Safe Houses

by Dan Fesperman

  Helen tried to take solace from that, but there was little to be had. So instead she finished her whiskey.

  “By the way,” Claire said. “So you’ll breathe a little easier on the train, you should know that one of our people will be on board the whole way. In fact, he’s here now.”

  Claire nodded toward a spot over Helen’s right shoulder. Helen turned and saw Clark Baucom a few tables over. He raised a coffee cup in tribute, and then smiled like a boy who’d been caught copying someone else’s exam.

  “How did he…? And you…?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you. I gather that the two of you know each other rather well.” Helen blushed. “It’s quite all right. Your secret is safe with me. All of your secrets are.”

  “He’s no secret to anyone in Berlin. But I’m going to take you up on the last part of that promise.”

  “Good. It’s the least we can do for each other. Trust and share, the three of us. Stop doing that and we’re no longer the Sisterhood.”

  Helen smiled, and then the PA system called out a boarding announcement for her train. They stood, and hugged one last time. Baucom was already making his way toward the platform, while keeping Helen in his field of vision.

  “I won’t follow any farther,” Claire said. “Your very able escort will take over from here.”

  A final smile, and Helen turned to go.

  Nine hours later she was in Berlin.

  56

  Helen Abell waltzed straight past security with a flash of her ID. Apparently no one had bothered to tell the Marine guard that she was persona non grata. She then used a key that Baucom had given her to enter Berlin station, and was well into the depths of its offices and corridors by the time anyone happened to look up from their typewriters and desks to see her standing there, alone and defiant, holding a file folder like a weapon.

  Eileen Walters, who had just rounded the corner from the hallway back to records, stopped in her tracks. Helen heard an actual gasp from the typing pool, followed in rapid succession by a “Holy shit!” from points unknown.

  “Well?” she announced loudly, playing the moment for all it was worth. “Is someone going to tell Herrington I’m here, or should I just go on back and deliver his heart attack personally?”

  This line at least provoked smothered laughter from some unknown quarter. In the meantime, someone else must have already managed to sneak away toward the back, because Herrington then appeared, looking shocked and out of breath.

  Helen turned to confront him from twenty feet away, clutching the folder. She gave him an opening to speak first, and when he didn’t seize it she filled the breach by holding aloft her office key and saying, “You’ll probably be wanting this.”

  She then raised the folder.

  “Before you take it, you’ll want to look at a few things I was able to dig up out in the field concerning Kevin Gilley, aka Robert, while I was away. And, yes, I was working. So I expect to be paid.”

  Herrington, ashen, spoke in a low but steady voice with a pleading undertone, as if he were trying to will everyone else to get back to work and stop listening to this embarrassing exchange.

  “Let’s discuss this in private, Miss Abell, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not without a lawyer present. And a tape recorder.”

  “Fine. But let’s at least refrain from further discussions of sensitive material in such an open forum.”

  That was the moment at which everyone who was listening realized that Helen Abell had—at least for now—won. Like so many bullies before him, Ladd Herrington was not very fearsome once you got in the first blow. Seizing her advantage, Helen nodded and replied, “I’m all for discretion, sir. Your office or mine? Either is fine, as soon as my lawyer has arrived.”

  Later, of course, well after the flush of this initial victory, it would be those same lawyers who would work the most assiduously to disarm her, by turning the entire process into an exercise in slow-motion capitulation, geared toward nothing other than her own defense. In other words, events proceeded almost exactly as Claire Saylor had predicted.

  So it was that, roughly twenty hours later, Helen found herself in a conference room on the neutral ground of the U.S. consular office, where she was reading the fine print of a final document while, to her left, her cheapo American lawyer who’d been recommended by a friend did the same. The room was quiet, the mood somber but relatively civil. Her energy was nearly spent.

  Then a door opened, and Helen might not have even looked up if Herrington hadn’t nervously cleared his throat. With a glance she saw it was Kevin Gilley, dapper and official-looking in a dark suit and a red power tie, as if delivered fresh from the campaign trail by his own motorcade. He nodded at Herrington, who smiled tightly and swallowed in a way that made his Adam’s apple bob.

  Gilley did not come to the table but instead took a chair by the door. He folded his arms and looked straight at Helen. She put down the document and stared back. His eyes were the same blue-green she had noticed that night at the safe house. But then they had at least looked like something belonging to a living being, burning and intense, fired by scorn and sexual energy. Now they seemed to be coated by a dull sheen, like cough lozenges.

  His stare was unwavering, and almost clinical in its assessment, as if he was still gauging what sort of threat she might pose. Helen felt a cold spot creeping up her backbone. She had to make an effort not to shiver.

