Red Dawn Rising (Red Returning Trilogy)

by Duffy, Sue

  “That’s the telling thing, Rick. ‘Supposed to happen.’ Was it or wasn’t it?”

  “Our bomb squad claims the piano device was too small to do much damage, except to those closest to it, which would include you, sir, though you were below it. It’s just a fluke the thing didn’t go off. Or call it what you will. Providence? Maybe. But my people think the bomber was probably too pressed for time or too distracted to set it correctly, and the subfreezing temps may have been a factor as well.” Salabane shuffled through more reports and diagrams spread before him. “But to go to all this trouble, why not take out the whole platform? Unless you just want to prove something—that the American giant is helpless to protect itself.” Noland let the director’s thoughts flow without interruption. “But if that was your intent, you’d want us to know who you were, to claim responsibility, which no one has. No grainy videos from Al-Qaeda, though they might surface yet. No chest pounding from a lone-wolf crackpot. Nothing.”

  The president stopped midstride. “Well, who wants to claim responsibility for blowing up a porta-potty? Or for botching the piano job?” He rubbed his forehead and looked away.

  Salabane reserved comment.

  After a moment, Noland went to a cabinet behind his desk and removed a flat, metal box about the size of a legal pad. He returned to sit opposite Salabane and set the box on the table. Lifting the lid, Noland removed the only contents, a Washington Post news article about Ted Shadlaw, the White House staffer who just over a year ago had confessed to selling classified information to Russia, and a photograph of pianist Liesl Bower and violinist Max Morozov in concert together.

  As Salabane reached for the photograph, a knock came at the door. Noland quickly returned the items to the box and closed the lid. “Come in,” he called. A steward in a crisp black-and-white uniform brought in a tray of sandwiches, fresh fruit, and coffee, placing it on a nearby sideboard.

  When the man left, Noland reopened the box and handed the photograph to Salabane. “That was taken not long after young Max led an Israeli commando unit to Corsica, France, and dug up this box from where his father had buried it underneath an old olive press. You know what was inside it then.”

  Salabane nodded. “A mother lode of evidence against the KGB conspiracy to take over its government. It was all the Russian president needed to stop his own countrymen from assassinating him and the Syrian president.” Salabane stared at the empty box, then back at Noland. “Are you thinking our bombers speak Russian?”

  Noland didn’t answer but instead walked calmly to a window overlooking a slushy lawn. Soon after the inaugural crowds had fled the grounds, the skies made good on their promise to rain ice over Washington. Fitting, Noland thought, as he lamented the added weight of weather piled onto the day.

  He returned to his chair near Salabane and picked up the photo of the two musicians. “Incredible,” Noland said, “that two gentle, peace-loving souls who just wanted to make beautiful music could have brought down such a savage conspiracy on the heads of its underworld Kremlin architects.” He paused. “Just a couple of musicians.” He looked pointedly at Salabane. “And one of them was seated at that piano.”

  Later that afternoon, the president summoned Ben Hafner, his young domestic policy chief, to the Oval Office. Ben had been expecting the call.

  “Sit down,” Noland said as Ben closed the office door behind him. “I want to talk about Liesl.”

  “I know you do, sir.”

  “You do?”

  “We have to be thinking the same thing, sir. Were they after you or Liesl?”

  The two men looked at each other as if they’d just summoned a tempest and couldn’t return it to its lair.

  “Our FBI director, like most of the talking heads on television, believes that Al-Qaeda is probably behind this attack,” Noland said.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Who can be sure? But the Russians are heavy on my mind.”

  Russians. In Ben’s mind, there was no other explanation for the events on Monday. And now the president himself had said it. The face of the KGB threat this administration had confronted a year ago was leering at them again.

