Hidden Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  The door banged open and Hannah stepped outside, her arms wrapped tight around her torso. She stared up at the sky.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  Bette smiled. “Yeah.” She loved introducing people to her naked-eye observatory.

  Tonight, the deep purple sky was a riot of stars. The moon was the faintest sliver.

  After a long moment of open-mouthed awe, Hannah dragged her eyes away and looked around the porch.

  “Where’s Agent Thurman?”

  “He got a phone call. I think he’s taking it in the dining room.”

  Just then, Clausen’s pale, tense face appeared in the glass set in the door. She rapped on the window and gestured for them to come into the house.

  Bodhi stifled a yawn as he stood. “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten,” Bette told him. She was tired, too. All this sitting around and waiting to be killed was exhausting.

  They trooped inside behind Hannah.

  Thurman was standing behind his partner. His usually relaxed smile was missing. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

  Uh-oh, Bette thought.

  “There’ve been some developments,” Clausen said.

  “Let’s go sit in the living room,” Bette suggested.

  They filed wordlessly into her casual living room. It was her favorite room. Cream-colored fabrics, rich tan and gold accent pillows, the fireplace and mantle, the sconces on the wall. If the backyard was her paradise, the living room was her sanctuary.

  Thurman, Bodhi, and Hannah arranged themselves on her couch. Clausen stood in front of the hearth. Bette took one of the wingback chairs.

  “So this is a good news, bad news situation. The good news is I cracked San’s code.”

  “Really?” Hannah asked.

  “Really.” Clausen gave her a long look. “Your friend was pretty smart about it. I won’t bore you with all the details but he used a romanized alphabet with a substitution cipher and the old four-corners method of converting Chinese characters into numerals. It’s going to take me a while to actually decode his journal, but now it’s just a matter of time.”

  “I’ll put some coffee on,” Bette joked.

  “That would be great,” Clausen said, dead serious.

  “But not because Agent Clausen is going to be pulling an all-nighter deciphering a dead man’s journal,” Thurman said.

  “What’s going on?” Bodhi asked.

  “That’s the bad news. Gavriil must have gotten suspicious when his contact didn’t respond. He dumped his phone and got a new one. Our office intercepted another text to the restaurant owner in Kyrgyzstan. He’s still looking for a couple of paid assassins.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “No, it’s not. But this time the message was slightly different. In addition to the job posting, for lack of a better description, he wrote asking about the rules of engagement for taking out HUMINT,” Thurman finished grimly.

  Bette grimaced.

  “What’s HUMINT?” Bodhi asked.

  “It’s short for human intelligence. An asset. A mole. He’s asking if he can kill Zhang’s contact,” Clausen explained.

  Hannah blanched. Then she lifted her chin. “Funny he’s asking now. He already tried to kill me once. Your dead organic farmer was collateral damage.”

  Bette watched the others’ expressions. Clausen’s was knowing. Bodhi and Thurman both looked stunned. Bodhi’s eyes were wide. Thurman’s mouth hung open.

  Bette shook her head. She’d known that girl had been holding out on her.

  She rose. “I better go see about that coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Friday night

  10:30 PM

  Gavriil ground his teeth. His targets couldn’t have simply disappeared into thin air. But that’s exactly what they seemed to have done.

  The police chief had never driven by the Go-Now Market. He’d sat there for well over an hour, watching the road. Finally, an older woman knocked on his car window and asked if he was okay. He’d had no choice but to move on.

  He’d driven a loop between the scientist’s apartment and The Prairie Center but had seen no signs of any of his targets. Finally, he headed back to the abandoned barn to regroup.

  He checked his phone again. No response to the new text.

  Deep voices drifted up into the loft from the dark field below. He pocketed the phone and listened. Two, maybe three, men. Close. Too close.

  He reached for his gun then lowered himself to his stomach. Slowly, silently, he inched across the floor to the shuttered hayloft door. He pressed his right eye to a slit in the door and raised the gun to the wood.

  Two large uniformed officers—state troopers—were clomping through the field in their noisy boots waving heavy duty flashlights around. Wild arcs of light bounced through the night. One of the beams lit up their faces for a flash—round, youthful countenances with upturned noses and bright blue eyes. They could have been brothers. Maybe they were.

  Despite their size and their military bearing, neither of them seemed particularly threatening. He relaxed his finger on the trigger and strained to hear their words.

  “… pointless exercise. Chief Clark doesn’t even have a picture of this Russian dude. How are we gonna know if we find him?”

  “I guess we better hope he’s wearing one of those fur hats.”

  They guffawed.

  “Check the barn?”

  “Only if it’s unlocked. Duty sarge said we’re not going to be hit with any property damages claims for doing a favor for some local PD.”

  The wall vibrated as a metal-toed boot connected with a wallboard outside.

  “Who’s gonna file a claim for this place? It’s been empty since I was in high school. I used to bring Ashleigh out here …” He trailed off, no doubt savoring a memory of his teenage trysts.

  “Still. You don’t want to end up in the doghouse with sarge.”

