River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (15 page)

28

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA. OCTOBER 24.

10 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

“Then call him
again
!” Thomas Wright, assistant director of counter­intelligence, loomed over Divya.

“He doesn't want to be involved, sir.”

“Unacceptable. Any word on whether the lobby is going to bring out Shar-Pei as ammo?”

“I convinced them it wouldn't be good for their reputation to leak American secrets.”

“Good. Any new info from them?” Wright was pacing, squeezing a stress ball as though he were trying to kill it.

“Not really.”

He stopped and shook his head emphatically. “Shit, Divya, he's an agent's dream—a perfectly embedded liaison. Call the man!”

“Isn't there anyone else?”

“They killed that police chief, Divya. Married, couple of kids.”

“Are you sure?”

“Eighty percent sure. One of the hourly KH-11 transmissions captured the incident.”

This filled Divya's mind with questions. “The NRO launched a Kennan Crystal for this? How detailed is the image? Isn't its orbit over two hundred miles?”

“I could tell you when the postman came to your house yesterday.”

“Damn.” During her preparation, she'd studied Jackson Hole Chief of Police Roger Terrell. She had come to glean that he was not only a solid law enforcement agent, but also a family man. “You said there was no chance of that.”

“Things changed. Xiao's more desperate than we thought.”

“How hot is the situation there?”

“Wouldn't be too bad for Trent. If he can locate the girl—give us some ideas about her whereabouts. He doesn't need to get any more involved than that.”

“So what's the angle?”

“Make something up. You're good at that.”

She gave an unconvincing nod. “What about his wife?”

“Alive, we're guessing. She's a good bargaining chip for them. We don't know her condition.”

Wright sensed an opening.

“Do it for her, if nothing else. Send me Trent's information by the end of the day.” He walked out of Divya's office.

She rubbed her eyes and took a big gulp of coffee. It was her fifth cup of the day. Her heart was pounding but her eyes were tired, her brain a drained battery.

She thought about Jake. His obvious misery in DC and with her. How clearly he'd yearned to be back home.

What was her next move?
Coming clean was the best route
when dealing with someone as savvy as Jake, but Wright wouldn't allow that. He'd read enough about Trent to know he wouldn't buy into the company line if it contradicted his own sense of justice. According to the assistant director, Jake was too smart for his own good. Which was too bad, because Divya had no doubt that Jake would cooperate if he knew what had happened to Terrell and Charlotte.

Xiao
still has Charlotte, but what is
my
bargaining chip?
She'd been at the agency long enough to know that's what it was all about. A bit more coffee and she signed back into the system. She clicked on the file “Trent, Jake,” browsed a bit, and then opened “Internal Affairs (1),” which hadn't even occurred to her before.

Holy
shit.
Her heart sank, but she knew it was her in.

29

SALMON, IDAHO. THE SAME MORNING.

9:45 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake woke up to Don tying flies in the kitchen and drinking Red Bull on ice. Bacon was sizzling on the range. The smell of burnt toast overpowered the sour aroma of twenty-some empty Rainier cans on the counter, waiting to be recycled.

“No coffee?”

Don didn't look up. “Gave it up.” He finished a Purple Peril, size six or so, and put another hook in the vise.

“I'll get some on the way out.”

This got Don's attention. “Not fishing today?”

“Time to winterize, I'm afraid. No wood at the house, windows need taping, cover the boat.”

“Season's just getting started!”

“Here, maybe. We're about done. Speaking of, don't you ever work?”

Don looked up from his work again. “I could be. Thought you got bitten by the steelhead bug again yesterday. Was gonna tool around with you.”

Jake momentarily considered it. He thought of J.P. and Esma. “Nah, wish I could. Maybe next week. I'll call you.”

Don shook his head and went back to the vise. “Getting cold out. That water temperature drops much more they won't chase flies so well.”

“Right. Getting cold. Gotta winterize. You follow?”

“Asshole,” Don jabbed.

Jake grabbed his backpack from the bottom of the stairs and headed for the door. “Go solo!” he shouted back toward the kitchen.

“That's when you know you have a problem!” Don yelled back.

Jake laughed and let the door close.

The weather had improved again overnight, contrary to Don's prediction. It was still early, but already forty degrees. The autumn sun was low but powerful. Nice enough for a light jacket and jeans.

Jake grabbed his Costas from their sunglasses bag and jumped in the SUV. He headed upriver along the Salmon, toward town and Highway 28.

The Exxon had something labeled “Coffee,” and since Jake didn't have any alternatives, he filled his stainless travel mug with the hot liquid. It looked inky black and viscous, which was better than amber brown and thin.

He browsed the breakfast aisle for something healthy but came up empty-handed.

“Anywhere you'd recommend for breakfast?” Jake asked the cashier. The slight young man didn't look up.

“Subway.”

“Thanks.”

Halfway between Salmon and Leadore, Jake spotted a small diner on the right. He pulled into the gravel parking lot.

A bell rang as Jake opened the door, silencing a table of retirees.

“Molly! Someone's here,” one of the table's more sprightly occupants yelled into the kitchen.

“Appreciate it.” Jake grabbed a newspaper and sat at the counter. Under a clear plastic sheet there were old pictures of game—­everything from bighorn sheep to mountain lions—that had been taken by local hunters.

Jake looked toward the group, who were eyeing him back. He sent a friendly smile.

“What's good?”

The same man spoke again, this time begrudgingly. “Corned beef hash. Not on the menu.”

“Thanks again.”
So much for healthy
, Jake thought.

Finally, Molly emerged from the kitchen and dropped a few plates of hash in front of the old codgers. She was slightly heavy but beautiful. Her demeanor matched. “So sorry to keep you waiting, honey; I do the cooking too.”

“No problem at all.”

“What can I get you?”

“A good cup of coffee and the corned beef hash.”

“Sorry, Molly; Joe told him.” A short man with a weak, raspy voice spoke up.

“Oh, you should know better, Joe,” Molly teased. “Tellin' our secrets to strangers.”

She leaned over the counter toward Jake and whispered, “They think they get the VIP treatment. Really, my printer's just broke and I can't change the menu.”

“I won't tell,” Jake flirted back.

“They can't hear anyway.”

As Molly set his coffee down, Jake spread the paper out in front of him.

Senator Canart Gains Student Support

Boise, Idaho—Senator Rick Canart is best known for his divisive stance on immigration and support of a bill that would, among other things, provide federal funding to companies who are developing human tracking technology, or nano-GPS.

During the mid-October congressional recess, he's brought his keystone message back home to Boise State.

“Idahoans, like myself, love their privacy and constitutional rights as much as anyone else, yet I have found great support here.

“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.