Like a sea-run Oncorhynchus mykiss, the impossible steelhead, Meirong Xiao was elusive and abstract. A whisper on the wind. Like finding an eight-pound anadromous rainbow trout in a 425-mile current with countless veins of tributaries and innumerable lairs. The River of No Return.
When he finished his coffee, he went inside to print the information from Divya on Senator Rick Canart. Chayote was entranced by the sound of the laser printer, tilting his head back and forth and yelping. Jake folded the pages and slid them into a manila envelope. He ran up the wooden stairs to the loft and got his gear.
But what to do with Chayote? He texted his neighbor once again so as not to burden J.P. Then texted J.P.:
Going out of town to see a friend.
Jake went out to defrost the 4Runner. He loaded his duffel and laptop and put the Mariner back in the driver’s-side door pocket. He tossed a glance at his skiff, which had accumulated not only water from precipitation, but also detritus from the autumn wind. He needed to cover and stow it for the winter. Not today.
The sun was rising over Snow King as Jake ascended the Teton Pass, lighting up the bowls and chutes so popular with backcountry skiers. It was early in the season, though, and obstructions protruding from the mountain snowpack kept the skiers at home. The only traffic was early morning commuters.
Thirty minutes later, in Victor, Idaho, Jake turned left toward Pine Creek Pass and Idaho Falls. He drove carefully—the road was windy and sheathed in a light blanket of snow. He descended the pass into Swan Valley around 9:30 a.m., at which point he found cell reception and called a hotel in Idaho Falls. Gave them an old alias, just to be safe.
The drive took Jake just under two hours. Idaho Falls was a sprawling little city, population around sixty thousand. The outskirts claimed a few big-box stores, car dealerships, and taquerias.
Jake’s hotel, The Falls Lodge, was located on the corner of Broadway and the river, overlooking Sportsman’s Park, in the heart of the old town. The clerk allowed him to check in early. His room had a good view of the waterfall, an angular twenty-foot man-made diversion dam. Looking upriver, a gleaming white church stood in the middle of the river’s horizon.
The city’s greenbelt, a corridor of parkland and pathways along the Snake, was filled with strolling workers on their lunch breaks. The temperature here, where the elevation was only 4,700 feet, had climbed into the upper forties. Scattered clouds were pushing through on a gusty wind.
His room was basic—one double bed—but clean and smartly decorated. He put the Mariner and its clips in the safe and spent a few minutes organizing what would be his home base for the foreseeable future. With his gear in place, he sat down at the small table to examine Divya’s notes.
The senator’s mansion was in the foothills east of the city, an area called Ammon. 117 Sagebrush Court. Jake took out his laptop and looked up the address on Google Earth to get a sense of the surroundings. The enormous houses on Sagebrush Court were separated by ample space. The road extended for only a mile or so, with three houses on either side. Each was set back on what he estimated were two-acre tracts. This meant two things—first, he couldn’t possibly get close enough from the street to make any meaningful observations, and second, the residents of such an exclusive neighborhood would immediately notice the presence of an outsider.
Jake scanned the map to the east. Eagle Point Park abutted the back side of the Canart residence. Perfect. His military-grade Steiner binoculars would put him within easy sight range from the tree line.
He flipped to the second page of printouts. The Canarts’ vehicle information. The senator himself drove a 2011 Lincoln MKZ in sterling gray. His wife apparently preferred German engineering, with a mineral-white 2010 BMW 535i. Such cars would stick out in Idaho Falls, a town of blue-collar workers and ranchers turned small-business owners. Jake entered the license-plate numbers in the notes on his phone.
The next page offered physical descriptions and photos of Canart and Meirong Xiao. Canart stood five-foot-seven and weighed a meaty two hundred pounds. The excess was stashed mainly in his midsection, where a dense belly drooped over his belt line. He was well dressed in the three provided photos. His hair was a black wreath around an otherwise bald head. His small nose hooked sharply downward; his eyes were beady and dark.
