Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (37 page)

“You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you? So now, you go back to Berlin a victim and a hero.”

She glanced at the ground then back at him. “My family’s short on heroes.”

“But not liars.”

She eyed him steadily. “No, not liars.” She put both hands on her hips and looked over the meadow. When she turned back to him, he saw a steely resolve in her face. “I didn’t have a headache that day at the Holocaust Memorial. Not only was Maxum waiting for me, but I just couldn’t bear to stay there … because my grandfather was an SS guard who gunned down some of those Jews.” She looked away and he could see the clenching of her jaw. “He was at Auschwitz. My other grandfather was a physician at Treblinka. They told their families they were keeping the prisoners safe from those who wanted to hurt them. Imagine.” She swiped at her eyes, then turned them on him. “So how could I watch your great-aunt Bethel with all the laughing children, knowing it might have been my grandfather who exterminated them?” She looked at the ground and raised a hand to her chin, pushing hard against it. “How could I do that?”

Max remained as still as she, until finally, she turned abruptly toward him. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m sorry for all the lies.” She held his eyes a moment longer, then ran across the field and turned down the driveway. Max didn’t stop her.

B
y the concert hour that night, news of the shooting at Dutzendteich Lake had ricocheted throughout Germany and over the oceans, fired by the international celebrity of Liesl and Max. The media had not yet pieced together the backgrounds of those killed, but it was coming. Max was certain of that. Once the subterranean notoriety of the dead was dragged into the light, it would be a clear path to the roles he and Liesl had played through it all.

The orchestra and its solo performers for the evening had been sequestered in a building near the entrance to the rally grounds. The Nuremberg police had required it when crowds of people started showing up at the gates many hours before the concert. After local television first reported an assault on Liesl Bower and the shooting death of Max Morozov’s father, a wave of shock and regret rumbled through Nuremberg, drawing its citizens—even Berliners and others from nearby towns—to the place where the two musicians had insisted they would still perform. The number of supporters had swelled to an unwieldy throng. It was then that Franz Bernhoff and a hastily gathered team of corporate sponsors opened the gates to the concert for all to come in, ticket or no ticket, reimbursing those who’d already paid.

“I have never seen such an outpouring of compassion in this town,” Franz had declared to the anxious orchestra managers. “My fellow music patrons and I must do all we can to honor that.”

The seating, already in place before the stage, was hastily multiplied, but it still wasn’t enough for the masses who poured through the gates. Many had brought blankets to spread on the ground, and some their own chairs. By the time the sun set and the field lights came on, the Zeppelinfeld audience throbbed with anticipation, as if waiting to exhale.

When the musicians’ buses finally pulled up to the gate and stopped, some in the expectant audience rose. Then others. Finally, all. In tuxedoes and long black gowns, the orchestra emerged from the buses with Max and Liesl absorbed within it, almost indistinguishable from the other musicians. For tonight, the soloists had declined the customary featured-artist treatment, no moving about in their own bubble of stardom.

As they all filed through the main gate, a thunderous applause broke out inside the arena, stopping the musicians cold. They gaped at the sight. They’d been told the audience had grown rapidly, but they weren’t prepared for this. Max and Liesl were so startled by the enormity and apparent spontaneity of the audience, they had to be prompted to keep up with the others now advancing toward the stage. Liesl stole glances at Cade, on the front row next to Ben and Anna. The go-for-it set of her husband’s handsome face transmitted strength to her.

The applause continued until everyone had mounted the steps and moved into position. Max and Liesl remained partially hidden behind the bass section. Knowing the scarcity of printed programs for the unexpected surge in the crowd, the conductor would announce each piece. In passable German, he prefaced the first introduction with this: “The appearance of the Israel Philharmonic on these grounds would have been historic enough. But what you have done here tonight surpasses even that. On behalf of all our musicians, we thank you for this unprecedented display of support.”

