12 Drummers Drumming

by Diana Deverell

  Van Hoof handed me a leather belt with a small-of-the-back holster. I buckled it on and stuck the pistol into place. The belt fit perfectly, the gun solid at my back.

  I watched van Hoof catalog the weapons store, stroking each piece as he checked it. Erika had told me that Stefan had stocked this warehouse a month ago. But then Stefan had been trying to buy information from Krüger’s business associate. He wouldn’t have needed a dozen well-polished pistols. I bent down beside van Hoof. “This your private cache?”

  He grunted. “Sometime back, I saw a way I could cause a problem for Krüger. I was setting things up when Erika and Stefan contacted me.” He gave a sour chuckle. “They preferred a more subtle approach.”

  But their strategy had failed. I asked, “What were you planning to do?”

  He carefully shut the locker. “I discovered Krüger had an unusual interest in a tight little group working in Berlin. Supposed to be running an information service for Third World translators. But I saw that only Libyans were going into that office. Seemed more likely it existed just to coordinate their terrorist activities.”

  “So you wanted to attack them.”

  “I have some expertise in urban assaults. Seemed a pity not to use it. We would reduce the number of Libyans in the world. Demonstrate the unwisdom of associating with Krüger.” He shrugged. “I was overruled. The others thought the plan too dangerous.”

  Cool words. But when van Hoof’s eyes met mine, I saw heat there. He’d given in to superior logic. He’d shelved his battle plan. But the passion behind it remained. He wanted revenge. He wanted blood.

  I was the one who looked away first.

  I went back to the table and began clearing the coffee cups. Sunlight cascaded down from the rooftop windows, dust motes made into Christmas glitter by the beam, the particles dispersing randomly, as if driven by individual motors.

  As different as those particles, van Hoof, Erika and I had been brought here by different motives. But ultimately by one person: Holger Sorensen. A man who’d skillfully welded our separate agendas into a single mission. A man who’d been my ally for more than a decade. A man who’d awed me with his incisive understanding of the issues involved in international terrorism.

  Yet this paragon had withheld vital information from me. He’d encouraged me to believe that Stefan had died in Scotland. If he’d told me about Reinhardt Krüger then, I’d have handled Mike Buchanan differently, perhaps never been forced to flee in Lura’s jet.

  I set the coffee cups in the metal sink, the thick china resonant against the stainless steel. I hadn’t seen Holger again until he brought Harry to me. No time then to confront him. We’d been too busy maneuvering Harry into the role we’d picked for him. Or so I thought. But Holger had made a conscious choice to continue keeping his secrets. Not telling me that my father had disappeared. Not disclosing that Stefan and Krüger were half brothers. As though he didn’t trust me to handle all the facts, all at once. Need-to-know is the oldest rule of the game, but Holger had made poor choices when it came to deciding what it was that I needed to know.

  What was it Harry had said? That bunch of Viking vigilantes will burn you all over again. Time to start paying better attention to Harry’s advice.

  The entry door swung open. Then slammed shut. I turned to see Erika ushering in a man. He was as short as she, not more than five feet five, and half that wide. Shoulder-length blond hair, three gold rings in his right ear, Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt, stained white carpenter’s pants, carrying a black medical bag so new he had to be still a student. As I got closer to him, I smelled that hospital blend of rubbing alcohol and burned toast.

  After Erika introduced him as the doctor, I described my father’s disorientation and physical feebleness.

  “And this is a change from when you last saw him?” the doctor asked in the unaccented English spoken by well-educated Europeans.

  “Yes,” I said firmly. I’d spent the four-day Thanksgiving holiday in Oregon with my father. He’d seemed normal for a man of seventy-five. Slower, more forgetful than when he was younger, but not so weak and confused as he’d been earlier today. “Check for a drug reaction. Either he’s not been taking his medication, or he’s been given something that’s dulled his reactions. He functions better than this.”

  “Let me see him,” the doctor said.

  I led him into the cubicle. My father lay curled on the cot, the wispy hair now thickened by sweat, the damp locks striping his pale scalp. He drew in a rattling breath.

