Snow Blind

by Jim Heskett

  A gunshot roared behind her, blasting a chunk out of the door frame to her right. She didn’t stop to check it out. She raced, taking the stairs three at a time. When she neared the bottom, Serena pivoted her body, readying herself to throw a shoulder at the door.

  The voices wafting down after her sounded harried and multiplied with each passing second. Had the guards seen her face? With so much makeup, maybe it wouldn’t matter. She didn’t much recognize herself all painted like this.

  Serena blasted out into the alley behind the building. She picked a direction and ran. As she sprinted, she opened her purse and snatched the small compact.

  “I have to abort,” she said, trying to hold the compact still enough to speak into it clearly. “Coming out from the west alley.”

  Damn it. The card game was likely over, and everyone involved would be on the lookout for a late twenties Latina woman with curious eyes and quick feet. And even though she knew her backup would still have eyes on her and surveillance on all entrances and exits to that card game, they weren’t going to spot their blue-eyed Asian man.

  Serena had blown her one chance.

  4

  Layne placed his hands flat on the mat and drew in a deep breath as he pushed himself up, arching his back. Eyes on the wooden log ceiling. Lower torso flat on the mat, upper torso reaching into the air.

  “And hold,” said the aging hippie leading the class. She was the only one facing the back while the other twenty students in the Wake Up And Stretch! class faced the large bay window overlooking the snowy peaks lining the edges of the retreat center campus.

  “Hold,” she said, stretching the word out like a revolutionary war general commanding troops to wait for the whites of their eyes. Layne was no stranger to stretching before a boxing match or an intense session at the gym. But stretching for stretching’s sake wasn’t his forte.

  At least Harry wasn’t faring any better next to him. The poor guy’s face dripped with sweat, looking like a beached walrus as he tried to elevate himself.

  “Hold,” the hippie said, and Layne worried Harry might burst.

  “And… release.”

  Layne lowered himself with the grace of an athlete while Harry plopped onto his mat with a thud. Panting, red-faced. Harry’s body rose and fell as he heaved in breaths.

  Layne rolled his head around a few times, a little dizzy from the extended inhalations.

  “The first breakout sessions start in half an hour,” the hippie said. “Please check the posted schedule for assignments. Sessions start on time, and sometimes, if you arrive late, you might find yourself locked out. Nobody wants that, right?”

  Layne reached over and grabbed his towel, then thought better of it and tossed it to Harry. The pudgy hacker grunted thanks as he swabbed sweat from his brow.

  Harry scooted over toward Layne. Keeping his voice low, Layne’s friend said, “this is not my idea of a good time. Can’t I hang out in the bungalow while you do all this stuff? You can tell people we’re fighting or something.”

  “Not a chance, Harvey. We’re in this together, every step of the way.”

  A svelte woman in yoga gear strolled by them on her way to the refreshment station at the front. Harry held his tongue as she passed. Then, he said, “You’re a sadistic jerk, Parrish.”

  “Priest,” Layne said. “Leonard Priest. I don’t care if you think no one is listening.”

  “Okay, you’re right, Lenny.”

  “I appreciate you finally acknowledging that truth.”

  Harry grinned. “So what’s your plan?”

  “I’m not sure yet. It’s only our first full day. We go to our sessions, we note opportunities to dig into the records here. We keep tabs on anyone who looks suspicious.”

  “Like that guy?” Harry said, nodding toward the front of the room.

  Layne glanced over to where Harry had indicated. At a tall and thick man with biceps that rivaled Layne’s. Italian, probably. Standing in a ring of other guests, all of them damp with sweat and sipping drinks. The Italian was holding everyone captive with a story, using his hands to do most of the talking for him. He looked slick in a blue tracksuit, like a wiseguy.

  “Yes, like that. He sticks out.”

  “I have nothing on him,” Harry said. “I don’t have anything on anyone, yet. Not even a list of all guest names. I was just guessing when I mentioned him. What makes you think he’s actually worth looking into?”