  “All of the revised language looks in order to me,” her lawyer said. He obviously had no idea who had just entered the room. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing that a well-placed gunshot wouldn’t fix,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  “Excuse me?” He sounded a little alarmed.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She glanced for a final time at the document—a severance agreement—then she scribbled her signature and the date they had all agreed upon. A date that will live in infamy, she thought. She slid the papers across the desk toward Herrington before the lawyer could justify charging her for another billable hour.

  “Well, then,” Herrington said, neatening the stack with a little pop against the desktop, and then adjusting his tie. Still not a word from anyone to acknowledge Gilley’s presence, which infuriated Helen so much that she decided to address the issue herself.

  “Do I have your personal assurance, sir, that this document will protect me from the likes of him? Do I have the Agency’s full assurance on that matter?”

  “Protection?” Herrington said, as if the very idea was ludicrous.

  “Yes, protection. If you need any background, just check the recent status of Anneliese Kurz, aka Agent Frieda. Or read my report, if you haven’t already shredded it.”

  Gilley kept his arms folded, but the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly, like he was holding back a smile. Her impulse was to climb across the table to slap him as hard as she could. Instead she clasped her hands together below the tabletop and squeezed hard, as if crushing the bones of his face.

  “Well, then,” Herrington repeated. “This concludes our business. I believe we have achieved the best possible outcome for all concerned.”

  He got up, and so did his deputy and then his secretary, and they walked single file from the room. Helen turned to her lawyer.

  “You’re dismissed.”

  If he had said anything about a bill at that moment she wasn’t sure what she would’ve done, but it wouldn’t have been dignified or polite. He coughed, picked up his briefcase, and left, nodding obliviously to Gilley on his way out. Gilley smiled and nodded back. She stood and stared at him, knowing she would have to walk past him to leave.

  She stepped around the table toward the door, and then stopped.

  “Well?” she said.

  “Well what, my dear?” He spoke the latter words the
same way Baucom did, which infuriated her more. “I presume there will be no further trouble from these matters to interfere with my duties?”

  “As long as there is no further trouble toward me from you.”

  “Oh, and thank you for the lovely message via Joseph in Paris, from you and that other tart. You flatter yourselves to think you’d be of any further interest to me.”

  Later, Helen would think of at least half a dozen retorts, all of them witty and crisp and poised. But at that moment she only wanted to be out of his presence, then and forevermore. And she was already clinging to an unmistakable note of surrender she’d detected in his final comment. By trying to dismiss Claire and her as inconsequential, he had in his own twisted way announced his compliance with the truce.

  So, instead of replying she walked out through the open door. Then, as she heard him rising to follow, she shut the door behind her. She did not hear it reopen before she rounded the corner and moved out of sight.

  * * *

  * * *

  A few hours later she was seated in the main concourse at Tegel, waiting for her flight to be called. Nonstop to JFK, economy class. Still more than two hours before boarding. There had been no need for a security escort this time, although she’d heard that Herrington had discreetly inquired about the possibility. Cooler heads had apparently prevailed.

  “Let her wander all she wants,” the logic had been. “She’s free as a bird now, but at least we’ve clipped her wings.”

  With the better part of an afternoon to kill, Helen had briefly considered a quick farewell tour, with stopovers at her favorite café, maybe a bar or two, and a walk on her favorite wooded path around Schlachtensee, where she’d always found solace. Then she decided to hell with it. Better to spend her final hours in the sterility of an air terminal, a clean and quick severance. She hailed a taxi and opened a newspaper as soon as it pulled away from the curb, lest she be tempted to look out the window along the way.

  And now here she was, with her clipped wings and her future in ruins. Where would she go now? What would she do? She was literally hanging her head beneath the gloom of such thoughts when Clark Baucom’s voice snapped her to attention.

  “You look like you could use a dose of Lehmann’s finest, my dear.”

  She looked up to see him standing ten feet away, with a tweed jacket slung over one shoulder. In his right hand was a brown paper bag from which he then produced a bottle of the genuine article, the brandy to salve a thousand wounds. It was the first time she had seen him since the train ride to Berlin, nine hours that had passed without a single word. Nine hours in which she had withheld hundreds of questions, mostly out of pride.

  Now Helen smiled grudgingly. Part of her still wanted to hate this man for stealing the tapes, but he had atoned brilliantly in Paris.

  “Does Lehmann loan that out for special occasions?”

  “Come on.” He nodded over his shoulder. “One of the ghastlier airlines runs a nice little departure lounge right around the corner for frequent sufferers like me. They won’t mind if we provide our own tipple.”

  She stood with her shoulder bag. It felt like as appropriate a farewell as any.

  “Lead the way.”

  “Your friend Claire used those same words not so long ago. She’s a sharp one.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  She eyed him askance as they crossed the terminal to the darkened lounge. What could he possibly want, at this point, except either a thank-you or an absolution? Or maybe he was simply being human, in search of some warmth, a final affectionate note to say that all had been worthwhile.

