River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (4 page)

5

WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 17.

8:30 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

Pounding on Jake's bedroom door. He bolted awake. The early morning hours had been miserable, and he had just drifted to sleep, finally comfortable. He mumbled something resembling
C'mon in
.

Divya entered carrying a silver tray, upon which stood a ­silver carafe, two small mugs, and a ceramic kettle. Tea-party-sized cream and sugar vessels in her left hand. She fumbled finding room for the platter on the bedside table, and Jake moved the alarm clock and lamp to the floor.

“That wasn't as graceful as I imagined. Tea or espresso?”

“Wow.” Jake's compliment came out more like a groan. He cleared his throat. “The coffee, please.”

She poured him a cup, then motioned to the cream and sugar, which he declined. “You look like shit.”

Divya was wearing a violet silk nightgown that was sheer
enough to reveal every detail of her breasts. As always, she smelled like something wonderful and exotic. Clove and fenugreek and sweet mango.

“Guess I overdid it last night.” Jake sipped his coffee. It was strong and bitter—expensive, no doubt.

“You kinda wandered off to bed.” She sat down on the bed and started pouring herself a cup of tea. “I was disappointed.”

Jake smiled accommodatingly and took another sip. Anyone else and he might have wondered if she was referring to something sexual, but with Divya, he had no doubt. Sure enough, she pushed the hair gently from his forehead and felt for a fever with the back of her hand.

What
a flirt.

“Do hangovers come with a fever?”

She took her hand back. “Guess not.” She stood up. “I'm gonna get in the shower.” Again the innuendo. Jake ignored it, though he might have been tempted if his stomach didn't feel as if he'd been at sea for six weeks.

“Ready in thirty minutes?”

“Sure.”

Jake dawdled for a bit, a little unsure if he could go through with it the way he was feeling.
Get it together, man. It's just a hangover.
He tried to drink more coffee to wake up, but its effect on his stomach offset any bump gained in energy.

The shower turned on, and the sound made Jake regret his decision. His former relationship with Divya had been passionate, to say the least. Most of their dates had started with sex—they couldn't help it—then moved on to dinner, a show, whatever, punctuated by sex again when they got home. Their split had had nothing to do with lack of desire.

Still feeling familiar enough, Jake opened the door to the master bathroom and hung a dress shirt on the towel rack to lose its travel wrinkles. He saw his ex-lover's curves and color through the frosted glass.

“Just putting a shirt in here for a minute.”

She turned toward him, still mostly obscured by the shower door, but now the dark circles of her nipples were visible, if blurred.

“There's an iron in my bedroom.”

“This'll be fine.”

He retreated to his room and pulled on socks and gray pants, found a white T-shirt in his bag and threw that on too. He looked in the mirror above the dresser. Thankfully, his hair was still short enough that a shower wasn't required to wrestle it into submission. He opened his mouth wide and stretched his face. Divya was right—he looked like shit.

The water stopped and Divya came in, wearing only a towel, with Jake's dress shirt. He thanked her and turned away before she could make any more out of it.

“Gimme fifteen more minutes. The car's not gonna be here till nine fifteen.”

“I can drive,” Jake replied toward the bedroom that she'd withdrawn to. “Got the rental.”

“It's already arranged.”

He buttoned his shirt, gave himself one last look, and then headed to the foggy bathroom to brush his teeth. Next, to the kitchen, stopping at the front door to grab the
Washington Post
on the way.

He mixed a little bit of orange juice with cold water, hoping to rehydrate himself and spark a little energy. The concoction went down much easier than the coffee. Standing, he read the paper at the counter. There wasn't much going on: murder in the ghettos,
bickering on the Hill, Capitals on an early six-game losing streak. No mention of the GPSN issue.

Divya came down at exactly 9:15 looking gorgeous. This was how Jake remembered her: scrambled, frenetic, yet elegant. Strangely self-assured, at least on the surface.

They walked out to the curb and loaded into the black town car. It was early but already humid, and the air conditioner was pumping inside.

“Oh,” Divya said.

“What?”

“I was gonna ask you for your jacket, but I just realized you're not wearing one.”

Classic Divya. “You said everything was going to be informal.”

“It's fine.” She put her hand on his wrist and left it there, as if she were some debutante with her suitor.

