Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy), page 11
Ivan stiffened slightly. No one knew that he had already slipped an irresistible taunt to his half brother, a photograph of Noland Sr. with his illegitimate Russian son. Even now, Ivan relished the impact that barbed clue must have had. He would send another soon. No one would interfere with his march against the House of Noland.
“Our men were swift and effective in eliminating Gorev and escaping the hit site, though with only seconds to spare. An unidentified motorist came upon the massacre even as our men were fleeing the forest. However, it is still disconcerting that Noland was alerted so soon afterwards. His spies are too firmly entrenched in our soil. We will have to remedy that.”
“Excuse me, Arkady,” Vandoren interrupted. “The American authorities know that our saboteurs are still in place on their own soil, correct?”
“They do, though our people are on temporary stand-down.” Glinka turned a satisfied gaze on Ivan. “Everything is on track. You should be well pleased, Ivan. As you directed me to, in the months leading up to Gorev’s assassination, I have appointed as many of our people as I could to positions of influence in our government. In three months’ time, an election will be held to replace Gorev with a new president. By that time, I will have surrounded myself with all the support I need to move officially into that office.” He smiled triumphantly. “Then, you will return to Mother Russia, her savior back from the dead. Her resurrection!”
Words! Savior. Resurrection. His grandmother’s hand on his. The cross behind the priest. Stop this! he commanded himself. No more!
Ivan struggled to stand. He had to get outside. Now.
“Are you all right?” Vandoren asked, as he moved to assist his friend.
“Yes,” Ivan snapped. “Let me be. We’ll continue this later.” He regretted his tone but seemed incapable of altering his mood. He needed air.
Glinka reached for the wheelchair, but Ivan waved it away. “No. Just my walker.”
Vandoren pushed open the outside door as two of the crew scrambled to assist. With a uniformed deckhand on either side of him, Ivan pushed the walker to the railing then dismissed them. Alone now, he gazed at iridescent waters that sparkled clean and pure. He inhaled their primal essence and willed it to restore him.
He felt those behind him watching, wondering if their “savior” had fallen hostage to this thing marauding through his body, what they believed to be rheumatoid arthritis. Would they discard him like soured milk? No more the future of Russia. Would they even martyr him? Certainly Glinka was capable. But what about Vandoren?
Ah, Curt Vandoren. Just as Czar Nicholas II had his Rasputin, Ivan Volynski was to enlist his own mystic healer, seer, channeler of Russian icons past to counsel and empower the new Soviet leader. Curt Vandoren salivated at the prospect of one day entering Ivan’s royal courts as one anointed. He couldn’t know that Ivan, himself, would never reach such courts. None of them knew. Only the German physician who had made the indisputable diagnosis.
Just before dawn on Sunday, from a private airfield in the Bahamas, the small jet lifted into the flight pattern back to Russia. Ivan’s fleet of vessels and aircraft had served Arkady Glinka well. They had afforded him the stealth to slip in and out of countries undetected, leaving his Kremlin staff to explain the occasional absences with well-constructed scenarios. At this moment, he was reportedly ensconced at his river house attending the complexities of transitioning into the presidency. But that task had been rehearsed for so long, it required no such preparation. He and Ivan had been plotting this course for many years, ever since their neophyte days at the Kremlin, learning the lay of the political land and the slight-of-hand techniques for grabbing power. The attempt on Ivan’s life in January had only accelerated their plans to replace Gorev, whom Ivan was certain had orchestrated the attempt.
But Glinka had never been so convinced. Volynski’s coconspirators Vadim Fedorovsky and Pavel Andreyev, after their first attempt to assassinate Gorev, had been executed on Russian soil, in a Russian prison, under Russian law. Glinka believed that the by-the-book Gorev would have done no less with Ivan, and that he certainly wouldn’t have opted for the fireball spectacle in the heart of New York City, even caught on film by the American press. But Ivan rejected Glinka’s reasoning.
