Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (23 page)

“Yet, you still went to see about the plane,” Agent Thomlin stated as if cross-examining a witness.

“Just a hunch,” Mr. Fremont allowed.

Agent Thomlin turned to the two fishermen. “And you went, too. Why?”

Mr. O’Brien stroked his beard, then answered. “Maybe we should talk privately.” The agents considered the old man carefully, then both nodded agreement.

Agent Jakes asked Mr. Fremont, “Sir, can you get inside that warehouse tomorrow morning?”

“I can’t leave the store until afternoon. But we’re closing early to prepare for the séance. It’s not my day to work at the university, but I’ll think of some excuse to go. Maybe five o’clock?”

Agent Jakes frowned. “No sooner?” Mr. Fremont shook his head. “Okay. We’ll wait for your report before Agent Thomlin and I proceed.”

“Proceed at what?” Tally asked. “Are you going to raid the place? What do you think is in that crate anyway?”

The agents now turned their attention on Tally, deflecting her questions. “You never told us why you were watching the airstrip with Mr. Fremont last Friday night.”

“He followed me there,” she corrected, then looked around the table. “Mom takes classes there. I heard her tell somebody once that she sensed an evil presence in that place. I could tell how much it frightened her. So I went looking for it.”

They all stared at her for an awkward moment, but it was Ian O’Brien who reached across the table and picked up her hand, cushioning it inside his gentle grip and smiling at her with something that made her grow still and quiet. “Tally, none of us are equipped to battle evil all by ourselves. You give that job to God and ask him to protect you and your mom. I’m going to talk to him about that and I know he’ll see to it.”

Tally felt as if everyone else in the room had disappeared but this old man. Then she recalled her prayer in her room with all the windows open wide and the wind rushing through like brooms trying to sweep away her mother’s madness. She’d asked God to help her. Had he sent this old man? She gazed at the sun-worn face before her, at the gray and tangled beard, but in the eyes she saw hope.

The others began to stir, and Ian released her. She slid a self-conscious glance around the table, but found oddly consoling eyes upon her. Who were all these people? How did they wind up in her life?

Shortly before midnight, the group left Tally alone, only after Agent Thomlin’s offer to stay with her was rejected, though politely. “I’ll meet you behind the old stables on the north edge of the commons at dark tomorrow night,” Tally told them. “And ignore that mass spectacle everyone’s been pumping up. That’s tourist stuff. I’ll take you to see Vandoren’s private show.”

As soon as Ian and Henry left the house, the agents took them aside. “Mr. O’Brien,” Agent Jakes began, “you and Mr. Bower obviously know things you shouldn’t, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t know how you acquired that information, but I think it’s best that you tell me what you know about this situation and exactly why you’re here.”

Ian nodded. “That’s a real efficient way to begin, son. So I’ll do the same and tell you right up front that we’re tired of this man’s daughter being shot at.” He cocked his head toward Henry. “When she married my grandson, that made her my daughter, too. As for what we know—that you don’t think we should—don’t think for a second that Agent Ava Mullins slipped any classified information to me. I just overheard a phone conversation in her home when she didn’t know I was around, then found a note on her desk.”

“And just what did you overhear and read, sir?” Agent Thomlin asked.

Ian saw no reason to continue this evasive nonsense. They were the FBI team Ava had sent. They already knew more than he and Henry. It was time to pool resources and get on with it. “That Ivan Volynski might still be alive. That he was spotted down here a couple years ago and might be connected to Vandoren. We also know there’s an uproar over some kind of weapon that the president knows about. And now we know that Vandoren’s got some mysterious crate in his warehouse. I’m standing here looking at you two well-scrubbed young folks and my rickety old friend here and wondering when someone’s going to send in the troops.”

“Now hold on, Mr. O’Brien,” Agent Thomlin cautioned. “First of all, you don’t charge into something you know nothing about. We’re here to investigate, that’s all. If Volynski’s anywhere near, we want to keep him happy about that and not scare him off before we can apprehend him. As for the crate, it might be a real pretty vase like Mr. Fremont suggests. We’ll wait for his report tomorrow night, then let our Miami bureau tell us what to do.”

She was right, Ian had to admit. But he glanced at Henry and read a completely different reaction. The warrior-father’s eyes bore down on the agents, and the man of few words found some. “If sending a fragile old man in there to poke around—after he gets off work—is your idea of uncovering a monster like Volynski, you go ahead. I’ve got something else to do.”

“I should remind you, Mr. Bower,” Agent Jakes said, “that interfering with the duties of federal agents can get you into trouble.”

“Old Mr. Fremont is no federal anything,” Henry countered, “and I don’t see the two of you doing much to help him. He looked at the ground and drew a weary breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jerk. I just want to expedite this thing. Let me go in there tomorrow morning, just a curious newcomer interested in classes. I’ve got a few reconnaissance skills.”

Ian almost sputtered confirmation of that, but caught himself in time. It wouldn’t do for the FBI to start digging into the exhumed life of Henry Bower, whom the Mexican government had declared dead, even buried. Or trace his former life on the underside of polite society, where he honed the skills he later used to watch over his daughter. So Ian said nothing, only nodded agreement with Henry, all the while wondering what percolated in that hard and scarred head.

The agents seemed to appraise Henry with fresh eyes. “Sir,” Agent Jakes said after a few moments, “We need to report all this to our bureau tonight. Perhaps you should return to your boat. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” He raised a cautioning hand. “I can’t emphasize enough to you, Mr. Bower, that you are to do nothing further until we talk again.”

“He’s right, Henry,” Ian quickly agreed. “We’re both bone tired and not much good for anything else tonight.” He paused before one last query for the agents, running a few fingers through his beard. “Say, uh, I guess that report will make its way back to Ava, right?”

