“No problem. Access road, got it. What time?”
“Like I said, it’s time sensitive, but I realize you have a job and a schedule of your own, so how soon could you leave work?”
“I can leave right now. I’m not doing anything crucial at the moment.”
That was true enough. She’d forced herself to come into the lab, but mainly she’d spent her morning alternately staring out the window and refreshing the news feed on her computer in a futile search for updates on the murder of Jason Durbin.
“Perfect. I’ll owe you one,” he promised with a smile in his voice.
Oh no, she thought. You won’t owe me anything, because I plan to collect right now. I’m going to tell you I’m the one who called 9-1-1 the night Jason Durbin was killed and you’re going to keep me out of trouble.
She hung up the phone, scooped up her purse and keys, and hurried out of the lab. Her supervisor was in meetings all day, so she told his assistant she was going to the university campus over in Golden Plains to do some research. She guessed she might be gone all afternoon. The assistant jotted it down and waved her away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Gavriil palmed the steering wheel of the rental car, unable to believe his luck. The scientist was leading him straight to the doctor, which solved his primary problem that he couldn’t be two places at once.
After the police chief had shown up at The Prairie Center, he’d slipped into the woods and back to his home base. He hadn’t surveilled the scientist in a while, so he fetched the car from the shed where he’d hidden it and drove toward her workplace. He tried to minimize driving as much as possible since he had rented the car using one false identification, which he’d immediately dumped, and was driving it using a second one. Getting around this godforsaken hinterland required a vehicle, though. So he’d just have to obey the traffic regulations and hope for the best.
He’d set up on a hill behind the high school and trained his binoculars on her car in the Supra Seed employee parking lot. That was all the closer he dared to get to the corporate campus. The company’s security team was serious business. All ex-military, ex-government, ex-law enforcement. He had no desire to get on their radar.
He’d been surprised to see her hurrying across the lot to her white car. It wasn’t yet lunchtime. But he welcomed the action, so he set aside the binoculars and started his engine. He crawled down the steep hill at a pace that would ensure she’d pass him before the access road dumped him out on the main road. He saw her car coming around the bend and braked, waiting for her to zip by. Then he hit the gas and turned onto the county road.
He followed her at a comfortable distance. The road didn’t intersect with anything other than private drives and farm access roads for another seven miles. He could let her get ahead without worrying that he would lose her.
Instead he worried about the silence from his contact in Kyrgyzstan. He’d expect some acknowledgment. A message that he was working on finding the talent Gavriil needed. Something. But he hadn’t heard a peep.
There were too many players now. Eliminating the Chinese agent hadn’t made his job easier. Inexplicably, it had made it harder. He needed help. Now.
His fingers itched to text the man again, but this state’s laws prohibited both the use of handheld devices and texting while driving. He’d studied the applicable local rules and regulations before taking on the assignment, as was his practice. He’d known too many good operatives who’d gone down on minor traffic violations.
Up ahead, the scientist blew right past The Prairie Center’s driveway. Gavriil raised his eyebrows. He’d been so sure. Where the devil was she going then?
Ten seconds later, she slowed to a stop. She was stopping at the access road. The same road the federal agents had taken to get to their stakeout spot in the barn.
He dropped his speed and fell back.
A lone figure opened her passenger side door, ducked his head, and entered the vehicle.
From this distance, he couldn’t see the man’s face. But based on what he could make out—lanky frame, curly hair—Gavriil was certain it was the doctor.
Now he faced another decision.
The doctor wasn’t carrying San’s bag. Should he risk a trip to the monks’ farmhouse, right under the noses of the police and federal agents to retrieve San’s book—his book? He’d killed the man for it, after all. It belonged to him—to him and to Russia—now.
He hesitated.
No, follow the pair of civilians. He couldn’t leave Onatah just yet. Not with so many loose ends. And he lacked the cryptography skills to decode the book. That task would require specialists—SVR agents, most likely—and it exceeded the scope of his mission. So what difference did it make if the book was out of his hands for a few more hours or even a day?
Once he had more boots on the ground, he would regain possession of the book. Either through theft, negotiation, subterfuge, or violence. The method made no difference to him.
The better course was to neutralize the human assets first.
He increased his speed and closed the distance between his car and the white sedan.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bette and Agent Thurman returned to the barn shortly after Bodhi left to do whatever it was he planned to do with a plant pathologist and a handful of bean seeds. He’d tracked the two of them down in the clearing to tell them he was leaving, but Bette hadn’t quite understood his plan.
Agent Clausen looked up from her code-breaking efforts when Bette pushed open the door. Thurman followed her in and closed the door behind him.
“Learn anything useful?” Clausen asked.
Bette let Thurman answer. Clausen was his partner, not hers.
“Just that Fyodorovych must have ice water running through his veins.”
“Why’s that?”
Thurman glanced at Bette before he answered. She nodded. She agreed with his assessment.
“He wasn’t just watching the house. He was watching us, too.”
Clausen’s blue eyes widened. “He was watching the barn?”
