Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (22 page)

He pulled his bike into the trees with Henry’s, about ten yards off the road to the university, and waited almost twenty minutes in the night shadows of a huge live oak. The moon peeped now and then from behind the clouds but nothing moved or sounded about him. He could only guess at what Henry would find near the bay, surely something as big as a landing strip. He was wondering why Vandoren needed one. Most visitors to the Keys flew into Miami or one of the regional airports in the Keys and drove to their destinations. Why the privacy? Unless there were those who wished to arrive in secret. Ian’s mind was rummaging around that notion when he heard a sound behind him, someone approaching. He crouched at the foot of the tree and peered around it. A figure too dim to see clearly in the waning light tread cautiously through the woods to the right of Ian, who hardly breathed as it passed. But as it did, the moon slipped into the open and illuminated the face of Spencer Fremont. Ian was startled. Had the man followed them? Why? Was he now trailing Henry? There’d be no birdcall. Ian would have to go after him.

He gave the man a cautious lead then stepped from behind the tree when someone else entered the woods. Two people, too close behind him. There would be no more hiding. They were on him before he could retreat. He turned fully to face them, the glow of moonlight just enough for recognition.

What?
It was the young couple from the hotel café. “Sir?” the young man said as he and the woman approached. “What are you doing here?”

Ian relaxed, ignoring the question, and looked around him. Like Henry, Spencer Fremont had disappeared into the dark, leaving no sound in his wake. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. There are entirely too many people in these woods tonight.” He eyed the couple suspiciously. “Why are
you
here?”

As Ian had, the man ignored the question. Instead, he said, “Sir, we need to ask you a few questions.”

The wording sounded official. “And you came all the way out here to do that?” He carefully looked them up and down.

The woman finally responded by reaching into her pants pocket and producing a badge. The man did likewise. “We’re FBI, sir,” she said. “And we’re quite serious about those questions. Would you mind coming with us?”

Ian gaped at first, then clarity dawned. “Oh, you’re the FBI team she was talking about.”

The man cocked his head. “Excuse me?”

“I thought you’d need some help,” Ian explained. “That’s why my buddy and I are here. So just hold onto your questions and let’s wait ’til he gets back. If we’re lucky, we’ll snag that clerk fellow on his way out of here, too.” Ian shook his head in dismay. “Yep, the woods are full tonight.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand.”

“No, son.
You
don’t understand. The man probably crawling on his belly down there spying on that plane that just landed is Liesl Bower’s dad.” He assumed that revelation would help explain things. He was wrong.

“We really do need you to come with us,” the young man insisted.

“And I really can’t do that right now.” He turned slightly to look for any sign of Henry, who should have returned by now. Ian looked back at the two agents. “But I will do a birdcall for you.”

The two confounded agents stared at him as if he were teetering on senility, or worse.

Just then, Ian ripped into a shrill, fluttering whistle that brought an instant response.

“I’m here!” a strained voice called. “I was just kidding about the bird—” Henry’s words fell away as he rounded a clump of bushes and saw the young couple with Ian. “Ian, you okay?” he asked with urgent undertones, moving quicker now.

Ian was about to answer when Spencer Fremont flanked the same bushes and followed in Henry’s footsteps as if they’d set out together. Ian raised his hands in exasperation, scanning all the faces before him. “Next time, let’s all just get together in a conference call. That might be easier than traipsing through the woods in the dark trying to find each other.” He looked at Henry but gestured toward the young couple. “Henry, these young folks are the FBI team I heard Ava talk about. I think we know why they’re here. But what about you, Mr. Fremont?”

“Well, I—” Spencer began but was cut off by one of the agents now square on Ian.

“Ava who?” the young man asked pointedly.

Ian wondered if it was wise to answer that. Well, maybe partly. “Spiky hairdo, feisty as all get out, and too old to be carrying on like she does. Know her?”

After a moment, a broad grin erupted on the young man’s face. “You’re Ian O’Brien!”

This is like a foreign movie, Ian thought. You think you know what’s happening, but not really. “How’d you figure that out?” he asked the man.

“Never mind,” the agent answered. “We’ve got more serious issues here.” He glanced toward the university campus. “And we need to get out of here. There’s a guard detail due to head this way pretty soon.”

