Remembrandt

by Robin King

  James spoke in my ear. “Phone . . . Millard . . .” My mind swirled in pain, making no sense of his message as words continued to cut out. Tanner’s voice echoed again from my memory: “You are strong enough . . .” My body lay limply on the gravel rooftop with Elijah hovering over me, his knife in hand, and I felt no strength. Just fear. Fear like the headlights coming in slow motion at my mom, my brother, and me, when all I could do was scream. Afraid because I wasn’t the superhero that could swoop into the front seat of Tanner’s old Buick and wrap my arms around them to protect them. I couldn’t get us out of that car wreck. I couldn’t save my mom and my brother. They were gone. And now I was about to meet a similar fate.

  You don’t have to be strong all the time. I’m here. William’s words came to me, and though he was thousands of miles away, he was there with me in my memories. My physical strength may have been depleted, but I still had my mind. I slowed my breathing and concentrated on what I’d heard from James.

  My phone. Yes, my phone! The phone that good ol’ Millard had made into something else entirely. Through all the sneaking, climbing, and jumping, it still lay nestled in the front of my bra. I reached in and pulled out the phone. Before Elijah could react, I squeezed the side buttons with my last bit of strength and shoved it into his leg. He jerked for a few seconds and fell like a domino onto the gravel roof. His body twitched a few more times and then he didn’t move. Millard’s taser had worked.

  I couldn’t bring myself to a standing position, so I crawled along the roof until I came to the ladder and somehow lowered myself down to the ground. I turned around and staggered right into James’s arms. He lifted me in his arms like I was a baby. I tried not to cry out at the shooting pain in my side.

  “The agent? The doctor and Adrian?” I said weakly.

  “I asked Dr. Kuzmenko to drive them to the hospital.” James looked me over and stopped. I followed his eyes to my leg and saw a shard of glass as large as my palm protruding from my shin. The wetness on the lower half of my leg must have been more than just rainwater.

  “And it looks like that’s where we’re headed,” James declared. He began moving slowly to the front of the warehouse, trying to keep me steady.

  I willed my drooping eyes to stay open. “What about Elijah?”

  “We have a team out looking for him. They will secure your attacker from the roof and take all Red Eye employees to be held accountable for their—”

  “Elijah’s on the roof!” I tried to sit up in James’s arms and grimaced, clutching my side.

  “Then don’t worry, we’ll rescue him too.”

  “No, James. He’s Red Eye. He’s been with them for a while. For all I know, he’s their leader.”

  James’s eyes went wide. “What?”

  “He knew my mother,” I said, my voice cracking. Looking at James now brought me back to the first time I’d seen him at the Mariinsky in St. Petersburg. The name he said before I thought he had died. Iolanta. My mother’s name. “And you knew her too?” And you didn’t tell me? If my hand hadn’t been holding my ribs, I would have punched him.

  “I didn’t know her,” James assured me. “I knew of her. Golkov said she was something of a legend in the CIA before she joined The Company. I don’t know much else except that she looked like you.”

  “Oh.” I relaxed, and the pain seemed to subside. “I just wish I would have known she . . .” I couldn’t get the words out before everything went dark.

  23

  Truth at the Eye of the Storm

  “You don’t have to come,” I insisted as we walked down the hallway to the elevator. James carried our luggage as I moved slowly, trying not to pull out any of the stitches in my shin. The doctor wanted me to use crutches, too. Of course I refused, so he wrapped my ankle and leg so tight my toes tingled.

  “I’ll wait in the car if you want to go alone,” James offered. “It’s on our way to the airport anyway.” He pressed the button for the main floor, and the elevator proceeded down.

  “Thanks. Maybe I should go by myself.”

  It had been three days since the warehouse. Three days of recovery, and now we were on our way back to Providence. But there was one place I need to stop by before going home.

  The Rejnikof Museum of Art appeared taller when viewed directly from the front. I wasted no time looking at the exterior, having already memorized the columns and carved vines curling through them. I moved through the entrance and walked past the first exhibit. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I felt a magnetic pull through the hallway and up the curved stairs. There were few museum patrons, which made sense early on a Saturday morning.

  The stairs led me to the entrance of a large room. Above the open door a sign in Russian said, “Religious.” I knew this was where I wanted to be. I scanned the room, which was full of sculptures and paintings I didn’t feel I could adequately appreciate. I had never even seen my mom’s religious icon exhibit at her own museum because of the accident, but somehow I knew what I was looking for. Far to the right of the room I recognized the colors and lines before I saw the painting. I moved closer to read the engraved metal plaque below the painting.

  The Storm on the Sea of Galilee

  1633

  Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn

  (Recovered by Iolanta A. Stewart)

  I stared at the words for several minutes while a storm threatened inside me. Finally, a sea of tears washed down my face. My mother had recovered the painting. I hadn’t thought much of it before, but I remembered studying the painting in an art history class a few years before. That painting had been stolen in 1990 and had not been seen since. Yet here it was. She found it. I clenched at my chest, trying to hold my heart together.