The car came to a stop outside an all-glass building behind the United States Botanic Garden. A slick brass sign read
OLSEN WILLIAMS LAW
.

“Running with the big dogs again,” Jake muttered.

“Oh, shhh! You ready for this?”

“Hey, I was born ready,” Jake said, putting on his professional face, then a smile. Divya laughed.

“It's not like that, I told you!”

“But I should have worn a suit?”

Divya sighed, and Jake opened the door. They walked into the lobby toward the security console, where Divya signed in. The click-a-clack of dress shoes on a marble floor took Jake back to various courtrooms. A disturbing rhythm.

In the elevator, the occupants were checking their watches and iPhones, tapping their feet. Dreading whatever was in store for them
at the office. Jake looked at their faces. The deportment of joy was missing from each one, muted by something deemed more pressing.

They got off on the eleventh floor. Jake followed as Divya walked purposefully through a glass door and checked in at another security desk. When they got to the conference room, a murmuring crowd of suits awaited them. On Divya's arrival, people shuffled around and found seats.

She began to speak.

“First of all, thanks to everyone for coming. This is the first time we've had all the major players together, so let's start at the beginning. Welcome to the For a Free America campaign. Our goal is to inform lawmakers and the American public about the dangers of Senator Canart's human-tracking proposals.”

Sounds an awful lot
like a lobby,
Jake thought.

“We're first concerned with image, because that's the most important facet of the groundwork of this campaign. We need to get a message out there, clear and simple.

“So, I know some of you have emailed me with your ideas for casting this thing in a light that's most favorable to our position, but let's voice those ideas to the whole crew. Tom, let's start with yours.”

Divya sat down. Tom began to speak. Jake recognized him from the party, but they hadn't talked.

“China.” He paused. “That's it, really. Americans are scared of the Chinese, their government, their success, the whole idea of it. So, we compare this proposal to some of the societal-control issues that exist over there. Paint it that way. No American wants to be compared to the Chinese. China is the new Russia. We can produce a few national segments that compare the two and really hammer that into people's heads.”

A young-looking lawyer spoke up with confidence. “I'm sorry,
what commonalities exactly are we talking about here, Tom? You kind of lost me.”

Tom gave a cold stare back to the young associate. “In ninety-nine the Chinese government, reeling over staggering population growth, implemented a covert program they'd had in their books for a while. Silly as it sounds, the operation was called Shar-Pei. The dog, the program's namesake, is considered a guard dog. ‘The guardian of the herd.' ”

“What does a guard dog have to do with GPSN?” The young man again.

“ ‘The guardian of the herd,' remember, not ‘guard dog.'” The distinction was lost on Tom's dissenter, who shrugged. Divya was staring Tom down, telling him to get on with it.

“Shar-Pei was implemented to track and eventually control China's population. The military descended on rural towns one April evening and took ten thousand ‘sample citizens' back to regional bases where they were implanted with GPSN chips. For nearly a year, the government watched their movements, even toyed with the notion of upgrading their hardware so they could disable individuals remotely, should that become necessary.”

Jake looked up, interested. “Remote-controlled killing? Is that what you're saying?”

Tom looked pleased. “Exactly. Never came to that, fortunately. They chose the rural folks because they didn't think those people would go public. Even if they did, the government figured no one would believe them. Unfortunately for the government, there was an American expat stationed in one of the towns. When he figured out what was going on, he immediately went to the US embassy.”

“I never heard of Shar-Pei. Why wasn't it in the news?” While Jake spoke, Divya was rigging up her laptop with the projection system.

“Never left the mouths of our government. China gave us some intel on North Korea's missile program, and we kept it quiet.”

“How did you become aware of it?”

“Ever heard of a locker room? My old squash partner is counselor to our embassy in China.”

“Can he help us?”

“He'd lose his job.”

“Does that mean Senator Canart has access to the formula for this same type of GPSN? The killer GPSN?” Jake grasped for the answer everyone was after.

The room buzzed.

“That's possible, yes. But I'd imagine its security clearance would put it far out of the reach of someone like Senator Canart.”

This did little to assuage Jake's concern. “Hasn't he done some work on Department of Defense matters? Do we know his security clearance?” He shuffled through the research that Divya had provided him.

