallowed a gulp of coffee. “How?”
At least he’s hearing me out.
“I think if we could leak information regarding Tram Village and the plan to perpetuate a dynasty of Shar-Peis, we could set off a chain reaction that might topple the place—a localized social revolution that would allow us to sneak in with as few as four or five men to get Charlotte out.”
Wright was rubbing his stubble, looking unconvinced. “And when you say men, you mean who? You’re not going to go. I’m not going to go.”
“CIA with Special Forces.”
“And we’d need a heli or two?”
“Yes, sir.”
A long sigh. “What about recoil? We can’t destroy our relations with China for one woman’s life.”
This was why Jake hated the CIA, and politics in general. “Blame the dead senator. He leaked it, and the US had to respond to a citizen in danger. No choice.”
Wright was quiet. Jake and Divya exchanged looks. She mouthed something that might have been Good in his direction. Jake shrugged, thinking: Worth a shot.
Wright cleared his throat. “Impossible.”
Jake’s shoulders slumped, the last bit of hope starting to escape.
“You’ve been with the agency too long,” Divya blurted at Wright, who betrayed no emotion. “Let’s go, Jake.” Divya stood up.
“Do you have a family, sir?” Jake was still sitting.
“A wife and one son.”
“What if her life was at risk? What if your son were to grow up without a mother? Would you want CIA hard-liners to dictate her fate?”
Wright shook his head. “I would want you to dictate her fate, but no man is bigger than the machine, Jake.”
Jake stood, but maintained glacial eye contact as he started to the door.
“I do appreciate everything. Both of you. But I’ve got a huge mess to clean up.”
Jake heard Wright’s words as the door to the interrogation room slipped closed behind him.
They were silent until Jake started the car.
“What do we do now?” he asked Divya. He didn’t look at her.
“I don’t know.”
Divya returned her rental car and opted to fly out of Salt Lake. She called United, but there wasn’t a flight available for twenty-four hours.
Jake felt guilty leaving her alone. “You can keep me company on the ride if you want. Fly out of Jackson.”
She agreed, hugging him and saying over and over again, “I’m sorry.”
“Are you going to stay with the agency?” he asked on the long ride home.
“I don’t know. Might take a little break.” A pause. “Jake, I tried to do it right.”
“It’s okay.” From his days at the Office, Jake knew how it felt.
58
WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. OCTOBER 31.
8:30 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
Jake called Layle in the morning to inquire about the Terrell children.
“Not yet. They don’t know yet. Still in Victor with their aunt.”
“Does she know?”
“I’ve told her that things got tangled up in China, and their return is delayed. What’s going on at your end?”
“It’s over as far as we go. Keep me updated on the kids.”
Chayote’s enthusiasm at his master’s arrival lightened Jake’s mood somewhat—he’d received attention from the neighbor only for feeding and bathroom breaks. The same storm that barreled through Idaho Falls had spread through the tall spires of the Tetons, leaving two new feet in the mountains and seven or eight inches at the bed-and-breakfast. When Jake let him out, the heeler galloped through the snow, eating big scoops of it until he was shivering.
Jake made a small fire and sat down by it to drink his coffee. The sixty-year-old guesthouse wasn’t airtight, and drafts haunted the downstairs. He didn’t like turning on the electric heat until the first night below zero.
J.P. was with Esma at the hospital. She was doing well. The sepsis was in check, and she was likely to be released the next day.
Jake’s plans for the day were basic—he needed to cover and store his boat, tape some of the especially leaky window frames, and deal with Divya. She still didn’t have a flight. The airport was behind because of the weather.
Jake’s plans changed when she came racing down the stairs at 8:45 a.m.
“Meirong is dead,” she blurted. “Hanged herself in the cell by her jumpsuit.”
Thoughts flooded Jake’s head. “Where does that leave u
s?” An epiphany. Can we go get Charlotte?
“Wright is in. He’s on the phone as we speak, trying to sell the agency higher-ups on your idea.”
Jake jogged upstairs to get dressed and brush his teeth. “What can I do?” he shouted back down at her.
“Nothing but wait.”