  I stepped closer and studied the oil on canvas. The scene displayed ocean waves tossing a fisherman’s ship to and fro, a crewmember frantically pulling on the sail while twelve other petrified fishermen held onto the ship’s mast or ropes. The boat’s captain remained calm. Only one fisher’s eyes stared unafraid straight at me—the one that resembled the painter himself, like he knew the ending of the story before I did.

  THE EYES—THEY SEE.

  I remembered the other place I had seen that painting. I stared at the two paintings side-by-side in my head. I just couldn’t see the details of the other painting clearly enough. There was only one way to make sure. I needed to speak with Golkov.

  24

  Home

  We landed Sunday night and drove straight from the airport to campus. It had only been six days since I left Providence, but it seemed everything had changed. It wasn’t just the leafless trees or the thin layer of snow covering the ground, either. Something inside me had changed too.

  “Thanks for driving me,” I said as James pulled over along Brook Street, just east of Marston Hall.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, a hint of something different in his voice.

  I stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. It was good to be home. That had changed too. Deep down I would always miss the Northwest, but Providence felt like home now. I started toward the front of the building.

  “Alexandra, wait.” I turned around to find James only paces from me. “I just . . .” He looked down at his feet. “Oh, what the heck.” He strode forward, grabbed my shoulders, and kissed me straight on the lips.

  I stood there with my eyes open wide in shock while he moved his lips against mine. I searched within myself for some spark of passion to reciprocate his bold move. At first there was nothing. Then an emotion erupted from inside me.

  “Eeew!” I said while his lips still touched mine.

  “What?” He pulled back and opened his eyes.

  “Eeew!” I repeated.

  “I kiss you and the first word from your mouth is ‘eeew’?”

  “Sorry, it’s just that . . .”

  “Hold that thought.” He pulled me into him again, this time more gently, his hand pressing the back of my head, until our lips touched again. H
e kissed me passionately, and I waited for the butterflies and excitement. Nothing. It was like kissing my brother.

  “Seriously, James, gross!” I pushed him back.

  He squinted at me and scratched his head. “Hmm, guess not.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Now I was the one confused. “What?”

  He smiled. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you, but now . . . now I don’t know why.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That was somewhat loathsome, wasn’t it?”

  “Hey!” I feigned a shocked expression and stepped back onto my bad leg. It gave way beneath me, and I landed on my rear end on the snowy grass. A deep, boisterous laugh erupted from James, almost like a hiccup.

  “But I did knock you off your feet, didn’t I?” He held out a hand and pulled me up.

  “I was the one who said ‘eew,’ remember? And who uses the word ‘loathsome’ anymore, anyway?” I wiped my lips in an exaggerated motion with the back of my hand and then brushed it off on his coat. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “No worries. I wouldn’t want to torture myself again.”

  I slugged him in the arm and we both laughed. It reminded me of how I used to laugh with Tanner—carefree and comfortable. Memories my brother’s smile played at the back of my mind.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s over with.” He started to turn around and then stopped and looked back at me, his eyes now serious. “I do hope you get the answers you’re looking for, Alex,” he said softly.

  “Thanks, James.”

  He got in the car and drove away. I stood there a minute and tried to process what had just happened. Did he really just kiss me? I replayed the memory in my mind. Yep. I couldn’t decide whether to gag or just laugh. I chose the latter. I shook my head and continued to chuckle as I replayed the awkwardly hilarious moment with James until I reached Golkov’s office.

  Through the window, I watched the professor sitting at his desk marking papers. Before I could knock, he looked up, smiled, and motioned for me to come in.

  “Alexandra, I am glad to see you.” A light danced in his eyes. “I didn’t think I would see you until the debriefing tomorrow.”

  I smiled, but my gaze went over his shoulder to the painting on the back wall of his office—the real reason I had come. Golkov watched me as I moved past the antique cupboard, past all the puzzles I’d solved, past his desk, and stopped right in front of the painting. It was a replica of the one my mom had procured, and its twin now hung in the Rejnikof Museum of Art.

  Ignoring all I had been taught about hand oils and touching paintings, I traced my fingers along the ridges of paint—the ocean swirls, the dark clouds, the curved lines of the ship. I stopped when I came to the people. This was the part I hadn’t been sure of in the Rejnikof. I had only seen the painting from across Golkov’s office, and my memory couldn’t magnify the detail I needed to see here.

  I leaned forward until my eyes were only inches from the painting. There in the center of the ship, where Rembrandt’s self-portrait should have been, was another person entirely. I touched the face and smiled. It was me. Then I looked more closely at the hair, a few shades darker than my own. No, it wasn’t me.

  Mom.

  I pulled my hand back and stifled a cry. I didn’t know how, but it was really her amid the storm.

  Golkov put his hand on my shoulder, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t take my eyes off my mom’s face. Instead of her painted eyes staring straight out at me like Rembrandt’s had, the irises faced slightly to the right bottom corner of the painting, like she was looking at something else. A clue?

  “Can I?” I asked Golkov. I lifted the painting from the wall before he could reply. I placed it face down on the side counter below the cupboard. Then I slid my fingernails under the painting’s paper backing and pulled carefully until I found it. A blue envelope with my name written on the outside, in my mom’s handwriting. How could she have ever known I would find it?

