The Keepers Page 16

  Gretchen laughed. “Are you joking?” Her smile faded as she stared at her friend’s face. “You’re . . . not joking.”

  Kitt stared at the floor, her voice a whisper. “No.”

  Gretchen looked at Kitt, then looked at the set of keys in her hand. A motorcycle roared by on the street below.

  She put her hand on Kitt’s shoulder, lowering her head to look into Kitt’s eyes. “If I am ever in trouble, I know I could show up at your door and you’d take me in. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do the same? But this sounds . . . very serious. Possibly dangerous.”

  Kitt swallowed hard. “It is.”

  Gretchen nodded. “Then I hope you can understand my reply.”

  Kitt’s heart sank. A knot formed in her stomach.

  She won’t help me, and I can’t blame her.

  “Let’s go to Der Beagle,” Gretchen said. “It sounds like we may need legal advice.”

  * * * * *

  Over cold beer, hot knockwurst, and warm rolls, Kitt explained what had happened since the Chief of Medicine of the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital had summoned her in the middle of the night. Her interaction with Helena, and how the elderly woman had been able to describe the deaths of the two women before they happened; Mr. Hollings and Miss Franklin, and their kidnapping attempt.

  But not the strange machines their abductors had hooked to Helena, and not the imagery their computer screens had displayed. A friend’s trust has limits.

  Karl sat next to Gretchen, his arms folded on the table, silently watching Kitt as she finished her story.

  “So, I got to a train as fast as I could, and I came here.” Sighing, Kitt lowered her hands to her lap. “If I say more, it might put you in danger.”

  Gretchen faced her boyfriend. “So? What do you think?”

  “Find the right government department and make the phone call,” Karl said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Kitt put her elbows on the table, massaging her temples. “After everything that’s already happened, I’m afraid to think about it.”

  “No, that is not the right way of thinking, doctor.” Gretchen reached out and took her friend’s hand. “Running is a temporary solution, at best. I agree with Karl. You will make the call as your friend Helena asked, and we will go from there. You’ll be safe in our apartment. If we have to call every branch of the U.S. government, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Kitt smiled, the knot in her stomach dissipating. “It’ll just be for a few days. I’ll call my mother and get some money, then start working on my passport and identification—”

  “First things first.” Gretchen picked up her purse. “Let’s go make some calls.”

  Karl scanned the mostly-empty bar. “It’s slow tonight. Oskar will let me leave early.”

  “Stay and make your money, Geliebte.” She kissed him. “It’s a simple phone call. What could happen? But we’d better call soon. There’s a six-hour difference in the time. We will make the call, and then I will fix the couch up for you to sleep on. Come. We have work.”

  Karl stood, sliding his chair under the table. “If you need anything, call me.”

  “Make some money so you can pay your tuition.” Gretchen wagged a finger at him. “Or you may be a bartender forever.”

  Kitt and Gretchen exited the pub, going onto the dark street. The walk back to the apartment was short but cold. Kitt shivered, constantly looking over her shoulders, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “You never got used to this weather, did you?” Thin, whispy white clouds that drifted from Gretchen’s lips with every word she uttered.

  Kitt glanced at a car as it passed on the street.

  “In the morning, there’s a nice breakfast place around the corner.” Gretchen pointed. “We’ll split a bauernomelett—scrambled eggs loaded with bacon and onions. Or some goetta. Very hearty.”

  Glancing over her shoulders again, Kitt pulled the collar of her coat close.

  Gretchen slid her hands into her coat pockets, looking at her friend out of the corner of her eye. “I think Karl has the hots for you.”

  “What?” Kitt whirled around.

  “Oh, you can hear!” Gretchen laughed. “I thought you had gone deaf.”

  “I’m so paranoid.” Kitt ran her hand across her forehead.

  “It’s not paranoia when someone’s actually out to get you.” Gretchen took Kitt’s arm and wrapped it around hers. “Let’s get you inside. The sooner we make that call, the sooner you can relax.”