He took a seat on his bed and aired a big sigh of relief. All was not lost. Meirong was gone, and with her the biggest bargaining chip for Charlotte. But Xiao didn’t know that yet, and if they acted quickly, he wouldn’t find out until Charlotte was safe.
* * *
Jake was shoveling snow out of his skiff with a small shovel from his backcountry ski pack when Divya came outside. He had retrieved the canvas cover from its place in the garage and spread it out beside the boat.
Divya looked like Jake felt: reinvigorated and optimistic. Still beautifully severe in a dark outfit and her mirrored sunglasses.
“Any word?” he asked her.
“Not yet.”
Jake looked at his watch, wondering what was taking so long. Bureaucracy, he figured. Hopefully not so much as to derail the effort entirely.
“Hey, do me a favor and grab the other end of that cover and pull it over the stern.”
When the cover was attached, Jake pushed the trailer a few dozen feet back off the driveway, under the shelter of a large pine.
“This guy yours?” Divya was crouched, rubbing Chayote’s ears.
“Yeah. Kind of forced his way into the family here.”
“I love the place. Get much business?”
“Not really. Let’s go inside; I’ll show you around.”
The main house was cold; there hadn’t been any guests since the weather changed, and thus no need for heat. The large interior—thirty-five hundred square feet or so—was decorated in a combination of brawny fishing lodge furniture and contemporary western art.
Divya stopped in front of a tangerine rendition of an American bison in the main gathering room.
“Interesting.” A smile peeked through.
“Hey, we’re in Wyoming.”
“I’ve never been to Wyoming.”
“Then don’t dis my orange buffalo.”
After the brief tour, they settled in by the fire in the guesthouse to get down to business. Chayote, with no such aspirations, snored loudly from the hearth.
“What’s the timetable?” Jake was feeling anxious.
“Hopefully quick. We need to move before Xiao learns that Canart and Meirong are dead. We’ve informed Canart’s wife only that her husband is missing and that revealing such information to anyone else at this stage could jeopardize his life. Not a perfect plan, but it buys us a few days.”
Shortly after noon, Wright called and asked to speak with Jake. Divya handed her phone over.
“Jake. It’s a go. We’re gonna try to get out of this mess with some semblance of a positive result.”
59
TRAM VILLAGE, CHINA. NOVEMBER 1.
1 P.M. BEIJING TIME.
Charlotte Terrell turned over in her bed. She’d been trying to spend as much time as possible asleep, where reality was diluted, but her body was restless. She flipped onto her back and opened her eyes, blankly staring at the stucco ceiling for a few moments.
“Funny seeing you here,” she said toward the giant in the corner, who didn’t say anything in response.
Charlotte sat up and looked at the clock. Holy shit! She got out of bed, used the restroom, and washed her face. Looking in the mirror, she could swear she’d added a few wrinkles since this nightmare started.
“Food?” she asked the giant as she walked back to the main room and plopped down on the corner of the bed. He got on the phone and ordered some.
“Ask him when I am leaving.”
The giant hung up. “It wasn’t Xiao.”
Charlotte’s bags sat neatly packed in the center of the room. Her late husband’s bags were pushed into the corner, where they didn’t catch her eye as often. The TV had become more of an annoyance than a luxury; there were very few programs in English, and she hadn’t even begun to understand the local dialect. Instead, she reread the Western Home magazine that was in the room.
Her body was sore from being idle. “I need exercise if I’m staying for a while.” She’d said it hoping the giant would reassure her that it wouldn’t be long.
All he said was, “I’ll ask Xiao.”
The food arrived, brought by the front-desk woman, and Charlotte ate as much as she could despite a weak appetite. She wanted to stay as healthy as possible—physically and mentally.
The room was starting to smell lived-in. The hot food coming and going had stuck around too, bringing a cafeteria aroma to the carpet and upholstery. The sheets had been changed only once since their arrival, and not at all since her daylong drug-induced sleep, from which she had woken up clammy and sweating.
She showered frequently, but she preferred to wear the same clothes—a white pajama outfit with holly leaves and berries.
