He had his hunting knife on his belt. He unsnapped the sheath before heading down the wooden stairway to the basement. Weeks ago, he’d added dozens of galvanized deck screws and additional shims beneath the stairs, covering them with felt padding to ensure they would not creak. He crept down the stairs now in stocking feet. When he reached the basement, he quietly opened a latch on a span of particleboard coated with a thin veneer of cement to look like a slab of concrete in an unfinished basement wall. The panel angled silently open on well-oiled, industrial hinges. Beeman pulled the panel open only far enough to allow him to slip through.
It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but he could see the tangle of arms and legs on the mattress inside on the floor of the cage. The girls were sleeping, holding one another in a way that Beeman knew would arouse Antonio.
Nestled together on the mattress, they were at peace. He wondered if they were dreaming. He bent to pick up a hose that lay coiled on the floor. Grasping the nozzle with one hand, he turned a spigot on the pipe with the other, and the hose grew stiff as it filled with water.
Like the idiot, Beeman mused.
The soft hiss of water in the plumbing did not disturb the sleeping females. Squatting next to the cage, Beeman gripped the pistol-style nozzle and took aim. His grip tightened on the handle, and a spear of ice-cold water shot into the cage, hitting the brunette in the face.
She jerked and grunted, rolling over, and began to wail.
Beeman moved the stream to his left, tracing the icy blast along the blonde’s spine. She arched her back involuntarily and raised her head. He held the jet on the side of her head for a second and then returned his attention to the brunette, who was scrambling to sit up and cover her breasts with her slender arms. He shot her in the face once more, blinding her.
She rolled onto her hands and knees, whimpering incoherently.
Beeman released the handle.
Soaked skin glistened under the pale light of the bulb.
The pungent smell of wet concrete filled the room.
“Thirsty?” Beeman asked.
The brunette whimpered and whined, but the blonde just glared at him. Beeman could see a pulsing artery throbbing on the side of her neck. Her heart was racing. He could see that her lips had swollen and cracked from dehydration. Beeman fired off another short blast that caught her in the eyes. The blonde cried out and then began to sob.
Beeman whispered menacingly, “I asked you if you are thirsty.”
Her chest heaving, she caught her breath. “I just want to drink.”
With a less forceful jet, Beeman filled the dog bowl that lay on the floor next to the soaked mattress. “Then feel free,” he said.
The blonde hesitated but then crawled across the mattress to its edge, reaching down to pick up the bowl.
“Like a dog,” Beeman snapped.
She hesitated again, looking at the water. Water was survival.
This was a critical moment—the first time he had given a command.
The blonde stole a glance upward at him. At that moment, looking into the woman’s reddened eyes, Beeman could read her thoughts. For an instant, the connection between them was absolute. Her hesitation intrigued him, as did the defiant look in her eye as she recovered her composure. Her eyes flashed again, and she lowered her head slowly, with control, and began to drink from the bowl.
Beeman considered the path of the experiment.
Perhaps she would be the final objective, breaking only as she died.
Or … could he turn her into a killer?
He needed more data.
Chapter 14
Albert Brecht walked slowly across his study, placed his age-spotted hands on an antique liquor cabinet, looked down at them and sighed. Gazing at his gnarled, misshapen knuckles, he changed his mind and decided against alcohol—the pain of his arthritis was tolerable. He poured a glass of mineral water and then turned and rested his hip against a brass rail running the length of the ancient wooden fixture.
He allowed his mind to drift back, nearly sixty years.
A lifetime ago.
The images still lurked in his mind like unwanted houseguests, keeping to quiet spaces, but underfoot nevertheless. His recollection was vivid in some respects, murky in others. His life had been shaped by events surrounding a time when he had lingered, much more closely than even today, at the very boundary of death.
Much had come to pass since that time—Brecht’s family, now running into a fourth generation below him, his influence on world history, the growth of his company, so many victories and a few bitter failures. All of this had become possible through the remarkable heroism of one man, a humble hero who thought of himself as lacking in courage, a man whose own mark on history encompassed the life of Albert Brecht and more.