  * * * * *

  Kitt stared at Gretchen’s phone where it lay on the table. Next to it was Gretchen’s laptop, opened to a search engine result displaying “Federal Government of the United States” and an 844 customer service phone number.

  “Go on,” Gretchen said. “It’s not going to dial itself.”

  Kitt leaned back, slouching in her chair. “I just keep thinking, if I use your phone, then they have your phone number.”

  “I’m not in any trouble.”

  “No, but . . .”

  Gretchen pushed the phone across the table. “Call.”

  “How do we even know where the call goes? I don’t have a department or—”

  “You’re stalling. Call!”

  Wincing, Kitt picked up the phone and entered the number on the screen.

  The overseas line took a moment to connect, then the automated answering service came on. Kitt held the phone away from her face and pressed the speaker button.

  “Thank you for contacting USA Gov,” the recorded woman said, “your guide to federal government information. Para continuar en español, presione dos. For tax or IRS information, press one.”

  Kitt put her hand over the phone. “What department do you think?”

  “CIA?” Gretchen shrugged. “Who works overseas?”

  “For passport information, press two.”

  Kitt rubbed her chin. “Maybe the State Department? I have to get it right. She may be in real trouble.”

  “Please hold while your call is transferred to the next available information specialist.”

  Kitt’s jaw dropped. She glanced at Gretchen. “Which department did it go to?”

  Gretchen got up and went into the kitchen. “I guess we’ll find out in a minute.”

  A woman answered, the line thick with static. “Thank you for holding. This conversation is being recorded for recordkeeping purposes. How may I direct your call?”

  “Uh, thank you.” Kitt shifted on her chair. “I have an urgent message for an employee, but I don’t know which department she works in.”

  The operator spoke in a monotone. “The United States government employs over two million people, ma’am. What kind of work does she do?”

  “I don’t know. Her name is . . .” Kitt bit her lip, glancing at Gretchen.

  Her friend nodded, whispering. “Go ahead.”

  Clearing her throat, Kitt sat up straight. “Her name is Jaden Trinn. I don’t know what kind of work she does, but I was told to get a message to her boss, and that’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “Can you spell the name?”

  “Geez, I’m not sure of the spelling.” Kitt looked at the ceiling. “I’d assume it’s J-A-D-E-N, and the last name is Trinn, spelled T-R-I-N-N. But it may be a variation of that.”

  “Checking the main system for Jaden Trinn.” The sound of fingers on a keyboard came over the line. “I’m sorry, I’m not showing a Jaden Trinn.”

  “What about with a Y?” Kitt asked. “Like, J-A-Y-D-E-N? Can we try that?”

  “Checking . . . nothing is coming up.” More keyboard noise. “I’ve tried several variations, ma’am. There’s no Jaden Trinn in our system.”

  Kitt sighed, looking at Gretchen. “But Helena was so specific. She said Jaden Trinn was an agent of the United States government, and to contact her boss with the message Mao Oui. Helena’s a very smart woman. I have to think she knew what she was talking about.”

  “Yes, ma’am,�
�� the operator said. “But we don’t show a Jaden Trinn. If we can narrow it down at all . . .”

  “No, that’s . . . that’s all I have.” Kitt put her elbow on the table and lowered her chin onto her hand. “Just—there was a Mr. Hollings and a Miss Franklin, and, well . . . I don’t know. I’ll try to figure something out.”

  “Thank you. We receive calls 24 hours a day. If you need help with additional details, we have an embassy in Germany, in Berlin. Would you like the address?”

  Kitt sat upright, staring at the phone. “You . . . know I’m calling from Berlin?”

  “All calls are sourced and recorded, ma’am.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Goodbye.” She ended the call, dropping the phone and glaring at Gretchen with wide eyes. “They know right where we are!”

  Gretchen smiled, reaching across the table to take Kitt’s hands. “But Helena told you to call them, so they’re the good guys.”

