Guardians of the Secret
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved
23.
"A perfect place to murder him," Arens thought as he walked up the steps to the theater. He laughed as he considered it. After all wasn't this theater a shabby contemporary version of a cathedral and wasn't the victim a shabby contemporary version of a high priest. His enjoyment didn't last as he was in a hurry and hated to rush. The FBI, with no sense of humor or history, might be coming soon.
Arens entered the darkened theater. Nimé was walking from the stage, preoccupied with an armful of papers he was carrying.
"Herr Richter," Arens called out. Nimé looked up with a start at the sound of Arens' voice. The sight of him relieved the strange sensation that he had heard the dead speak.
"I'm disappointed I didn't get to hear you give a talk," Arens went on, taking pleasure in Nimé's discomfort. "I've always admired your work."
Nimé tried to regain his composure. "With what's going on I naturally canceled it. Apparently some people are trying to take us back to the middle ages."
"This is the middle ages. The multinationals are the nobility with their private domains as the serfs scramble for some security within their walls. Of course security was never your worry, you always had well placed comrades. They probably all felt guilty. You were the only true believer and you weren't even in the party, while they had their numbered accounts in Switzerland. There were certain jealous ones who insisted you had a secret fondness for the Americans."
"My only fondness, as you put it, was for the Indians of South America."
"Like father like son."
"How would you know? They pointed you in a direction and you killed."
"It's true my specialty was closing files rather than reading them, but I know more about you than you think. Shall I display my ignorance?"
"If that was a question, I would say no."
"Your father left Germany in the thirties because it was unhealthy to be a leading Communist in Hitler's new order. He emigrated to Brazil, bought a plantation and grew bromeliads in Santa Catarina. He met a dancer. She was only part German. Can't blame him for preferring the samba to the polka. He was born nobility, shows what can happen when you don't stick with your class. How am I doing so far?"
"Splendid, if your goal is rehashing common knowledge."
"They were married and had a son. They had problems. Maybe she wasn't German enough or maybe too German. Maybe she wanted to be free. Or maybe she found out he wasn't going to be the next Juan Peron. Who knows? She played around and he went native, spending his time collecting bromeliads and Indian cosmologies.
"It was no situation for a child. After the war he sent his son back to Germany to live with relatives. He never came back himself although he could have still held high position. Very strange. I'm sure you've considered it. Maybe you became a therapist considering it. What do you think Doctor Richter?"
"That you think seeing through everything is the same as seeing into the heart of it. For you it's a natural mistake."
"I'm heartless, what a revelation."
"Not heartless, just so fragile you've decided to destroy it to protect it."
"Not bad, that's almost worthy of us both. Your mother went on with her so called career and her escapades including one with Martin Bormann."
Nimé started to protest.
"Of course it's just a nasty rumor. In any case we shouldn't be too hard on her, she had an extraordinarily developed nose for power. After all if the Communists had taken over instead of Hitler, your father might have been Chancellor. She wasn't very particular about political leanings. There are those who say the same about Herr Bormann. She had a second child."
Nimé tried not to look surprised.
"Surely you've heard all this. She was raised by nuns, and later put up for adoption. No one knows what has happened to her. She ran away, just like her mother."
"It's ancient history."
"You're a psychologist. We're filled head to toe with ancient history. We're lucky if we can manage an occasional foray into the present or the future."
"So who are they pointing you toward now? Me?"
"Only indirectly. We'll have to save our discussion of Heidegger or ecstatic revelation for another day. The FBI is working on a connection between you and some people I'm interested in finding. Michael Flaherty and a woman named Sara Ellison. Unfortunately she's beyond finding, but she might have left something with you that would be of some help. There's not much use in threatening you. But we could take a walk, somewhere we won't be interrupted by the FBI, and pick a face in the crowd. Young, innocent, full of life. You understand."
Nimé was silent.
* * *
Michael and Tess began the search for Sara's car at the salvage yards. It was the most logical place for a demolished car to end up. Even though it was daylight, they were counting on the fact that nobody paid much attention to you unless you bothered them with a question, or had a box of parts to buy. Hiking through the aisles of wrecks was time consuming. Their efforts were yielding nothing, and the longer they were at it, the more they worried about being spotted.
Even before they reached the last rows of cars, Tess had a feeling it wasn't going to be there. "You don't suppose they repaired the thing."
"It was too badly damaged," Michael quickly responded. He rethought it. "It was Jack's gift and Sara loved it. Maybe he decided to save it."
There were two body shops that specialized in BMW's. The personnel would have been more attentive than the ones at the salvage yards, but fortunately the shops were closed on Saturday. It was just a matter of breaking in and locating the car.
Michael was shocked when he saw it. It had been redone completely. He wasn't ready to see it twisted and bent. But even less ready to see this.