Brecht was one of the last remaining fathers of the Cold War. He’d kept the secrets of kings and presidents, killed and protected spies and soldiers, shaped world politics and altered the course of history more than once. He was a living legend in the intelligence community, known in the murky world of black operations as a man of iron will who did not know the meaning of the word “fear.” Yet, as he sipped his San Pellegrino, his hands trembled.
Powerful emotions and old age made it difficult to hold his glass steady.
He replayed the voice message once more.
Oh, Lord, thank you for this. Do not let me fail. This will be my last request.
He slowly keyed in the number for a private line that had once been his own. “Thomas,” answered a crisp voice over the digitally secure line immediately. “How are you, sir?”
“David.” Brecht let the silence hang, signaling the gravity of this call.
“It’s good to hear from you, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Dave, come to my home. At once, please. I need to speak with you.”
“Of course.”
An hour later, Brecht and Thomas sat facing one another on antique chairs in Brecht’s study. Thomas waited patiently for Brecht to begin. The ticking of an old grandfather clock marked the passage of time while Brecht composed his thoughts.
“You know something of my background,” Brecht began, gravel in his throat.
“Some,” Thomas shrugged. “Not everything.”
No, Brecht thought, not everything. Not by a long shot. “You were born in 1979, weren’t you, David?”
“That’s right.”
“A couple of decades before you were born, I was working for the CIA—it was a young agency then. I had been active behind the Iron Curtain for some time. Moscow, mostly—deep cover. Worst place for a NOC—so much at stake. We were scrambling for information, trying to grasp the implications of the communist bloc’s growing nuclear capabilities. In Eisenhower’s mind, our credibility was at stake. A failure in Moscow could disrupt NATO and weaken American influence in West Germany. It was the key to the balance of power in Europe.
“I was just a boy in my mid-twenties, but I was a quick study. I spoke Russian and understood Soviet doctrine. I was a recruiter of spies, a case officer, a handler. I was ambitious—did whatever needed doing.
“During one escapade, I was shot. Nearly died. You knew that much?”
“Yes, sir. You’ve never elaborated. I’ve noticed the scar behind your ear.”
“You need to know more now. This isn’t senility or dementia causing me to reminisce. The reason will become clear very soon, but first I need you to endure this background tale for me.”
“Of course.”
“Though what I’m about to tell you happened more than half a century ago, some of this material remains classified to this day.” Brecht sighed deeply, resting his voice before continuing. “I needn’t go into too much operational detail. We were working on a young Soviet Army general, a rising star we thought we’d turned. You may recognize the name: Vadim Kozlov.”
Thomas adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Kozlov? I know that name. Oleg Kozlov’s father. Double agent
, wasn’t he? He got people killed, including his handler, if memory serves.”
Brecht shook his head with a small smile. “Nearly, but not quite.”
Thomas gaped. “That was you?”
Brecht ran an unsteady hand through his thick white hair. “Kozlov wanted me to get him out, wanted asylum. Claimed they’d intercepted one of his dead drops. We’d lose him if we didn’t help. He expected arrest at any moment. He promised a treasure trove of intelligence on everything from Soviet guided missile technology to the Kremlin’s plans for Iran. We had an evacuation plan, and I arranged a meeting.
“It was a trap. Details are immaterial. The only relevant fact today is that I was shot—one round in the abdomen, another in the head. Left for dead in a pool of blood in a cold, dark alley in the heart of Moscow.”
Thomas shook his head slowly in amazement. “How have we come this far without my knowing that?”
“I never talk about it.”
“How did you make it out alive?”
“Two Brits found us and contacted the American attaché.”
“Us?”
“A female agent was with me,” Brecht explained. “She was killed.”
“But you survived and escaped,” Thomas observed. “Jesus.”