  Gavriil nodded approvingly at the level-headed advice. He hoped the other officer followed it. He’d hate to have the deaths of two troopers on his hands. Americans responded fiercely when law enforcement officers were gunned down. It would complicate things.

  The door rattled below.

  “How’s it locked from the inside?”

  “Who knows, dude. Maybe they barred it so kids couldn’t use it as a makeout spot. But it’s locked or stuck or whatever. Let’s move on.”

  Gavriil was pleased he’d taken the precaution of jamming a rod he’d found in a pile of scrap metal under the barn door handle. It probably wouldn’t withstand concerted effort from four determined boots. But it was never intended to. It was meant to slow down anyone who might try to enter.

  He pivoted and put the door in his sights. The conversation outside continued.

  “Maybe there’s another way in around back.”

  “Mason, our shift’s over in thirty minutes. Let’s hit the next two on this road then head back to the barracks and clock out. It’s Friday night, maybe Ashleigh’ll be at the bar.”

  “Ashleigh’s married to an accountant over in Elm and has a whole mess of babies. Ah, screw it. Okay, let’s go. Suds and Buds has fifty-cent drafts until midnight.”

  Gavriil listened to them walk away. He remained quiet and motionless for a full ten minutes after he heard the distant sound of their car engine come to life.

  Once he was convinced they’d really left, he propped himself up against the wall in the dark barn and thought through his next moves.

  His current situation was sub-optimal. The police chief was closing in—she’d called in help from the state to find a Russian man. The federal agents and his targets had gone missing. He had to assume the doctor and the scientist were in protective custody. He needed to smoke them out.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  11:15 PM

  Hannah’s announcement supercharged the atmosphere in the house. Clausen and Thurman shooed Bodhi and Chief Clark out of the livin
g room and put Hannah through her paces on her involvement with Zhang San.

  After that, Clausen put aside San’s journal and worked with Thurman to craft a response for the NCSC to send back to Fyodorovych. IN the meantime, Chief Clark formally interviewed formal interview about the night the Russian tried to kill her.

  Only Bodhi was still. He sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea at the breakfast bar.

  Thurman walked into the room in search of a coffee refill. As he poured himself another cup, he said, “We drafted the text for the guys back at the office to push out to Fyodorovych’s phone.”

  “What does it say?”

  “There’s no qualified help available. He needs to handle his problem alone, but he has the go-ahead to eliminate the HUMINT.”

  “Hannah.”

  Thurman sat down on the stool next to him. “We’re going to protect her.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s a helluva thing, her being an asset.”

  Bodhi nodded. “What’s going to happen to her after this?”

  Thurman took a sip of coffee. He twisted his mouth into a sideways frown. He seemed to be mentally composing an acceptable answer, one that wasn’t truthful, but not classified. Finally, the agent nodded to himself.

  “She’s agreed to cooperate. When she finishes up with Chief Clark, I’ll interview her about the specifics of what she did for San. She already gave us the broad strokes. San stole seeds from the fields and passed them to her to analyze. She confirmed whether they were Maize46 or another experimental line and then told him what they were and how to care for them.”

  “Why didn’t she just give him the seeds?”

  “Security at Supra Seed’s too tight. It would have triggered alarms. Same reason the Chinese couldn’t just hack into the software system. They had to do it the old-fashioned way, run an agent, recruit an asset—they used a manual code to pass notes, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Hannah knows the code?” That would piss Clausen off to no end.

  “No. San taught her a simple substitution cipher—she showed Elise. Hannah doesn’t know enough Cantonese characters to read San’s book, but she’s sure it would include the information she passed him about the seeds.”

  Bodhi made a small sound. It could have meant anything. Even he wasn’t sure what it did mean.

  “Look, she’s going to get fired, obviously. And she’ll have to enter a guilty plea. But if she tells us everything, she’ll get a light sentence. And if she helps us apprehend Fyodorovych, she might not even do any time.”

  Unbidden, Bodhi’s thoughts turned to Feng. He’d committed a crime and would be punished. That seemed right. Hannah had committed what was arguably a worse crime—a matter of national security, according to Clausen and Thurman—yet she might escape punishment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about all that. He put that issue to the side to examine during a more peaceful moment. The pressing concern now was Hannah’s safety.

  “You’re going to use her as bait.” It was a statement, not a question, but Thurman answered it.

  “No, we’re going to use both of you as bait.”

  Gavriil read the text message slowly. He shook his head. They’d taken the bait. The second message to Bishkek, just as the first, had included one of a handful of agreed-upon key words. In this case it was the phrase ‘wet work.’ He’d even used it twice to ensure the restauranteur wouldn’t miss it, because Ivan was known for being distracted.

  To establish that the message had been received by its intended recipient and that the answer wasn’t being made under duress, the response should have included a reference to ‘Aquaman.’

  It was a primitive—yet effective—early-warning system. Either Ivan’s territory had been taken over by a competitor, which happened from time to time on the black market just like anywhere else, or the pair of federal agents had access to the cell phone traffic. He judged the latter possibility to be the more likely.

  Which meant the agents were NCSC. Which meant that the response was an attempt to set a trap.