“You can come to my house,” came a voice from behind the agents.

All five heads jerked toward the sound as Tally Greyson stepped through the trees. “I wish you could see how silly this looks.” She approached slowly, her arms folded in front of her. Ian was struck by how unmovable her face seemed, like granite in the moonlight. “At least get off the streets and out of the woods, and find a place to figure out what you’re going to do about this.”

The two FBI agents rounded on Tally. “Just what are you referring to, and what is your connection here?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Tally groaned. “Can we just call it like it is? Obviously, there’s something weird going on at Vandoren’s place that’s got the FBI and these nice old men poking around where they don’t belong. We’re each worried about it for different reasons, it seems. So come on with me and let’s try to figure it out. My mom’s spending the night with her shrink-medium at the camp.” Tally turned and waved them all to follow her, then stopped.

“By the way, you don’t want to be anywhere near my mom tomorrow night.”

I
van took the call on the stern deck of the yacht, where his assistants had just lifted him from his wheelchair into a chaise lounge. The grip of his right hand had grown so weak, it was of little use to him now. The phone rested in his left hand and his head against the reclined cushion. “Where are you?” he asked of the caller.

“Inbound. I should land about noon Berlin time.”

“And you are anxious to be done with this.”

“After months of tracking her through New York, Charleston, and now Tel Aviv, just waiting for your signal? Yes, I am ready. But I will miss the, uh, stimulation of watching her.”

Ivan looked into the blanket of midnight and felt it threaten to suffocate. His breathing had grown more labored in recent weeks despite the ocean forcing its primal steam into his afflicted lungs. He thought of Liesl Bower. Why should she breathe so easily, or at all? Had she not toppled his faithful generals? Sent his prized mole into hiding? Destroyed his long-laid plans to assassinate those who stood in his way of reclaiming Russia?

“But now it is time,” Ivan assured his loyal comrade. “Just take the shot when you can. I prefer the concert stage in front of her adoring fans. But if you must, do it sooner.” He ended the call with no pleasantries. The assassin Felix Shevcik wasn’t a pleasant man. Only necessary.

Ivan tried to relax but the disease wouldn’t let him. He attempted to stretch but his muscles yanked him into painful submission, as few things in the life of Ivan Volynski had ever done.

Still clutched in his hand, the phone sounded again. He noted the code name on the screen and hesitated. Maxum Morozov, the elusive mole, once gone to ground, but now surfacing with new vision, yet old wounds that still festered. Ivan hadn’t spoken to the man since he’d fled Israel, though Ivan’s orders to him had been relayed at regular intervals. He was much too valuable to relinquish into permanent obscurity. His knowledge of the Middle East political minefield alone would serve the new Russia admirably. But there was one problem. His son.

Maxum had been ordered to track his son’s movements through the Israeli intelligence field, to siphon what he could from observations, intercepted phone calls and e-mails. Once the brilliant Israeli mole, Maxum was poised like no other to do that job. But his vitriolic relationship with his son had dangled a barb in the midst of the assignment. Ivan couldn’t be sure the father’s need for vengeance wouldn’t override his orders.

“I have been expecting your call,” Ivan answered.

“It is good to hear your voice, sir. I trust you are feeling better.”

Ivan grimaced. How long before they all knew his condition? He ignored the inquiry. “Are you being careful?” he asked instead.

“Of course.”

“And are you yet in Germany?”

“I soon will be.”

Ivan had thought it best that Maxum Morozov knew nothing of Felix Shevcik or his plans for Liesl Bower. “Be warned, Maxum, that what you do with your son is not entirely personal. It could affect us all.”

“But it won’t. And it’s best you don’t trouble yourself with it. There are far greater things that demand your attention right now.”

Ivan dragged as much breath into his lungs as he could, trying to conceal the sound of that effort. He closed his eyes and wandered carelessly into reflection. “Do you know what sarin does to the body, Maxum?”

“Yes. It is the vilest of nerve agents.”

“So you know what we are about to unleash on this nation’s capital?”

