by Steve Cash
Geaxi slipped her beret back on her head, adjusting the angle unconsciously. She looked over at the men pulling in the heavy, wet, tangled nets, most of them empty. Without a trace of irony, she said, “It seems we have a big new problem, do we not, young Zezen?”
I smiled but didn’t laugh. “Yes, we do, Geaxi … yes, we do.”
Before we disembarked, Geaxi made sure the captain of the trawler received several gold coins, which she handed over to him with privacy and discretion. Where she had been hiding them the whole time was a complete mystery and I didn’t inquire. At first he refused the offer; however, Geaxi insisted he take the coins. The captain had been told he was reuniting an old family that had been displaced and separated, bringing two children back to the family. And he was. Geaxi spoke in Russian and I stayed silent. We shook hands and left the trawler just after dark. We sneaked into Istanbul and hurried through the loud and crowded streets to a small hotel called the Empress Zoe, where there was an ancient, aging family of children waiting for our return.
Geaxi and I entered through the lobby, which was quiet and nearly empty. We climbed the stairs to the second floor and saw a light coming from under the door to Sailor’s room. There was a low murmur of voices inside. I knocked once and Geaxi spoke in Basque to announce our presence.
Moments later Mowsel opened the door, smiling wide and exposing his missing front tooth. “Ongi etorri,” he said, looking not at the ceiling or somewhere in space, but directly at me. His black eyes sparkled with intelligence and wit. Trumoi-Meq could see again.
Before I was able to respond, I heard Sailor’s voice. “Well, did you find it … did you see it?”
Geaxi walked past me, giving Mowsel a warm embrace and staring into his eyes. “Good to see you, my friend,” she said.
“That may be, Geaxi,” Mowsel said, “but believe me, it is much better to see you.”
They laughed and I walked inside, closing the door behind me. Ray, Nova, Sheela, and Zeru-Meq were also in the room. Only Opari was missing. I wanted to ask where she was and ask Mowsel about his eyesight, but Sailor wouldn’t let me. He was sitting in a chair by the window.
“Were you able to see the sphere, Zianno? More important, were you able to read it?”
“Yes, and yes,” I answered. “However, it’s a little more complicated than that.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me, where is Cardinal? Is he still in Istanbul?”
“No,” Sailor said. “He left shortly after operating on Trumoi-Meq.”
“Operating?”
Mowsel interrupted, “You should have been there, Zianno. It was quite exciting. I remained conscious during the entire procedure. Cardinal employed an experimental technique to extract tiny fragments of shrapnel with microsurgery and a magnet. All this time they had been pressing in on my optic nerves, causing my blindness.” Mowsel shook his head and laughed. “Just think of it, Zianno — a Giza repairing a Meq. The old ones are likely turning in their graves.”
“It is remarkable, Mowsel, truly remarkable,” I said.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Sailor interjected. “Truly remarkable. Now, what did the sphere say, Zianno? Did it mention the Remembering?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have time to read all of the text, if you can call it that.”
“But you could read it, no?” Zeru-Meq asked.
“Yes, I can read this one. I need to see it again and spend more time with it.” I looked back at Sailor. “Where did Cardinal go?”
“He is in Rome, as far as I know. Why do you seek him?”
“He may be able to help us find someone, someone called ‘the Beekeeper.’ ”
“The Beekeeper?” Mowsel asked.
“Yes. It is probably a code name. The sphere will soon be in his possession, and if we can find him, then I can read more of the sphere.” I paused and looked around the room at each of the others, including Geaxi. “But like I said, there are other … complications.”
Ray said, “I’m gettin’ lost, Z. Why don’t you just start at the beginning and tell us all about it?”
And so I did. I recounted everything, even the close encounter with Nikita Khrushchev. I told them we had seen Valery, the Soviet agent, and I told them about the bones and the Neanderthal skull. Geaxi added a few details and mentioned her “frozen” moments with the skull in her hands. Mowsel was especially interested in that and asked Geaxi several questions about the experience. Zeru-Meq wanted more information concerning the exhibit, and I told him all I could remember, emphasizing the peculiar arrangement of the skeletons, as they were found, and the fact that each of them were Neanderthal children, not adults. Sheela asked about the sphere itself, and I described it as best I could, particularly the quality of the stonecutting and polishing. While I was talking and answering questions, Sailor never said a word and sat staring into the darkness outside the window. He was wearing his star sapphire and he turned the ring round and round his finger as I spoke. But he was listening, and listening carefully.