“Iisus lyubit durakov s tolstymi cherepami.”
“Jesus favors fools with thick skulls,” Thomas translated.
“And, as you know, David, I have a particularly thick skull.”
Thomas smiled. “I’ll keep my own counsel on that, sir.”
Brecht touched the back of his head. “One slug lodged in my spleen, the other in my occipital bone. Nine millimeters, fired out of a cheap Makarov—back when parabellum ammo was less powerful than it is today. The head shot sent a shockwave through my brain that gave me a very severe concussion, and the nose of the bullet was poking into my brain. I was comatose—hardly breathing and in shock. Bleeding out. The Brits carried me to the basement of a library. I was slipping fast. The American attaché went for help.
“Now, this fellow had a big problem on his hands. There was no such thing as a secure phone line in Moscow. Radio was out of the question. Our man took a gamble and drove to the American embassy, which was always under surveillance.”
“What other option did he have?” Thomas asked.
“One,” Brecht answered. “Leaving me to die. But obviously, his gamble paid off. At the embassy, the US ambassador was entertaining a group of American surgeons who were in town for an international medical symposium.”
“Spaso House,” Thomas chimed in, referring to the American embassy in Moscow. “Was that Chip Bohlen?” Thomas asked.
“No, Ike had demoted him two years earlier. Never could get along with Soviet leaders. This was the year Nixon visited as veep, spoke personally with Khrushchev. Broke new ground.”
“Ah.” Thomas nodded. “The ambassador in those days was Llewellyn Thompson?”
“Very good. Lynn hosted plenty of socials at Spaso House during Nixon’s time there, including a private dinner with some heavy brass. One night, the night of the infamous Kitchen Debate, he had Nixon, Khrushchev, the president’s brother Milt—who was the head of Johns Hopkins at the time—and a few others in attendance. Of course, there were some intelligence boys also in residence. After that, the Sovs gave Lynn some extra leash, so getting in and out of Spaso House was just a little bit easier. We credit Nixon for that.”
“Stroke of luck,” Thomas acknowledged. “Were any of the visiting docs operational?”
“No.” Brecht shook his head. “Civilians all.”
“Don’t tell me. They asked for volunteers.”
“Not exactly,” Brecht said. “The situation was too sensitive to disclose to the whole group. Half a dozen surgeons were there that night. It would have been wonderful if they could have taken me to the embassy, but there was no way—too conspicuous, too cumbersome. I was dying. Time was running out. Getting me in would be one hell of a lot tougher than getting one of the docs out. Lynn had to pick one man, based only on what he had been able to learn about these fellows over cocktails.”
“I take it he was a good judge of character.”
“At least that night,” Brecht said. Never mind what the fool had done later in life, he thought. But that was another story. “So they chose a man—whispered in his ear in the middle of his dinner and discretely took him upstairs to meet the Chief of Station. They shared no operational details; they told him only that his country badly needed his services and that he would be in great danger if he agreed. He was free to decline; he could simply return to the dinner table, and no one would think any less of him. He had to make a blind decision. The clock was ticking; they needed his immediate answer.
“You have to remember—this man did not have diplomatic immunity. He was not a soldier. If they caught him, the best he could hope for was a bullet of his own. At worst, torture, interrogation and a lifetime in a Soviet prison.”
Thomas shook his head. “What a thing to drop in his lap.”
Brecht nodded in agreement. “They asked him if he would be willing to take a great risk for his country. He accepted without hesitation.”
Thomas nodded. “Good man.”
“So they smuggled him out in a laundry van, drove past the library at just past midnight, stopping only for a few seconds to shove him out with the attaché, and bustled him into the basement, where I was stashed behind a boiler. He had only a few surgical tools and some drugs that he had scrounged at the embassy and stuffed into a satchel. No x-ray machine, no operating room, no trained surgical assistants. No anesthetic gas. Nothing.