“I’m going to clean up,” she said to herself. The giant didn’t bother looking up from his phone. She washed her face and put on makeup and body lotion, thinking the ritual might induce a sense of normalcy. When she was finished, she walked to the window.
“What’s that?”
Nothing from the giant.
“Hey, who are they?”
The giant sighed and stood, joining her at the window. Charlotte had a forefinger pressed to it, pointing to the front gate, where a crowd of a few dozen people was gathered on the outside.
“Just workers.”
But before he could sit back down, his phone rang. The giant spoke fast in Mandarin, then hung up and turned to her.
“I’ll be right back.”
* * *
In groups of three and four, more and more people were accumulating. Half the distance to the formation, the giant from the room was standing with Xiao in the dusty road, looking on.
She was still watching when the giant came back.
He walked to his post in the corner without saying a word.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Villagers.”
Charlotte returned to the window. It looked as though the crowd was approaching fifty or sixty.
“What do they want?”
“Probably money.”
As more and more villagers gathered, the mass began a procession toward Main Street.
“They’re coming in.” The group was pushing and pulling on the gate, using leverage to break it down.
The giant joined Charlotte at the window, then abruptly headed for the door.
The mob reached the middle of Main Street in short order. It was made up of men, mainly, early teenagers to fortysomethings. They moved about without direction, an uneasy throng looking around curiously. A few held picket signs, but Charlotte couldn’t decipher the characters. Every few moments a new group of five or six would pour in from the broken front gate.
That silly white bison was their first target, and Charlotte watched it tumble over with some satisfaction. A few minutes later, a very young demonstrator wandered over to the fallen beast and tried to light it on fire.
The men became more unruly as their numbers multiplied. River rocks from the ornate landscaping were tossed at windows. Doors in various buildings were being tested and broken down.
The giant came hustling in, calling for Charlotte. When she followed him into the hall, Xiao was there too, and she looked at him.
“We’re moving. Leave your bags.”
The giant gripped Charlotte by the upper arm. He led her down to the parking garage, where they got in a silver luxury sedan. With the giant behind the wheel, he pulled out of the garage that faced the opposite direction from the mob.
He drove fast around the back s
ide of Main Street and stopped behind the restaurant where Charlotte had been imprisoned with her husband. He jumped out, grabbed Charlotte from the backseat, and with Xiao, led her into through the back door, down the stairs and into the stark-looking kitchen.
“Sit down,” the giant ordered.
“What’s going on?”
Xiao fielded this one. “Local farmers, here to steal. Scavenger dogs.” Uncharacteristically, he sounded unsure of himself. “It will pass.” He walked up the stairs and disappeared.
Even in the bunkerlike basement of the restaurant, Charlotte could sporadically hear the crowd shouting in unison. “What are they saying?”
“I can’t tell.” The giant, like Xiao, seemed concerned.
The noise from outside grew louder. It sounded now as though the crowd was just outside the restaurant. “Are they trying to get in?”
The giant didn’t respond. He was busy listening.
Xiao returned with a handgun for the giant. He was visibly shaken. They spoke to each other in Mandarin for a moment and Xiao left again, up the stairs.
Charlotte sat in silence, until she noticed the smell. “Smoke. They’re trying to burn the building.” Her uneasiness morphed into full-on fear. Not because she was afraid of her own demise, but for her children.
The giant left Charlotte’s side and looked up the stairwell. When he came back he said, “Something outside burning,” but didn’t look convinced.
More ruckus. The structure of the building itself seemed to be emitting a low buzz; the crowd was here. Testing windows, doors, and walls.
“Come with me.” The giant grabbed Charlotte by the arm again and led her to the dry-storage room where she’d shared her last days with her husband. The broken cot still sat near the door, a memorial to Roger’s courage.
Both Charlotte and the giant were breathing heavily now—uncertain of what awaited them. The din of voices was followed by the clamoring of pots and pans hitting the tile floor. The mob was in the kitchen.
The lock still hadn’t been repaired, so the giant leaned his mass up against the door, attempting to barricade it. The sharp ping of shattering wine glasses and dinnerware knifed under the door, coming from a much nearer source than the initial racket. They were closing in.
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