Next was Canart’s political bio. Jake read this thoroughly, having somewhat disengaged from politics after his move to Jackson.
This was Canart’s first term as a senator. Main office in Idaho Falls on Business Route 20 near Liberty Park. Branch offices in Coeur d’Alene and Boise. His chief of staff, Frances Gilleny, was born in Utah and attended Harvard’s Kennedy School. She was a sharp-looking woman, short and proper, who preferred dark pantsuits and no heels. Canart employed only sixteen other staff members, many fewer than the average of thirty-four. Easier to keep secrets, Jake figured. Idaho was a good place for a senator who liked his privacy or had something to hide.
The senator split his time between Idaho Falls and Washington, choosing to return home during breaks rather than travel. His political views were heavily influenced by his self-described “struggle to succeed in the changing landscape of my forefathers’ land.” He was ardently against free-flowing immigration and believed the world’s burgeoning population was leading to a day of reckoning.
How does a nutjob like this get elected?
Jake read on. During his campaign for senator, Canart had played a game of smoke and mirrors, dodging and explaining away questions about his personal beliefs. Instead, he gained Idaho’s support by rallying against the “deliberate degradation of American Ideals.”
Meirong’s images—CIA photos taken from a distance and outdated by a few years—gave the opposite impression: graceful and light. Waiflike. An avian creature with chestnut eyes that revealed a kind of tortured cleverness. Dark, straight hair to her lower back. Light skin. She stood five-foot-two and weighed one hundred pounds, at most. Good. Her size would stick out, especially if she was being toted around by a two-hundred-pound man in a $2,000 suit with a Lincoln.
The last two pages consisted of a “location profile,” detailing Canart’s known stomping grounds. There wasn’t much: when he wasn’t in DC, the senator liked to go to the Elks Lodge in downtown Idaho Falls on Tuesdays to play poker for charity and glad-hand the locals. Otherwise, his habits were fairly unsystematic. He liked fine dining, but anyone could have predicted that.
Meirong didn’t have a location profile, because the CIA had been unable to track her in the United States. She was too shrewd for that. Jake knew she would be considerably more difficult to find than the senator.
When Jake was finished, he searched for car-rental agencies on his iPhone, in case Canart’s people had somehow come to know his vehicle. There was a Hertz three miles west on Route 26.
On the way out Jake locked the safe—he wouldn’t need the Glock for his initial reconnaissance. He pulled the blue nano-puff hoodie from its hanger and put it on.
* * *
Jake got out of the 4Runner and slid the Costas down over his eyes before approaching the rental counter. He had no idea how extensive Canart’s or Xiao’s intelligence was, and there was no excuse for being sloppy.
The clerk was tall and lanky with a pimply face. No older than eighteen. Jake gave him the name Mike Keller, using the corresponding driver’s license and credit card from his safe at home.
“Car trouble?” The kid was looking around Jake at the 4Runner.
“Yeah. Not sure how long I’ll need it.”
The kid shrugged. “Pick whatever you want.”
Jake walked the lot and found a new Dodge Charger in black. It was a little showy, but the extra horsepower could come in handy.
“Ninety-nine dollars a day,” the clerk said. “You want insurance?”
Ninety-nine dollars? CIA better reimburse me. “No. Can I leave mine here?”
; “Sure, but we can meet you at the mechanic’s.”
“Thanks, but I’ll do the work myself when I get home.”
Jake parked the 4Runner so that its license plate wasn’t visible from the highway. He drove the Charger back east, past the old town and toward Ammon and Sagebrush Court.
The neighborhood was a typical suburban McMansion hamlet—out of place in the high plains. Small community parks dotted the landscape, with handsome wooden jungle gyms and paved bike paths. Sagebrush Court was the gemstone. A painted sign marked the entrance, where the road split around an island of small landscaped hillocks.
