Rogue Empire (Blake Carver Series)

by William Tyree

  Now the herd parted, revealing his father’s sturdy figure in green flannel, sneaker boots and a Stetson hat. He held an orange irrigation kit in one hand. In the other, a Winchester rifle.

  At this distance, Carver couldn’t tell whether the old man was happy to see him. He loved his children, but he did not like surprises. He preferred to see people on his own terms.

  The two men met halfway across the corral. His father waited to speak until they were within spitting distance of each other. “Your mom said you weren’t coming.”

  “Everything worked out at the last minute.”

  Speers’ advice had weighed heavily on him. Go see your parents. While you have the chance.

  Why not? The truth was that with Carver’s work suddenly taken from him, he had little else with which to occupy his time. He had carefully curated a life that often found him disappearing for weeks or months on a moment’s notice. He had no pets, no kids, and at the moment, no girl. The only living thing in his condo was a miniature pipe organ cactus that his sister had named Marty Robbins.

  Now he took the heavy irrigation kit from his father and carried it toward the road, where his Dad’s one-ton truck and his own rental were parked.

  Worry creased the old man’s face. “Business all right?”

  “Fine,” Carver said, but didn’t elaborate. Unable to tell his family what he really did for a living, he’d told them he was a federal procurement consultant and left it at that. He had spent months crafting that cover before his boss had finally signed off on it, complete with an office down on K Street. Procurement consultant was one of those put-you-to-sleep job titles that naturally quelled all desire for follow up questions.

  “Well you just missed your mom. She’ll be up at the old place until the weekend, getting it ready to sell.”

  The original family ranch was a hardscrabble, postage-size piece of real estate near Joseph City, a Mormon settlement located more than three hours to the east. Earlier this year, his parents had sunk their savings into the 10,000 largely forested acres where Carver now stood. For how long was anyone’s guess. Most of his parents’ friends had left the high country by now, retiring to one of many hilly desert communities with names like Saddlebrooke and Surprise.

  Carver pointed at the mountain lion skull mounted on the post. “You kill that cat yourself?”

  “Yup. End of summer. Caught him eating one of the calves. Shot him not 10 feet from where he’s strung up now.”

  “That’s some real wild west justice, Pop.”

  “That old boy’s kept the predators away, that’s for sure.” He slid his rifle into the back of the truck. “Say, you want to make a little money tomorrow?”

  “Business is fine, Dad, I swear. I don’t need money.”

  He could tell his father didn’t quite believe him. “Sure it is, sure it is. But all the same, I had a ranch hand leave me high and dry this week. I need to get three hogs over to Ash Fork tomorrow by half past five.”

  Carver didn’t need money, but he had to admit that he was in dire need of distraction. It might take his mind off the task force that was no doubt gearing up to tear him limb from limb.

  “All right then. You’re on.”

  “Good.” He gestured toward the dog. “Might as well take Duke here with you and do some hunting while you’re over in that neck of the woods. You know those ducks will be flying at daybreak.”

  Carver knew a pond in that area that had never let him down. He and his father had been duck hunting there since he’d been old enough to walk. A rancher had once given them a key to a gas pipeline road that, to their great surprise, gave them near-exclusive access to a wide swath of wilderness.

  “How about we go together?”

  His father shook his head. “Too much to do and not enough time to do it. But if you bring a few ducks back, I’ll make a good dinner for us.”

  Las Vegas

  Nico Gold hunched over the computer as he browsed the Beijing Premiere Western Talent Agency website, which billed itself as the leading supplier of Caucasian actors to Chinese corporate and media production companies. Further down the page was this: Our actors earn an average of 5,000 RMB/day. If you’re an attractive person from the USA, U.K., Ireland or Australia, and are of at least average height, apply now and we will make you a star!

  He browsed the website’s talent portfolio, scanning rows of headshots for an actor who would help him penetrate Zhongnanhai, the central headquarters of the Communist Party.

  The plan – which was magnificent, in Nico’s humble opinion – had come to him last night like a thunderbolt from Jupiter. Carver had left soon after dinner, and his ladies had gone to bed early, leaving Nico alone with his excitement at getting the Lycurgus Cup. Sleep was out of the question.

  But how could he possibly deliver on what he had promised Carver? He hadn’t been simply playing coy when saying that eavesdropping on China’s leaders was far easier said than done.

  If the NSA hadn’t found a way back into Zhongnanhai, how could he pull it off in just a matter of days?

  Many of his best tricks no longer worked on the Chinese. In the past, he would have simply logged into a daisy chain of proxy servers, activated a legion of zombie computers from across the globe, and launched a mammoth denial of service attack on the Zhongnanhai network, taking the system down just long enough to place a Trojan Horse inside that would allow him to monitor internal email and VoIP communications.

  And if he had more time, he could have simply phished some poor party underling with an email link, waited for him to download malware, and then watched for the target to login to something sensitive. But even if time had been on his side, there was no guarantee that such a plan would gain him the everywhereness within Zhongnanhai that he needed.

