Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  Where was Helen Abell all this time? In another room? On another floor? Was she listening, or was she unawares?

  A few minutes later there was a second arrival, and a conversation began. Two men. One was older and wheezing, the other one younger and healthier. Their first few words were barely audible. Then the older man spoke up, and his words emerged clearly in a trancelike monotone, as if he were repeating an oath of allegiance:

  “To swim the pond you must forsake the bay. You may touch the lake, but you must never submerge, and you must always return to the pond.”

  “And the zoo?”

  “Dry. To all of us, anyway. The pond is also dry, to the zookeeper.” A pause, a wheezing intake of breath. “All of their people believe it to be long since drained, and its waters shall forever be invisible. Except of course to those of us with special eyewear. And that’s what we’re offering, if you’re interested.”

  “Eyewear?”

  “So to speak. A new way of seeing. And access, opportunity. More than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  And so on, just as Anna’s mother had heard it through headphones thirty-five years ago while standing in her stocking feet in the upstairs of that safe house in Berlin.

  “The Pond,” Anna said. “It still existed.”

  By the time the conversation was finished and the tape was done, the ramifications of what her mother had recorded that day were quite clear: She had stumbled upon evidence of the continued existence of the Pond, twenty-four years after it had supposedly ceased to exist. What’s more, this meeting seemed to have been some sort of recruitment of a CIA operative, enticing him to leave behind “the Bay” for the freedom of “the Pond.” At best, a bit of duplicity and disloyalty, at worst an act of treason, depending on what the Pond had been up to by then.

  Helen Abell probably hadn’t realized any of that until as recently as a few weeks ago, when she had visited the Archives, and, based on what Hilliard had told them, had finally deciphered the significance of all she’d overheard. Or, as Claire had written in one of her final letters, the one with the Clark Baucom obituary, Could this be the answer “to one of your oldest questions”?

  “That’s certainly some political dynamite,” Henry said after the tape ran out.

  “Do you think it still exists?”

  “Thirty-five years later? I guess anything’s possible. Doesn’t sound like Gilley was involved, though. Not one mention of Robert.”

  “Let’s put on the second tape. Maybe Robert stars in the sequel.”

  He did. Or, at least, that was the name the young female on the tape used for her case officer in the first words of their conversation. Her name was Frieda, and even though their meeting sounded harmless enough early on, Henry and Anna were on edge from the beginning after having read the reports of Robert’s actions in the safe houses of Paris and Marseille.

  Soon enough, there were sounds of a struggle. At first, based on Gilley’s exclamations, they wondered if maybe Frieda had gained the upper hand. It was then clear that he was in control, and they heard the sound of clothes being torn, and of buttons bouncing on the floor.

  “Hold still! Stupid whore!”

  Anna put a hand to her mouth. It sounded like a large piece of furniture was being shoved. Then it began to creak and judder. By that point, Frieda had been reduced to the occasional whimper and gasp.

  “Nein!”

  “God,” Anna said. “This is horrible.”

  Then, like a shock, like a rescue, like a deliverance, there again was the voice of Anna’s mother:

  “Stop it!”

  Footsteps hammered down the stairs.

  “It’s you! The goddamn station busybody!”

  “I was…I was sleeping upstairs…What the hell are you doing to her? You’re…you’re…”

  “It’s not what you think. Frieda likes it rough. Enjoys it more when there’s a tussle. Isn’t that right, Frieda?”

  There was an incoherent answer by the other woman, so Gilley prodded again.

  “Speak up, my dear.”

  “Ja. Yes. It is as he says.”

  “So you see?”

  “I know what I saw. And I know what I heard.”

  “Then do as you must, of course. Go ahead and try it. But if anyone’s out of bounds here, I’d say it was you, interrupting a private meeting between a case officer and his agent. Sleeping, you said? Like hell you were. Nosing around where you shouldn’t be, more likely. Way out of your depth. Probably grounds for dismissal, or at the very least, reassignment.”

  Not long afterward, they heard Gilley depart. Helen and Frieda conferred in subdued tones. Evident through it all was Frieda’s deep fear of being exposed, and of what Gilley might do if Helen pursued the matter further, although Helen made one last attempt at getting Frieda’s assistance in further intervention:

  “Tell me your name, at least. Your real name.”

  “No!”

  “Your coat. Here…Please, use my taxi. I’ll give the fare to the driver.”

  “No!”

  Then, footsteps, followed by the rattle and creak of a door opening, the hiss of a downpour from outside, and a final entreaty by Frieda.

  “You will look out for me, yes? Not to report this, but to see that he does not reveal me to the others. You can do this, yes?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Safe house.”

  Frieda spoke those final words in a tone of utter disdain. The only sounds during the next several minutes were of tidying up, five or ten minutes in all. Then, a pop and a hiss, signaling that Helen Abell had turned off the recorder. Henry fast-forwarded the tape, listening for the chipmunk squeaks that would indicate further conversation. But the rest of the tape was blank, and the verdict against Kevin Gilley as prosecuted by the Sisterhood was now clear—three rapes at three safe houses.

