WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 29.
9:45 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
The Office of Human Rights and Special Prosecutions looked like an ordinary workplace. It was located on the fourth floor of an Indiana limestone structure on Pennsylvania Avenue, a couple of blocks from the White House and next to Freedom Plaza.
The staff was small—six attorneys, who, like Jake Trent, were also law-enforcement-trained special agents. Others were located throughout the Eastern Seaboard in various branch locations.
Each special prosecutor had an assistant, a cream-of-the-crop graduate from a top law school.
Barry Schue, early forties, of average height but athletic, was still at his desk, to his wife’s chagrin, along with his assistant. It was another late night at work, but his understudy probably cherished the opportunity to impress his superiors. At least that’s how Schue rationalized it. He would have felt that way in his younger days.
They were seated inside Schue’s office poring over pages of documentation on the rural ransack organized by Xiao and his young daughter. The evidence was sufficient to prosecute both of them. The question was whether, after the judgment, it would be possible to impose a sentence. This was a part of the business for which Schue couldn’t sufficiently train the assistant. It was the last hurdle in closing a case. Getting your man into custody.
Wright had hinted all along that Meirong’s prosecution might become a casualty of foreign relations—spy business, really—and that irked Schue. The job of the Office was to pursue justice, not make concessions and play political games.
Why the hell did Wright object to her prosecution anyway? At the very least, she was an accomplice to crimes against humanity. At worst, she was the mastermind. What was in it for Wright and the CIA?
“Justin?”
The young assistant looked up from the pile of paperwork spread on the carpet.
“I’ll look through the rest of this. Can you get me a quick bio on the point man for the agency on this?”
“Assistant Director Wright?”
“Yes.”
* * *
Divya had returned to Langley, where she had access to all her contacts and the full resources of the agency. The building was dim and cool. She started up her laptop, put some coffee on in the break room, and called Wright.
“I’ll fly out and pick up Meirong,” Wright told her. “As soon as we get her, we’ll begin the process to get Charlotte Terrell back.”
“I’d like to stay on. I’d really like to be out there myself. He’s a friend.”
Wright became incensed. “You have a serious problem with authority, Divya. Do not question my command.” He hung up before she could say anything more.
Asshole.
Divya went to the break room, poured a cup of coffee, and sat back down at her desk. She was anxious, tapping her fingers on her desk, feeling idle. She called Jake and told him the plan.
“Lie low until Wright contacts you tomorrow.”
Be careful, she forgot to say. Don’t get yourself killed.
She anxiously plied through the Canart/Xiao file for a few minutes before turning back to her computer. She went to a flight search engine and typed “Idaho Falls” in the destination field. “Dulles to Idaho Falls. Depart 5:18 am EST, arrive 8:48 MST.” She supplied her credit-card information and clicked purchase.
On her way home her cell phone rang.
“Divya? It’s Schue.”
“Yes?”
“You need to stay away from Wright. Tell Jake the same.”