“I’m sure it will, sir,” Agent Thomlin answered, the faintest glint of amusement on her face.

“Right away?”

“Tonight, sir. We’re working tandem with the CIA on this.”

Ian sighed. “I don’t suppose you could skip the part about us being here.”

“Not a chance,” the agent said flatly.

“Okay then,” Ian drawled absently while raking through the likely consequences of Ava’s anger with him. Then he thought of something else. “But tell her I found a bike that doesn’t hurt. She’ll understand.”

W
hen the plane landed in Berlin that Tuesday morning, Max led Liesl, Cade, Erica, Ben, and Anna through the airport to baggage claim, where the German extension of Israeli and American security waited for them. Though danger to certain members of the traveling party was merely potential—Ivan Volynski’s survival was still unsubstantiated and Max’s father had only been glimpsed by Evgeny Kozlov—the Mossad was taking no chances with the lives of two of its agents, one of them still recovering from attempted assassination. Nor was the American government willing to let Liesl Bower and her new husband dangle out there where too many uncertainties could galvanize quickly into real-time danger.

Two black Suburbans pulled up at the curb nearest baggage claim and loaded everyone and their luggage, including the guards. “Everyone comfy?” Max chirped inside the lead car, buckling himself in and slipping an arm around Erica’s shoulders. Liesl watched her discreetly, pleased with the apparent affection she displayed for Max.

Satisfied with his companions’ affirmative responses, Max added, “Good, because we’ve got two jam-packed days ahead in this amazing city.” He gazed admiringly at the passing sights. “Erica, you’ll probably wear that camera out on this trip.”

“I plan to,” she said, patting the canvas bag at her side. “But tell me something. Are you sure your friend doesn’t mind six people crashing in his apartment while he’s away?”

Liesl watched something almost subliminal pass between Max and Ben. She knew what it was. Max had confided to her the true nature of their accommodations for the next two days. It was a German safe house near the Brandenburg Gate.

They soon passed beside the colossal arch through which Hitler once goose-stepped his proud military, where the Communists later walled off half of Berlin, and where President Ronald Reagan immortalized his demand of Soviet General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev to tear down the wall. Just two years later, the Russian leader did just that. To celebrate the historic fall of the wall, Leonard Bernstein conducted an international orchestra and chorus performing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony on site at the Brandenburg Gate. In the famous
Ode to Joy
chorus of the performance, the word
joy
was replaced with
freedom.
That particular footnote to musical history had always captivated Max, just as this city had. But Liesl knew that the focal point of its allure for her friend was coming up ahead, down the Ebertstrasse to a place of both shame and honor—the Holocaust Museum, dedicated in 2005 and officially known as the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. She hadn’t even bothered to describe it to Cade. He would have to absorb its visceral impact as she had—alone, without words. She had been there twice during concert tours, but never with Max. She wasn’t prepared for what was coming when they returned to the site that afternoon. For now, they would pass by the memorial on the way to the apartment.

Since leaving the airport, Max, whose solo concert tours had brought him here many times, had entertained them with colorful snippets about the landmarks along the way. Liesl heard the sizzle of his eagerness to show this favored city to those who hadn’t been there—Erica, Cade, Ben, and Anna. But as the driver approached a break in the buildings, Max fell silent at first sight of the memorial. That open space in the midst of downtown Berlin was over four acres of plain coffin-like concrete slabs, unmarked symbols of the millions killed in the Nazi carnage.

“We’ll come back here later today.” He smiled and said nothing more until they rounded a corner south of the memorial and headed toward Friedrichstrasse, a major thoroughfare through the city. A couple of blocks short of it, the driver pulled into an alley and stopped before a closed garage. He entered a code into his phone and the door opened.

Everyone dispensed into an express elevator that took them to the top of the ten-story building and opened onto a small vestibule with only two doors fronting on it. One to an emergency stairwell, the other to the penthouse apartment they now entered. Liesl wondered at the luxury of this safe house. Over the past two years, she’d been ensconced in two different ones, a farmhouse well beyond the Washington Beltway and a New York high-rise. When would it ever be safe to just go home?

She looked over the fine furnishings and rugs, the spacious rooms, but noted how unusually small the windows were, each one covered with blinds. She turned to Ben, who nodded approval. “This will do what we want it to.”

“And what is that?” Anna asked, running a hand over a velvet settee. But her expression seemed to hold the answer. Surely Ben had told Anna where they were, as Liesl had told Cade. Only Erica remained. Why should it be such a secret from her that they were staying in an official protective nest? But that was Max’s business, to tell her or not.

An hour later, they’d unpacked, helped themselves to a generously stocked refrigerator, and plotted their tour that day. As requested by those who guarded them, the six-pack group was split into two and four. Ben and Anna volunteered to sightsee on their own, since that would include a visit to one of Anna’s elderly uncles, who’d recently moved from Israel back to his native Germany.

As they parted ways, Erica took a call and excused herself from the remaining foursome. That gave Max time to explain his reluctance to trouble Erica with knowledge that she was staying in a safe house. He explained to Liesl and Cade that she was already unnerved by the constant presence of the guards. “She’s a timid soul who likes her privacy,” he maintained. “Like me, I guess. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”

Erica rejoined them and they left on foot, heading south to “what every American male is first drawn to in Berlin,” Max said. “Checkpoint Charlie.” Cade had to agree.

But when they arrived at the notorious gateway through the Berlin Wall, where American and Soviet tanks once squared off during the Cold War, they were affronted by the carnival antics of those assigned to portray American soldiers manning the small checkpoint booth. Yes, it was a replica, and Allied control over the site had long expired. But brave people had died here trying to escape Communist East Berlin.