  As he often did these days during his bouts of insomnia, Nico took off his wig, put on some mainstream clothes, and ventured downstairs. He prowled the casino floor, surveying the blackjack tables in search of the most anti-social blackjack dealer. He hated yappy dealers. They distracted him from counting cards.

  As usual, the predictable rhythm of blackjack calmed him. The cards came to him easily tonight. Within 45 minutes, he was up $800.

  In the midst of his hot streak, an extraverted American entertainment executive joined Nico at the table. He was a big drinker as well as a big talker. Between hands, and with little prodding, he disclosed just how badly his company, MassiveStreamz, wanted to seize the Chinese entertainment market. How the company was willing to do anything to get permission to launch an unrestricted version of their TV content in the country.

  Anything?

  That sparked the idea he had been searching for. Nico cashed his chips in and raced upstairs. Now, browsing the talent agency profiles at the Beijing Premiere Western Talent Agency website, he came at last to a distinguished looking American male.

  Jasper Blick was his name. Caucasian, in his late 40s, with salt and pepper hair and a clean-shaven face. Blick had appeared in a number of Chinese commercials.

  Curiously, his reel also showed him standing in for a physician at what looked like a real medical conference, where he presented a lecture on contemporary prostate surgery technique. It was a bit weird, but it demonstrated the kind of ethical elasticity that Nico would need for this operation.

  Blick was no male model, but his vibe emanated success and authority. In a suit, Nico figured, he would be a believable American executive who would do anything – anything! – to establish his content network in the world’s largest economy.

  Nico leaned forward and kissed the monitor screen. “Jasper Blick, you and I are about to make history together.”

  Two Elk Ranch

  It was no wonder his father had purchased the ranch for a song. A monster spring snow had caved in the roof of the main ranch house and flooded most of the second floor. Although it was just September now, winter had already come to the mountains, and it was going to take a miracle to get the remodel done before snow
hit the valley.

  Carver watched as five exhausted workers bid his father good night, got in their trucks, and disappeared down the pebbly road toward Highway 89. The construction zone left them with just one room in the main house that wasn’t in complete disarray – the kitchen.

  His father lit an iron stove that warmed the room with impressive speed. Carver was actually grateful that there was no cell or Internet coverage in the house. Every part of him wanted to call Arunus Roth and check in on the investigation. Every part of him wanted to watch the news, to see if there had been any new provocations between the U.S. and China. Now he couldn’t. And that was a good thing.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Maybe in a day or two, you’ll actually believe it.

  “That’s your luggage?” his father said, eyeing the leather bag that held his computer.

  Carver shrugged. “Like I said, this trip came together at the last minute.”

  “Must have.” He regarded Carver’s suit. “Well you can borrow some of my clothes.”

  The two men washed up and played a couple of hands of Gin at the pinewood table. His father beat him soundly, then got to his feet and set a skillet on the gas range. “Hope chicken-fried steak is all right.”

  Carver checked his watch. “It’s wasn’t even five p.m. yet. “There’s a steakhouse out on I-40. I’m buying.”

  “Save your money. ”

  “Pop, business is fine. ”

  “Chicken fried steak. End of conversation.”

  His father got up and began pounding the steaks into thin cuts flecked with rock salt. Carver pitched in, cracking eggs into a bowl before whisking them into a gooey yellow mass. Then he combined the eggs with a flour and crumb mixture, dipping the steaks into the goop before laying them into a skillet that had grown black from decades of use.

  He watched as his father stood at the stove, whistling bluegrass standards as he prodded a pan of sizzling home fries this way and that. The quiet, familiar rhythm of the work was comforting. Soon enough, the smell managed to rouse his hunger.

  His father spoke without looking at him. “So how’s your health these days?”

  “Normal blood pressure, low resting heart rate.”

  “C’mon wise guy. You know what I mean.”

  Carver knew all right. He meant his brain. The hyperthymesia. Back when he was 14-years-old, the family doctor thought he was just another kid with severe attention deficit disorder. He had been prone to migraines and extreme inability to focus. His mind was constantly blooming with running replays of all that had come before. He had explained it to the doctor like this: “You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes before you die? That’s what it’s like for me all day, every day.”

  It got worse. Carver spent much of his sophomore year of high school at home, doing his assignments in the privacy of his bedroom, living in isolation as his specialist in nearby Flagstaff prescribed one ADHD medication after another. The drugs didn’t work. Mostly, they just made him worse.

  His father, meanwhile, had sought to heal him with prayer. He hosted several gatherings in which the other priesthood holders in the community bestowed their blessings on him. The ritual made Carver feel better, but it wasn’t a cure.

  One time they hired a healer out on the Navajo reservation. They spent an entire night in a sweat lodge with five of the healer’s cousins. At one point during the various incantations, Carver thought he felt an otherworldly presence, but there was no noticeable improvement in his condition.

  His junior year of high school, they drove down to Phoenix to meet with a Mayo Clinic psychiatrist. After just 15 minutes, the shrink told him that he would never need to take another pill. The diagnosis? Hyperthymesia.

  Over the course of the next two years, he taught Carver meditation techniques to help him learn how to compartmentalize and control the constant torrent of memories. His favorite method involved focusing on the beating of his own heart, which he imagined as a huge bass drum and a unifier of the visions in his head. The visualization technique had worked well for a few years before inexplicably losing its magic one day.

