The Complete Fugitive Archives (Project Berlin, The Moscow Meeting, The Buried Cities) (Endgame: The Fugitive Archives) Page 6

  “So you suggested to the council that the information about the weapon be shared with other lines?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Jackson says. “And they told me to come home. They said I had lost sight of what was important, and that I was a danger to the line.”

  “That’s why you stopped communicating with them, and let them think you had died,” I say.

  “This all happened right at the end of the war,” Jackson tells me. “It was easy to just disappear. Still, I’ve lived in fear that the council would find out and send someone after me.” He hesitates. “Is that why you’re here, Sam? For me?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think they know,” I tell him. I don’t say that maybe because of him, they don’t fully trust me. Or, it occurs to me, perhaps this is all a test. “How did you know I was here? Where to find me?” I ask.

  “I didn’t,” Jackson says. “We’re staying with friends in Berlin. When Lottie didn’t come back to the house after visiting Sauer, I was worried. I had no idea what happened. I even went by Sauer’s house to check. When I found them gone, I didn’t know what to think. Then she phoned the friends we’re staying with. She said she’d been kidnapped, tied up, but had managed to escape by breaking the chair she was tied to and went into the apartment next door. She phoned for help, then she and Sauer left and my friends took them somewhere safe. I stayed behind. I had a feeling the Cahokians might be behind the kidnapping, and I wanted to see who they’d sent.”

  “Just me,” I say.

  “I’m glad,” Jackson says. “I’ve missed you more than I can say.”

  It’s not lost on me that he’s said “the Cahokians” and not “we.” Combined with the fact that he’s let us think that he’s dead, it makes me wonder if his allegiance has shifted, and to where. As much as I’m happy to see my brother alive, I have to accept that I really don’t know anything about him anymore. And because he was also a Player, I know he’s capable of hiding things from me, no matter how close we are. Or used to be. As painful as it is to admit, he might not be my ally anymore.

  He pulls the car over in front of a house.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Our friends’ house,” Jackson says as he opens the door. “Come on. It’s time for you to meet my family.”

  Ariadne

  I know I’m putting myself in danger by lingering longer than I have to, but I can’t help but stop in the alley and attend to the bodies of Theron and Cilla. I didn’t know them well, as they’d spent most of their lives working for the council outside of our own country, but I’d met them a few times, and considered them friends. I wipe the snow from their faces and look at their frozen features. The cold and death have drained all color from them.

  From my pocket I take two ancient coins. On one side is the image of the Minotaur. On the other is a rough approximation of the maze in which the monster was imprisoned, and in which he met his death at the hands of Theseus. The coins are Silver Staters, minted at Knossos centuries ago. They are priceless.

  I work one between the lips of each slain Minoan, placing it on the tongue. This is Charon’s obol, the symbolic payment for the ferryman of the River Styx for rowing the souls of the dead across to the underworld. I cannot offer my linesmen a proper burial, but I can give them this.

  “May you find your way through the maze,” I tell them.

  The dead Russian I ignore. I don’t know what his people believe about the afterlife, but I hope he’s trapped in whatever form of hell they have. I am thankful to the Cahokian for killing him.

  The Cahokian. Boone. For he is no longer just a nameless Player to me. I wonder where he is, what he’s doing. I also think about the things he said about Endgame, and being a Player. I have never heard anyone speak this way, and I don’t know what to think. Part of me thinks it’s weakness to hope that Endgame doesn’t happen during our time as Players. Another part admires him for being truthful about his thoughts.

  I leave my linesmen and focus on the task ahead of me. Without any clues to Sauer’s whereabouts, I have little to go on. I can’t just run around Berlin, hoping to find them. I can, however, try to narrow down the possibilities. I don’t know how Sauer and the girl escaped, although the shattered pieces of the chair Lottie was tied to suggest that she managed to free herself. Then what? Did she and Sauer simply run? Or did they have help?