  “Oh, if only I could be sure.” Kitt pulled away, standing up and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

  “You watch too much TV. Karl will be home soon. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” Getting up, Gretchen went into the kitchen. “Let’s have a beer and do some more searches. Something will present itself.”

  “I can’t drink.” Kitt bit her fingernail, pacing faster. “I need to focus.”

  “It might help you relax.”

  “What was she telling me? ‘Jaden Trinn is an agent of the United States government.’ An agent. What qualifies as an agent?”

  Putting a bottle opener to a beer, Gretchen pursed her lips. “FBI, CIA . . . Farm Bureau . . .”

  Kitt went to the computer, sitting down. “Let’s search departments of the U.S. government.” She typed on the laptop. “And see who has agents working for them, as part of the employee’s title.”

  Gretchen poured the beer into a glass. “She said there were two million employees.”

  “Yeah.” Kitt studied the screen. “They can’t all be agents, though. That’s a pretty limited use word.”

  * * * * *

  Two hours later, Gretchen was asleep on the couch and Kitt was still on the laptop, her eyes half open and her head bobbing. Two empty beer bottles sat on the table, next to a legal notepad filled with Kitt’s handwriting, all of it scratched out.

  She typed in another department, scanning the titles. Each query created more things to look at.

  Her search “How many U.S. government departments have agents?” revealed nearly a hundred independent executive “units” and 220 “components” of the executive departments. A search for “List of US government agencies” yielded an A-Z index. There were thirty-seven agencies under the first part of letter “A.”

  Kitt rubbed her eyes.

  This is useless. I must have misunderstood the message.

  But if I don’t figure it out, what does that mean for Helena?

  She sat upright, twisting back and forth to loosen her back, and typed another department listing.

  The sound of a key in the lock brought her back to full consciousness. She glanced at the door. “Karl?”

  The lock rattled. Soft, metal-on-metal scraping followed. The doorknob jiggled.

  Kitt got to her feet, backing away as she kept her eyes on the door. “Karl, is that you?”

  She bumped into the apartment wall. Glancing outside, a car went down the dark street.

  Are we too high up to jump?

  The knob rattled again.

  Kitt leaned over and shook Gretchen. “Wake up. Someone’s trying to come in.”

  “Oh?” Gretchen rolled over, putting her cheek to the couch cushion. “Did he forget his key again?”

  “No!” Kitt’s pulse raced. “Gretchen! I think—”

  The door flew open, slamming into the wall with a bang. Gretchen screamed. Two men in dark clothing rushed inside, wielding guns.

  One looked at Kitt, his face drawn and grim. “Is there anyone else in the apartment?”

  She backed away. “What?”

  “Is there anyone else in the apartment?” he yelled.

  Kitt trembled. “N-no.”

  “My boyfriend!” Gretchen said, her hands at her throat. “He will be home soon. There’s no one else.”

  A third man with a gun walked through the door, holding Karl by the arm. Gretchen screamed again.

  The man let Karl go. “There’s no need for that, ma’am.” He walked through the apartment, poking his head into the other rooms.

  Karl raced to Gretchen’s side. “Gretch, it’s okay.”

  “What?” she looked around, tears welling in her eyes.

  Karl put his hands on her shoulders. “These men want to talk to Kitt.”

  Swallowing hard, Kit stepped away from the wall.

  The stranger’s accents are American, not German.

  One of the men came toward Kitt, pointing his gun at her. “Dr. Kittaleye?”

  Her heart pounding, Kitt put her hands in the air. “Yes.”

  “The apartment’s clear,” one of the strangers said, emerging from the rear room.

  The man in front of Kitt put his gun away and flashed an ID at her. “I’m Agent Daxx with the U.S. Bureau of Diplomatic Security.” He nodded to the younger men with him. “That’s agent Flynn, and Aristotle Hiles from Israeli Intelligence. We’d like to talk to you about the messages you’ve been leaving for Jaden Trinn’s boss. Will you come with us, please?”