“Yes, based on the pattern of the flattened grass, he rotated between two positions. One facing the farmhouse’s doors and one facing the barn.”
Clausen tapped her pencil against her teeth. The little clink of tooth enamel on wood made Bette cringe.
“He must have a pair of powerful binoculars.”
“Deductible business expense,” Thurman cracked.
Bette interjected. “What’s the next move? I can put out an all-points-bulletin on this guy, but I need something to give the state troopers or it’ll be a pretty useless APB. Do you have a recent photo? Make and model of his ride? Anything?”
The NCSC agents exchanged glances.
“Nothing,” Thurman said.
Nothing we’ll share with some local police department is what he means. Bette bit down on her lower lip to keep her thought unexpressed.
“So I think an APB would be premature at this juncture,” Clausen added smoothly. “Any word from your fire inspector?”
She’s trying to change the subject. But Bette realized she needed them more than they needed her right now, so she answered the question with a non-answer that would have made any federal agency proud.
“His investigation is ongoing, so I think it would be premature to discuss it at this juncture.”
“Touché,” Thurman said with an approving nod.
His partner iced him with a look. He glanced away first. Bette heard a buzzing sound. Clausen looked at her piles of papers then pawed through them until she dug out her mobile phone.
“Clausen.”
The person on the other end began to speak immediately. From her spot by the door, Bette could hear a fast, clipped voice speaking, but not the words. Beside her, Thurman stood up a little straighter, as if he recognized either the voice or the urgency in the delivery or both.
Clausen’s porcelain skin turned a shade lighter. She was almost translucent. B
ette could see the blue-green veins in her neck. Her mouth opened and formed a small ‘O.’ She nodded wordlessly.
Finally, she cut off her caller. “Troy, I’m going to put you on the speaker. I want Charlie to hear this. The Chief of Police of Onatah is here with us. She needs to hear this, too.”
A pause while Clausen listened.
Her mouth tightened. “I’d say she needs to know. This is her problem, too.”
Another pause.
“Do what you need to do to CYA. I’m making the call, she hears it too.” She jabbed a button on her phone and stepped closer to Bette and Thurman.
Troy, who needed to cover his ass for reasons unknown to Bette, spoke in a measured but serious voice. “Can you all hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Thurman confirmed.
“Yes,” Bette said.
“I’ll keep this brief. Agent Clausen can fill in the details later. Our team intercepted a text message sent at 12:18 a.m. Central Time. The text was destined for a cell phone registered to a restaurant/bar in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. The restaurant specializes in Russian dishes. The restauranteur specializes in Russian espionage for hire. The text originated in central Illinois. Before you ask, no we weren’t able to triangulate it. Too much open space out there. The text read as follows: Needed: Backup for an operation on behalf of our mutual former employer. Will pay market rate + 12.5 %. Need someone versed in wet work, fluent in English. Will pay premium for someone with decrypting experience and familiarity with Chinese language. Qualified candidate will have physical ability and mental willingness to perform wet work.”
After a beat, Thurman asked, “Can you send us the exact wording?”
“I’d rather not.”
Clausen frowned. “Okay. Then repeat it.”
She nodded to Thurman, who pressed a button on his own phone. Bette could see that he was recording. Troy repeated the text. Then Thurman turned off his recording app.
“Thanks, Troy,” Clausen said.
“Did you pick up anything from Fyodorovych’s phone?” Thurman asked, stowing his phone back in his pocket.
“It’s a European model, off-brand. Probably a burner, although I imagine Fyodorovych won’t ditch it until he gets an answer. Which he’s not going to get, because it never reached Bishkek.”
Clausen’s face relaxed incrementally.
Bette cleared her throat. “I want to be sure about one thing. The message referenced ‘wet work’ twice. That’s a euphemism for murder, correct?”
Thurman nodded. “The term originated with the KGB and was adopted by the CIA. Now, any assassin for hire is liable to use it, but in this case given the shared former employer reference … it’s not posturing.”
“Got it.” She nodded briskly and pretended her insides weren’t twisting themselves into a tight knot.
“Thanks for the call, Troy. Sit on this for now,” Clausen said.
“Wait. If we wanted to, do you have the ability to spoof the number in Bishkek and text a response?” Thurman asked.
Troy bristled. “Of course, I have the ability. But not if I’m sitting on this.”
“Understood. Right now, just hang tight. But it’s good to know we have it in our back pocket.” Thurman’s tone was appeasing.
“Will do. Listen—keep in mind that Fyodorovych is naked in there. Russia almost certainly hired him, but this is a contract job. He’s not getting operational support from Moscow. He’s a throwaway. You corner him, … he’ll do what it takes to survive.” Troy’s voice was strained.
“Your concern is duly noted, Agent Blackman.” Clausen clicked her phone off.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Bette spoke first. “It’s clear he knows the encrypted journal isn’t in the basement of the farmhouse anymore. And given that he spent the night watching the house, we should assume he knows Bodhi took it. Otherwise, why bother with the house?”