He got in the car and sat in the driver's seat. He expected to sense something of her, her terror, a whiff of perfume, a dying echo of a heartbeat. There was just metal, leather and the smell of polish and fresh paint. There didn't seem to be a trace. But then life isn't so interested in traces. At least not in making them obvious. It uses what it can and moves on.
That's what makes finding them an art. The trace might be a faint radio signal from the start of everything 10 billion years ago. It might be recorded in the rocks or an old newspaper, or in the funny way a person smiles. There's always a trace.
They began to go over the car. Michael went through the trunk while Tess checked the glove compartment. Michael got into the driver's seat and began to search under the seat, as Tess took the ash tray out. It was filled with potpourri. Michael noticed Tess take a small portion of it and smell it.
"Sara treated herself to the smell after she quit smoking."
As Tess put the ash tray back, she felt something shift in the bottom of it. She reached into the potpourri and felt something metallic. Michael was searching under the seat when he heard Tess say, "I think she treated herself to a safety deposit key as well."
Tess excitedly handed the safety deposit key to Michael.
"She obviously used it regularly. Of course she could have just gotten a kick out of visiting her diamonds."
Michael smiled, but he was already formulating a plan.
"She probably built up a whole file of papers. We can get Jack to open the safety deposit box."
Michael searched through Sara's datebook until he found Jack's parents number. They drove to a phone and Michael called. He got an answering machine and was about to leave a message when Jack picked up. A tv was going in the background.
"Michael," Jack said as if the word had a bitter taste. It seemed to clear his palate. "I'm sorry for the tone. Actually I'm glad you called. Sara should have never been involved, but nevertheless you'll have to excuse some of my behavior. You were right about the accident. That bomb in our backyard made it pretty obvious."
"Forget it, I'm sorry about it all."
"I appreciate that. What can I do?"
Michael had the safety deposit key in his hand..
"I can't go into it all on the phone. But what's happened in Washington and what happened to Sara are connected. She had some important information. I think she kept it in her safety deposit box and I need you to get it."
Michael arranged to meet Jack at the Englander motel. It wasn't nearby, but he knew the Indian owner and his wife and that meant two less people he might have to worry about should things get sticky.
Jack hung up the phone. The wall facing him was covered with framed photographs. One of them was a picture of a platoon in Vietnam. Everett and Coulter's eldest son were in it.
Tess checked into the motel while Michael waited in the car, figuring the less public exposure the better. The time had already passed when he expected the government to have identified him and plastered his face all over the media. He nervously looked around. He had been preoccupied with the key on the drive. He wondered if he had been as diligent as he should have been in making sure they weren't being followed. He was relieved to see nobody was in sight.
* * *
If the President had wanted clarity, he wasn't getting it. He was told that the FBI had searched Hastings house. They found a fishing trip letter, history books and Civil War memorabilia from a store called Articles of Confederation. They also determined that Everett and the six men associated with him were participating in a small town bowling tournament at the time of the attack.
The information coming in on the Colombians was suggestive, but not conclusive. The FBI traced the men to a motel where they stayed, apparently posing as a musical group. The search of the room and the phone records yielded nothing. Nobody at the truck rental in Georgia which rented the vans could remember them, and the rental paper work was also a dead end.
Then the DEA came up with a bombshell. In cooperation with Colombian authorities, they had been tapping the phones of several leading drug cartel figures. One of the conversations included their expletive laced feelings about the US government's interference in their business and references to an upcoming attack on Washington. It also included a reference to the nickname of one of the men found in the plane.
The President knew he would have to respond quickly. Despite his clever speech, he would still be blamed for targeting the wrong people. Not that he didn't still believe that Everett and the militia were also involved, but the proof would be slow in coming.
It called for a bold stroke, not considered Pierce's forté. It was all the more surprising to his aides when he asked for a draft of a Black Forest speech. It would outline the government's long commitment to the research and express his decision to go forward with its implementation.
The President's aides were dumfounded. Until recently all their efforts were aimed at shooting down the idea as "March Madness". But not being able to shoot it down was one thing, taking it on yourself quite another. They knew Pierce of all people would not be pursuing this without rock solid scientific backing. He reassured them he had it.
With the proviso that the DEA revelation would stand up, they came around to praising the move as brilliant. It would outflank March on the issue, help quiet the uproar, and show character and decisiveness in a critical hour.
The best part of it was that he wouldn't be stuck with having to pursue it after he won the election. He could satisfy the public by using it as leverage to gain huge concessions from drug enforcement in Colombia, Peru, Mexico, all over the world. Pierce nodded in agreement, but he had other ideas. He didn't know why he was being handed a page in the history books, but he knew he would take it.