“Yes,” Maxum answered. “It will take only seconds for symptoms to appear. Then, the blurred vision, drooling, loss of bodily functions. They will struggle to breathe. Convulsions. Paralysis. And death.”

Ivan looked down at his own body. How clever he’d been to prescribe almost exactly the same torture for the House of Noland as Ivan now suffered. The neurological disease known as ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, weakened the muscles, slurred the speech, shut down breathing, paralyzed, killed. And now his father’s anointed son would know it too, along with as many of the American Congress as would inhale the air one fine morning as they hurried to work with their Starbucks in hand. They wouldn’t see it coming, or smell it. No time for the antidotes. No one would know what had stricken them. But Noland would know
who
had done it. Ivan would make sure of that.

And now there was another matter. “Maxum, there is something else I want you to do. Someone else you must find.”

“Evgeny Kozlov?”

Ivan was pleased. “For six months, we have failed to track him down. He strikes at us then disappears.” He’d already given Felix Shevcik the same orders. Again, there was no reason to dilute the man’s efforts with knowledge that he shared the assignment with another.

“Yes. Find him and remove him.”

“I understand, sir. And now, I must board my flight.”

“I will expect to hear of your successes. And very soon.”

When the call ended, Ivan paged for assistance. The damp night air had dropped like plastic sheeting on him. He needed oxygen. He needed the voices to assure him that when the oxygen no longer mattered, he would travel to the other side to join them. And he would do it by his own hand. He touched the bulge at the waistband of his pants, felt the stainless steel barrel that would deliver him when he, not the disease—and certainly not Arkady Glinka—commanded.

T
hat Monday night in the old Victorian house, its open windows yawning in salty drafts off the bay, Tally drew an improbable web around herself: the intersecting paths of two strange fishermen who’d wandered in off the sea, a couple of FBI agents, and Spencer Fremont, the old man who’d somehow deposited himself at the center of her odd little life.
Little
because there was no place to expand, caught on this spit of land surrounded by wild seas and even wilder people. Tally wondered how many daughters lived with mothers like hers, a woman who preferred the company of those Tally considered half dead. Half in this world, half in some sulfurous afterlife.

“Your mother is staying where?” the young female FBI agent asked as they all grabbed a seat around the kitchen table. Her name was Meg Thomlin. Her partner was Randy Jakes. Their IDs said so.

“With her favorite person in the whole world, Lesandra Bernardo.” Tally dragged out each syllable with a flourish. “She takes Mom to visit dead people who’ve hurt her, then lets her jerk their chains, so to speak. It’s supposed to give her some kind of relief. Make her feel like she’s gotten in her licks and now she can heal. But she doesn’t. She comes back worse than ever. Selfish, dazed, and even further from reality.”

All five of Tally’s guests stared at her as if trying to formulate something uplifting to say. They felt sorry for her. She could see that plainly, and silently scolded herself for allowing it. “That’s enough of that.” She wished them to move on. A plane had landed at the university that night. What was on it? “Mr. Fremont, what did you and, uh …” She pointed to the younger of the two fishermen.

“I’m Henry Bower, Tally. And this is my friend, Ian O’Brien.” Then he said something Tally thought very strange. “I used to be dead. But there is a pathway back. Maybe my friend and I can help your mom find it.”

That seemed to take his friend by surprise, too. But soon, everybody hurried back to business. “What did you see tonight, Mr. Fremont?”

“When the plane landed, about six men got out and drove into the campus. No one was there to meet them. And no one came back to the plane. That’s all.” He looked straight at the two agents. “Now, you want to tell us why you’re here, and what you think is going on back there?”

“We have reason to believe someone we’re looking for might be associated with Vandoren,” Agent Jakes said, looking at Mr. O’Brien like he might know who that person was. “I’m afraid we can’t give more answer than that. We will, however, have to ask the questions, starting with you, Mr. Fremont. What have you observed about Vandoren and his university that sent you into those woods tonight?”

For the next few minutes, Mr. Fremont described his part-time job there and the crate he and Tally had seen off-loaded from a plane three nights ago. He told them about seeing Vandoren in the warehouse and the armed men guarding the crate. Mr. Spencer assumed it was more rare art, he said, the kind Vandoren liked to collect.