August 2014
The reels of tape began to turn in the silent basement. The first sound they heard was the voice of Anna’s mother, reciting poetry.
How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn’t touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
“Oh, my God,” Anna whispered. “It’s her.”
Her mother paused, as if to accommodate her daughter’s interruption. There was the sound of footsteps, and then Helen Abell continued.
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn’t resonate when your depths resound.
Then, more footsteps, as if she were crossing a fairly large room. The volume seemed to fade and grow, as if she were walking past a series of microphones. It lent a sense of movement to the mind’s eye. Henry watched Anna, whose face was rapt, as the poem and the footsteps continued, with a pause between each stanza:
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin’s bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
“It’s beautiful,” Anna said. “But why? What is she doing?”
“A sound check before the main event?”
“Maybe.”
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
Then the voice went silent but the footsteps continued, picking up pace before fading, as if Anna’s mom had moved beyond sight, or perhaps further into the past, again unreachable. No, she was going up a stairway.
Anna wiped her eyes with her fingertips. No sooner had she collected herself than there was a rattling sound from the speaker, and then the sound of an opening door followed by footsteps. They were heavier than those of Anna’s mom, but they, too, crossed the room. A cabinet door opened, the click of a latch followed by the clank of bottles and glasses, a drink being poured. Then someone pulled up a chair and took a seat. No words were spoken.
Where was Helen Abell all this time? In another room? On another floor? Was she listening, or was she unawares?
A few minutes later there was a second arrival, and a conversation began. Two men. One was older and wheezing, the other one younger and healthier. Their first few words were barely audible. Then the older man spoke up, and his words emerged clearly in a trancelike monotone, as if he were repeating an oath of allegiance:
“To swim the pond you must forsake the bay. You may touch the lake, but you must never submerge, and you must always return to the pond.”
“And the zoo?”
“Dry. To all of us, anyway. The pond is also dry, to the zookeeper.” A pause, a wheezing intake of breath. “All of their people believe it to be long since drained, and its waters shall forever be invisible. Except of course to those of us with special eyewear. And that’s what we’re offering, if you’re interested.”
“Eyewear?”
“So to speak. A new way of seeing. And access, opportunity. More than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
And so on, just as Anna’s mother had heard it through headphones thirty-five years ago while standing in her stocking feet in the upstairs of that safe house in Berlin.
“The Pond,” Anna said. “It still existed.”
By the time the conversation was finished and the tape was done, the ramifications of what her mother had recorded that day were quite clear: She had stumbled upon evidence of the continued existence of the Pond, twenty-four years after it had supposedly ceased to exist. What’s more, this meeting seemed to have been some sort of recruitment of a CIA operative, enticing him to leave behind “the Bay” for the freedom of “the Pond.” At best, a bit of duplicity and disloyalty, at worst an act of treason, depending on what the Pond had been up to by then.
Helen Abell probably hadn’t realized any of that until as recently as a few weeks ago, when she had visited the Archives, and, based on what Hilliard had told them, had finally deciphered the significance of all she’d overheard. Or, as Claire had written in one of her final letters, the one with the Clark Baucom obituary, Could this be the answer “to one of your oldest questions”?
“That’s certainly some political dynamite,” Henry said after the tape ran out.
“Do you think it still exists?”
“Thirty-five years later? I guess anything’s possible. Doesn’t sound like Gilley was involved, though. Not one mention of Robert.”
“Let’s put on the second tape. Maybe Robert stars in the sequel.”
He did. Or, at least, that was the name the young female on the tape used for her case officer in the first words of their conversation. Her name was Frieda, and even though their meeting sounded harmless enough early on, Henry and Anna were on edge from the beginning after having read the reports of Robert’s actions in the safe houses of Paris and Marseille.
Soon enough, there were sounds of a struggle. At first, based on Gilley’s exclamations, they wondered if maybe Frieda had gained the upper hand. It was then clear that he was in control, and they heard the sound of clothes being torn, and of buttons bouncing on the floor.
“Hold still! Stupid whore!”
Anna put a hand to her mouth. It sounded like a large piece of furniture was being shoved. Then it began to creak and judder. By that point, Frieda had been reduced to the occasional whimper and gasp.
“Nein!”
“God,” Anna said. “This is horrible.”