Jake turned in for a quick look. He figured the residents of Sagebrush Court were used to wide-eyed wannabes cruising the street, wondering where their American Dream went wrong. The ostentatious-but-affordable Charger fit the part perfectly.
Number 117 was the last house on the left, set back from a wide cul-de-sac with its own island of shrubbery. Jake took the circle slowly for observation’s sake. The Canart residence was redbrick, with occasional façades of taupe stucco framed by timber beams. Dormers and gables garnished the expansive roof. A three-story windowed turret dominated the right side of the home, and on the left, a large arcade window looked into a library or den.
The driveway wound its way up a gentle grade and back behind the tower on the right. Jake saw no sign of anyone.
He left Sagebrush Court and turned back onto the neighborhood’s main street, then made two more quick rights and entered Eagle Point Park. It too was empty. Jake walked past a gazebo and playground and went into the woods on the western edge of the park. It was a thin strip of willows and planted aspens along a tiny creek. After a short stroll, Jake could see the back of the Canarts’ home behind two or three hundred yards of lawn. A large stone patio with a dining set and outdoor fireplace abutted the back door. The garage doors faced left, and his position allowed him a clear view of the driveway.
Good enough. The trees would provide Jake cover to look into the rear windows using the binoculars. If the senator came or went, Jake would know.
* * *
Jake drove back to the hotel and responded to an email from Divya, informing her of his location. He opted for an early meal so that he could be in position at the park when the Canarts would potentially eat dinner themselves.
He walked along the river path a few blocks before turning toward town and its strip of bars and restaurants. The wind was blowing harder now, whisking away the heat from the Indian summer sun. He sat down in the back corner of a tapas joint, where he could watch the entrance. It was a small city, and a chance encounter with his mark was a distinct possibility.
His phone buzzed as the food arrived. Text from Noelle. Why not a call? Jake shook it off.
The park biologist had confirmed that the piece of fur came from a wolf. Jake already knew this, and thought for a moment about how to respond. He didn’t want to blow her off, but he couldn’t tell her where he was and why. He wrote back:
Interesting. What’s your next move?
Buzz.
Going back to cabin this evening with county detectives.
He took another bite of chorizo and waited for Noelle to send another message. Nothing came.
Jake paid his bill and walked back to the hotel, taking in faces. The Friday happy hour filled the strip with workers, jackets slung over their shoulders, soaking in the fleeting sunshine.
It was 5 p.m. when Jake arrived back at the hotel. He flipped on the news and changed his clothes, adding layers in anticipation of a cold evening in the park. On the way out, he ordered a coffee from the café in the lobby.
The sun was slipping toward the Sawtooth Mountains to the west as Jake fired up the Charger. His nerves were heightened now. He had the Mariner in the center console and one of the tactical knives clipped to his belt. The binoculars rested in their case on the passenger seat. If Divya was right—that he might encounter interlopers from Canart’s side and Xiao’s side—he had good reason for extra caution.
Eagle Point Park came quicker than he remembered from earlier, but that was because his mind was racing. The swing sets and slides were empty and the walking paths barren, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a similarly attired poodle.
Empty was good. Jake parked the car as far from the road as he could get, and in the shadow of a large cottonwood. He allowed time for the two poodles to walk out of view and then followed the tree line to the entry point he’d noted earlier.
In the woods the light was dimmer, and with it came a feeling of isolation. He crossed over the small creek and positioned himself so he could see into the kitchen and living room. He rested his back against the trunk of a tree and waited.
It didn’t take long. At exactly 6:21 p.m. Senator Rick Canart pulled into the garage. Jake watched through the Steiners as the mark washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
46
WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 29.
1:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
“What’s our endgame?” Divya was pushing Wright more than she should have.
He noticed. “How long have you been here?”
“With the agency? Six years.”
“Then you should know better than to be concerned with endgames.”
“With all due respect, sir, this affects a friend of mine.”
