The Eighty-eighth Key Ch. 16

Part III

Chapter 16

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'What is the difference between a dream and a nightmare?'

Imogen turned the thought over in her mind, asking herself again if she would choose the nightmare - assuming she could step back in time and endure her latest conversation with Heisenberg once again. Why had he chosen to speak of her future in such stark terms? Had he seen her fate if she chose not to cooperate once in Leipzig? Worse, what if her role - stalling for more time - was uncovered? If it was discovered she had stalled Werner - and the Gestapo - long enough so that almost all of the Danish contingent from the University could escape the city?

Just what would they do to her then?

And if the worst happened, would Werner Heisenberg really stop protecting her? There was hardly anyone within the hierarchy of the German scientific establishment held in higher esteem than Heisenberg, but what were the limits to his power? She was a Jew, after all.

And now she was living in Leipzig, in an apartment just off the Augustusplatz, and she had two servants attending to her every need. And no doubt reporting her every movement to the Gestapo...yet even so she was still relatively free. Free to report to the labs. Free to attend lectures if she so chose. And free to teach...

And she was free to play the piano that Werner provided.

And so she played, working like never before perfecting her craft, soon playing even better than Heisenberg - who seemed to mind this most recent diversion not at all.

And when she began composing again, Werner soon began coming by her apartment with his wife, and they listened in rapt attention to her swelling progress. When her Second Concerto was finished Heisenberg took it to the conductor of the University Orchestra - who immediately agreed to a performance - and who with Werner agreed the work merited publication. After a month's rehearsal, the concerto was performed at the old Gewandhaus on a cold January night, and the work was generally well-regarded by all who came - with the exception of a small contingent from the Reichssicherheitshauptamt. These men regarded Schwarzwald's Second as yet another example of degenerate art, and they left the concert hall in a particularly foul mood.

And, oddly enough, all this was watched by a small, bespectacled man from Denmark - who seemed to watch the men in black leather overcoats rather more than the orchestra. He followed them out into a light snow, and though he kept to the shadows he still did his very best to avoid detection. The men, he saw, walked to Werner Heisenberg's house and waited, apparently none the wiser that they, too, had a watcher.

______________________________

Parish looked at bright splashes of pulsing strobes as the little jet bounced through yet another layer of cloud, then a vague cityscape cast in blues and blacks appeared just below, and when he saw the wing sprout all kinds of flaps and slats he knew they were landing...but where were they?

He looked at An Linh across the narrow aisle, and she seemed not at all concerned by the day's twists and turns - yet how was that even possible? Pulled from the imploding wreckage of the country she had known all her life, thrust into the maelstrom of thousands of orphans being sorted like packages to be sent off to foster homes, and all the while under no illusions at all that the man she had endured all this for had just been murdered...?

And yet here she was - if anything looking more sedate than anything else.

Then he looked at the elder Callahan once again and saw the old man was looking out his window, too - yet looking anything but sedate. And who could blame him? His son killed - or so it had seemed until this morning - and now, this - escape? Bogus cops' questions then Frank Bullitt's spirited actions had dispelled the first notion, yet the next thing he knew he was being spirited away from his house and spit into this little jet to be carried away to...where?

Let alone his home was now occupied by what? ...Commandos?

Parish looked at his watch, noted they had been airborne for almost five hours and he guessed - if the snowy landscape below was any sort of indication - that they were somewhere in the midwest, probably Detroit or Cleveland. One thing was certain, however: the Israeli commando up front wasn't being any help at all.

He felt the kiss of tires on earth, felt their rumble diminish as the little jet began braking on the slushy concrete, and a moment later they pulled to a stop outside of a small hanger. The air-stairs opened and a blast of arctic air swirled through the cabin, and just then the Israeli motioned for them to come forward. Parish saw another van outside on the tarmac, this one with its door open and engine running, and he spotted a Quebec license plate on a passing truck as he led An Linh down the steps.

It took a half-hour to drive into the city, and after a bit of dodging the dense evening traffic the van pulled into a covered entryway to the Chateau Frontenac Hotel, and when the van's door slid open Parish noted they were being met by an elegantly dressed older man, surrounded by an entourage of anxiously observant men who all seemed to be equipped with earpieces...

...and, Parish noted, the elegantly dressed older man seemed most interested in the senior Callahan.