  “No.” Kitt’s voice wavered, her hands shaking as she spoke. “You talk to me here. He’s my lawyer.” She glanced at Karl, then turned back to the agent. “Now, you tell me—who is Jaden Trinn, who is her boss, and what the hell is going on?”

  “Jaden Trinn is an agent with the Bureau of Diplomatic Security,” Daxx said. “At the moment, her boss is the President of the United States.”

  Chapter 24

  With a soldier holding each arm, DeShear was escorted through the hot, dark infirmary. His triage room was more like a prison cell than a hospital room—bars on the door and window, and the barest of amenities. The bed was a collapsible cot, with no mattress, and two white sheets folded on top of a coarse green blanket. No sink or toilet; no light. Only three walls and row of iron bars with a Defense Force guard standing at the entrance.

  The soldiers released their grip on DeShear’s arms, allowing him to walk the short distance to his cot under his own power. He sat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Rest well, murderer,” the guard said, locking the door. The noise of the keys echoed down the dark corridor. “Soon, the magistrate will come. Then, you will hang.” He chuckled, walking toward the end of the hallway.

  DeShear jumped up, gripping the bars. He glared at the guard, his eyes drifting to the few other rooms in the wing. Two cells over, medics attended to a dark-haired woman who appeared to be asleep or heavily sedated. In between was another cell that was dark.

  Lowering his head, DeShear closed his eyes and slunk to the floor. The cold, hard concrete was cool against his skin. He stared at the ceiling, exhausted.

  He remembered playing two-square with Constantine the day he met her, and the fishing game on her tablet.

  He remembered the way her face lit up when he told her they were going on a real fishing boat.

  It seemed like an eternity ago.

  The dark ceiling became a daydream of another child, years before, suffering in a hospital bed. Hours and hours of bedside vigils, holding his daughter’s tiny hand, hoping things would improve and save her three-year-old life. But the disease was stronger, and one morning he realized he was holding a hand that was no longer holding his.

  A few hours later, she was gone.

  His daughter’s face became Constantine’s, laughing and playing, kicking the ball around the compound, the sun shining over the playing field.

  “I won’t lose another one.” DeShear stared at the ceiling, gritting his teeth, his hand balled up into fists. “I won’t. I couldn’t fight the disease, but I can fight the peopl
e who have you.” His face grew hot, his insides filling with rage. He got to his feet, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. “There’s a way to find out where you are. I will find it, and I will find you.” Staring at the floor, he nodded in the darkness. “There’s a way.”

  At the end of the hallway, the keys rattled. The door opened and a tall man in a suit walked in, heading toward DeShear. The Defense Force guard scurried along behind him.

  Reaching the third cell, the man stopped. “Who are these people?”

  The guard stepped to the man’s side and snapped to attention. “Medical officers, your Honor.”

  The man in the suit nodded at the medics. “Leave us.”

  “But, sir—”

  He glared at the medical officers. “Am I not speaking clearly? Leave us. Now!”

  The medics stood and assembled their things, leaving the cell and heading for the exit. The guard locked the woman’s cell door.

  “The light.”

  “Sir?”

  “In her cell.” The man folded his arms. “Put out that light.”

  The guard reached to a wall switch and shut off the lights in the cell, casting the entire ward into near-darkness. The street lights on the marina parking lot shined through the tiny windows on the far side of the ward, throwing long white rectangles onto the dirty floor.

  Slowly, the man in the suit turned and walked toward DeShear. He stopped at the cell door. “This is the prisoner I inquired about?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Open the door. I shall talk with him alone.”

  “Sir, he is a murderer!”

  “Well, he certainly won’t murder me. I’m the one chance he has at leaving this island alive.” He looked at DeShear. “Do you understand that, Mr. Deshear?”

  Staring at the stranger, DeShear nodded, lowering himself onto the cot.

  “You see? We’ll be fine. Open the door.”

  “Your Honor, please.”

  “Open the door, then leave us. I wish to speak with the prisoner alone, and I shan’t ask you again.”

  The guard stepped forward, his keys jingling in his shaking hands. The lock turned and he pulled the cell door open.