  But the media had never uncovered that particular threat or what had really happened in the fall of 2011. All they’d reported was that Russian agents had recruited Ben’s own senior aide, Ted Shadlaw, to supply them with unspecified information. The media never knew about the music code Liesl Bower uncovered that October, identifying a Russian mole in the Israeli Department of Defense. They never knew that a secret network of elite Kremlin insiders had plotted to assassinate their own president and seize power, determined to reclaim the might of the Soviet Union. Never knew that the Syrian president had also been marked for death. Never knew the Russian mole in Israel had falsified documents that would “prove” to the world that Israel had pulled the trigger on both presidents. The Russian plotters had calculated that in retaliation, the Arab world would have annihilated Israel while an outraged America turned its back on its Jewish ally.

  Ben had known all these things. He and his longtime friend Liesl Bower—his sisterly confidante since Harvard—had ridden the tip of the spear into the heart of the conspiracy. He did it to protect her and the code she possessed, yes. But it was his beloved Israel that had been at greatest risk. And still was, he believed. He would do anything to save his ancestral homeland.

  The president elaborated. “I believe it was both a vengeful attack on Liesl and a message to me—‘Look how close we can get to you.’” He looked sternly at Ben. “But I’m more concerned for Liesl right now. I’m ordering a security team immediately installed around her.”

  Ben shook his head. “She won’t have it. You know her. Besides, she’s got one. Ava Mullins is down the street, every bit the CIA bulldog she ever was. Three big strapping men are in the house with Liesl, and Henry Bower is the toughest protector his daughter will ever have. He didn’t get those scars charter fishing that old boat. The Mexican government will never know whose ashes they buried at sea, but it sure wasn’t Henry’s.” Only the slightest grin made a brief appearance on Ben’s blunt-featured face.

  “Still, I’m asking Rick Salabane to gather security for her and intercede in a possible Russian threat,” Noland said. “Again.”

  “Sir, Director Salabane is a lawman and the best there is. But he’s got no bead on the foreign front.”

  “Which front do you mean, Ben?”

  Ben glanced up, that old defensive knot in his belly tightening.

  “Russia?” Noland asked. “Or Israel?”

  Heat rose in Ben’s face, and he hoped it didn’t alter his practiced composure. Had he not proven his patriotism, his allegiance, time and again? Had he not single-handedly trapped Ted Shadlaw at the height of his treason against the U.S.? Why did the president keep digging into him? Looking for something?

  Noland started to pace. “Ben, people a lot smarter than I am believe Russia is amassing an arsenal of persuasive weapons that have nothing to do with firepower. They’re advancing along the path to a new world order, with Russia in control. And they’ll do it largely without deploying the first tank or missile launcher.” He stopped in front of his desk and sat on the edge, facing Ben. “Russia is trying to buy German power plants that also supply electricity to Central Europe, especially Hungary and Slovakia, which are of strategic interest to Russia. And as Germany phases out nuclear energy, it will rely more on natural gas from Russia. Think of the power Russia can wield with that development.”

  The president pondered his own soliloquy. “Right now,” he continued, “Russia is sidling up next to every regime that’s anti-American, especially in the Middle East. They want to halt our missile screen in Europe and cut off our supply line to Afghanistan. Beyond that, though, they’ll seize every opportunity to exploit our ailing economy and make a move on U.S. interests wherever they can. This administration is fighting to regain our financial footing before that happens.”

  Ben jumped in. �
�But there’s more going on than that.”

  “Much more,” Noland said. He gazed into the presidential seal woven into the carpet before him. “It’s almost amusing how clueless our leaders can be, including myself. When I first campaigned for this office, my fellow candidates and I waxed so authoritatively on the state of foreign affairs. We were statesmen commanding the stage during televised debates, trying to impress the American people with what we knew about the dynamics of national security and our intelligence agencies. And you know what? We didn’t know squat. It wasn’t until I took office that the people manning the front lines of our security forces sat me down and told me what was really going on. Things the public, even much of Congress, never knew about—the narrowly averted terror attacks and assassination attempts around the world, military stand-downs, diplomatic crises, deal brokering between countries. And especially our own global covert operations.” He shook his head slowly. “Most alarming wake-up call I ever got.”