  Layne thought about it for a moment, watching the way the guy gesticulated with his hands as he told the story. “He gives me that vibe. Don’t ask me how I know.”

  Since the Squamish Mountain Retreat Center so fiercely guarded the privacy of its members, Layne didn’t know the name of this particular guest. Harry had not yet been able to hack into their servers, either. They were strictly on manual investigation at this point.

  So, Layne didn’t know the guy’s identity, but there was something about him that said he didn’t belong here with these other enlightenment-seekers. Maybe he was connected to the two men who’d previously been indicted, or maybe not. Could be he was a New Jersey gangster now out here on the west coast, trying to develop new connections.

  Maybe he was undercover CIA. That in itself would be an interesting find.

  Or, maybe he was nobody. Just someone trying to meditate for a week on a snowy mountaintop.

  “I’ll get a name,” Layne said.

  He watched the unusual guy drift over to the pre-filled cups of tea on the refreshment table near the window, giving Layne a way in. He snatched the towel back from Harry and strode across the room. While he pretended to do some stretching, Layne sipped his tea and stared out the window.

  The Italian guy was three feet to his left, now chatting with the aging hippie instructor. He lifted his hand over his head and bent to the right, describing some pain. The instructor put her hands on his hips and guided him to… move better, or something. Layne wasn’t sure.

  But, within twenty seconds, Layne learned a name. Rudy Costello.

  Layne crushed the disposable teacup in his hand and dropped it in the compost bin. As he walked back over to collect Harry, he committed the name to memory.

  Rudy Costello. Layne didn’t have anything to go on besides a gut feeling, but his gut had been right more than a few times. If Rudy had any involvement in the act of trafficking child slaves across the Pacific ocean, Layne would know soon. “Got it,” he said to Harry, ushering him toward the door.

  “You think?” Harry said.

  “Maybe. All I have now is a feeling.”

  Something in Harry’s face changed. Recognition turned to anger as he seemed to understand the implications of who this man could be. He sneered in Rudy’s direction. “Looks dirty to me.”

  “Easy, Harvey,” Layne said, under his breath. He stepped in to block Harry’s line of sight. “I’m a dad, too. I know what’s rolling around in that head of yours. But you won’t do us any good if you blow our cover by leering at him.”

  Harry blinked a few times and rolled his shoulders. “You’re right.”

  Layne leaned in close and said, “if it’s our guy, trust me: he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

  5

  Layne trudged out into the cold and blustery air of the retreat center’s campus. The sweat cooling on his back from the stretching session immediately cast spikes of ice down his spine. The main classroom building’s porch extended around three sides, with large hammocks and swinging chairs. These so-called Relaxation Stations were covered in snow, so he didn’t expect to see much porch loitering today.

  He fished his cell out of his pocket, a single missed call noted on the screen. The number for the contact read Jacuzzi. He knew who the call had actually come from. Control. A nickname Layne had bestowed upon their team’s handler, Daphne Kurek. He’d stolen the name from one of his favorite spy novels and given it to her sixteen years ago in a Houston hotel room when he was only beginning his journey as a shadow operative for a governm
ent agency with no name.

  Something passed in front of Layne’s eyes, attracting his attention. A whiff of blue clothing. Layne looked up to see one of the maintenance staff, a man he’d recognized carrying some PVC pipe across the grounds the day before. Except now, he wasn’t wearing his SMRC uniform or a jacket bearing any SMRC insignia. Odd.

  The man passed between two bungalows, his shoulders hunched and his hood up. But, then he did something that made Layne take extra notice. He glanced around at the sides and behind him, trying to spot if anyone was watching.

  It didn’t sit right with Layne. Something about this told him he needed to investigate, so Layne put his phone away and set out to pursue. Despite the man taking care to ensure no one saw what he was doing, Layne had no trouble following him without being spotted. Most people don’t have the benefit of a decade-plus of espionage training.