“Sailor,” I said, “do you have any questions? What do you make of this coincidence? What do you think it means?”
Sailor stopped twirling his ring and looked around the room at each of us, ending with me. “Assumption, Zianno, is the first step on any and all roads leading to a wrong conclusion. Let us assume nothing. What we must do, what you must do, is go to Berlin or wherever this ‘Beekeeper’ is located. We must find this sphere and you must read it. You must read it in its entirety. Only then may we draw a conclusion from this unexpected and odd … coincidence.”
“Sailor is correct,” Mowsel added. “I will contact Cardinal tomorrow and ask for his assistance.”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“By the way,” I said, “where is Opari?”
“In your room, Zianno,” Nova answered. “She has been a little worried.”
“Worried? About what, my ability to read the sphere?”
“No, Z,” Ray said with a snicker. “Your ability as an acrobat.”
Nova shoved Ray with a gentle push. “Z, that’s not true. She was just anxious for your safe return, and Geaxi’s as well.”
I wagged my finger in warning at Ray and we both laughed, then I turned and left the room. I hurried down the hall and the door to my room opened as I approached. Opari had felt me coming. She stood in the doorway with the dim light angling across her face. She was barefoot and wearing a simple cotton nightgown. I couldn’t see her eyes but I could see her mouth. “Welcome back, my love,” she whispered, then pressed her lips to mine.
That night, after telling Opari everything I had told the others, and falling asleep with her arm across my chest, I had a strange and unsettling dream. I was standing outside an enormous stadium, not a baseball stadium, but something else, something more dangerous. The stadium was circular and built with stone and brick. It was massive. All around the top of the walls, pennants and flags whipped in the wind. A crowd roared inside, rising and falling like waves. From somewhere in the shade by one of the entrances, I heard my name shouted three times in rapid succession, like gunshots. I ran or glided toward the arch of the entrance and walked through, into a glaring light and surrounded by dozens of snarling, growling lions, each one chained to a stake in the ground. I turned in a circle, looking for a way out. “Over here,” someone yelled. “Over here,” said another. Then one of the lions broke loose and began a slow walk my way. The walk became a trot, then a loping, full-out run until he leaped and opened his great jaws and hundreds, thousands of bumblebees came pouring out, buzzing, diving, and spinning around, never touching or stinging, almost taunting me, daring me to move a single muscle. Then I heard a voice, from somewhere I heard a voice that sounded familiar yet was unlike any voice I’d ever heard. High-pitched, strained, awkward, the voice seemed to be saying, “We are waiting for you.”
I awoke from the dream and couldn’t get back to sleep. Moonlight shone through our open window and slanted across the bed and onto Opari’s cheek and neck. Fo
r the better part of an hour I watched a tiny place on her throat where I could see her heartbeat rise and fall, over and over again.
Cardinal was attending a medical conference in Rome, and Mowsel reached him by telephone, asking if he could “help us find a friend.” Cardinal replied that he would be glad to help and suggested a meeting on May 1 in Montreux, Switzerland, where he would be staying at the Grand Hotel Suisse-Majestic. After a conference of our own, it was decided that Sailor, Sheela, Opari, and I would make the trip to Montreux. The rest would travel to Paris and wait somewhere for word from us. Mowsel suggested San Sebastian, saying he might like to spend some time in Basque country. “With my eyesight restored,” he said, “there is no place I would rather see than my homeland.”
“I ain’t ever been there, Mowsel,” Ray said. “You mind if Nova and I tag along?”
“Ray, it would be a pleasure. And I should warn you now, you will never taste better food. If it still survives, I know a little inn and restaurant where we shall begin and end our journey.”
We left Istanbul over the span of a single weekend, traveling in twos and threes, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Old trick, new century. We flew to Paris and Sailor, Sheela, Opari, and I said farewell, promising to rendezvous in San Sebastian in six months, or send word as soon as we had some answers.