"Ah, Mr. Callahan?"

"Yessir?"

"My name is Feldman. I am to see to your group's needs for the next few days. Will you come with me, please?"

Parish looked this character over while he spoke and saw not one bit of deference as he spoke; indeed, he saw nothing at all in the man's curious demeanor, not even a hint of curiosity as they fell in behind him. They marched along straight to a bank of elevators and rode up several floors in silence, then followed the man to a room at the end of a short hallway. He knocked on a seemingly ancient oak door, and, after a brief moment, the door creaked opened.

And there stood Harry Callahan.

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Not a half-hour later, Saul Rosenthal watched a black Mercedes pull up to the Heisenberg residence just as the Gestapo team emerged from the stately house, only now, and more ominously, Werner Heisenberg seemed to be in their custody. Rosenthal had no way to follow the team so, keeping to the shadows once again, he made his way carefully to his preferred spot overlooking Imogen's apartment building - and there he waited...in the gently falling snow. The lights were still off so he suspected she might not have returned from the concert hall, and, true enough - not an hour later he saw a car turn down her street.

And not a minute later he noticed the other car staking-out her return. They pulled up parallel to the car he suspected Imogen might be in, just as the first car pulled to a stop in front of her building's entry.

And as Imogen emerged from the car the Gestapo surrounded her, then roughly pulled her to their car. Rosenthal watched and carefully noted the time, then slipped deeper into the shadows before moving again.

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Parish stepped back as An Linh rushed past on her way to Harry's outstretched arms, yet he was most surprised by the elder Callahan's initial reaction. Lloyd at first registered astonished delight on finding his son alive, yet when the Vietnamese refuge soared by he seemed to focus on his son's reaction most carefully, and only then did he wipe an errant tear away.

Jim Parish held his own feelings in check as he watched An Linh implode under the weight of such an unexpected shock, yet when he thought about his own reaction later that evening he found he thought about the reunion with a sense of wonder. How this tiny orphan survived a savage upbringing to land a job at the most prestigious bar in Saigon was only a tiny part of her tale; recognizing that in Harry Callahan - and Callahan alone amongst all the Caravelle's varied patrons - she had somehow found a way to peace...and that was, in Jim's mind, the most wondrous story of all.

The elegant old man, Leopold Feldman, was the Israeli consul, so it was under Israeli auspices that An Linh, Parish, and Lloyd Callahan would remain the next few weeks. Parish soon met and grew to respect Sam Bennett, but he was more than surprised to see that Bennett's sister Stacy was madly, yet stoically in love with Harry.

That first evening the group went down to the Frontenac's elegant main dining room, and they were seated next to huge, arched windows that afforded magical views of the Saint Lawrence River far below. An Linh seemed physically enjoined to Harry, while Jim Parish managed to grab a seat next to Stacy Bennett, leaving Sam Bennett to talk shop with Al Bressler and Lloyd Callahan. A gaggle of Israeli agents dined at several nearby tables.

Though Jim Parish didn't feel too out of sorts when he learned Stacy was some sort of higher-up within the FBI, when he learned she was working out of the Boston office he instantly warmed to her.

"I miss Cambridge," he blurted out when she mentioned she was working in Boston.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I did my undergrad and went to med school there."

Stacy seemed impressed by this and turned away from Harry. "Harvard, or MIT?"

"And why not Radcliffe?" he replied.

"You don't fit the profile," Stacy said, adding: "Your ass isn't big enough."

Parish's eyes lit up as he nodded his approval. "Well, Harvard it is, then. What about you? I take it you're a Yalie."

"Fuck you," she sneered, "and the horse you rode in on."

"Ah, hit a nerve, did I? Your boss went to Yale?"

"Yup."

"So, how'd you get mixed up in this mess?"

And so she told Parish about the vigilante squad working within the SFPD and the attempt on her brother's life, then her role in Harry's staged assassination, which led to more and more questions about Israelis and crooked cops...

"Sorry, can't talk about that element," she whispered. "And you'd do well not to even mention Israelis when this is all over with."

"Got it," Parish said. "So, what's it like, being dead and all..."

She smiled: "Ya know...I kinda like it. There's a sort of freedom I've never experienced before. I'll miss it when this is over."