  The man turned toward the woods, skirting through the snow. Then, he picked up the pace. Layne kept back, making sure he had a series of nearby objects to duck behind, in case the man decided to turn and check his 6.

  At the edge of the woods, the man lingered, hovering. Layne pressed against the side of a bungalow. The pause in the action bothered Layne the most and made a tickle of adrenaline swirl in his stomach. Was the guy waiting for a signal?

  The man pushed forward. A moment later, a woman emerged from behind a tree. Layne recognized her as one of the retreat center’s housekeepers. She was wearing the standard SMRC uniform, with gloves and a hat and heavy-duty snow pants. They approached each other, their eyes locked. The man grabbed her by the hair.

  Layne bore down, ready to run.

  And then, they kissed. Their bodies intermingled, and the man pushed her back, against a tree.

  Layne sighed. Just an illicit workplace romance out in the woods, beyond the prying eyes of their supervisors. If they wanted to get naked out among the trees and snow, that was none of Layne’s business.

  His heart rate returned to normal, and he let out a little laugh. “Not everything has meaning,” he mumbled to himself, then he chuckled harder because he was already starting to sound like one of the hippies here, not even twenty-four hours into the experience.

  As he moseyed back toward the campus, Layne unlocked his phone and dialed the answering service number.

  “Hello. Greater Cleveland Jacuzzi Service, how can we help you?”

  “I got a call from this number, wondering if I can get a technician on the phone.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, sir. Do you have a pen?”

  Layne fished a pen out from the inside of his jacket and grunted acknowledgment, then hovered the pen over the back of his hand to write.

  “Our technician is out in West Side Market at the moment, but he should be back at approximately 2:15 this afternoon. Does that work for you?”

  Layne scribbled 44113, the zip code for that area, and 14:15. “Perfect, thank you.”

  Layne did the math to discern the actual phone number from the code, and then he committed the number to memory as he spat on his hand and smeared the ink. He settled behind a nearby bungalow and sat atop a metal trash bin ringed with ice. Finally, he dialed.

  “Hello,” she said. Daphne’s smoky voice always caught him off guard. Memories flooded his various senses, like an overload of all the good and all the bad of the last sixteen years.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Lenny Priest. So good to hear from you.”

  “I prefer to go by Leonard,” Layne said.

  “Well, that’s fine, but I’m going to call you Lenny.”

  “I’ve gone by quite a few names over the years, so you can call me whatever you like.”

  Daphne gave an amused titter. “Do you remember Singapore? When that young girl at the flower stand kept calling you ‘Uncle,’ and you didn’t catch on for about two minutes?”

  “Sounded like ‘Renton’ to me, like the guy from Trainspotting.”

  Daphne cackled. “That’s right. I can still picture the way you were squinting at her.”

  Layne smiled at the shared memory, then, as quickly as it had come, the pleasure vanished. His smile fell back to neutral. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes. It was. Anyway, how is the fishing up there in Squamish?”

  He paused for a moment, considering his words. He’d much rather talk about work than a long-ago trip to Singapore, when he and Daphne were supposed to be working but spent much of their stay in each other’s hotel rooms. “Slow and steady, I think, but I’ve only just arrived.”

  “That’s to be expected. How is Harvey getting along?”

  “Struggling a bit with the altitude, I think. But, I gave him the name of a potential big fish, so I think he’ll have something to keep himself occupied.”

  “Good, good. And you? How are you liking your current occupation?”

  Layne gritted his teeth and took another breath before answering. “This isn’t my occupation. We’ve been over this already. I’m not as much into fishing as I used to be.”

  “Sure,” she said, with a dash of condescension in her tone. But that was fine. Layne didn’t care what she believed.

  “I know why you’re there,” she said. “I know what’s at stake for you.”

  “Not even close. It’s kids this time.”