They were sitting in a coffee shop near the Library of Congress, debriefing after a meeting with Schue. The bustle of lunch hour concealed the subject of their discussion.
“The Office wants Xiao and the daughter for prosecution.”
Divya already knew this. “And what do we want?”
Wright was slowly spinning his espresso cup on its saucer. “Information, as always,” he finally said.
“The technology?”
He shook his head. “We have no real use for it. But for our national security, we need to be on top of developments like this.”
“Why not send in a team and take Meirong by force?”
“We need to stay abreast of all developments here, not just foreign. And we can’t find her.”
“You mean, we need to know Canart’s endgame?”
“Stop saying endgame. It attracts attention.” Wright smiled at a young busser who was observing the pair while he cleared the next table. The boy moved on.
“Is that it?” Divya hadn’t touched her salad or coffee.
“We have to let this play out a bit.”
“Why?”
“Because Canart may indeed garner enough support to make this a reality. We want to know his true intentions.”
“Since when is it up to the CIA to influence domestic politics?”
“Look, if someone is a little misguided, we let him live his life. If he is a threat to national security, we intervene. It would’ve taken one well-placed bullet in 1933 to prevent World War II.”
Divya was silent for a moment. “That was Germany. This is the United States.”
“Either way, it takes only one rotten egg to spoil the carton.”
“What about Jake?”
“He can handle himself.”
“So we’re just throwing him to the wolves?”
Wright shook his head and finished his espresso. “I’ve gotta run. Squash. Ladder.” He rose and walked to the door.
A minute later, Divya followed and hailed a cab.
“Langley, please.” The light-haired driver stubbed out his cigarette. She wished it were Rashi; she could have used some of his wisdom.
* * *
Divya was back at her desk by 1 p.m. She pulled up the information on Jake Trent that the Office of Special Investigation had emailed upon her request.
Well equipped was an understatement. Jesus Christ. She’d never seen the real story until now. Jake has seven hits to his name? The Office, like all government entities, sterilized
its dirty work, dubbing these killings “ad hoc” prosecutions.
Judge, jury, and executioner. No wonder he got out of the business.
Divya suddenly felt sorry for him. The hidden beauty of any justice system was its complexity—the discrete layers of the process that allowed the executioner to sleep at night, the prosecutor to shrug off pushing for a death sentence, the judge to go home and forget his decision over a glass of wine.
The blame for a state-sanctioned execution was all about perspective. It was shifting, transient. The justification—the offender’s crime—satisfied the executioner’s guilt only theoretically. The real panacea was to blame it on the judge, who could blame the jury and the lawyers, who in turn could blame the criminal himself—what was it to them? They didn’t take a person’s life; they merely advocated for it.
Jake’s job at the Office had no such insulation. When he found his mark, every role of the justice system was in his right hand. A cold metal fistful of justice.
To a thinking man like Jake, it must have been hell. Erased were pretty notions like due process. There was no way his diligent mind could forgive him for his “ad hocs.” How could a moral man unwind from a job like that?
Wyoming, fishing, separation—suddenly his trajectory made perfect sense. He was finished with it. And rightfully so.
47
IDAHO FALLS, IDAHO. OCTOBER 29.
10:30 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
Jake jogged up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. He’d just finished his workout: twenty reps of one-legged squats, ten butterflies, ten bench presses, ten shoulder shrugs, ten curls, and ten tricep extensions, all with forty-pound dumbbells. He cycled through five sets as fast as he could.
He wasn’t as vigilant in his fitness as he had been when he was younger. The weightlifting taxed him. He shed his clothes, turned on the shower, and went to the bureau to check his cell phone, still panting.
Divya had called again. He didn’t have much to report; the prior night’s watch yielded nothing—the senator and his wife had chicken, heirloom potatoes, and asparagus with a bottle of Chardonnay. After dinner they watched TV for an hour before Mrs. Canart went to bed. The senator followed shortly after.
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