Then, like a shock, like a rescue, like a deliverance, there again was the voice of Anna’s mother:
“Stop it!”
Footsteps hammered down the stairs.
“It’s you! The goddamn station busybody!”
“I was…I was sleeping upstairs…What the hell are you doing to her? You’re…you’re…”
“It’s not what you think. Frieda likes it rough. Enjoys it more when there’s a tussle. Isn’t that right, Frieda?”
There was an incoherent answer by the other woman, so Gilley prodded again.
“Speak up, my dear.”
“Ja. Yes. It is as he says.”
“So you see?”
“I know what I saw. And I know what I heard.”
“Then do as you must, of course. Go ahead and try it. But if anyone’s out of bounds here, I’d say it was you, interrupting a private meeting between a case officer and his agent. Sleeping, you said? Like hell you were. Nosing around where you shouldn’t be, more likely. Way out of your depth. Probably grounds for dismissal, or at the very least, reassignment.”
Not long afterward, they heard Gilley depart. Helen and Frieda conferred in subdued tones. Evident through it all was Frieda’s deep fear of being exposed, and of what Gilley might do if Helen pursued the matter further, although Helen made one last attempt at getting Frieda’s assistance in further intervention:
“Tell me your name, at least. Your real name.”
“No!”
“Your coat. Here…Please, use my taxi. I’ll give the fare to the driver.”
“No!”
Then, footsteps, followed by the rattle and creak of a door opening, the hiss of a downpour from outside, and a final entreaty by Frieda.
“You will look out for me, yes? Not to report this, but to see that he does not reveal me to the others. You can do this, yes?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Safe house.”
Frieda spoke those final words in a tone of utter disdain. The only sounds during the next several minutes were of tidying up, five or ten minutes in all. Then, a pop and a hiss, signaling that Helen Abell had turned off the recorder. Henry fast-forwarded the tape, listening for the chipmunk squeaks that would indicate further conversation. But the rest of the tape was blank, and the verdict against Kevin Gilley as prosecuted by the Sisterhood was now clear—three rapes at three safe houses.
“My mom wouldn’t have let that go,” Anna said, “not even to save her own skin. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have let it go for a goddamn severance check. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“She did pursue it. And then Frieda turned out to be right—about what Gilley would do to her in return. Don’t you see? Frieda was Anneliese Kurz. Look at the dates. The newspaper story was from only a few days later.”
Henry nodded. He removed the reel from the spindle and put it back in the envelope. The house and neighborhood were quiet—so quiet that they both jumped when Anna’s phone rang in her purse.
“Hello?”
The caller was a woman. Henry could easily hear both sides of the conversation.
“Is this Anna? Anna Shoat?”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness! I’m so relieved you’re safe. You are safe, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Audra Vollmer, one of your mother’s oldest friends. I was told you were trying to reach me.”
“Yes! Of course! And I’m glad you’re safe. We’re at Claire Saylor’s house, in fact, and…” Her voice trailed off.
“Please tell me that nothing has happened to Claire.”
“I’m afraid she’s disappeared, and, well, it doesn’t look good.”
Anna told her about the abandoned car, the empty handbag, the blood on the seat.
“Oh, my…” Her voice faltered. There were a few seconds of silence. “First your poor mother and father, and now Claire.”
“What about you? Are you sure everything is all right. Should we call anyone for you?”
“I’m taking extra precautions, I can assure you. Living in a remote location has its drawbacks, but also its advantages. Having said that, it is imperative that we meet. The sooner the better.”
“I agree.”
“I know it’s asking a lot, but would you be willing to come here? I’m rather old and immobile these days, you see, and…”
“Of course. I’d be happy to.”
“Wonderful. And, well, I’m not quite sure how to put this, but I believe that Claire may have recently taken custody of a valuable item of your mother’s. For safekeeping.”
“She did. We found it, and it’s—”
“Please! Not over the phone!”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Not to worry. I’m relieved that it remains in safe hands. Would it be too much to ask for you to bring it with you?”
“Not at all.”
“Wonderful. But do take care. With it, and with yourself. Let’s discuss your journey, then. I’m going to suggest some rather elaborate precautions for you to begin employing immediately. Then I’ll make arrangements to secure the way for you. Do you have something to write with?”
Henry handed over his notebook and pencil.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
Audra Vollmer gave them their marching orders.