  He read it again:

  Qualified help not available. Handle alone. Authorized to take out HUMINT.

  They wanted to draw him out. But he wasn’t interested in a game of cat and mouse unless he was the cat. He removed the battery and SIM card from the phone and stowed the device itself in the bottom of an old feed barrel. Then he turned his mind to his problem.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Just after midnight, Saturday morning

  Bette’s radio crackled. “Chief, we’ve got reports of gunfire out near Jason Durbin’s place. His wife called it in. She said it sounds like it’s coming from the abandoned barn at the Mitskys’ old place.”

  Bette cursed under her breath. “I’m on my way.”

  She pulled on a pair of shoes and tied the laces tight. Then she holstered her weapon and put on a blue windbreaker.

  “I won’t be long. It’s probably just somebody shooting at deer near their property.” She looked around the room. “Don’t go anywhere. Lock the deadbolts and the chains, front and back, and don’t let me in unless I say the password.”

  “Asterope?” Bodhi asked.

  She smiled. “Asterope.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Thurman offered. “Just in case.” He drained his coffee and put the mug upside down in the sink.

  She eyed him for a long moment. She was certain the call had nothing to do with international espionage. “It’s deer season.”

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “I didn’t know the NCSC had an interest in some drunk homeowner violating the sunrise to sunset rule.” Then she shook her head. “Whatever, come along if you want. Just stay out the way.”

  “You got it.”

  He handed his cell phone to Clausen. “Trade phones with me. Troy’s team will call my number first if they get any hits on Fyodorovych’s location.”

  They traded phones. Thurman followed Bette outside. Hannah hurried over to the door. Bette heard the deadbolt snick into place then the clang of the chain lock as soon as Thurman closed the door behind him.

  After he’d finished shooting furiously at the side of the barn, Gavriil moved the rental car to a driveway about a tenth of a mile away from on the other side of the road. Then sat on the hood and waited.

  After a while, he spotted the police chief’s truck coming from the west and tracked its progress to the barn through the binoculars. Despite the darkness of night in the country, he could see clearly. Gavriil had no need for night vision accessories—his powerful binoculars were military-issue to work even in extreme low-light conditions.

  She wasn’t alone, but for his purposes, it didn’t matter. He watched as she and the male NCSC agent exited the vehicle and drew their firearms. They circled the barn, shined their flashlights in the windows, and finally went inside.

  He ignored the instinctive, territorial urge to protect what had been his space. He’d taken everything he needed with him. He wouldn’t be returning.

  The pair was inside for less than a minute. They came out and made a half-hearted search of the woods. When they emerged, he could see the police chief form the words ‘like I said, probably just a drunk hunter.’ The NCSC agent nodded.

  He slid off the hood of the car and got behind the wheel. He waited until the police chief had started her engine. Then he started his.

  He waffled for a moment over whether to use his headlights. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning. Traffic, always sparse out here, would be nonexistent at this hour. His lights would alert his targets to the presence of another car on the road. But driving without them in the dark was foolish. He turned them on and dropped back.

  The policewoman turned in at the dead man’s farm. No doubt, the widow had called in the gunfire. The porch light blazed on.

  Gavriil pulled to the edge of the road and killed his lights and engine to wait. The farmer’s death had been unfortunate. He shouldn’t have been out in his field so late. The scientis
t had moved at the wrong moment and his shot missed its target. He shrugged to himself. These things happened.

  The police officer and the agent stood on the farmhouse porch. The woman answered the door with a robe tied tight over her nightclothes.

  He imagined their conversation. The police chief would say they checked out the shots, it’s nothing to worry about. Murmur some condolences. Tell the woman to get some rest. The grieving widow would thank them, tell them good night.

  The porch light went out. He checked his rearview mirror. No lights coming up from behind him. A moment later, he spotted the truck proceeding down the driveway at a decent clip.

  He put the binoculars on the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The police chief’s truck zipped off the driveway onto the road. Gavriil crept off the shoulder and crawled along behind it, keeping it in his sights. He’d learned his lesson last time.

  He didn’t lose visual contact until twenty minutes later when the truck turned right into a long, blacktop driveway. He pulled over and scrambled out of the car with the binoculars. The driveway led to a wide garage set off to the right of a brick house. The garage was big enough to hold three, maybe four, vehicles.

  The chief’s car idled for a moment. Then the garage door rolled up. He shifted his angle and he spotted a white sedan and a black sedan side by side in two stalls.

  Gotcha.

  She pulled into the third stall. The taillights went dark. The chief and the agent walked out of the garage. The chief clicked a button on her keys and the door rolled down. The pair hustled to cross the yard and disappeared around a corner. A moment later a light came on in the back of the house. He guessed it was the kitchen—the female agent or the doctor or the scientist had heard them returning and was unlocking the door.

  Gavriil smiled. He returned to the car and pulled it behind a worn wooden farm stand, out of sight from the road and from the police chief’s nearest neighbors. Then he killed the engine, set the alarm on his watch, and stretched out on the back seat for a ninety-minute nap.