Thurman nodded his agreement. “And he’s willing to kill for it. But I don’t think he’d call in reinforcements just to kill a civilian doctor. He’s obviously capable of doing so himself. He offed the Chinese agent.”
“You think there are multiple targets?” Clausen asked.
“There must be.”
“Who, though? I guess the Chinese contact, whoever that is,” she answered her own question.
“And you two,” Bette said.
“Us?” Thurman threw her a skeptical look.
“You said it yourself. He spent the night watching the house and the barn.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bodhi directed Hannah to the hospital cafeteria and suggested she grab a snack or drink while he ran down to the morgue to fetch the seeds from the room where he’d performed Jason Durbin’s autopsy. Durbin’s body had already been sent to the funeral home, and Chief Clark planned to send one of her officers over to pick up his clothing and personal effects so his wife wouldn’t need to do it.
The dirt from the bottom of the boots wasn’t a personal effect, and it should have been stored as evidence. As an outsider, Bodhi didn’t have access to an evidence storage locker, so the mud and seeds were currently stored in a clear plastic sandwich bag. He was pretty sure chain of custody would be a problem if the seeds ever ended up in a courtroom, but since nobody else seemed to view it as evidence, there wasn’t much he could do about it. He grabbed the baggie, relocked the door with his temporary key card, and took the stairs back upstairs two at a time.
Hannah sat at a table near the back of the room, her hands cupped around a mug. Her head was turned. She gazed out the window. Even in profile, he could see the faraway look in her eyes.
“Is everything okay?” he asked as he dropped into the chair across from her.
He knew it wasn’t. Although he’d only spoken to her once before today, he could see that she was preoccupied. She’d been quiet during the drive. And fidgety. But it wasn’t his place to pry her concerns out of her. She’d talk if she wanted to talk to him.
“What? Oh, yes. Did you get what you needed?” She turned to face him with a too-bright smile.
“Yes. May I use your napkin?” He gestured toward the unbleached square.
She handed it to him. “Sure.”
“Thanks.”
He unfolded the napkin and laid it flat on the table, smoothing it with one hand. He removed a seed from the baggie then reached into his pocket and removed one of the seeds he’d found when he’d shaken out the doormat back at the farmhouse. He placed them side by side on the napkin: the one from Jason Durbin’s boot on the left side of the napkin; the one from the floor on the right.
Her expression changed from one of distraction to one of sharp professional interest. She leaned forward.
“May I pick them up?”
“Yes. Please don’t mix them up, though. I’m not sure it matters. But in case it does, let’s keep track of which is which.”
“Of course.”
She reached for the one on her right, his left. She held it up to the light and turned it from side to side then bounced it in her palm. She returned it to the napkin. Picked up the other seed. Repeated the process. Then she replaced the second seed, the one from The Prairie Center, and leaned back in her chair. She looked at him for a moment with curiosity sparking in her clear brown eyes.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, they’re both lima bean seeds, but you already knew that. They’re definitely from the same seed line. Based on their size, shape, and color, I’d say they’re heirloom seeds—King of the Garden Pole. They’re known for being producers, and they get really tall. Up to ten feet.”
“You can tell all that from looking at it?”
She laughed. It was a warm laugh that, inexplicably, conjured thoughts of hot caramel.
“It’s my job. I’d be a pretty terrible plant pathologist if I couldn’t even identify a lima bean variety.”
It was his turn to lean forward, excited. “Can you tell if they came from the same package or l
ot or whatever?”
“I could, if I took them back to my lab to analyze them. But just from eyeballing them, no.”
He deflated, just a touch. Then he had another thought. “Could you tell if they were in the same soil, if I gave you soil samples?”
“Piece of cake. I’m good at that. You know how wine aficionados can tell you all about a wine without tasting, just by smelling it? I can do that with dirt.”
“That’s lucky. You wouldn’t want to have to taste it to tell.”
Another caramelly laugh.
He removed a clod of dirt from the bag and placed it beside the seed from the Durbin farm. He removed the clod of dirt from his pocket and placed it beside the other seed. She poked at each in turn. Then, as promised, she picked up first one and then the other and sniffed each of them. She put them back on the napkins then brushed her hands clean.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Those are the same. It’s good, rich soil. Lots of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. Homemade fertilizer—wood ash, green sand, and I smell bananas, most likely from a compost bin.”
“Do you know any farms that use that sort of soil?”
“And DIY vegetable and mineral fertilizer? Not a one. It wouldn’t be cost-effective in a full-scale commercial farming enterprise.”
“What about a small family farm? Or even a large garden?”
She thought. “Maybe your friends at The Prairie Center.”
“But they don’t grow lima beans. My guess is this farm or garden doesn’t only grow lima beans. Probably plants a traditional three sisters garden.”
She wrinkled her brow, but only for a moment. Then her face relaxed. “The Native Ways Traditional Community Garden is the most likely candidate. It’s just what it sounds like—a community garden dedicated to using Native American and other traditional methods of gardening.”
“Why would people out here need to have a community garden? Everyone has more land than I can even imagine.”
Hidden Path Page 11