  “Dad,” I said, gently moving his shoulder.

  His eyelids opened. I looked into vacant gray-green eyes. Awareness slowly came into them and he asked, “Time for the news?”

  “The news?” I repeated.

  “News,” he said. “That German fellow lets me watch it every day.” His brow furrowed. “Need to keep track of how much trouble you’re in.”

  “I’m not in trouble,” I said.

  He sniffed. “Not what I hear.” Then his expression grew ingratiating. “Turn on the TV for me, okay?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We don’t have a television.”

  “No TV?” He looked desperately around the cubicle and his eyes landed on the doctor. “Young fellow, can you get me a TV?”

  “Dad,” I said, “he’s a doctor, come to give you a checkup.”

  “Don’t need a checkup. I need the news. Go talk to that German fellow. He understands. He’ll explain.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “Be a good girl, now, Casey. Go find your old dad a television.”

  I ran my hand across my scalp. Damp as usual and I was wet under my arms, too. What was going on? After everything that had happened, all my father wanted to know from me was where his next news fix was coming from? Something tightened in my chest, seemed about to explode inside my head.

  I felt him touch my arm.

  I looked down, saw his hand, clawlike, plucking at my arm. Saw my own hand clenched into a fist. I was suddenly so angry, all I could imagine was knocking him back down on the bed.

  Wrong reaction. And I knew it. Recognized that rush of fury for the defense mechanism it was. As an adolescent, that was how I’d distanced myself from my mother. Compassion would have kept me at home by her side forever. Angry resistance set me free. Now I was reacting the same way to my father. I forced my fingers to unclench and said, “Talk to the doctor for a minute, Dad. I’ll go try to find a Time magazine for you.”

  His expression was doubtful, but he let me step aside. The doctor took my place beside the bed. He moved my father’s arms and legs the way you would with a child unable to understand what was being asked of him.

  I went back into the main room and rummaged around until I found a month-old edition of the International Herald Tribune. I opened it to the crossword puzzle. When I returned and held it out to my father, he seized it. “I need a pencil.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, following the doctor back to the main room.

  He said, “He’s dehydrated, but otherwise in fair condition, given his age.” He tugged at the ringed ear. “He suffers from arthritis?”

  “A variant of arthritis.” I pulled the name from memory. “Ankylosing spondylitis.”

  “Yes,” said the doctor. “Affecting the backbone, forcing the poker-spine posture.”

  “He’s had it since his late twenties,” I said. “It’s gotten worse over the years. But that doesn’t explain why he’s acting so mentally out of it.” I leaned closer. “Is it drug-induced psychosis?”

  “Unlikely,” the doctor said. “If he had been given drugs, their effects would have become less marked now, not more so. No, his behavior suggests an organic problem. Something age-related. There are several ailments with similar manifestations.”

  “Such as?”

  “A B-12 deficiency, severe atherosclerosis, cerebral vasculitis. And, of course, early-stage Alzheimer’s.” He gave me an inquiring look. “Does his family have a history of any of those?”

  I looked at my f
eet. Beneath the laces, the tongue of my boot had slipped off-center. I bent down to readjust it, spoke without looking up. My voice was muffled. “His mother.”

  “Had what?”

  I straightened up and faced the doctor. “They didn’t make the diagnosis so easily then. But it was Alzheimer’s.”

  “Then this is no surprise to you.”

  “But he was fine last November.”

  His expression grew skeptical.

  My father had been almost fine. I’d seen the weekly magazines piled on the coffee table, more material than even a bored retiree could read in a week. He’d shown me the digital watch that came with one free trial subscription. It displayed the wrong time. Not so strange that a senior citizen couldn’t depress the minuscule buttons in the correct sequence. But every time I set it correctly, he fiddled with it until it was wrong again. Irritating, I thought. But older people can be stubborn.

  His ten-year-old Ford was marked by recent scratches, dents and dings. Parking lot stuff, he told me. He was a careful driver. And I agreed that the lots were more crowded, the spaces narrower, other drivers more impatient.