  They sat in a corner. The cocktail waitress, who of course knew Baucom on sight, brought two empty glasses, no questions asked. He had been good at this sort of thing for far too long, she supposed, and it made her smile. First time all day she’d done it so freely.

  “I won’t ask what that was for,” Baucom said as he poured her a measure. “Drink up.”

  She swallowed. As good as she remembered. She was almost sorry there wouldn’t be a bed to climb into afterward.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said.

  “Had to. Special delivery mission. News, first of all. Herrington’s out as chief of station.”

  Helen’s mouth flew open in surprise.

  “I’ll definitely drink to that,” she said, brightening as Baucom tapped his glass against hers. “Where’s he landing?”

  “Langley. No job title yet, but the word is that he’ll have three supervisors to keep him busy, and a male secretary.”

  Helen laughed. It felt like the first time in ages. Baucom reached again into the paper bag, and with another act of conjuring pulled out a large padded mailing envelope.

  “Brought this for you as well.”

  She accepted it warily, as if it might be filled with incriminating items.

  “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  She pressed the edges to splay open one end, and inhaled sharply as she looked inside. The tapes, both of them.

  “Where have they been, all this time?”

  “Enjoying a limited run to an exclusive clientele. Interesting listening for one and all.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head, as she knew he would.

  “At least tell me what the reviews were like.”

  “Pretty much as you’d expect with regard to Robert. He’ll be watched a little closer, but you already knew that. As for anything further?” He shrugged, frowning. “As I said before, the nature of his work puts him almost beyond reach. For now, anyway. But later, when we’re all older and grayer? Maybe that’s one reason I thought you might want it back.”

  “And the other tape? With all the water music, for lack of a better description. Why give that one back?”

  He frowned again.

  “So far, at least, my efforts on that front have come to naught. Apparently certain people have decided that these revelations were either not all that surprising or that they’re so inconsequential as to not really matter.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think that, for the moment, someone is gaming the system better than I can. They’ve either got a more powerful rabbi than me or better information. Maybe both.”

  “You know what it’s all about, don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say I think you should hang on to it, but keep it secure. For your own good as much as for the Company’s. A bite from anything that potent will always be potentially fatal.”

  “Then why should I keep it at all?”

  “Insurance, against some future rainy day? And you’ve been in the game long enough to know that by rainy day what I really mean is a fucking deluge, a flood with waters deep enough to drown you. So let this keep you dry, then, Helen Abell.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. She wanted to bristle, to duck away, but it felt good—calming and secure—so instead she reached across the table to caress his cheek, lightly and only for a moment. Then she demurely returned her hand to her lap.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said.

  “I do get back to Washington now and then.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  He studied her eyes for a few seconds as if waiting for more, and then smiled ruefully when it became clear that no more would be coming.

  “Message received.”

  Then he corked the bottle, placed it back into the bag, and stood. He moved to her side, a lumbering jet taxiing for departure.

  “You’re not to leave this lounge until you’ve finished that glass,” he said, “if only for Lehmann’s sake.” She smiled and kept her seat. “You’ll have a fine life, my dear.”

  “I plan to. A quiet life, too.”

  “Highly advisable.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and was on his way. She watched until the door clos
ed behind him.

  57

  August 2014

  The reels of tape began to turn in the silent basement. The first sound they heard was the voice of Anna’s mother, reciting poetry.

  How can I keep my soul in me, so that

  it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise

  it high enough, past you, to other things?

  “Oh, my God,” Anna whispered. “It’s her.”

  Her mother paused, as if to accommodate her daughter’s interruption. There was the sound of footsteps, and then Helen Abell continued.

  I would like to shelter it, among remote

  lost objects, in some dark and silent place

  that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.

  Then, more footsteps, as if she were crossing a fairly large room. The volume seemed to fade and grow, as if she were walking past a series of microphones. It lent a sense of movement to the mind’s eye. Henry watched Anna, whose face was rapt, as the poem and the footsteps continued, with a pause between each stanza:

  Yet everything that touches us, me and you,

  takes us together like a violin’s bow,

  which draws one voice out of two separate strings.

  “It’s beautiful,” Anna said. “But why? What is she doing?”

  “A sound check before the main event?”

  “Maybe.”

  Upon what instrument are we two spanned?

  And what musician holds us in his hand?

  Oh sweetest song.

  Then the voice went silent but the footsteps continued, picking up pace before fading, as if Anna’s mom had moved beyond sight, or perhaps further into the past, again unreachable. No, she was going up a stairway.

  Anna wiped her eyes with her fingertips. No sooner had she collected herself than there was a rattling sound from the speaker, and then the sound of an opening door followed by footsteps. They were heavier than those of Anna’s mom, but they, too, crossed the room. A cabinet door opened, the click of a latch followed by the clank of bottles and glasses, a drink being poured. Then someone pulled up a chair and took a seat. No words were spoken.