  I have a feeling that Lottie is the key. The intelligence I got on Sauer while undercover with MGB was substantial. But it said nothing about Lottie. I’ve never once heard her name or seen her photograph in a file. Until I discovered her with Sauer, I had no idea she existed. And since I had no time to interrogate her before her escape, I still know nothing.

  I know someone who might. Utkin. The man who until very recently thought he was my boss. By now he surely knows that I betrayed him, that the six months I spent at his side were a lie. That the kisses I planted on his lips and the vodka I poured into his glass were tricks to get him to talk about things he shouldn’t. This will make him hate me even more, as will the fact that the men he sent to find me are now dead.

  That’s another troubling question. How did they know where to look for me? Only a handful of people know who Lydia was. Two of them—Theron and Cilla—are dead. And according to Boone, the Soviets were already there when they arrived. Who told the MGB that the apartment might be a place of interest to them? And how long have they known about it? Do the Minoans have a traitor in our ranks? Or did I somehow make a mistake without knowing it? The thought annoys me. I don’t like making mistakes. Especially not ones that result in the deaths of my linesmen.

  My destination is a nondescript office building deep in the Soviet sector. Once, it housed a cadre of secretaries who processed supply orders for the German army. Now it’s the main base of operations for an organization that officially doesn’t exist, chosen precisely because nobody would think the building housed anything of interest.

  For six months prior to attempting to extricate Sauer from Berlin, I worked there undercover. It was the culmination of much planning. I’d prepared by becoming fluent in Russian. Misha, a Minoan operative living in Russia for many years, became my handler. The Minoan Council has installed agents in many different countries, particularly ones we expect to have great influence in world affairs.

  Misha was able to establish me as his cousin and get me forged papers. I did the rest. The Soviets, unlike many if not most nations, actively encourage the participation of young women in their military and espionage activities. They promote this as equality of the sexes, but in reality it just means that everyone has the same chance to die for the cause, whatever that may be.

  It helped that Utkin found me attractive, and that I pretended to return his feelings. It’s astonishing to me how quickly some men will forget all of their training simply because you appeal to their need to be desired. This was the part of my training I disliked the most growing up. I was training in weaponry and warfare—why did I need to learn how to flirt and act seductively?

  Now I understand how it can sometimes be every bit as effective.

  When I reach the MGB building, I pause in the shadows to consider my approach. I can’t walk through the front door. I’d be shot on sight. But there are other options.

  I decide on the coal chute at the rear of the building. It’s used, of course, for loading fuel into the building’s basement, where it’s then shoveled into a large furnace. It’s not the cleanest way of getting inside, but it will do.

  I pull the door open with only a minimum of squeaking. I have to enter headfirst, but this is a minor inconvenience, as is the soot that sticks to my coat during my slide into the cellar. Everything that comes after will be far more difficult.

  Christmas means very little to the Soviets, who effectively banned it as a symbol of Western excess, so there is no day off for the people who work in this place. The good news is that Utkin’s office is in the basement, where the thick walls and absence of windows makes what happens ther
e less obvious. So the first part of my task is the easiest. I know that there is a network of ducts that pass through the ceilings of the rooms down here. I can use them to my advantage.

  I locate one of the openings in the ceiling and, standing on a chair, remove the cover. Pulling myself up and inside, I find that the fit is snug but not impossible, and that I can inch along by placing my palms on the smooth metal and pulling myself forward while pushing with my feet. It’s slow work, and it makes a bit of noise, but the building is notorious for being plagued by rats, and I hope that anyone who hears something will attribute it to the activity of vermin.

  The main duct crosses the basement and enters a corridor. I am moving in complete darkness, but ahead of me I see a faint glow, which means I’m approaching one of the openings into a room. As I grow closer, I hear voices.

  “Who is Strekalova?” a man asks angrily.

  Strekalova. The name I have answered to since infiltrating the MGB. A name that, until just this morning, everyone in this building knew me by.

  “We still don’t know,” answers a weary voice. “Misha told us nothing. We were lucky to find out about the apartment. And we had to kill him to get even that.”