“He worked for ten hours without rest, mostly by the light of a flashlight that eventually ran out of battery, and a bit of light from the boiler fire. He cut the round out of my spleen as carefully as he could and sewed my belly closed. Then he dug the bullet out of my skull and relieved the pressure on my brain with the barrel of a pen. He sutured and bandaged my scalp around a small rubber shunt. My pulse got a little stronger. I stabilized enough for them to move me to a safe house.”
“What happened to the doctor?”
“Our boys drove him to his hotel in Moscow, where he rejoined his medical group, thinking it would be safer than trying to smuggle him back into the embassy. That turned out to be the wrong decision. When he entered the hotel late, on his own, the watchers took notice. I think word had gotten around that a dead American had gone missing; one who wasn’t really dead.”
“So they caught him?”
“They took him in for questioning, interrogated him for two days before the ambassador was able to apply enough pressure—by sheer bluster—to secure his release.”
“Did they torture him?”
“He’s never said, but I don’t believe so.”
“You’ve spoken to him since?”
“We golfed a few times in the years that followed.”
“So he made it out?”
“The Sovs didn’t hand him over to the ambassador. They just put him directly on a flight to London, without his luggage, keeping his passport. By that time, they had moved me to a safe house, and an Army medical team tended me for two weeks. When I was strong enough to move again, they smuggled me out of the country in a tanker truck with a hidden compartment. I recovered in an Army hospital in Germany.”
“So now,” Thomas queried, “you’re having trouble? Complications from the brain injury?”
“I wouldn’t bother you with that,” said Brecht.
Thomas nodded, waiting silently for Brecht to continue.
“Sixty years, David. That’s what he gave me.”
“That’s quite a debt,” Thomas acknowledged.
“The doctor’s name was Conrad Jensen. The second life he gave me was longer than your own so far. Conrad risked his life for me—a complete stranger—in service to his country. He didn’t sign up, but when the nation called on him, he stepped up.” Brecht paused to allow Thomas to consider what he’d said, and the
n he continued. “Dave, today I received a message from Conrad Jensen’s son. Conrad’s granddaughter is missing. The circumstances are troubling. The family needs my help.”
Thomas gave a gentle smile. “Our new op, sir?”
Brecht nodded. “Assemble your best K&R, forensic, cyber and tac-ops people,” he said, referring to specialists in kidnap and ransom, crime scene forensics, computer hackers and door-kickers. “We’re going to Denver.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Move quickly, David. And if it’s possible, bring the man who cracked Hydrus.”
Chapter 15
“What if …” Janet Jensen’s eyes welled over. “You know.”
Jensen gazed at his wife, feeling her misery as his own. “No more of that,” he said softly. “We’re going to find her; that’s all there is to it.”
“But how do you know?” She wiped her eyes with a wad of tissue clutched in her fist.
Jensen hugged her gently. “I just do. And so do you.”
She buried her head in his chest. The familiar touch of the wife he’d loved for more than a quarter of a century warmed him and broke his heart at the same time. “Reach out,” Jensen whispered, stroking her cheek. “With your heart. Can you feel her?”
Janet gazed up into his eyes. “I know she’s alive.”
There was a soft knock at the bedroom door, and then it opened. It was Sand, holding Jensen’s cell phone. “You left this in the kitchen,” he said. “It was vibrating, so I answered it. Hope you don’t mind. The man you just called, I think. He got your message.”
Jensen took the phone and held it to his ear. “This is Mark Jensen.”
“Albert Brecht here, Mr. Jensen.” The voice was clearly that of a very old man. “You’re Conrad’s boy?”
“Yes, sir. Been years, but we’ve met. Very kind of you to call me back. Do you remember me? I joined you and Dad for golf a couple of times.”
“Of course,” Brecht said. “But your daughter—have you found her?”
“No. We’re getting nowhere. I’m embarrassed to bother you this way. I’m hoping you might be able to give me some advice. My father spoke very highly of you. He says you are a good man to know in a pinch, and we’re in a pinch.”
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