  He didn’t behave oddly enough to alarm me. But he was in his home, in the place where he’d lived for fifty years. Much easier for him to conceal his diminishing capacities there. The mental and physical erosion that now, in this strange environment, had become undeniable.

  My growing awareness must have shown on my face. The doctor shrugged. “Perhaps it was not so sudden, yes?”

  “Isn’t there something you can give him to help him get around better?”

  The doctor shook his head. “If it is Alzheimer’s, we can only slow the decline. We cannot repair or even halt the deterioration of physical and mental function, impairment of judgment, loss of communication skills.”

  “A lot of sudden changes, stress, violence—all that would hasten the process, wouldn’t it?”

  “Very likely. It can only be harmful, exposing him to a hostile environment.” He made a noise that he must have thought was sympathetic. Then he headed for the door. Erika hovered beside it, waiting to usher him out.

  I turned back toward the room that held my father. He’d never be okay again. He’d keep on shriveling up inside. And then, when his shell was completely empty, he’d die. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  My father was watching me from the doorway. “What about that television?” he asked, his voice querulous. “You doing anything to get me some news?”

  I settled him back on the cot with the newspaper and the crossword and a renewed promise of Time. I hoped he’d forget about the magazine. But I wasn’t betting on it. The memory failures were never helpful. Only hurtful, in a slow, cumulative, dreadful way.

  I’d been only eight when my grandmother’s failing powers became too obvious to ignore. By the time I was ten, she was unable to leave the nursing home to join us for Christmas dinner. A relief, really. So unpleasant was she, no one wanted to be around her.

  I’d been so preoccupied with my father, it hadn’t registered with me that Bert was back. I found him sitting at the table, his arm in a sling. Van Hoof stood by the counter, a dish towel draped over his front, a chef’s knife in his right hand, an oven mitt covering his left. The smell of grilling onions came from a cast-iron Dutch oven, jammed onto the hot plate beside him.

  Bert said to van Hoof, “The chicken goes in next.” He grinned at me. “Got the major doing the work for a change.”

  “You sure you should be out of bed?” I asked.

  “Three cracked ribs. Broken clavicle. Bruises, contusions. The usual. No need to coddle myself.”

  Erika joined Bert at the table.

  Behind them, van Hoof removed a platter from the refrigerator and held it above the Dutch oven. Resinous vapor floated from the heating pot, another more exotic odor mingling with that of the onions. Van Hoof prodded the contents of the platter with the tip of his knife and oily chicken parts cascaded into the mixture, setting off percussive explosions. I peered into the pot. The steam left an oily film on my face and I smelled a piquant spice I didn’t recognize. My lips burned as if I’d rubbed them with a slice of chili pepper.

  “Palmnut sauce with pili-pili and onions,” said Bert. “Moambe’s the name of the dish. Congolese fare. Put you in fighting form.”

  “Fight’s over,” I said flatly. “Krüger has us beaten.”

  Erika said, “We can’t give up.”

  I disagreed. “We have no choice. Bert’s out of the action now. We can’t count on support from the Mossad. There’s no way we can capture Krüger and make him talk.”

  “We rescued your father.” Van Hoof’s face was grim. “Now we must stop Krüger. You said as much yourself.”

  “I said it. But I can’t do it. Not now.”

  Erika kept her eyes on my face. “The doctor says your father’s mental function is not good?”

  “He wouldn’t be in such bad shape if it weren’t for Krüger.” A pain like heartburn flared in the center of my chest, made my voice harsh. “He’s like this because he tried to help me. I’ve got to take care of him now.”

  Van Hoof slammed the knife onto the cutting board, left it upright, quivering. Vapor from the pot clouded the air around his face, so that it looked as if his anger were boiling out of him. He yanked off the oven mitt and said, “You will have no life, Casey Collins, so long as Krüger goes free.”