  “My mom wouldn’t have let that go,” Anna said, “not even to save her own skin. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have let it go for a goddamn severance check. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “She did pursue it. And then Frieda turned out to be right—about what Gilley would do to her in return. Don’t you see? Frieda was Anneliese Kurz. Look at the dates. The newspaper story was from only a few days later.”

  Henry nodded. He removed the reel from the spindle and put it back in the envelope. The house and neighborhood were quiet—so quiet that they both jumped when Anna’s phone rang in her purse.

  “Hello?”

  The caller was a woman. Henry could easily hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Is this Anna? Anna Shoat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank goodness! I’m so relieved you’re safe. You are safe, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Audra Vollmer, one of your mother’s oldest friends. I was told you were trying to reach me.”

  “Yes! Of course! And I’m glad you’re safe. We’re at Claire Saylor’s house, in fact, and…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Please tell me that nothing has happened to Claire.”

  “I’m afraid she’s disappeared, and, well, it doesn’t look good.”

  Anna told her about the abandoned car, the empty handbag, the blood on the seat.

  “Oh, my…” Her voice faltered. There were a few seconds of silence. “First your poor mother and father, and now Claire.”

  “What about you? Are you sure everything is all right. Should we call anyone for you?”

  “I’m taking extra precautions, I can assure you. Living in a remote location has its drawbacks, but also its advantages. Having said that, it is imperative that we meet. The sooner the better.”

  “I agree.”

  “I know it’s asking a lot, but would you be willing to come here? I’m rather old and immobile
these days, you see, and…”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to.”

  “Wonderful. And, well, I’m not quite sure how to put this, but I believe that Claire may have recently taken custody of a valuable item of your mother’s. For safekeeping.”

  “She did. We found it, and it’s—”

  “Please! Not over the phone!”

  “Of course. Sorry.”

  “Not to worry. I’m relieved that it remains in safe hands. Would it be too much to ask for you to bring it with you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Wonderful. But do take care. With it, and with yourself. Let’s discuss your journey, then. I’m going to suggest some rather elaborate precautions for you to begin employing immediately. Then I’ll make arrangements to secure the way for you. Do you have something to write with?”

  Henry handed over his notebook and pencil.

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  Audra Vollmer gave them their marching orders.

  58

  Near Baltimore, August 2002

  In two days her daughter would be drifting away to another world, probably forever, by heading off to college. Helen knew firsthand how dramatically that experience could change a young life. How was she spending these precious final hours with Anna? By shopping for clothes at the mall. Dreary and all-too-predictable, she supposed. Much like the rest of her life.

  Look at her now. A farm wife in her late forties, going soft in the middle and gray on top. Who would have expected it? Certainly not Clark Baucom, who’d be pushing eighty by now yet was probably still imbibing ambrosial brandies that cost half as much as her weekly grocery bill. Maybe he was even still seducing women half his age.

  “What do you think of these?” Anna emerged from the dressing room in something horrible.

  “No. Out of the question.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  Anna turned and went back inside. Two more items to try before they moved on to the next stop in retail hell. Speaking of things that cost half as much as the groceries, the toll of this little excursion was already making her wonder which of her five credit cards she’d be able to use without exceeding the limit. She also needed to call Tarrant, to remind him to check the hinky ventilation fan in the second chicken house. A malfunction on a scorcher like today and they’d have thirty thousand reeking corpses and another black mark on their balance sheet with Washam. It was like working for a loan shark.

  Anna emerged again.

  “Much better.”

  A tasteful design, a decent fit, and best of all it was 30 percent off. But Anna’s attention was elsewhere. Something had caught her eye from across the shop floor, so Helen turned to look as well. And that’s when she saw him. Dark suit, arms folded, and those unforgettable eyes. Kevin Gilley, older but no less menacing, stood only fifty feet away, and he was staring at them.

  Helen involuntarily put a hand to her mouth in horror. He raised his hand as if to wave, and then dropped it to his side. He did not approach them, but he did not look away.

  “Why’s that man staring at us?” Anna asked from over her shoulder. “Do you know him?”

  “I used to,” she said, her voice robotic. “I want you to remember his face, Anna, okay? Take a good, long look.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, all right?”

  “Okay. I think he’s leaving. Don’t you want to say hi?”

  “No.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Someone I used to work with, a long time ago. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Good.”

  Helen was about to say more when the shopgirl who’d been waiting on them came forward. In her hands were two other items that they’d already set aside for purchase.

  “Will you be adding that blouse?” she asked.

  “Oh. Yes.” She was flustered, caught between two worlds like in one of those science fiction films, where half of your psyche gets left behind by a botched teleport. “Put them on my Hecht’s card. No, wait. Here, use the MasterCard.”