Traveling by train, we gradually climbed out of France and into Switzerland, stopping in Lausanne, then continuing on around Lake Geneva until we arrived in the beautiful town on the northeast shore, Montreux. The sun had set an hour earlier, and the lights of the town were shimmering on the water. The scene was idyllic, almost magical. Sailor said, “I first passed through here on the Roman road to Gaul through Besançon. I stayed that night and four more. Even then, and by torchlight, it was equally beautiful.”
Although Cardinal had yet to check in, rooms at the Grand Hotel Suisse-Majestic had been reserved under his name for his “nieces and nephews.” With great respect and efficiency, we were shown to our connecting rooms on the third floor overlooking Lake Geneva. I walked out onto the balcony into the black diamond night and looked up and over the lake, which was dancing with light. If you have to wait for someone, I thought, this is the place to do it.
When Cardinal finally arrived the next day, he apologized and blamed his tardiness on his surprise companion, a sports writer who was in Switzerland to cover the upcoming FIFA World Cup Soccer Championship in a series of articles for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and The Washington Post. The man, who was in his late forties and just beginning to show a touch of gray, denied any guilt whatsoever with a grin I’d seen since he was a kid. It was Jack.
“How’s your mother?” I asked.
“She says you are already late.”
“Late for what?”
“For not coming to see her.”
“That sounds like Carolina. Well, maybe it won’t be too long.” I paused and glanced at Cardinal. “I have seen Valery.”
Jack and Cardinal exchanged looks of concern.
“Don’t worry, he didn’t see me. But he mentioned someone, someone who might be in Berlin. He called him ‘the Beekeeper.’ I … we … need to find this person. We were wondering if you might have some information on him. He has something, or he will soon, an object, a stone sphere, and I need to examine it.”
Jack had never asked or involved himself in why the Meq did certain things or how we did them. In our long relationship, he had always left that part alone, and this time was no exception. “This is important, right, Z?”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
“Then we will find the Beekeeper,” Cardinal finished.
We only stayed in the big hotel one night. The next day, after checking out and renting a car, Jack drove us to a rambling array of connecting stone structures on the edge of a village called “La Tour-de-Peilz.” Jack said it was a Catholic school named for the Renaissance priest, mathematician, astronomer, and philosopher Pierre Gassendi. It was built up against and along the north face of a sheer cliff. Because of the surrounding wall of rock, it had always been known to locals as “école dans l’ombre,” or “school in the shade.” To me, it seemed more like a fortress than a school. However, the presence of several children, about our size and carrying a handful of books, confirmed its true identity. Jack pulled the car into a dark lane that was posted “PRIVATE ENTRANCE” and came to a stop in front of a two-story stone house, which was separate from but part of the complex of buildings. Jack told us they had been using the place as a safe house since the end of World War II. It was perfect because, except for the priests and nuns who ran the school, nobody knew it existed. Jack said with the many children coming and going, we would not be noticed. Sailor complimented Jack on his choice, Sheela commented on the beauty of the area, and within minutes we were settled in with our few belongings, waiting to hear from Cardinal.
We waited a week. During that time, we celebrated my birthday on the fourth. Sailor insisted on it, reminding me that birthdays for the Meq must be counted and celebrated. “Otherwise,” Sailor said, “our hearts and minds would numb and we would simply be adrift in a meaningless sea of time with no beginning and no end.” Opari actually baked a cake, a chocolate cake, and I blew out eighty-five candles in one breath.
The information Cardinal brought with him wasn’t much. He said he had located a dossier on the Beekeeper that contained exactly one page, single-spaced. We were disappointed, but it was a start. “The Beekeeper,” Cardinal said, “if he still exists, is an assassin for hire who was employed mainly by Stalin in the 1930s to eliminate several of Stalin’s potential enemies living outside of the Soviet Union. However, on one occasion he is supposed to have worked for an American general in the Philippines, although the incident was never verified. According to a Soviet agent who defected, no one ever knew the true identity of the Beekeeper. His transactions were always done near a beehive, and he never removed the hat and net that concealed his face. He is said to have been a short man, and he spoke in English with a Cantonese accent. He is also believed to be a genius at code breaking and reading unreadable ciphers. But as far as we know, he and his services have not been used by anyone since World War II. Also, there seems to have been one other curious aspect to the Beekeeper. The Soviet defector said that often the agent who hired the assassin and conducted the transaction would disappear himself once the contract had been fulfilled.”
