We went from a highway down to a two-lane road, then a one-lane road, and finally no road at all. At least not a paved one. After a few miles of what would generously be called a dirt trail, we arrived at a small clearing in the woods northwest of Concord.
“Whose cabin is this?” asked Jade.
“It belongs to Josiah Maxwell Reinhart, otherwise known as my father. He built it himself about twenty years ago.”
Jade only heard one word of that. “Your father?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands.”
She peered out the window again. “It’s the middle of nowhere, I’ll give you that.” She reached for the door handle.
“Not so fast,” I said. “Hold up a second.”
“Why?”
“Because he might blow your head off,” I said. “That’s why.”
I hadn’t tipped off my father that we were coming. Some jams you have to explain in person. So the odds that he had his Winchester 101 shotgun aimed at us at that very moment were somewhere between a sure thing and a damn sure thing. Cracking the window a couple of inches, I waved what was the best I could do for a white flag. Nothing says don’t shoot quite like a McDonald’s napkin.
My father opened his front door. He was wearing a red-and-black-plaid wool parka that looked like it came straight out of Field & Stream magazine, albeit an issue from 1964. His expression was far from happy, but at least the Winchester was pointed at the ground. A far friendlier greeting came from Diamond, his trusted vizsla, who immediately sprinted toward me and planted his front paws on my waist the second I stepped out of the car. “Hello, Diamond! Hey there, boy! I missed you, too!”
My father and I shook hands. He’s not a hugger, never was. Turning, he gave my very attractive five-foot-ten traveling companion a once-over, head to toe. “At least tell me she can cook,” he said.
“Dad, meet Jade. Jade, meet my dad,” I said.
“Perdoon stary,” Jade muttered under her breath. Not quietly enough. I should’ve given her the heads-up that my father had far more Russian language training than I did.
“Did she really just call me an old fart?” He laughed. “I like her. Now tell me what the hell you’re both doing here.”
It was a long story, all right, but I didn’t dare shorten it. You don’t cut corners with Josiah Maxwell Reinhart, especially when you need a favor from him. We went inside, and over cups of kettle coffee at his pine kitchen table I explained my working for Mathias von Oehson, which led me to Jade and to the man we now needed to protect her from, Vladimir Grigoryev.
“Yeah, I know who he is,” said my father. “He’s a rat for the Bureau.”
Which is not to say my father didn’t value informants and double agents who gave him intel during his years as a CIA operative. But valuing people and respecting them don’t always go hand in hand.
“Seems like everyone knew Grigoryev was an informant except me,” I said.
“Who originally told you?” my father asked.
“Elizabeth.”
“You roped her into the mess?”
“It wasn’t a mess at that point,” I said.
“I’m sure that distinction is doing her a lot of good right about now.” He’s had a soft spot for Elizabeth since the first day they met. “It makes sense she would know, though. She was your introduction to Grigoryev?”
“There was a middleman—or middlewoman. I’m assuming another agent at the JTTF. Elizabeth kept the name to herself.”
“You’ll need to change that.”
“Believe me, I will.”
“Still, there’s no telling if Grigoryev will back off just because this other agent goes to bat for you. Do you have a plan B?”
“Is that a question or an offer?”
My father turned to Jade. She’d been sitting silent between us, sipping her coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, her head on a swivel as if she were center court at Wimbledon. “What could I possibly do to help? I’m just an old fart, right?”
“Play nice, Dad,” I said. “She’s had a long day.”
“No, I deserved that,” said Jade. Her listening to the back-and-forth with my father was clearly an eye-opener for her. “You’re helping me. I apologize. Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“Na zdorovye,” said my father.
You’re welcome.