"You have no idea how weird that sounds."

"Oh, that's right. You're a surgeon, right? I forgot."

"You forgot?"

"Yeah, I read your file a few days ago."

"Do you have any idea how weird that sounds?"

"At least we're speaking the same language."

"Huh?"

"Well, everything sounds weird to you. At least we're..."

"Okay. Got it."

"Oh? You're pretty quick - for a Harvard puke."

"So...Cornell?"

"No."

"Dartmouth?"

"God, no..."

"Okay, I give up."

"Loyola undergrad, Georgetown law."

"Which Loyola?"

"L.A."

"The party school? I'm surprised."

"How'd you know that? You from LA?"

"No, Oregon. My folks have a dairy farm outside of Portland."

"You grew up - on a farm?"

"Yup. Sorry."

"Don't get me wrong...but I think that's great..."

"Great? Why's that?"

"That's where I always wanted us to be...our family...when I was growing up. I thought living on a farm would be the bestest thing ever..."

"It was...different," Parish sighed. "My folks are getting on, and Dad keeps asking me what he should do with the place after they're gone..."

"God...keep it. Nothing like land...nothing...don't ever let it slip away from you."

Parish grinned. "He'd like you, I think." - 'And I think I'd like you to meet him,' he thought.

She smiled as she watched him say those words, and at the way she suddenly felt about this chance encounter. "Really? Why's that?" - 'And I think I'd really like to get to know you better,' she thought.

And all of this happened without Harry Callahan ever knowing what happened to Stacy Bennett, and how she slipped ever so quietly out of his life.

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He had slipped into one of his better hideouts, an alleyway with a fine view of Leipzig's secret police headquarters, so he could plainly see Imogen when they spirited her out of the building and into yet another waiting Mercedes. People were out and about on the streets now, most walking heads-down and hands-in-pocket, striding purposely-by on their way to work, and at an opportune moment Rosenthal slipped from the shadows and made his way through the rush and onto a waiting streetcar, this one heading in the same direction as the car. Though he didn't know Leipzig well, he had a bad feeling they were taking her to the main railway station, and soon enough that fear was realized.

He hopped off the streetcar and followed Imogen and her S.S. guard to a distant railway platform - to a train with the listed departure for Prague - and so now he knew, his darkest fears had now come to pass. She was bound for Theresienstadt, the halfway point to Hell...but he knew that for the S.S. this choice made the most sense. The Nazis used the Czech ghetto-camp as a showcase of their 'good intentions' towards Jews, while artfully concealing the dreadful conditions within, and so Jewish artists, writers, and musicians often found their way to this shallow grave. Weaker, less useful residents were soon shipped off to the killing camps, so Rosenthal knew that if he was going to act he'd have to act soon.

Saul slipped into a coach near Imogen's, and as the old steam engine huffed it's way out of the station he sat back and closed his eyes. All he could do was hope his diplomatic passport and Red Cross credentials would get him through the border crossing. If not, he told himself, he'd be on the next train to Poland.

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When Lloyd and Harry Callahan returned to their old house in Potrero Hills - with An Linh now always walking quietly beside her fiancé - all seemed as it had once before.

Almost.

Harry was the first to discover several bullet holes in the kitchen - that had only recently been spackled-over. Then he found blood residue within the grout on the bathroom floor...and soon other telltale signs that a brief, fierce firefight had played out inside the house. Then he noticed neighbors looked at him coldly when he sat with An Linh on the front porch. Only when she grew tired and retired for the evening did his father join him in the last colorful splashes of evening.

In fading pastels of the day, Lloyd carried two rum & cokes out onto the porch and sat down next to his son.

"You look like you could use this," he said to Harry as he passed the drink.

"Probably more than one, Dad. I suppose you saw...?"

"Yeah. A bunch of special forces types took over the house when the Israelis moved us to Quebec. I got the distinct impression they were setting a trap."

"Looks like they were successful," Harry sighed. "But I haven't seen anything about it on the papers, or on the news..." Harry said before he looked up when a black Porsche 911 Targa slowed and pulled into their driveway, then he smiled when he saw it was Frank Bullitt. "Goddamn," he whispered, "another fuckin' Porsche."

"How does he afford those things," Lloyd asked.

