As he’d received in Brisbane, the instructions were very specific, designed, he was told, to ensure his own safety, but he began to suspect it was the opposite—to ensure theirs. They wanted his data, but not to the point where they risked being arrested as soon as they met.
He took a seat at the back of his car, the single assistant inside asking him to place his backpack under the wooden bench. He did so, and found himself facing an Asian man and woman on the bench opposite. They said nothing to him, spending the time talking in Chinese with each other, apparently excited for the journey.
The train left the station and began crawling up into the mountains, the tracks threading through tunnels and incredible switchbacks so tight he could see the tail of the cars behind him like the coil of a snake. He glanced at the Chinese couple and saw the woman stroke the man’s neck with a finger, its nail longer than the others, making him wonder if she was a cokehead. The man next to her didn’t do anything to counter that image, as he had a scar that tracked through his eyebrow into his cheek, giving him a sinister look no matter how much he smiled.
They continued winding through the rainforest, the tourists in the train craning their heads out of the windows, cameras and phones snapping pictures. Eventually they pulled into an old station called Barron Falls, nothing more than a concrete platform. The conductor gave a short speech about the significance of the area, then said they were taking a ten-minute stop to view the scenery.
The tourists on the train began to exit. Jake intended to remain behind, having no interest in seeing the falls and being much more concerned with protecting his hard drive. The train car emptied, and the Chinese woman across from him stood up, speaking to him in English.
“Are you going to see the view?”
Surprised, he said, “Uh . . . no. I think I’m going to just wait until we leave again.”
She leaned forward, saying, “You should really get out and go to the viewing platform. It’s gorgeous.”
He said, “I’m just on here to get to Kuranda. I don’t care about the view.”
She traced her long fingernail against his cheek, and he felt it, much thicker than an ordinary nail. She said, “Get off the fucking train. Go to the viewing platform.”
She turned, took the hand of her partner, and left the car. He sat dumbstruck for a moment, then exited as well, seeing a gorge spilling away from him, a huge rock face across the chasm with a spit of water running down it for hundreds of feet. Caught in the swirl of tourists all jostling cameras and selfie sticks, he stood for a moment, looking for the viewing platform. He saw a stairwell to his right disappearing into the jungle, a steady stream of people going up the stairs.
He followed them, reaching a wooden boardwalk that snaked through the trees. He continued, finding another set of stairs. He went up and entered a large deck hanging over the side of the chasm, the foliage cut away to allow a view. At the railing were the two Asians, pretending to look out over the gorge. He approached, and the man said, “Keep going. You’re not getting back on the train. You’ll cross a footbridge over the train tracks and find a parking lot. We’ll stay here to see if anyone follows.”
Jake nodded and continued on the path, sweat now breaking out on his neck, the fear bringing out an animal odor underneath his shirt. He wasn’t a trained spy, but even he could see the extent of the preparations. They’d thought it through thoroughly.
They’d picked a single source of travel—the train—and then had broken that source by pulling him off prior to reaching the final station at Kuranda. Anyone following him would be immediately identified because nobody left the train at the falls. Why would they? They’d paid for the trip to Kuranda. If there was anyone on him, he’d be blamed. And possibly killed because of it.
He crossed the bridge spanning the tracks and found a stairwell leading down to a small parking lot. Descending warily, he saw a man at the base of the stairs. Another Asian. He debated whether he should approach or just walk by like he was headed to a car. He decided on the latter, shouldering his backpack and stomping down the stairs like he belonged.
He reached the bottom and saw only two vehicles in the lot, both occupied. He passed the man and heard, “Go to the vehicle on the left.”
He stopped and turned to the man, about to ask a question, and the man said, “Keep walking, idiot. Get in the car.”
He picked up his pace, now sweating freely from both the heat and the fear. A man exited the vehicle and opened the rear door, not saying a word.
Jake slid inside.
Jennifer pulled off the Kennedy Highway and into Kuranda Village, driving through a traffic circle in search of the central parking area. She found it, slid into a space, turned off the vehicle, and said, “Any movement?”
In the second row of seats, Veep flicked a tablet, zooming in, and said, “Yeah. It’s now in a hotel.” He rotated the screen, stared at an image, then said, “The Barron Falls Hotel. That could be trouble. The technology doesn’t give a granular enough geolocation to pinpoint a room. If he’s staying there, it’s going to be some work.”
I looked at Jennifer and she smiled. Veep said, “What?”
I said, “I’m betting it’s not a hotel. It’s a pub.”
Knuckles googled, and sure enough, it was a restaurant/pub with a gaming room in the back.
He said, “That’s a good thing, but we’re still going to need to identify Jake Shu, and we don’t even have a description. All we have is this phone, which isn’t his.”
Brett laughed and said, “That’s what you think the weak link is? Not that we’re chasing a geo-trace gleaned from a kid in Charleston, South Carolina?”
I said, “Hey, it panned out, didn’t it?”
The night before, Amena had texted me the number, and I’d immediately sent it to Creed in the Taskforce, asking for a geolocation of the handset. Of course, he’d initially refused, needing to know the provenance, because we weren’t allowed to target phones willy-nilly just because we wanted to. Even as top secret as we were, we had built-in checks and balances to keep Project Prometheus from turning into a secret police state. I knew he’d do it if I pushed, but that wasn’t fair. I’d told him to get George Wolffe back on the phone.
He came on, and while I could stretch the truth for a mission if I believed it was in the greater good, I wasn’t going to outright lie. It would have been easy to tell him I’d found the number from the SSE of the hostage house, making a story of how we’d discovered it in our exploitation, but that was a bridge too far. It was so tenuous that I wouldn’t be able to explain if the number Amena found was for a handset in San Francisco—and it wouldn’t be fair to put that person in the crosshairs as being involved in a Chinese Ministry of State Security operation when it could have just been Amena’s roommate’s cousin. Even I had some limits.
I told him everything, just laying it out. He was incredulous. I said, “Hey, sir, I’m just asking for a poke. I’m not looking to finger the handset for future exploration if it’s not anywhere near my target deck.”
“Pike, I can’t turn on the intelligence systems of the United States of America based on what your little refugee found in her roommate’s phone. Are you insane?”