“What do you want?” Tramil asked.
“I’m guessing you hid the research off-site,” the man said, his accent still unclear.
Tramil could play this game. “That makes sense. How could I trust a university computer system? But I don’t understand why you want my research. It’s not done. We haven’t even discovered anything significant.”
The man laughed internally and shook his head. “Don’t try to play poker, professor. We know all about your research.”
“Based on what my colleague told you?”
Someone tried to push into the door, which made the man turn his head over his shoulder, allowing Tramil to check his watch. The train would stop at Whitefish in just twenty-five minutes.
“It’s occupied, asshole,” the man yelled. “Find another one.”
Fully recovered from the thrust to his gut, Tramil ran scenarios through his brain on how to escape from this man. Most of the outcomes were not favorable. Only one made any sense, and that had worked before.
“I don’t even have a computer with me,” Tramil explained.
“Amtrak has wi-fi running throughout,” the man said. “You can download it to my smart phone. That’s why they call them smart.”
Stall, Tramil. “How much internal memory do you have?”
The man’s expression was blank.
Tramil continued, “Because my research, with all its attachments, is over fifty gig.”
Now the guy looked like a third-grader trying to do calculus in his mind. He had a dilemma. It was obvious he couldn’t kill Tramil without the research, and he had no way of downloading it on the train. At least not without finding something to download it to.
Maybe Tramil could help him with this mental gymnastics. Move him toward a favorable solution. He checked his watch again. “Maybe they sell some data storage in Whitefish. The train stops there for about a half hour.”
Smiling, the man said, “Good idea. Nobody says we have to continue on this train.”
Perhaps he’d been too helpful. He hadn’t thought of that possible outcome.
“All right,” the man said. “We’ll go sit down and get off in Whitefish.” He turned and pushed through the door.
Standing there was the porter, a huge black man with a flat top, along with an old woman who seemed to have her legs crossed. When the porter saw two men coming out together, his brows rose. The old woman looked shocked.
Tramil took this distraction as a sign. He pushed past the man with the knife and hurried toward the front of the train. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the porter had grasped the man by the arm. But he quickly pulled his arm away and followed Tramil.
Hurrying through the aisle, Tramil glanced back occasionally. People were awake now. Some looked out the windows at the snow falling outside. Others were standing and stretching their legs from the long night sleeping in uncomfortable chairs.
Run, Tramil. It was his only defense against this man. He picked up speed, but then realized he would quickly run out of train if he went too fast. He went through to the next car and continued forward. He needed to get off this train. It had been a good idea to pay cash and take the train, but had now turned into a trap of his making. The only thing he had going for him was the fact that this man had probably been ordered to not kill him. Of course the same was probably true of his friend Stephan.
As he rushed forward he saw some bags between cars. A few people were planning to get off in Whitefish. Without hesitation, Tramil grasped a hard-sided metal suitcase and slid out of sight. When he heard the door open, he timed his strike just right, swinging it up and smashing it into the man’s chest, knocking him back against the wall. Then he dropped the bag on the guy’s feet and ran back the way he’d just come, heading toward the back of the train now.
Tramil heard the man mumble something in another language, but he didn’t stick around long enough to guess the translation. He saw possible salvation ahead. The porter had followed the two of them and was now heading right for Tramil.
“Help me,” Tramil said when he reached the porter. “That man is trying to kill me.” He slipped one of his college business cards from his pocket and shoved it into the porter’s hand. “I’m a college professor. That man shot and killed my friend a couple days ago and is now trying to kill me.”
“What?” the porter asked. “Who?”
Turning quickly, Tramil couldn’t see the man who had been chasing him. “The man from the bathroom. He has a knife and threatened to kill me.”
The big porter got on his radio and said, “We got a situation here.”
8
Jake Adams spent most of the day trying to get his shit together. But mostly he tried to get some feeling in his extremities. After so much time in the cold water, and then running through the frozen city with only wet pants on, his core body temperature had surely dropped a few degrees.
Yet, he had gotten away without giving these men any information. His escape had almost been too easy. Maybe he had done exactly what they wanted him to do. If so, he’d have to be much more vigilant.
He suspected those who had taken him would think he would never go back to his hotel, but that’s what he had done, grabbing his clothes and checking out in just a half hour. His room had been trashed, so he had simply shoved everything into his rolling duffle bag, which consisted mostly of dirty hunting clothes anyway.
Jake’s encounter with the Slavic men had done a couple of things for him. First, it had put him back into the game — made him much more aware of his surroundings — like his days with the Agency, always checking his six and observing people who might be taking too much interest in him. And second, they had pissed him off. He could still taste the acrid water and smell the rotting rat. Despite his best efforts, some of that water had gotten into his lungs. He could only imagine how his lungs were fighting to remove all that crap. It would take days, or weeks, to get rid of everything not supposed to be there.
Away from the hotel now, he rode in a taxi toward Ronald Reagan Airport. He checked his phone, but it was dead. However, he always kept a spare battery so he could swap one for the next while on the road. Having pulled the charged battery from his bag before leaving his room, he popped open his phone and immediately shook his head once he looked into the battery compartment. Inside was a tiny chip that would keep his GPS working off an unused sector of his battery. Yeah, his escape had been nearly predetermined. Those guys wanted to get him heading off to find the professor. They would be able to track him and maybe even listen to his calls in real time. Nice technology. Without removing the tracking chip, he put in the new battery. He could play this game.
Once the new battery was in, he saw he had a number of new messages. In fact, more than twenty, which was really out of the ordinary. If he got one message a week, he would be amazed. Why? He was retired, and not many people had his cell number.
When he heard the first message, he guessed what the rest might say as well. They were almost all from people at FOX News wanting him to come on various shows to talk about his testimony before congress. He called just one of those back and said he would be available within the hour. Then he instructed the driver to divert to the local studio.
Jake had never been interviewed by a major news outlet. During his time with the Agency he avoided the spotlight. It could be the death of a field operative’s career, or real death if the opponents caught the broadcast. But this was different. He already had millions of hits on the internet for how he had dressed-down the congressman from California.