"Cathy. She made partner at the new architectural firm she's at. They bought a lot up at that Sea Ranch development. Gonna retire in style, I reckon," he added as Frank bounded up the steps two at a time.

Frank walked up to Lloyd and shook hands. "Nice to see you again," Frank said.

"Can I get you something to drink, or are you still on duty?" Lloyd asked.

"Whatever you two are having," Frank said, turning to Harry.

"Two fingers of Mount Gay and a shitload of Coke," Harry said to his friend.

"Got any lime?" Frank added.

"I'll get it, Dad." Harry stood and looked at Frank, who seemed a little agitated, before he walked to the kitchen. He made three more and walked back to the front porch, and he found Frank sitting beside his father. "Here-go," he said as he passed around the drinks.

"This just might be the best front porch in the city," Frank said as he looked at the Bay Bridge just as the lights flipped on. "Best drinks, too."

"What the fuck happened in this house," Harry growled.

Bullitt shrugged, then let slip a long sigh, and he seemed almost embarrassed when he spoke next: "I'm not real sure, Harry. The Israelis ran this show, almost from start to finish..."

"What?" Lloyd said, his voice registering more than a little surprise. "Last time I heard this was still the United States..."

Frank turned to the elder Callahan and nodded. "You remember all that shit in Munich a couple of years ago? At the Olympics?"

Lloyd looked down, nodded. "How could you not."

"Well, the Israelis have teams out tracking down the perps, but when their government heard that Jews were being targeted in San Francisco? Well, someone over there called Doctor Kissinger, and Kissinger called the governor. Long story - short, we gave 'em the green light to identify and take out these people, with the FBI putatively giving cover to the operation. They ran wire-taps all over the state, ran down the heads of cells in San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose and one by one they took 'em out. They lured the San Francisco cell here about three nights ago..."

"How come there's nothing in the paper about all this?" Lloyd asked.

"Nothing to report," Frank sighed. "No noise. Silenced weapons, I assume. A contractor dropped by the next morning and cleaned up the mess."

"How many killed?" Harry asked.

"More than twenty, Harry."

"All cops?" Lloyd asked, and Frank nodded. "What's been reported is being attributed to Black Panther-type gang activity, maybe offshoots of the SLA, too. We're drip-feeding misinformation to the press, the hope being that with little so information out there the story will just go away."

"So," Lloyd added, "blame it on the blacks?"

Frank shrugged.

"Is Dad safe here?"

Frank took a long pull on his drink, then nodded. "There's no evidence anyone else is still operating in the Bay Area, Mr. Callahan. Even so, the teams working around the city will continue to do so for another week or so."

"Are they keeping my place under surveillance?" Harry asked.

"You're dead, Harry. Remember?"

"Not according to Israeli intel," Harry said. "We were made over there."

"So I heard. Fucking Bressler."

"Not his fault, Frank. Just bad luck."

"Yeah. Funny how bad luck always seems to work against the good guys."

Harry finished his second drink then looked around. "Who's ready for a refresh?"

Two more empty glasses hoisted, and Harry disappeared into the house.

"Frank," Lloyd began, almost whispering now, "what are you not telling me?"

"I just have a bad feeling about all this, sir. I think Harry has been their number one target from the get-go, and we won't have any good way to identify unknown members now that their leadership is blown. I think y'all came back too soon."

Lloyd sighed. "Well, I'm headed out in a few days. Here to Hawaii, then on to Yokohama and Hong Kong..."

"How long will you be gone, sir?"

"Six weeks is the norm, unless we run across a typhoon out there."

"Better you than me, sir."

"Christ, Frank...are you kidding? With what you guys have to deal with day after day out there? Shit, I'd rather deal with a bad storm any day of the week rather than deal with the crap you two do."

"I made these nice and strong," Harry said as he came back onto the porch.

"Shit."

"Damn," Frank said as he grabbed his glass and took a long pull. "W-wow," he gasped, "I hope you never take up tending bar professionally."

"Me too," both Callahans said - in the same breath.

"Oh, before I forget. Sam's having a weenie roast tomorrow night, and everyone's invited."

"A what...?" Lloyd asked.

"Oh, sorry," Frank said. "Hot dogs usually turn out to be steaks, and lots of beer manages to figure into things." Bullitt stopped and stifled a long belch...