* * *
A photograph of Michael filled the television screen in the Englander motel office. Satya, the owner's wife didn't notice. Her attention was elsewhere. She had turned the sound off when the last customer came in, and hadn't turned it back on. She was nervously fidgeting with paperwork at the front desk. She dropped the letter opener she was using as her husband entered from the adjacent living quarters. The tv caught his eye.
At the same moment Michael and Tess were absorbing the shock of seeing the newsflash. "ABC news has learned from reliable sources that an ex DEA agent named Michael Flaherty, wanted in connection with the killing of a Georgia state policeman, is being sought by Federal authorities in connection with the recent events in Washington."
"There goes my...," Michael started to joke when the phone rang.
"Don't answer it," Michael warned.
The telephone stopped ringing.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Tess urged.
There was a knock at the door.
"There's no way it's Jack," Tess said shaking her head.
Tess waited until Michael grabbed his gun and retreated to the bathroom. She pulled her gun out of her purse and went to the door. Another knock. Tess tensed.
"Ms Richards, Ms Richards, this is Satya."
Tess was relieved to hear her voice and opened the door a crack. Satya was alone, looking embarrassed. Michael listened at the bathroom door. He heard Satya say, "I'm sorry to have to ask, but part of the registration was incomplete." The door closed as Tess went out.
The two women returned to the motel office. Satya apologized for the inconvenience and handed Tess a registration form. As Tess started to fill it out, she noticed that the tv was turned off. Satya cast an anxious glance toward the open door to the living quarters behind her to the left. Her eyes began to tear.
"Something wrong?" Tess asked.
Satya was almost paralyzed, fighting an enormous inner struggle.
"Go," she said weakly.
"What?"
Satya gathered her nerve. "Just go."
Satya looked toward the open door with obvious dread. Tess glanced at the doorway.
"Before he..." Satya's mouth moved, but no word sounded.
Tess went for the gun in her purse. Her hand nervously tightened on the trigger as she pointed it toward the doorway. She saw what seemed like a young man appear in it. He had boyish good looks, freckled complexion and jet black hair. She had no conscious memory of seeing his gun as she fired. The thought it was all a horrible mistake entered her mind, and a split second later was driven from it by the sound of his gun firing.
Tess' bullet hit him in the shoulder as his shot wounded Satya. He staggered backwards. Tess rushed toward him, screaming and firing wildly, trying to finish him off.
He scrambled into the living room where Satya's husband and young son were bound and gagged. Tess entered firing at point blank range, but her gun was empty. He lunged forward, grabbing her arm, pulling her down.
The two grappled, ripping and tearing at each other. She grabbed a brass lamp and beat him in the head with it. Over and over. He grabbed the cord. He yanked it tightly around Tess' neck and began to choke her. He forced her on her back and sat above her, strangling the life out of her.
Tess saw his face twisted in a sadistic grin as his hands tightened around her neck. It got very quiet as she began to lose consciousness. Her thoughts strangely continued, but were no longer connected to action. "I'm going to die and this is the last thing I'm ever going to see is his horrible face."
"No air, losing it," she realized as his features became distorted, almost hallucinatory. She saw his grinning mouth sprout a darting tongue, adding a horrific lewd touch to his malevolent face. But the tongue was metallic and sharp edged. And there was a tiny rivulet of blood dripping from it. A blade protruded from his mouth as his eyes widened and glazed over. Tess screamed and jerked her head out of the way.
He toppled forward. There was a letter opener driven through the back of his head. Michael was standing above him. He pulled the dead body off of Tess. Shaking in horror, she hugged Michael. He comforted her and then went to untie the others. Tess' shock turned to rage. She grabbed Michael's gun and fired shots into her assailant's lifeless body. Michael restrained her.
"We've got to get out of here, the police!"
The two drove away from the motel. Tess suddenly asked Michael to pull over. She got out of the car and walked to the side of the road. Michael saw her doubled over, throwing up. He got out of the car, but she motioned to him that she was all right.
The two continued on. Michael noticed with concern that Tess was still upset.
"You want to talk?"
"I really thought he was going to kill me. I've been close to dying before, but this was different."
"Maybe you're different?"
Tess pulled herself together. "Who the hell was that guy?"
"Probably militia. Somebody working for Everett."
"And how the hell did he find us?...Jack set us up?"
"That's crazy, these people killed Sara."
"His phone could have been tapped."
"It's possible, but it's more likely we were followed."
"This is a nightmare."
"We haven't much time, but we've got this."
Michael held up the safety deposit key.
"You got any ideas on how we could use it?"
"Sure I've got an idea, it's my business to have ideas like that. If I rented a box, that would get me inside."
"You still need the bank key. The teller opens the other lock."
"Maybe I can save her the trouble."
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved