Dark Eyes

by William Richter

  Bill hesitated again but finally continued, leaning in close to Atley and speaking quietly though no one was near them. “Obviously this is all a huge embarrassment across all the feds, and the sooner the file is closed the better. …”

  “They’re gonna sweep it all up in a tidy package.” Atley understood. “They’re gonna say it’s over, that these three agents had gone bad and now they’re dead, end of story. But you don’t think so.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have an idea.”

  “And no one wants to hear it right now,” Bill said. “And especially not from me. Not from inside their own house.”

  “So?” Atley waited. Horst was being shut down by his command and he resented it.

  “There was another guy,” Bill said, forcing the words out as if he was pulling his own teeth. “ATF also. He’s been working an undercover assignment on a local arms trade, in Manhattan, for the past two years. I know him—he was part of the Bulgarian thing with us years ago, and he was tight with those three who are now dead over there in the yard. He’s smarter than the others put together, and he’s ruthless. Always gave me a very dark vibe. If you’re going to keep looking for the Stoneman girl, Atley—”

  “I am.”

  “Then you might just end up face-to-face with the guy. If that happens, Atley, you shoot. Don’t stop shooting until your clip is empty. That’s how he’ll do you if he gets the chance.”

  “Who is he, Bill?”

  “His name is Cornell Brown.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  With a glass of red wine in hand—her second—Claire leaned back in the sofa and watched the talking heads on TV. The local public station was rerunning the evening news, a panel of experts talking about multi-national relief efforts in Africa. Claire muted the sound but let the pictures roll on, the silent flickering of the screen imbuing the desolate apartment with a gloomy blue glow. The apartment was so quiet now, and empty.

  Another weekend alone. When would change come? she wondered. How much of her old life would she have to let go of before she could move ahead?

  The house phone rang and Claire picked up the portable handset.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Stoneman?”

  “Is that you, Raoul?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Uh … Mrs. Stoneman? Your Wallis is on her way up.”

  Claire’s breath caught in her throat.

  “She’s very upset, Mrs. Stoneman,” said Raoul hesitantly. “There is … she has blood on her—”

  Claire was out of the sofa at that very moment, tossing the telephone aside and rushing out her door to the elevator landing. The nearest elevator opened to reveal Wallis, in much worse condition than Claire had ever seen her: she wore a too-large army-surplus bomber jacket that made her look like a wounded bird, and underneath it her sweater was torn halfway into shreds. Wally’s eyes and cheeks were smudged with mascara from crying, and her neck … there was some sort of splatter there. Blood? Wally’s face seemed frozen in a look of torment.

  “Oh my God … Wally …” Claire wanted to rush and embrace her daughter, but it had been so long since Wally had welcomed her affections that she held back.

  “Mom …” Wally’s tearful voice was angry and woeful at the same time as she stepped slowly out of the elevator and stood before Claire. “I’ve been strong, Mama. I have. But I don’t know what to do now.”

  Claire couldn’t resist any longer; she reached out for her daughter, wrapping her up tightly and leading her back to the apartment. Once inside, they both slumped to the floor, still embracing.

  “It’s all gone so bad …” Wally sobbed.

  The entire battle at the Navy Yard had lasted no more than two minutes, but it had been the most disastrous event of Wally’s life. Once she had leapt the fence and escaped Klesko’s gunfire, Wally lurked nearby in the shadowy perimeter of the Navy Yard, looking on helplessly as Klesko grabbed up Johanna and beat her with the butt of his handgun before heaving her limp body into the cab of the tow truck. The Russians jumped into the truck and raced away from the scene, taking Johanna with them but leaving Tevin where he lay, motionless and gushing blood on the tarmac, so alone. Wally’s first instinct had been to run to Tevin’s side—hoping against reason that he had somehow survived—but before she could reach him, the sirens of cop cars and fire trucks could be heard closing in on the scene, a swarm of them.

  Wally knew that if she stayed at the site, she would be taken into custody, and she didn’t trust the police to believe her story or take the immediate action that would be needed to save Johanna. As Wally walked quickly away from the Navy Yard, she discovered that the army-surplus jacket she was wearing—Tevin’s jacket—held the keys to the Lincoln in the front pocket. She was at the wheel of the Lincoln and driving away when she realized that there was only one place she wanted to be, only one place where she would feel truly safe and sane and cared for.

  “I went looking for my mother,” Wally began, Claire’s arms still clutched around her as they sat on the floor. “My Russian mother.”

  “You did what?”

  “I’m sorry if that hurts you, Mama, but I had to.”

  “But how could you possibly—”

  “And now Tevin is killed.”

  Claire was in shock, trying desperately to process what Wally was telling her. “One of your friends? Dead?”

  Wally nodded, the tears now pouring down again.

  “My God, Wally …”

  “All he wanted was to take care of me,” Wally said. “And now he’s gone, and they took her. They took Johanna.”

  Claire eased her embrace and held Wally by the shoulders, looking into her eyes with piercing intensity.

  “Johanna?” Claire said. “I don’t understand. Who took her?”

  “It’s too much to tell,” Wally sobbed. “I found a place, in a part of Brooklyn, the Navy Yard. It was like … like a safe house or whatever, a place set aside by my Russian mother in case something bad happened. You see, she’s been here all along, watching me. It’s Johanna, Mom. Her real name is Yalena Mayakova. My Russian mother.”

  “Wally—”

  “Then everything went bad, so bad,” Wally went on. “First there were three agents, ATF or FBI or something. But then the two Russians came. They’re the ones who killed Dr. Rainer—”

  “Dr. Rainer? Charlene Rainer? She’s dead?”

  “And the men came to the Navy Yard too. They killed Tevin and took Johanna. One of them, Mom, he’s my father. My Russian father. He took Johanna.”

  “Your father? What are you saying?”

  The barrage of information stunned Claire speechless for a few moments—she struggled to process all that Wally was telling her.

  “I could see it,” Wally said. “He has the same dark eyes, like mine.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s all my fault. I had to go looking and I made all of this happen.”

  “There were two?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said there was the Russian man and another.”

  “A young one. With Klesko.”

  “Klesko.”

  “My father. The two of them took Johanna and now she’s gone. I don’t know where.”

  Claire closed her eyes for a long moment, as if in silent prayer, and when she opened them again, she spoke:

  “I know where,” she said.

  THIRTY

  “What do you mean, you know where?” Wally demanded. “How is that? How do you know where they’re taking Johanna?”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” Claire answered, still distressed but keeping herself together. She looked at her watch. “We have time.”

  Bewildered, Wally stared at her mother and realized something: Claire was appropriately shocked to hear about the violent tragedy at the Brooklyn Navy Yard—and the murder of Charlene Rainer—but the news about Johanna’s true identity didn’t seem like a surprise to her. And the fact that she knew whe
re Johanna was being taken … Wally almost got the sense that events were playing out in a way that Claire had anticipated. Or dreaded.

  “Mom? You knew about my Russian mother all along? You knew that Yalena was right here, all the time?”

  Claire released her answer with great difficulty, as if breaking a vow.

  “Yes.”

  “You know that she’s been watching over me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you let it be?” Wally demanded, hurt and anger in her voice. “How could you know that and keep it from me all this time?”

  “It’s so complicated, Wally,” Claire said. “Right now, Johanna is in trouble and we can help her. We have to get ready. Right?”

  Wally couldn’t argue the point; Johanna needed their help now. Everything else could wait.

  “And you know where they’ve taken her?” Wally asked.

  “It’s she who will take them,” Claire said with certainty. “The men are after something, something that was taken from them—”

  “The alexandrite?”

  The name of the stones—coming from her daughter’s mouth—shocked Claire again.

  “My God, Wally … what have you been doing? Who have you been talking to?”

  “There are more of them? That’s what my father is here for. Johanna is taking them to the stones?”

  “Yes, but we can be there first. Understand? We have time, but we have to get ready. All right?”

  Wally was suddenly too tired to argue. Claire ran a hot shower and helped Wally peel off her torn, bloody clothing. Wally’s eyes had a vacant look now, her eyes—and heart—cried out and empty. She stepped into the shower. Immediately, the pulsing hot water began to soothe and revive her.

  “I’ll find you some clean clothes,” Claire said as she disappeared from the bathroom, “and put on some coffee.”

  Wally turned the outer ring on the showerhead until the pulses were slow and heavy. There was a small tile bench at the back of the shower stall and she sat down on it, bowing her head low so that the rhythmic bursts struck directly at the back of her neck and sent a tingling sensation down the sore muscles of her back. She would allow herself ten minutes in the shower—just long enough for calm to take hold. Physical and emotional exhaustion was lurking just beneath the surface of her disturbed consciousness, and Wally could not allow herself to give in, not yet.

  Anyway, it was absurd to imagine how she could possibly sleep with the images now coursing through her mind: Johanna being struck down and tossed into the cab of the tow truck. The sight of her best friend, Tevin, dead and alone on the tarmac of the Navy Yard because he insisted she leap the fence first. Dead, in defense of her, the same boy she had slept with just two nights before. Was he still lying there on the ground of the Navy Yard, even now? Or had he been removed, shipped off to a cold slab at the city morgue?

  Wally knew that all these tragedies had taken place because of her, because she had placed the goal of finding her mother above every other concern, and when that moment had finally arrived, it was a disaster. But Johanna was still out there, somewhere, and still alive. Wally needed to focus not on the past but on what would happen next. Any hope for saving Johanna seemed to hinge on Claire. She claimed to know where the two men would be going with Johanna and seemed determined to do what she could to save her. This of all things was no surprise; over the course of Wally’s life, Claire had proved that she would willingly sacrifice herself to protect someone she loved.

  Oh no, Wally thought, struck by a sudden realization.

  Wally bolted out of the shower, running out of the bathroom and back into the apartment. The place was silent and empty. Wally cursed herself. Still naked and dripping wet, Wally jumped to the front door and flung it open, revealing an empty hallway.

  “SHIT!” Wally grabbed the house phone and the doorman downstairs immediately picked up the line.

  “Miss Stoneman?”

  “She’s gone?” Wally barked into the phone. “My mother left the building?”

  “Well …yes, Miss Stoneman. About five or six minutes ago.”

  “She took the car?”

  “Yes, she did. Is there anything I can—” Wally threw down the phone in a rage and stomped around the living room, pacing in circles, directionless and frantic. “Shit!” It was a few moments before Wally noticed the single piece of notepaper on the dining room table, held there in place by a small glass paperweight. The note read:

  You’ll be safe here, Wally. Im sorry and I love you, more than I can ever say, or prove. Love, Mom.

  “Shit!” Wally shouted again, then retrieved the phone she had thrown to the floor. She hit the speak button and heard the dial tone. Good, she hadn’t broken it. Wally dialed Claire’s cell phone number, but after seven or eight rings the call was patched over to Claire’s voice mail. Wally hung up and redialed three times until Claire finally picked up. …

  “Wally …”

  “Mom! Whatever you’re doing—”

  “Wally—”

  “No! This is MY life, Mom! I made this happen! This is something for me to fix. Tell me where you’re going.”

  “No, Wally. I’m sorry. I love you.” And then Claire hung up her line.

  “DAMN IT!” Wally hollered to the empty apartment; she barely resisted hurling the phone down again. Instead she hit redial once again, but now the line went straight to voice mail; Claire had turned off her phone.

  Wally paced through the apartment, frantically trying to think through the problem. As her mind spun the possibilities, she went to her room and put on some jeans and a turtleneck, readying herself to head out into the night as soon as she had figured out what to do, what move to make next. She realized that she would have to calm down if she had any hope of solving the problem.

  She took several deep, cleansing breaths, the way Claire had taught her when she was a frustrated, angry little girl. Breathe in through the nose to the count of four, hold for seven seconds, then out with a whoosh to the count of eight. After three or four of these breaths, Wally felt her thinking gradually came back into focus.

  What did she know? Wally thought about the brief phone call with Claire; there had been sound in the background, but nothing specific, just a constant, relatively high level of background noise. What did that mean? Claire’s car was an Infiniti SUV, low to the ground and powerful but with good sound insulation and with a hands-free cell phone system that had noise canceling built in. To produce engine sound that noticeable, the car would have to be traveling at speed. That probably meant that Claire was not driving on city streets. No, Wally guessed that the Infiniti was on an expressway.

  So, which one? Since she’d needed to get herself ready and then have the valet get the car out of the basement garage, Claire had only had a few minutes’ head start. So the road had to be a close by, no doubt the West Side Highway, but that didn’t narrow down the possible destinations really; it only suggested that she was headed away from Manhattan.

  What else did Wally know? Not much. The more she pressed herself to think through her situation, the greater her sense that she was completely in the dark, and had been in the dark her entire goddamn life. Sheltered, coddled, appeased … lied to. Shit.

  Stop being angry, Wally silently commanded herself, and think.

  What else did she know? She reviewed the few moments she and Claire had shared in the apartment. What else had Claire said? She had been shocked, certainly, by Wally’s hastily reconstructed news about all that she had been through that night, ending with Tevin’s death and Johanna’s abduction.

  “The two of them took Johanna and now she’s gone. I don’t know where.”

  Wally had grieved, the image of Johanna being thrown into the tow truck still painfully fresh in her mind.

  “I know where,” Claire had replied, and it had not been a guess on her part; it had been a statement of fact. She did know where. What else did she say? Wally ran through their brief exchange, trying pick out anything
useful but not coming up with anything. Claire had run a hot shower for Wally, and she was going to put out some clean clothes for her. Claire also said was going to make coffee, but that was obviously just a misdirection to set Wally at ease and give Claire time to get away.

  “We have time,” Claire had said confidently. We have time? How could that be? The men had taken Johanna away and were guaranteed to hurt her if she did not give them exactly what they wanted. Obviously, Klesko was convinced that there was still some money and stones remaining from the cache that Yalena had taken from him. Where had they been kept all these years? A bank? Some sort of storage facility? Either of those might explain the “we have time” comment; a bank vault or storage facility would operate on a preset schedule, accessible only at a certain hour the next morning. That made sense. Claire must have known exactly where the remaining stones were kept and when they would be accessible.

  How could Wally figure out where that hiding place was?

  Wally continued her frantic pacing, trying to stimulate some sort of eleventh-hour epiphany. She had only one thought and picked up the phone again, hitting redial.

  “Yes, Miss Stoneman?” came the doorman’s voice.

  “Raoul? Sorry I hung up before …”

  “That’s okay, Miss Stoneman.”

  “Can you tell me what was my mom was wearing?”

  “Uh …” The doorman considered, then answered uncertainly. “A jacket, I think? A warm one? And a cap. Boots, maybe?”

  “Thanks, Raoul.” Wally hit the end button on the phone. Claire’s choice of outdoor clothing did not suggest a bank or other indoor location like a storage locker. As she ran through the possibilities, Wally had a thought. She was staring at the portable phone in her hand. The LED panel was lit up with the last number called: the phone number of the desk downstairs. Wally hit the down arrow button and the screen scrolled down to the list of the numbers called last, past the calls Wally herself had made to Raoul at the front desk. Wally saw the number listed for the last phone call Claire had made—she had called outside the building just five minutes before she left. The phone number looked vaguely familiar, but it took a minute or so before Wally finally recognized the area code and then the full phone number. Wally herself had dialed that number just a few days earlier. She hit redial and the phone rang through. Voice mail picked up on the other end of the line and a message played. Now Wally knew where Claire had gone and where Johanna would be found.