  Whether or not coming along on this operation was about the travesty in London six years ago, and how things ended there, Layne didn’t want to have that conversation with Daphne right now.

  Instead, he said, “how is our friend in Seattle getting along?”

  “She had a setback last night, but we’re still generally on track. Nothing you need to worry about. I’m flying out from Beijing in an hour, and I’ll meet up with her ASAP. We’re going to keep everything low-key, so don’t you worry about us.”

  He was tempted to dig further, to ask about Serena, but resisted the urge.

  “You know,” Daphne said, “Harvey is back full-time. Did you know?”

  “No. I didn’t. Even so, I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

  “We’re almost a team again, Lenny. You should consider it. We’re stronger with you than without.”

  Layne held the phone away from his ear. He thought about hanging up but changed his mind. No need to be juvenile. “Understood. And no thank you.”

  Then, he did end the call.

  6

  Layne lounged in the sauna, a pile of steaming rocks and a mountain of mist between him and Rudy Costello on the other side of the room. Simple wooden benches, stars shining in via skylights. The day had been a whirlwind of sessions about the power of meditation and mindfulness and a bunch of other garbage Layne cared nothing about. Undercover operations always carried some degree of acting. Layne was having a hard time with this one, for a host of reasons. He was out of practice with the mindset required. Also, not much in the mood to play neo-hippie.

  Since Daphne had brought up Singapore earlier, he spent time reminiscing about the op there. The acting they’d done with each other. How Daphne had always felt like the forbidden fruit to him, beautiful and dangerous and just out of reach. She dangled her professional and personal approval in front of him like a dollar on a string.

  In his twenties and early thirties, Layne didn’t know what he wanted. For a time, he thought it was Daphne. Eventually, he came to understand that she withheld love from him as a means to motivate him. She was his boss, after all.

  The operation in Singapore turned out to be quite vanilla, but the whole process was educational for Layne. They caught a heroin dealer moving product from Australia to Russia, using Singapore as a way station. The whole thing acted as a financial lynchpin for some rebel group in Afghanistan. Garden-variety drugs-for-weapons scheme.

  When that op became the jurisdiction of the Australian ASIO, Layne somehow saw Daphne in a different light. He concluded that if he wanted a family—which he did—Daphne would not be the one to provide that for him. And thus began the lengthy process
of untangling from each other.

  All of that was before London when everything went to shit.

  Now divorced from the mother of his child Inessa and working with Daphne again, he sometimes felt that pull to his old flame. But, like a rowdy night out at the bar, he knew what it would cost him.

  Layne had to focus on the one woman in his life who mattered these days, a three-year-old named Cameron Parrish.

  He considered the time zone differences between here and Paris where Inessa was modeling, and his daughter would be with some French nanny at the moment. 9:30 in British Columbia meant 6:30 tomorrow in Paris. Maybe she was up, eating breakfast with the nanny. Maybe Inessa was giving Cam a bath before the workday.

  Rudy Costello leaned forward and lifted a ladle from next to a basin of water, scooped some, and then dripped it across the rocks. Fresh jets of steam hissed from the rocks into the air.

  “Thanks,” Layne said. “I was starting to feel the cold seep back into my bones.”

  “Hey, no problem,” Rudy said as he settled back and readjusted the towel covering him. During the five minutes they’d shared this sauna room, those were the only words they’d said to each other. That was fine with Layne. Tomorrow, he would approach Rudy before the morning meditation, make a joke about their shared sauna experience, and begin to work on him. Hopefully, by then, Harry would’ve had time to provide Layne with some useful background info on the guy. Connections to the two men indicted in the human trafficking case. But any info would work. Something to use as leverage on him.

  Layne tried his best not to stare while still taking the occasional note about Rudy. There was only one visible tattoo, a blurry thing on his upper shoulder. The ink was so old and faded, and the room so full of mist, Layne had a hard time figuring out what it was. He had to steal every glance he could get, and he never made much progress. Military ink job, maybe.