“DOD, that's right, but more on the legislative side.”

Divya gave Jake a nod and spoke. “Tom—send me as much information as you have on this Chinese program, and we'll discuss it next time.”

“What reasons did the Chinese provide for wanting to kill its citizens with the push of a button?” Jake wasn't done with the subject.

“Allegedly, they were concerned with communicable disease. They wanted the option to stop an outbreak before it really exploded. That and terrorist threats. Of course, it's not a big leap of the imagination to consider its potential to monitor and kill dissidents.”

Jake rubbed his chin, thinking.

6

SOMEWHERE ABOVE BEIJING, CHINA. OCTOBER 17.

5:45 P.M. BEIJING TIME.

Jackson Chief of Police Roger Terrell was looking out of the plane window at Bejing's sprawl, wondering what the hell he was doing. The city below him appeared cloaked in an evening fog, but Terrell knew better. The grayish billow was pure smog, particulates from factory emissions. He glanced at his wife, Charlotte, beside him. Her face was lit with a smile. He forced one himself, then turned again to the window. His bogus simper faded.

Visiting China hadn't exactly been at the top of Terrell's bucket list, but how often do you get invited to a foreign country for free? Or so his wife had pleaded. This was more a concession to her than anything else.
We never travel, honey.
On and on.

Of course, Terrell reminded himself, he wasn't the one invited in the first place. It was supposed to be a junket for the mayor, Camp Winston, but he'd begged Terrell to replace him on account
of his bad heart. The mayor was nearly as adamant about Terrell's attendance as Charlotte was, seeing that Tram Village, LLC, had offered to contribute funding for a badly needed new wing in the Jackson Hole airport.

So it would be Chief Roger Terrell who was now the main character in a phony grand opening—Terrell, the demure civil servant, whose history of public appearances consisted mostly of the annual toast at the department's holiday dinner. But the resort's owner, Xiao, was eager to have him. They talked staging shoot-outs and bank robberies in the dusty streets of Tram ­Village. Real Jackson Hole police chief saves the day. That sort of thing. A few good photo ops.

Tram Village was an homage to Jackson, as far as Terrell could tell from the articles in the
Jackson Hole New
s & Guide
. An over-the-top amusement park with real animals and true-to-life lumber and stone. A tribute to the Wild West, set in a country where natural places were hard to come by. An escape for the elite.

Terrell wasn't an overly analytical man, but the whole deal seemed incongruous to him. Find a genuine place, re-create it, and cash in on the upper-crusters who longed to be out of the smoggy city. That wasn't what Wyoming meant to him, though he sometimes worried his own Jackson Hole was on a similar path.

* * *

Baggage claim was crowded. Terrell wondered if he would be able to pierce the barricade of sweaty, sardine-packed travelers to get to the belt.

It turned out to be moot—by the time he spotted his wife's bag, more than an hour had gone by, and with it, most of the passengers.

Terrell looked back at his wife, who waved enthusiastically,
unfazed by the wait, and clutched the
Wiley Traveler's Guide to China
in her other hand. He forced a smile again and dragged the bags toward her.

“Honey, it says we should write down the name of our hotel on our hands in Chinese characters in case our driver doesn't speak English.”

Terrell frowned. “The driver knows where we're going. Besides, I have the info on my phone.”

“What if he doesn't know? Or your phone dies?”

“Trust me. Let's just find the driver. I'm exhausted.”

With that, Terrell started toward the tall cerulean glass wall of windows that looked out on the transit lanes. The street was busy with buses, Korean-made taxis, and the tiny Smart Cars of locals. Standing in parallel queues on either side of the sliding-glass doors were limo drivers holding placards, most of them featuring Anglo surnames. They soon spotted one with their name.

The smog started to clear as they left the city heading north, toward Duolun County and Inner Mongolia. The driver, who insisted they call him “Bullet,” sported a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat, a button-down with turquoise buttons, and chaps over blue jeans. The Super Duty F-250 King Ranch towered over the surrounding compact vehicles, which were more suited to the country's narrow streets.

DVD screens on the headrests looped through Tram Village advertisements, and every leather surface that was big enough was embroidered with a bucking bronco, Wyoming's state symbol. Terrell traced the outline of the horse on the door panel with his pointer finger, longing to be home.