  Hot words. Cold truth. Krüger wanted to destroy me, would destroy me, perhaps had done so. I wasn’t brave enough to face him again. Despair rose from my guts like a wave of nausea as I saw my future. Me, alone and scared, stumbling through a desolate wasteland of a life. Trying to drag my bewildered, complaining father along with me as I fled from a hundred enemies. A future I could not bear.

  24

  The pot bubbled noisily behind me. I braced myself against the counter, waiting.

  Van Hoof stared at me silently for fifteen seconds. Then he pulled off the dish cloth and tossed it down next to the knife. He dropped into the chair beside Erika and said to her, “She’s right about the Israelis. We can have no further contact with them.”

  “Agreed,” she said.

  “You?” I asked Erika. “You’ll keep on with van Hoof?”

  Erika moved in her chair.

  “You will,” I said flatly, “The two of you, on your own, without the Mossad to back you up. Impossible. How can you find out where Krüger is?”

  “Holger Sorensen is on his way,” she replied.

  “The Father-Major’s no match for Reinhardt Krüger. You don’t need a desk jockey getting in the way. You need a larger force and more resources.”

  “That’s why Holger’s coming to Berlin,” Erika said. “To provide us with immediate access to his source here.”

  “Gorm,” I said, recalling the code name. He was the former Stasi file clerk who had continued working for Holger after German unification. “Better intelligence isn’t enough.”

  Van Hoof’s face contorted with fury, his mouth open to speak.

  Bert interrupted in Flemish, his tone reasonable, as if he were asking van Hoof to do something.

  The foreign words startled me. Until this moment, everyone had spoken a language I understood, too.

  Off-balance, van Hoof barked out a single word. If he’d been speaking English, I’d have thought he said, “What?”

  Bert repeated his request, the pace more urgent this time.

  Van Hoof gave him a disgusted look. Then he glanced at me. Then back to Bert. “I’m going outside,” he said.

  English again. For my benefit?

  The legs of his chair screeched angrily on the cement. “You coming?” he asked Erika.

  She stood without answering. I watched their backs as they went out the door.

  Bert said, “Simmer down, I told him.”

  When I didn’t react, he spoke impatiently. “The broth has to simmer now.” He waved a hand toward the hot plate. “Lower the heat under the po
t, will you?”

  I reached over, turned the dial on the hot plate counterclockwise. Color ebbed out of the coils beneath the pot. The boiling grew less rowdy. “It’s simmering,” I told Bert.

  “And so’s the major.” He winked at me, his grin sly. “Sit down a minute.”

  “You going to start in on me now, too?” I asked, taking the seat beside him.

  He rubbed his jaw, his fingers grating against the half-inch stubble. The skin beneath the beard was mottled by a purple bruise. “This thing Krüger did with your dad, it was pure evil. You can bet the bastard’s got more tricks. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to give him a chance to play them.”

  Air came out of me in a gusty sigh. “You see how he’s come after me—me, personally?”

  “I see.” He softened his voice. “Of course you’re afraid of him.”

  Afraid. Yes. “You. My father. If anyone tries to help me, he hurts them. You better believe he scares the hell out of me.”

  “Sure he does. Man’s got a thing about his brother. All that hate’s spilled over onto you. There’s no guessing what a fellow like that will do.” His body twitched, an involuntary shudder that jerked his shoulder, made him wince.

  I realized he was talking about himself as much as about me. “You’ve been through it, too?”

  “Long time ago. And the major didn’t cut me any slack either.” For a second, a shadow darkened the crystalline blue of his eyes. “The best thing for you to do is get your dad away. You got to look after your own.”

  Curious, I asked, “Did you?”

  “Look after my own?” He laughed. “It wasn’t the same thing. I’m a soldier. Looking after the major, that’s my job.”

  “You can’t do that now, beat up like you are.”

  He tried to shrug, winced again. “And the Dane’s on his way. That Father-Major fellow.” He snorted. “Two majors. Quite a treat for a crippled old sergeant.”

  “A treat for us all,” I said.

  Whatever Erika and van Hoof were cooking up outside, I wanted no part of it.

  Especially if Holger Sorensen was stirring the pot.