  Anna went back to the dressing room to change. The salesgirl waited until she was out of earshot, and then whispered to Helen, “That man gave me something for you.”

  Helen did a double take as the girl held out a folded slip of paper.

  “What do you mean?” she said, recoiling.

  “This note. He told me to give it to you, but first he made me promise not to read it.” She was smiling conspiratorially, seemingly tickled to be playing courier for a pair of aging lovebirds who probably weren’t even married to each other.

  “Give me that,” Helen hissed, angrily snatching it away. The girl, crestfallen, retreated to the safety of the register and began ringing up their purchases with a pouting lower lip.

  For a moment all Helen could do was stare at the folded paper while all the old horrors returned. The photo of Anneliese, the knife against her throat, the eyes that were blue-green lozenges, cool and lifeless. She unfolded the paper and began to read.

  How pleasant to see you again, Helen. Just a note to let you know that, although I haven’t forgotten, I still fully expect you to continue to forget even if my name begins appearing in the news from time to time, as it may soon do. Your agreement is still binding, and I will hold you to it even if our old employer won’t.

  P.S.—Your daughter is quite the young beauty. She will go far. Provided, of course, that her mother’s curiosity isn’t unduly reckless.—Yours always, Robert

  “Mom, are we buying this one or not?”

  It was Anna, tugging at her shoulder. Helen stuffed the note in her purse. She was trying not to shake. She took a deep breath before speaking.

  “Yes, we’re buying that, so take it on over.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But that man you just saw, the one I used to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you ever see him again, I want you to tell me, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anywhere. At home, at school, with Willard—anywhere—and I want you to let me know right away.”

  Anna looked away, a little unsettled, but Helen wanted her full attention.

  “I’m serious. Do you understand?”

  “Okay. But who was he?”

  “It’s not important.” Then, sensing the ridiculousness of her answer after everything she’d just said, Helen sought to come up with a way of identifying him without uttering his name, lest Anna blurt it out someday and put herself in danger.

  “I’m sorry. It is important, but you don’t need to know his name. Just his face. He once knew a friend of mine, a woman I worked with. They’re the reason you’re named Anneliese. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Helen turned toward the sales counter to complete their purchase. All the while, as the register beeped and clicked to record the rising total, she was already composing the first lines of a letter she would write that evening, an emergency message to two of her oldest colleagues. A plan of action took shape in her head. They would write, they would stay in touch. They would reactivate their network, and they would again protect one another—and Anna as well.

  She had failed Anneliese Kurz. She would not fail her daughter.

  59

  August 2014

  Audra Vollmer’s directions to Anna and Henry were a model of care and planning. They were reassuring. They were also a little disconcerting, at least to Henry.

  “She’s been retired for more than eight years,” he said. “She must be calling in some very old chits. This is damn serious.”

  They were seated in Henry’s car with the windows rolled up, parked on the lowest level of an underground garage three miles from Claire’s h
ouse. A silver 2012 Honda Civic with Delaware tags was due to arrive any minute. They were supposed to switch vehicles with the driver. Henry’s car would supposedly be waiting at his house in Poston when they got back.

  They would be driving south on a route that Audra had detailed in an email to Anna—330 miles without a single tollbooth, to minimize the chances of video surveillance. They were to use cash only, and avoid public rest stops, and they were not to approach the boat dock for the crossing to Audra’s island until an hour after sunset, which in Currituck would be at 7:48 p.m.

  “Obviously, she’s still well connected,” Anna said.

  “If I wasn’t so grateful, I might be a little creeped out.”

  “She’s made me feel safer. And I’ll admit that when we were sitting in that basement, I was starting to wonder if we shouldn’t just crawl into a bunker for a while.”

  “Well, from the sound of it, her island is a kind of a bunker. Your mom had some pretty interesting friends. Do you think all this stuff will bring down Gilley and Delacroix?”

  “Audra seems to think so. What I’m wondering is whether it can help Willard.”

  “It can’t hurt. Keep him off Zolexa and he’s a different person.”

  “It’s already helped me, just by knowing what happened. You’ve done your job well. Thank you.”

  Henry nodded and looked away. He hoped she still felt as grateful once she found out the rest.

  The Honda arrived from around the corner with a squeal of tires. It parked behind them, blocking their exit, which was momentarily worrisome until the driver stepped out and dangled a set of keys. He looked government-issue—white guy, mid-twenties, trim build, brush cut, wearing khakis and a dark polo—and he didn’t say a word as they exchanged keys. Henry and Anna drove the Honda up and out onto the darkened streets of York toward Interstate 83.

  An hour later they stopped at a diner for omelets, hash browns, and beer. In the middle of the meal, Anna looked up and exclaimed, “Oh, no! Who’s going to feed Scooter while you’re away?”