He dug his prepaid international cell out of his backpack and powered it up. Ignoring the excited conversation between his wife
and Bullet—the driver was enthralled to have real “cowboys” in his company—Terrell checked for voice mails.

On any other vacation, the urgent message from his deputy, Layle Statler, would have irked him. Now, he savored the opportunity to be temporarily transported back to his real life.

Chief, little bit of a problem. Male wolf just got hit up by Moran. Park Service ran the wand over and got an ID, but it wasn't a number in their system. They pawned the damned thing off on me because they think it might have been someone's pet, probably illegal. I ran it through the animal shelter's database, but there wasn't a match. Anyway, call me back. I've got this carcass here and I don't really know how to proceed, given the Endangered Species Act and so forth.

A new twist
on roadkill,
Terrell thought as he powered down the phone. He tapped his right hip out of habit, but the pistol that normally rested there was thousands of miles away, locked up in his desk.

“Almost there!” Terrell heard Bullet say in the background. “You will be pleased with lodging.”

“He's talking to you, honey.”

“I'm sorry. Yes, I'm sure we will be.” He smiled so Bullet could see it in the mirror. Despite his discomfort, Terrell didn't abandon his western manners.

He was looking out of the window with more interest now. The sea of buildings and people and automobiles had given way to waves of grain and wide grass flats, not unlike the American West. He opened his window and the air was cleaner, dry and cool.

For a moment, Terrell found the landscape genuinely ­interesting—locals in traditional garb worked the occasional farm, and birds unknown to him flitted through the air from the branches of shrubs
he couldn't recognize. Then something out of place appeared on the horizon.

“Bullet?” Terrell winced while saying the name. “These are
American
bison. Why are these bison here?”

“Oh, yes, beautiful lot, okay? Idea is to give genuine feeling. We are very close to Tram Village now. Also, it is fully functioning sustainable farm for bison meats.”

“There are no fences.”

“Yes, correct, good eyes. Implant administers humane shock if they leave the grid. No fences is better for aesthetics, survey says.”

“I see.” Terrell frowned, disturbed at the plight of the symbols of freedom and unspoiled wilderness, now subjected to the intrusion of an invisible electric fence whenever they followed their wild whims.

Before long, the paved road turned to manicured gravel, then a suspiciously smooth dirt two-track. More “aesthetics,” Terrell assumed.

The pickup rolled through reddish dust, which Terrell correctly guessed out loud had been imported for authenticity's sake, then finally under a large elk-antler archway identical to the ones in Jackson's town square. It came to a stop under a stone-and-cedar portico that adorned an ornate western-motif lodge.

“Newspaper,” Bullet said in response to Terrell's quizzical look. Outside the truck, a cluster of men and women stood, cameras and notepads at the ready, waiting for the guests of honor to unload. “This is the most grand undertaking by Chinese tourism industry in some time.”

Terrell was peeved. He knew that the opening of Tram Village was a big deal; the mayor had told him as much. But he was in no way prepared to offer statements to the press about it.

“We must go now, everyone is waiting.”

The chief opened his door to a firestorm of questions and flashbulbs. Ignoring the reporters, Terrell crossed behind the car and opened the door for Charlotte, who was beaming. He felt like his wife's bodyguard.

“Isn't this wonderful?” she asked, oblivious to her husband's uneasiness.

“Kinda creepy if you ask me.” Terrell whispered in her ear, then led her to the tailgate of the truck.

“No, no! I insist!” Bullet shouted at them when they reached for their own luggage.

Terrell waved him off. He didn't need any damned help with a few bags. But Charlotte pulled at his sleeve. “Honey, look!”

“Please, regard them.” Bullet motioned to the sea of reporters.

Terrell turned and faced the crowd, which fell silent instantly. A tall and lanky Chinese man emerged from the group with a notebook. He spoke in confident English.

“Yuan Chen, sir.
Morning Post
. What do you think of Tram Village?”

The silence intensified, if that was possible. The reporters were eagerly awaiting a reply from the “real” cowboy.

Terrell looked around, trying to inspire words. The surrounding buildings looked more like Disneyland than Jackson. Ornate, grandiose, and sparkling new.

More silence.