  I turned the envelope around to reveal the silver wax seal, a match to the emblem ring on my finger. My hand trembled as I broke the seal and pulled out a letter.

  Alexandra,

  I thought one day I might share with you face-to-face this part of my life that I have hidden for so long. There were so many times I wanted you to know, but I wanted to protect you from the dangerous parts that sometimes follow this job. I really wanted you and your brother to grow up having happy, normal lives.

  That is why I left the CIA before our family began, and it wasn’t until you were in grade school that The Company approached me to help with side projects related to my love of the arts, mostly stolen paintings and counterfeits. I should have known as you grew older and we discovered your gift that a normal life would not only be an impossibility, but that you would never feel fulfilled without a challenge. Since you are now reading this, my guess must have been right.

  The emblem I have worn on the hidden ring hanging from a chain on my neck, and the one I will use to seal this letter is the Solanum dulcamara, or bittersweet nightshade. This flower is a symbol for truth. I have fought for and uncovered truth my entire life, which is why keeping this part of my life from you has been so hard. But truth is just as the flower—bittersweet. When your eyes are opened to the truth it can be sweet and fulfilling. With that sweetness, though, comes danger and responsibility.

  Yuri Golkov has been my mentor over the years. I once gifted him an ancient cupboard I acquired because the secret message it held reminded me of him. I trust him. I hope one day you will know him like I do.

  I paused in reading the letter and glanced up at the cupboard. I reached up to touch the Latin letters. They blurred through my tears. It didn’t matter. I knew what they meant. “Quid est veritas? Est vir qui adest. What is truth? It is the man who is here.”

  Golkov created The Company to search for truth. In the past few months, truth had been searching for me. We found each other.

  I continued reading.

  My sweet daughter, I know you have the potential for great things, and not just because of your exquisite mind, but the strength you carry within you. I wish I could tell you not to follow in my footsteps, to go on living a life without the secrets you will inevitably have to keep from those you love. But I know you, and I know me. The truth is, having a family while being an operative and working for The Company have been the best years of my life. I wouldn’t trade that, or you, for anything.

  I love you,

  Mom

  P. S. The eyes—they see.

  A few teardrops fell from my face and hit the paper. It blurred the postscript ink’s message—my mom’s way of saying she would always be watching over me. I wiped my face and looked up at Golkov, who had taken a seat back at his desk. His fatherly eyes held understanding, and though he hadn’t read the letter with me, I had a feeling he knew its message.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.

  “It wasn’t my place. I knew she would find a way to reach you.” After folding the letter and placing it in my pocket, I lifted the painting and moved to hang it back on the wall. “You should take it home. She would want you to keep it,” Golkov said softly as I adjusted the frame to hang straight on the wall.

  “It is home.” I let my hands fall to my side and took one more look at the painting before turning around to face the professor again. It wasn’t just Providence that was home to me now. Golkov, James, and The Company were my home now too—my family. I traced the ridges of the emblem on my ring. “I am home.” I leaned down and gave Golkov a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Casey bounced off her bed and mauled me when I walked in the door of our dorm room. “Alexandra Louisiana Stewart! Where have you been?”

  “Louisiana? Really, Casey?” I pushed back from her suffocating hug, ignoring the aching pain in my ribs.

  “Sorry. It was the first name that popped in my head. It kind of has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  I laughed and smiled. “I sure
did miss you.” I couldn’t believe it had been a week since I had seen her. With everything that had happened since then, it felt as if years had passed.

  “So what do you think?” She twirled around in a red off-the-shoulder top trimmed in ruffles and black lace. After stopping, she held out her skinny-jeaned leg to reveal tall, black leather cowboy boots. “It’s my tribute to home. Do you think it passes as Georgia-peach chic?”

  “Only you could pull off something so perfectly!” She looked amazing.

  “Speaking of perfection.” She sat across from me on her bed and crossed her legs. “One in the male variety stopped by twice tonight. He must really want to see you. I didn’t know what time you’d get in, so he told me to tell you something.” She closed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “What did he want me to tell you?” I could tell she was trying to hold back a smile.

  “Casey!” I tried to sound exasperated to play along with her game, but I couldn’t keep from grinning.

  One of her eyes peeked open, and then her other when she spied my face. “Oh yeah. He wrote it down for you.” She passed me a yellow sticky note. In William’s handwriting were the words “Linea de meta. Othello, 632.”

  I couldn’t help feeling giddy inside as I set the note on my nightstand. He’d left me a message to decipher. I tried not to let the delight show on my face. William knew me too well.

  Linea de meta. That was easy. It was just Spanish for “finish line.” I had an idea of our rendezvous point.

  If it had been any other person, it might have taken me longer to decode the rest of the note. But with William, I knew it had to be Shakespeare. Luckily I had read the tragedy of Othello. I scrolled through the line numbers in my mind. The line from the play simply read: “At nine i’ the morning, here we’ll meet again.”

  “What’s with the secret code?” Casey asked.

  I smiled. “Puzzles make life interesting.”

  “You gonna tell me what it means?”

  I tried to keep a straight face. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”