  After that, Carver went back on meds for a stretch. The pills slowed down the mind chatter, but they also dulled his thoughts. Convinced he had lost his analytical edge, he went off them again and spent the next two years as a metaphysical journeyman, seeking the world’s great visualization experts. At a yoga retreat in Chiang Mai, a guru taught him to imagine the actual removal of his head, his thoughts fizzling out as if short-circuiting, until the torrent was under control. It worked, but it was impractical when he was in the field.

  His latest coping mechanism had come to him in the gym this past summer. He had been working with his fencing coach, when Radiohead’s mesmerizing song Everything in its Right Place had come over the speakers. The song’s simple chord progression rendered him spellbound. He immediately added it to the playlist on his phone. Later that night, he listened again, studying it. Visualizing the notes on a song sheet along with the insanely simple lyrics:

  Everything. Everything. Everything.

  In its right place.

  Right place.

  Right place.

  The result was pure focus. Go figure. It was like a miracle. Most days, replaying the song in his head was enough. But the torrent he had experienced in Vegas was something else. That was worrisome. Powerful enough to knock him out. He was fortunate not to have split his head open.

  Now his father laid the plate before him and sat opposite. He said grace, and then picked up his utensils. “Here’s to getting some of your mom’s good cooking very soon.”

  “Don’t be modest. This is delicious. I forgot how good actual butter is. When I get back to D.C., I’m throwing out all my coconut oil.”

  His father swallowed. “So. Have you met my future daughter-in-law yet?”

  “Not yet, Pop.”

  “What about Eri? You ever see her any more?”

  “No. She moved back to Tokyo years ago. You know that.”

  Twelve years ago, in fact. His parents had met Eri during their one and only trip to the nation’s capital. Carver had given them the grand tour. Fourteen museums in nine days. The Lincoln Memorial, the Capitol Building, the White House. But Eri Sato was the one thing they talked about afterwards. How perfect they were together. How they were going to give them beautiful grandkids. If only Carver would make an honest woman out of her.

  He didn’t blame them. He and Eri had been good together. He had never felt as close to anyone. But he had lost her for one very simple reason – he had loved his work more than he loved her.

  It was the work he had ended up marrying all those years ago. And now, it seemed, the work had left him too.

  Beijing, China

  Jasper Blick peered out the window of his 10th-floor apartment building and slipped on his eyeglasses. He was still utterly unable to see the buildings on the other side of the road. This was the fourth day in a row that the city had been under a toxic gray haze, and the 30th air quality alert of the year. The fit 41-year-old ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, then over his face, pulling at his cheeks.

  Cabin fever was creeping in.

  Once again, the government had ordered major factories to suspend production and non-essential vehicles to stay off the road. And as it always did on days like this, the economic consequences rolled downhill. This morning, his phone’s insistent ring had woken him at 6:03 a.m. It was the agency. It seemed that his gig playing an English butler for a department store opening ceremony had been postponed due to hazardous air quality.

  He needed that money. The Yuan had been tanking in recent months, and he was getting absolutely crushed when converting his money to USD. At least he wasn’t paying any income tax. All his gigs were paid in cash.

  Still, if this kept up for long, he was going to have to go back to his career as a nurse in Oregon. God forbid. Beijing was where all the action was these days. Until the currency crash, he had bee
n completing acing the ex-pat lifestyle. He had more girlfriends than he could keep up with, and until recently, the easy gigs had flowed like a river.

  And to what did he owe this screaming success in matters of love and money? Was it because he was a great actor? Nope. Mostly, he figured, it was because he had been born white and male and American. He was blessed!

  As he saw it, that was the critical difference between China and the states. Back home in Oregon, it seemed like all anyone could talk about was the need to increase diversity. Northwesterners were constantly complaining about how “white” it was up there. Some of his best friends lived in a constant state of white guilt. To make matters worse, the whole gender equality thing was really picking up steam. His friends back home told him that the system was literally taking money out of men’s pockets and reallocating it to women. One of his buddies back home was actually considering faking a transgender move so he could qualify for one of those women-only small business grants! Had America really been sissified to that extent? Having to switch genders to get ahead? The lunatics were running the asylum!

  But not in China. The government might be wary of American foreign policy, but man oh man, the girls loved white guys from the states. In China, he was special. So if Blick was being honest, this kind of life just wasn’t going to happen for him back home, ever.

  His phone chirped. He didn’t recognize the caller ID, so he answered in his most professional business voice, hoping the caller would know English. Despite having been in Beijing for three years, he still didn’t know much Mandarin.

  “Is this Jasper Blick?” the caller said. He sounded American.

  “Yes it is. With whom am I speaking?”

  “Your next client.”

  Blick grinned. “Did the agency give you my number?”

  “No. I need to deal directly with you, Jasper.”

  Well this was a first. Blick was at a loss for words. He sat at his tiny dining table, absentmindedly tapping the goldfish bowl that served as its centerpiece. The fish spooked to the other side of the bowl. “What did you say your name was?”