  Ben treaded carefully. “And now?”

  “Our enemies are bolder. More inventive. They breached our tightest security on Monday, and they’re going to do it again.” He paused. “It’s true, Ben. There’s a red storm mounting.”

  Chapter 13

  By late Thursday afternoon. Cass could stand it no longer. She had to get to the Southampton house and into her stepfather’s study. She could think of nothing else, certainly not the row of black corn she was propping up for the third time in a week. No, her mind was far down Highway 27 east on Long Island to the cabinetry her stepfather had installed in the third-floor bedroom, which he had claimed as his private domain shortly after marrying Cass’s mother. It had been Cass’s summer-vacation bedroom until her sophomore year at NYU when her world suddenly teetered on its axis and sent her spilling into the unknown. It was then she had moved into the SoHo loft with no plans for the rest of her life.

  That morning, she’d driven to work and claimed the parking privilege she often denied herself. How many stagehands, which she considered herself as much as a set designer, owned two Manhattan parking garages? She wanted nothing to do with the elitism her father had imposed on her. But this morning she needed quick access to her car. The Volvo wagon she’d bought used a few years ago waited in her reserved spot in this high-rise, off-Broadway garage.

  She had just unlocked the door when her phone rang. “I’m coming with you,” Jordan announced. Cass had finally told him of her meeting with Hans at the diner, of his warnings. She’d also shared her suspicions of Hans and her intention to search his study.

  “No, I don’t want you to come. I’m leaving now.”

  “But what if he’s there?”

  “I just spoke to Mom. They’re at home. No plans for the beach.”

  “Well, go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

  “No, Jordan.”

  “Hey, look. Don’t forget whose license plate and apartment that woman tracked down. So I’m not exactly incidental to whatever this is. You recruited me, and I intend on serving my time.”

  Something about that pinched her. Is that all he was doing? Serving time.

  “You there?” he asked.

  She sighed with emphasis. “Okay, Jordan. If you feel it’s your duty.”

  A pause. “I guess I sent a wrong signal. Hopefully, you know better.”

  No, I don’t, Cass thought. But it doesn’t matter. If there’s more to us than friendship, I’m not ready for it. Probably never will be. She settled into the driver’s seat and closed the door.

  “I’ll take your silence as a go-ahead,” he continued, “but I’ll have to wait until my manager gets back from the dentist.”

  She fumbled with the seat belt. “All right, here’s the address—”

  “I know where it is.”

  Cass halted her efforts to latch the seat belt one-handedly. “You do?”

  “Yeah. A buddy from college drove me by the place once.”

  “Why?”

  Silence. Then, “Because that’s what you do when you have a schoolboy crush on a girl.”

  That left Cass speechless. They’d just been lab partners. When had the crush part happened? Still, she didn’t have the time or inclination to ponder it at that moment, though something inside yearned to. “I don’t know what to say about that, Jordan.”

  “Don’t need to say anything.” His tone shifted. “I’ll see you soon. And I assume you’re spending the night.”

  “Yeah. I’m taking the day off tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’ll probably come right back.”

  “No need to. You can stay in the garage apartment.” She started the engine, its growl a rumbling echo in the garage.

  “We’ll see. Drive carefully.”

  Cass knew he deserved better than she’d just given him.

  A leaden sky hovered low over Cass as she drove the well-grooved route along the south fork of Long Island. In spite of the temperature, she cracked the window enough to let in a torrent of air, swollen with the bloom of memories. Many years ago, with the top down on her butter yellow Volkswagen Beetle, she had ferried high school friends from Manhattan to the beach house she most regarded as home. Though her schooldays were contained by the city, weekends and summers at the old house were like throwing back the shutters on her life and letting the salty currents whisk her back to her true self.