  His words are like a punch to my heart. Misha is dead. He was a good agent, loyal to our line. I can’t even imagine what they must have done to him to get him to give up the address of the apartment.

  I try not to think about it as I crawl forward some more and reach the opening in the ceiling. Peering down, I see Utkin seated on one side of a desk. On the other side is a man who I don’t recognize. Given his size and what he’s just said, I assume he’s one of the men who carry out Utkin’s less pleasant tasks.

  “That bitch has killed five of my best men in less than a day,” Utkin says. “And now she’s gotten away with the engineer.”

  So he doesn’t know that Sauer has slipped away from me too. Also, he thinks that I’ve accomplished this all on my own. He doesn’t know about the American—who, to be fair, killed three of those men while I was knocked out. I admit I feel a bit of pleasure at knowing I’ve angered him so deeply.

  “And what of the other girl, the one seen going to the engineer’s house?” Utkin says. “Have you identified her?”

  The other man opens a folder and places a photograph on the desk between them. It’s a photo of Lottie.

  “Her name is Violette Abelard,” the man tells Utkin. “A French citizen. We don’t yet know why she was visiting Sauer.”

  Utkin picks up the photograph. He peers at it closely. “I’ve seen this girl before,” he says. He sucks in his lower lip, which I recognize as a sign that he’s trying to connect some pieces of information in his brain. Then he gets up, goes to a cabinet, and pulls out a file. He sits down again and starts flipping through photographs. After a minute, he takes one and sets it beside the one already on the desk.

  “There,” he says, pointing to the picture, which shows Sauer, another man, and Lottie.

  “That’s Sauer and Oswald Brecht,” the other man says.

  “And Brecht’s daughter, Charlotte,” says Utkin. “It’s the same girl.”

  The man leans back in his chair. “Charlotte Brecht disappeared years ago.”

  “And apparently became Violette Abelard,” Utkin says. “Like many of the Nazi children, she obviously reinvented herself.” He sucks his lip again. Then he says, “There is a man here in Berlin. He calls himself Karl Ott now. It’s said he has organized a group of sympathizers anxious to get revenge on those who brought down Hitler’s Reich.”

  The man across from him laughs. “Ridiculous,” he says. “They would be crushed immediately.”

  “Yes,” Utkin agrees. “Unless they have a weapon of enormous power. A weapon like the one Sauer was working on.”

  The man stops smiling and frowns. “You think Strekalova is working with them?”

  “I don’t know,” says Utkin. “If she is, she has just delivered them a prize—the only engineer who can reconstruct the weapon.” He rattles off an address, which I immediately commit to memory. “Go to that address. Get Ott. Bring him here for questioning. And if Strekalova is with him, bring her as well. I will deal with her personally.”

  The man stands to go. I consider trying to stop him. But I can do that later. I know where he’s going, and now I have the address of Ott’s apartment locked in my brain. All I have to do is get there before the MGB agent does. Now that I’ve gotten what I came for—or at least gotten information I can use—it’s time to go back through the duct and get out of the building.

  As I’m backing up, though, Utkin starts talking again. At first I think his henchman has returned. Then I realize he’s talking to himself.

  “Stupid bitch,” he says. “She’ll find out what happens to little girls who cross me.”

  The vent opening into the room is not huge, but it’s large enough for me to slip through—if I can get it open. I position myself over it, lift my arms, and bring my elbows down on the grate. The first time results in a lot of racket. Utkin, startled, looks up.

  “Goddamn rats,” he says as I bring my elbows down again.

  This time, the metal clips holding the grate in place give way. The grate tumbles down, and I follow, pushing myself through the hole. I watch Utkin’s eyes widen as I fall toward him, shrieking like an avenging Fury.

  He breaks my fall. I waste no time, clawing at his eyes with my fingers. My thumbs find his eyes, and I press down. I feel them pop, and Utkin bellows like a bull. I take the knife that hides in my boot and advance on him, pressing the blade against his neck. He lashes out at me, but I pin him to the wall.

  “Shut up,” I say.