The new president of Russia, though interim for now, lifted a snifter of aged brandy to his lips as he gazed into the Caribbean skies just beginning to blush with day. He rested his head against the seat back and let the golden elixir burnish his thoughts. He smiled at the future, certain of his place in it. The voices Vandoren had summoned from the other side just hours ago had assured him he would take the election in three months. He would commandeer his homeland and its military, appoint a new prime minister to his former office, raise the hammer and sickle once again, take back Soviet lands, and deal with the American threat as never before. Even now, the crate lay in wait for its cruise up the Potomac and the last turn toward Washington.
It would all be done without Ivan.
Did he think I was just a wooden-headed puppet? Here to do his bidding and gladly scrape up the crumbs from his table? Did he think I would not seek out his doctor and learn the truth? A steward appeared to replenish the brandy, but Glinka lifted a dismissive hand. He needed a clear head, perfect vision. Now, I will not have to end his dominion over me. Mr. Lou Gehrig’s unfortunate illness should handle that for me.
Glinka closed his eyes and summoned the voices through the visualization pathways Curt Vandoren had led him to discover, to let the mind of Arkady Glinka slip free of its earthly tethers and soar to the place vividly imagined for himself. A place of cool waters running swift and deep, surrounding a palace high on a hill with legions of servants and soldiers loyal unto him. In that place, he had always found assurance of his own powers. A god, that’s what he was. Worthy of all he could conceive. Free to rule himself, and now his native land, with autonomy. Guided by the powers of the air, endorsed and coveted by them.
Not asleep, not awake, Glinka traversed an astral plane. Searching. Wandering. Always wandering. No anchor. Just flying.
Suddenly … What is that? Something ahead of him. A form, not like his own. A creature advancing, menacing, snarling. Who are you? Glinka called in his mind. Get away from me! I command you! But the form kept coming, its breath now curling toward him, smoldering, stinging. Creature-eyes fixed on him. Radiant. Unblinking. Watching. Coming closer.
No! Glinka suddenly lurched forward in his seat. His eyes sprang open, wild and darting. His own breath heaving now, sweat coursing through his thick hair and soaking his body. Words wouldn’t form in his mind, only fear. His hands shaking, he reached for the brandy and gulped. The steward appeared again. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.
Glinka tried to compose himself. “Yes,” he answered too abruptly. “Another brandy.” When the steward left, Glinka stared into the void beyond the window, and Vandoren’s warning surfaced. He had once dared to quote the book of Ephesians to Glinka: “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”
Vandoren had closed the Christian Bible and returned it to the bookcase in his study at the University of the Spirit. “You see, Arkady, even this man Paul knew about the place we go, about the powers you and I, even Ivan, call upon. This apostle warns the followers of Jesus about the ‘ruler of the kingdom of the air.’ Our ruler, Arkady, the one who empowers us, who will lead you to power over nations and all their people. But understand that there is risk in such an allegiance. There are other forces in our ruler’s kingdom who delight in reminding us who we belong to.”
The skin of the aircraft did nothing to separate the Russian president from those threatening forces. But yes, he had willingly engaged them, and now he understood. They would follow him in whatever menacing form they chose. He must be vigilant. And obedient.
So be it.
Glinka lifted the glass and sniffed the swirling fruit of it. He had earned its pleasure and all others to come. Closing his eyes, he leaned back and was just drifting into sleep when the phone in his shirt pocket sounded, the phone only a privileged few were linked to. He noted the ID code and answered promptly. “How was the fishing this morning?” he asked, his pulse finally settling to normal.
“No fishing for me,” said Maxum Morozov. “I had to leave.”
“What?” Glinka strained to keep his voice down. Both pilots and the steward were Ivan’s trusted staff, but there was no need to alarm them.
“Calm down, comrade. Like you, I do what I must.”
“You were to stay at the river until I returned.”
“I have gathered rather pressing information regarding our favorite musicians.”
“That’s over, Maxum. I warned you.”
“No. I warned you. I will serve you and your new regime in whatever way I can, but I will not allow you to dictate to me. I will go and come according to my own agenda.”