  Her mind caught a glimpse of one of those long-ago friends, and the memories withered into ashes. The impish face framed by long, wavy hair all but stared at Cass from the pavement ahead. Rachel Norman had been a transplant from the mountains of Vermont and struggled to citify herself in the mold of the savvy Cass Rodino. Shy and insecure, especially about her rounded figure, Rachel had tried to emulate Cass and her confident spirit, her steely self-reliance.

  In those days, Rachel was a frequent guest at the beach house. Though she didn’t swim, she trusted Cass and her seamanship enough to don a life vest and sail as far offshore as Cass chose to take them.

  As she drove, Cass remembered the many parties they’d attended where the guys had pursued Cass and not Rachel, where some of Cass’s wealthy Southampton friends had questioned why she always brought her “boring little hick friend” along. That’s when Cass began to retreat from those she finally recognized as socially corrupt, their unworthiness lurking just beneath the thinnest gold-leaf veneer of privilege.

  The summer after high school graduation, Cass took Rachel to one more party on the island. That’s when Rachel met Adam Rinehart. A soccer player from New Jersey, he and his parents had rented a house in Southampton for the summer. Though handsome and pleasant enough to talk to, he strode hesitantly into the pecking order of the local teen society. In hindsight, Cass could see that Adam had found a likewise companion in Rachel, another newcomer the island insiders had snubbed. Soon, though, Rachel and Adam’s relationship grew well beyond commiseration. Cass had never seen Rachel so vivacious and animated as when Adam was at her side—almost constantly that summer. Even through their freshman year at NYU, Rachel and Adam continued to date. Near the end of the following summer, though, their relationship ended.

  Cass railed against the memory. She couldn’t endure it any longer. At the next exit off Highway 27, she pulled into a gas station and got out, letting the blast of air with its frozen fingers slap at her face. Go ahead, she thought. I deserve it. Then before she slid into the familiar pit again, she threw on her trusted armor and lumbered off in a different mental direction. She would focus on one thing only—Hans’s study.

  Back on the highway, she sped toward Southampton as the sun waned. Soon, she turned south toward the ocean and the storied lanes of reclusive mansions hidden from public view behind their tall privet hedges, so precisely clipped and postured. Another time and she would tick off the celebrity names attached to the homes she now passed. But not today.

  Soon, she came to a house whose weathered cedar-shake walls stood beneath a network of gables, each one rising higher than the next, and pulled into the circular
driveway. Well past its prime, its pedigree expired, the house was smaller and plainer than many of its neighbors. Its grounds, though, ran longer and broader than most. As Cass gazed over the rambling lawns, she heard Gerald O’Hara tell his tempestuous daughter, “It’s the land, Katie Scarlett. Land is the only thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’ for, because it’s the only thing that lasts.” Was that true? Was there nothing more enduring, more constant than this patch of sandy ground? As much as she loved this place, was there nothing more?

  She looked out at the grass beneath its salty crust, the color of harvest wheat. The cedars hugging the house fairly bowed their evergreen torsos toward her in familiar greeting. Beyond the house lay the pewter slate of the ocean, its waves relentless, its tides ever changing and never changing. They would never let her forget. Never stop echoing her cries. Had the one who ruled the tides been there that night? Would he ever forgive her?

  There was no time to linger on things she couldn’t know. She got out of the car and looked toward the top floor of the house. There were other things she intended to know soon.

  She unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer, which instantly wrapped her in its musty embrace. It wasn’t a grande dame foyer, more like a kooky old aunt. It, like the living room beyond, was randomly clad in local art—paintings, tapestries, sculpture in no particular era or motif. There were no fine Persian rugs but mats of cotton, hand-dyed in brilliant colors and woven by a Native American artisan in Montauk—the colorful, destination village at the tip of Long Island.

  This house had always been the antithesis of the Upper East Side apartment where she’d grown up. Though her parents had lavished their town home with all the spoils of material privilege, they had favored a hair-down, unimposing profile for their retreat by the sea.