  He obeys, which makes me smile. I like seeing him helpless, blinded, and afraid. I stand there like that for a long moment, letting him feel the steel against his skin. I watch his chest rise and fall in quick breaths. I know he would love nothing more than to kill me.

  He cannot see me, but he can hear me. I lean forward so that my lips are almost touching his. “My name is Ariadne Calligaris,” I whisper, and draw my knife across his neck.

  I came here looking for information. Instead, I found revenge. I should have waited to kill Utkin after getting him to answer some questions. My temper has perhaps gotten the best of me. But it feels wonderful. And perhaps I’ve gotten what I need after all. I recite the address I’ve memorized silently in my head as I leave Utkin’s office. It’s time to go meet Karl Ott and find out what he knows.

  Boone

  When Jackson and I walk into the living room of the house, I remember that it’s Christmas morning. There’s a tree with decorations on it, and presents underneath that have already been opened. Seated around the tree—some on the couch and chairs, some on the floor—are six people. Two of them are Lottie and Sauer. Then there are a man and woman I don’t know, as well as two small boys. One of the boys runs up to us on little, unsteady legs and holds up his hands.

  “Papa!” he says.

  Jackson lifts him up and gives him a hug. He speaks to him in rapid French, and the little boy looks at me. He grins. “Bonjour, Oncle Sam,” he says shyly.

  “Bonjour,” I say. I look at Jackson.

  “Bernard,” he says.

  “Bonjour, Bernard,” I say to the little boy. “Joyeux Noël.”

  “Joyeux Noël,” he says, laughing.

  Jackson sets him down, and he runs to Lottie. I watch the nephew I didn’t know I had climb into his mother’s lap. It feels like I’m dreaming. Not that long ago, I was fighting men to the death. Now I’m in the middle of a Christmas celebration with my brother’s family.

  The other man stands up and comes over to us. He reaches out to shake my hand. “My name is Karl Ott,” he says. “Welcome to my home.”

  I take his hand. “Sam Boone.”

  He nods. “Your brother has told me a lot about you, Sam. He is very proud of you.”

  “Karl is one of our most trusted friends. He and Lottie have known each other since th
ey were kids,” Jackson tells me. “This is his house. That’s his wife, Greta, and their son, Jürgen.”

  “Perhaps we can speak in the kitchen,” Karl says. He looks at his wife. “Greta, can you and Lottie watch the boys for a moment?”

  I look at Lottie and notice for the first time the bruise on her cheek. I remember how Jackson said she tipped herself over and broke the chair she was tied to, and although I’m not the one who tied her up, I feel bad about how she was treated, and about leaving her tied up while I went to help Ariadne. Maybe if I’d stopped to help her, she wouldn’t look as frightened of me as she does right now. I also look at Sauer again. He hasn’t moved, and to my surprise, Karl doesn’t invite him to come with us.

  We go into the kitchen, where we sit down around a table. I am across from Karl, while Jackson is to my left.

  “Why isn’t Sauer here?” I ask.

  “It’s better if we talk without him,” says Karl. “For now.”

  “Why?” I press. “He’s the reason I’m here in the first place.”

  “We know,” Jackson says. “And now others want him too. Who’s the girl in the apartment?”

  I’m surprised it’s taken him this long to ask about Ariadne. Now I wonder how much I should tell him. I’m about to lie, but this is my brother. He was a Player once. And he’s still a Cahokian. He deserves to know.

  “The Minoan Player,” I say.

  Jackson’s eyes widen. “And you let her live?”

  Part of me is happy to see that there’s still a Player inside him. A bigger part is annoyed that he’s treating me like his kid brother and questioning my choices.

  “I have my reasons,” I snap.

  “Are you working with her?” Karl asks. “This Minoan?”

  I’m irritated by his question. He’s not a Player. Not a member of our line. He shouldn’t even know about Endgame. I ignore him and speak directly to Jackson. “The Minoans found out about the weapon,” I tell him. “That means other lines could be looking for it as well.”