“Your agenda almost preempted the attack on Gorev. That stunt with the flyer nailed to the post office door in Gorev’s village was insane.”
Maxum responded instantly. “I told you, I did not do that! I do not know who did, but you should. One of your overzealous assassins, no doubt. You really should screen your killers more carefully, Arkady.” He snickered.
“Just make certain that vengeance against your son does not poison your senses.”
“And what poisons yours? That magician in Florida?” Maxum laughed loudly.
Glinka clenched his teeth. Now wasn’t the time to wage his war with the aging Israeli statesman, no longer the valuable mole but a liability Glinka must eventually deal with … along with his son. Young Max had burrowed too deep, uncovered too much. He, too, would be eliminated. For now, though, Glinka must tread carefully.
“But you are exposed, Maxum. I cannot protect you in the open.”
“I need none of your protection. I have my own resources.”
He sensed where Maxum was headed and why. “I know your skills with forging any document you need, including passports,” Glinka said, feeling a prickly dread for the damage Maxum could do. “But surely you will not attempt to reenter Israel.”
“But surely I will.”
Chapter 17
Liesl and Cade saw the familiar knot of people waiting for them at the end of the concourse. Their flight into Ben Gurion International near Tel Aviv had been delayed by several hours. Still, there was no deterring Ben and Max’s welcoming party. Ben had assured her they would find amusement in the waiting hours. They certainly had.
As she grew closer, Liesl watched the guys hoist something over their heads. Teddy bears. One in a tuxedo, one in a sequined gown, each one bearing a flag that read Shalom. With them were Ben’s wife, Anna, and, Liesl assumed, Max’s new girlfriend, who waved and smiled as exuberantly as if she were old friends with the approaching visitors, though they had never met her.
Max rushed ahead of the others, his arms opening wide for Liesl. Though he tossed a hardy smile and greeting to Cade at the same time, it was obvious where his affections rested. He hugged Liesl to him. “So we’re really going to do this, huh?” he spoke into her ear.
She gently pulled away and appraised him. Not much had changed. He was still slight of build, and the red hair still ruled the head, as fiery as his violin. But now, a foreign restraint had moved in and camped about the eyes, tugging at their corners and clouding their old radiant light. It disturbed her, but she wouldn’t let him see.
“With everything we’ve got.” She squeezed his shoulders once more, then turned to see Ben ambling forward. She had to fight the tears. It had been just six months since bullets ripped through his chest and neck. If not for the Kevlar vest, Volynski’s marksmen would have killed him along with Anna’s brother.
She moved quickly to close the distance between them and reached for her old friend, the tears she could no longer control running free. “It’s about time you got here, old girl,” he said as she lightly wrapped her arms around his still-mending body, noting how much weight he’d lost. But his voice still carried the same resonant strength she’d known since college. So many times, it seemed, that had been her only strength.
Swallowing hard against the bulge in her throat, she beamed at him. “I’ve missed you.” He just squeezed her hand and pulled her toward Anna. “Look who I found,” he told his wife, who then engulfed Liesl in a long-held embrace. Liesl had introduced the couple at Harvard and been named godmother to their two daughters.
“Where are the kids?” Liesl asked.
“In Haifa with Ben’s cousin, but you’ll see them tomorrow. She’s driving them here to see you for a couple of hours in the morning.”
Liesl’s eyes strayed to the young woman standing just outside the circle of friends, obviously so comfortable with each other. She was watching Liesl intently, her face alight with what seemed like anticipation. Liesl was used to the open adoration of fans, but responding to it still made her feel uncomfortable and awkward. She hoped this was different. Maybe the girl was just curious about her? She was about to make a move in the girl’s direction when Max came alongside, Cade in tow, and guided Liesl that way. “Time you met my lady,” he beamed. The three approached Erica Bachman who was now smiling broadly.
“Erica, I want my friends here to meet the talented photographer all of Tel Aviv is buzzing about.”