“It's . . . uh—”

“It's wonderful!” his wife interrupted, saving him from looming embarrassment. The reporters jotted this down and then clapped, appreciative of her approval.

“Yes, and . . .” Terrell thought back to what Bullet had said. “And, very . . . very . . . grand!”

More applause. Then the crowd fell silent again, hoping for Terrell to elaborate on his statement. Luckily, Bullet had loaded their bags onto a luggage cart and was ready to go inside. He shouted something in Chinese to the reporters that was met with grumbling and then turned to Terrell.

“Please, follow me.”

Inside the hotel, the atmosphere was serene, a welcome change. Quiet Native American flute music floated through the lobby, and cowhide dressings hung everywhere.
A bit over
the top,
Terrell thought.
Jackson Hole, meet Caesar's Palace.

Terrell poured himself a long-awaited drink from a pitcher of ice water at the reception desk. He took a sip and his face immediately contorted.

“It is cucumber water,” the front-desk agent said.

“It's good,” Terrell lied. He knocked back the remainder of the water like a strong shot of whiskey, knowing he was likely dehydrated from traveling, then tossed the paper cup into an Aspen- bark-and-leather-lace trash bin.

The agent was thin and lovely. Her black hair reflected the LED track lighting so that she appeared covered by a tranquil glow.

“Here are your keys, sir. We have been expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Terrell bowed slightly and then was filled with a rush of embarrassment.
Is that
a Japanese or Chinese gesture? Or both?! Moron!

The agent only smiled.

“I will show you to your room,” Bullet said, waving them toward him.

Charlotte punched Terrell in the arm as they walked toward the elevator. The spell the woman had cast upon him hadn't gone unnoticed.

In the elevator, Bullet was rattling off their itinerary, but Terrell wasn't listening. A fog was settling inside him, no doubt from the hours upon hours of travel. He wasn't even sure what time it was. The cool temperature and scent of sage and pine in the elevator acted like a tranquilizer. Suddenly, he longed for sleep as he never had before. He leaned his head against the back wall of the elevator and closed his eyes for just a second.

“Here we are. Eighth floor, penthouse level. Remember, you must slide key to have access here.”

Terrell nodded at Bullet, showing him he understood.

“Your room is the Wapiti Suite. Please follow me.”

The suite was lavish, though not enormous by American standards. An elk rack spanned the wall above the headboard. A vivid depiction of a Native American battle hung next to the bathroom door. The tall wood-framed windows looked out over “Main Street,” abounding with saloons, western boutiques, and gift shops. The “American Western Museum,” which spotlighted a large white bison mounted on wheels, sat directly across from the lodge.

“Is there anything else you will be needing?”

Terrell shook his head.

“Then I will leave you until dinner. Please be ready in half an hour.”

“Uh, Bullet, gimme a second . . .” Terrell was scrambling to find cash, while his wife had already begun drawing water for a bath.

“Yes, sir?”

“Here, for your trouble.”

“I cannot accept gratuity, sir.”

Terrell looked sheepish. “Ahh, I'm sorry—”

“May I have a word?” Bullet glanced to ensure that Charlotte was out of listening range. She had closed the bathroom door.

In a low voice, he said: “I know that you think our resort is silly; that it is a bad replicate of your home, built for profit. But there is something you should know.”

Terrell started to shake his head, but Bullet stopped him by raising a hand.

“Xiao has a daughter, Meirong—just like you have perhaps? There was trouble at home, you understand? So he sent her to California, where she could attend university.”

Terrell was trying hard not to look bewildered at the man's narrative. “Okay,” he said, nodding.

“This was ten years ago, more. When she finished university, Xiao went to visit. She had moved to your Jackson Hole to study the forestry and the wildlife. Xiao enjoyed his visit very much, but when he told his daughter she must return home, she rebelled. He came back empty-handed and has not heard from her since. You can imagine, I am sure, how difficult this was for Xiao.”

“Yes.”

“His daughter, she loved the open space of your country, the forests and plains and clean air. Xiao has created this place for his daughter and for the Chinese people. Our country is a very crowded one. And he desires to draw her back to him, you see? His strategy follows an ancient Chinese fable.

“So he abandoned his very fruitful career in the technology industry and used his fortune to make Tram Village. And we are very lucky to have such a place so close to the smog and the big cities.”