“What about Berlin?” I asked. “Did you find any leads in Berlin?”
“Possibly. I am still working on it.”
I glanced at Sailor and turned to Jack. “I need to go to Berlin.”
Jack said, “No problem, Z. You can go with me while I do interviews with the West German soccer players. When do you want to go?”
“As soon as we can. Valery may be there at this very minute. If we can find him, we may find ‘the Beekeeper.’ ”
“How about tomorrow?” Jack asked.
“Tomorrow is good.”
As a sports writer, Jack had the perfect cover. He could travel at will almost anywhere and not draw attention. He was simply a journalist writing or researching a story, and I was his nephew. After leaving Opari, Sheela, and Sailor at the école dans l’ombre, Jack and I flew to Frankfurt, where the West German soccer team was based. From there, and over the next three weeks, we made several short trips to West Berlin. Each trip was unproductive and ineffective. The Beekeeper and Valery were ghosts, and Cardinal’s clandestine network of sources came up with nothing. We returned to Montreux on June 16 so that Jack could cover the World Cup, which was played in various Swiss cities and concluded on July 4 in Bern. West Germany won its first title and defeated Hungary 3–2 in the final. It was an upset victory, and the game was labeled “The Miracle of Bern.” Jack stayed on in Switzerland throughout the rest of the year, during which we made more trips to West Berlin, all with negative results. The rendezvous with the others in San Sebastian was postponed while we waited for a breakthrough. Jack
paid an extended visit to St. Louis, but returned in three months. The whole year of 1955 passed without even a rumor of Valery or the Beekeeper, then in the spring of 1956, we heard a report that Valery may have been seen in Budapest. That report was never confirmed, but in October there was another, definite sighting of Valery in Budapest by one of Cardinal’s agents. He was only seen crossing a street and was not followed, but he was no longer a ghost, and we knew where to look for him, and possibly “the Beekeeper.”
“What about getting in and out?” I asked. “Hungary is a Communist country.”
“It is for now,” Jack replied. “Hungary is in transition. Nobody knows what’s going to happen, but right now it’s a volatile place. The AVH should be avoided.”
“AVH?” Sailor asked.
“State Security Police. Very nasty.” Jack was wearing a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap. He tilted it back on his head with his thumb and forefinger. “But I can get you in, Z. In fact, this just might be a good time to interview the Hungarian soccer team about the ‘Miracle in Bern.’ ”
“Jack,” Sailor said, “I would like to go along. Do you think two of us would arouse the suspicion of this organization — the AVH?”
“No problem, Sailor. It might even be a better cover, more like a working vacation for me and my nephews, who both love soccer and think the Hungarian players are heroes.”
“Good,” Sailor said with a half smile, then added, “I shall learn all their names.”
After clearing everything through the Hungarian Embassy in Geneva, we arrived by train in Budapest on the morning of October 23. There was already a November chill in the air, and I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck. Jack had the name of our contact memorized. Her name was Piroska Czibor. She was in her mid-thirties and was a professor at the Technical University. She was one of what Cardinal referred to as his “chaperones.” They were various people throughout Eastern Europe whom he trusted implicitly but only used occasionally as agents. Every one had been recruited by Cardinal himself. Piroska Czibor had been approached because her father was Hungarian and her mother had been American. Cardinal thought it might make a difference in Piroska’s decision. It did. She was hired just after the end of World War II, and Cardinal called on her at least once a year until 1951. That year, her husband was killed in an automobile accident and Piroska decided to end her work with Cardinal. He understood and wished her well. But she also possessed a rare ability, which she used to spot and verify her sighting of Valery — a photographic memory with total recall. Even though she had not seen a description of Valery since 1949, she recognized him the moment she saw him walking into a laboratory at the Technical University. Piroska debated a moment with herself, then contacted Cardinal immediately and asked if Valery was “still a person of interest.” Cardinal told her “absolutely” and asked if she would assist us on our assignment, although she was under no obligation. After a few days Piroska made her decision and now we were looking for her outside the train station, where she was supposed to be waiting for us. Cardinal had said she would be wearing a large red and blue scarf around her neck.