Liesl extended her hand and greeted the girl warmly. Cade did the same, both of them pleased that Max had finally found someone to invest himself with. After the debacle of Maxum Sr.’s scandalous treason, young Max had drifted even further into his isolationist lifestyle. Liesl hoped that the young woman before her now, with long blond hair falling about her shoulders and an engaging expression, might one day match Max’s great capacity to love.
Then the girl suddenly gushed like a starry-eyed teen. “You don’t know how excited I am to meet you both. Miss Bower, I’m just a huge fan of yours. You’re so incredible!”
Cringing at what she’d hoped wouldn’t be, Liesl responded as best she could. “Thank you, but please call me Liesl.” She glanced at Max, who seemed as taken aback by the effusive display as Liesl. But he quickly rallied, wrapping his arm around Erica’s shoulders and hugging her to him. Then, he abruptly prompted, “Well, everyone, are we ready to go?” Liesl caught his embarrassment. It seemed the girl had to. She fell into a bit of a pout as he led her away with no further comment. It had been an awkward introduction that Liesl hoped to overcome in some way.
Ben and Anna followed Max’s car to his high-rise apartment overlooking the Mediterranean. The Saturday afternoon traffic flowed easily, and in the back seat, Liesl found herself in a near-slump against Cade’s shoulder as he and Max chatted about Israeli politics. She’d managed only a few fitful naps during their all-night flight into the Tel Aviv time zone and now fought to focus on the conversation. She felt obliged to draw Erica into conversation, noting how the girl had fallen silent after leaving the airport. But instead, Liesl lost her battle against sleep and didn’t awake until Max pulled into the parking garage beneath his building.
In a moment of total confusion, she lifted sluggishly from Cade’s shoulder and commanded her brain to tell her where she was and why the girl in the front seat was looking so intently at her, again. She returned the girl’s too-nice smile then looked away, letting Cade pull her resistant body from the back seat. Seconds later, Ben and Anna arrived and the whole party took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
Walking into Max’s apartment brought Liesl to full waking surprise. Unlike his signature look of practiced dishevelment—the unruly red hair topping a fond disregard for coordinated apparel—the apartment was sleek and polished. “You couldn’t have done this,” Liesl said with certainty. She spun in place surveying the meticulously ordered room of ultracontemporary furnishings, the sum of it floored in a plush-piled white carpet.
“Right. My mom did. I had no choice in the matter, but I kind of like how things actually go together.”
“Unlike your clothes, sport,” Ben shot as he headed down the hall rolling his and Anna’s overnight bags. “We’ll take this back bedroom if that’s okay.”
“It’s yours,” Max said. “I’m sleeping on the sofa and giving the master to our honeymooners.” He motioned for Cade to follow with their luggage.
That left Liesl alone with Erica. “May I get something for you to drink?” the young woman offered.
It was welcomed. “Something very cold, please,” Liesl said. As she followed Erica to the kitchen, Liesl stopped to admire a wall gallery of photographs, all stunning. They were studies of light and shadow cast over the land, architecture, and the creviced faces of the elderly. She turned to look at Erica, already busy filling glasses with ice. “Erica, did you take these?” She tried to conceal her surprise, if it were true, but was struck by a stark disconnect between the fluttery young woman she’d just met and the one whose mature and soulful eye had captured these images.
“Yes, they’re mine.” Erica emerged from the kitchen and handed Liesl a tall icy glass. “I hope you like ginger ale. I guess I should have asked first. Sorry.”
“It’s fine, thank you. But your photography, Erica, it’s amazing. I’m so impressed by your talent.” Was she gushing? As Erica had?
But the girl didn’t seem embarrassed by the attention. In fact, there was something hard and impervious on her face as she perused her own work. Liesl dared to linger on that face now. It was handsome, not pretty, with a pointed nose, wide cheekbones, and squared chin. As sharply composed as one of her photographs. But when the face turned toward Liesl, the expression grew soft and compliant.
How does she do that? Liesl was growing more intrigued by this girl.