When Max and Liesl finally stepped forward, the applause was so explosive, it sent a tremor through the metal undergirding of the stage. They took their positions in front of the orchestra, pausing long enough to smile and bow with gratitude. But Max felt like kneeling before them, to beg their forgiveness. He’d done nothing to deserve such affection, such solidarity with him. Solidarity with what? The wreckage and shame of his family? His fugitive father who’d met such a vile end. The scourge of the Holocaust that refused to relieve him of its curse, its possessive hold on him.
These people know none of this! And I can’t tell them. I can only play what they’ve come to hear.
And that was reason enough to take up his violin and escape into the music. A cellist from the orchestra joined Max and Liesl, and the conductor announced Beethoven’s
Triple Concerto
, a favorite of German audiences.

The strings of the orchestra opened with the familiar five-note theme of the concerto, to which the remaining instruments added their timbre. Poised and ready, the three musicians in front took their cue and joined the powerful piece. And the night began.

At that moment in a small town southeast of Moscow, law enforcement officers of the Investigative Committee of Russia surrounded the elegant residence of a socialite known long ago for her liaison with President Arkady Glinka. The house was dark and still until the officers broke down the front door and waved flashlights on a room-by-room search. They found Glinka in bed with the woman, too inebriated to effectively wield the handgun he grabbed from the nightstand—or to resist arrest for the murder of Dimitri Gorev.

News of the arrest was immediately relayed to President Noland, now seated with FBI Director Rick Salabane in the Oval Office. It was midday in Washington. “I am frankly surprised at the speed at which your Russian counterparts moved on this, Rick.”

“That packet of documents Max Morozov took from his father was undeniably genuine,” Salabane reported. “Ironic that it came from a master forger. Our Russian friends tell me they’d had their suspicions about Glinka, but no evidence of his hand in Gorev’s assassination. The bigger job for them now is rounding up the rest of Ivan’s people, some of them still in power.”

“But Ivan obviously didn’t consider Glinka one of his people any longer, or he wouldn’t have ordered Maxum to gather such proof.” Noland paused. “Now, I want to shift to another matter, something I want you to tend to right away. Everything you’ve got on Max Morozov, the son, and Liesl Bower is to be pushed as far down a classified crack as you can get it. I’ve ordered the same with the CIA, the national security team, and everybody else who interfaced with those two during this whole Russian debacle. The Israeli prime minister joins me in this and is issuing the same orders in his country. I don’t want any reporter picking up even the faintest whiff of how embedded Max and Liesl were in all this.

“That goes for Evgeny Kozlov, too,” the president added with emphasis. “Short of a presidential pardon, I want him off the radar and buried out of reach in those same files. He didn’t set out to serve our national interests, but I don’t know many who’ve helped avert greater disaster for our country.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“And hurry. The media bloodhounds are circling.”

At the conclusion of the
Triple Concerto
and lengthy applause, Liesl, Max and the cellist returned to their seats at the back of the stage and waited for the orchestra to complete two of Bach’s
Brandenburg Concerti.
It pleased them all to summon two of Germany’s finest composers on such a remarkable night, though when the program was selected months ago, no one could have known the turn of events that would draw so many of the composers’ countrymen together for this concert.

Liesl gazed at Max’s profile, chiseled in something immovable. She’d never seen him so rigid. Even his playing of the sometimes melancholy
Triple Concerto
had lacked his usual eloquence, like he was playing just to reach the end. Liesl squeezed her eyes closed.
He hurts, Lord. Lift him.

High in the Ural Mountains, a Russian military unit moved quietly into place around the entrance to what used to be a mine shaft. Their orders had reached them just hours before they launched the raid. In the dark, they counted down to the moment of surprise, then simultaneously stormed two small barracks and the gateway to the weapons factory. Accompanied by a hazmat team, they entered the underground facility and were grateful to find so few on duty inside.

Later, the unit commander phoned his assessment to Moscow authorities: three crated weapons ready for shipment. Two more in process and enough weapons-grade chemical and biological materials to disable much of the country. There was no doubt which one.

“Sir,” the commander reported to his superior, “there was an American flag taped to each crate.”

“Shut it down.”

When the conductor motioned to her, Liesl rose from her seat, feeling Max’s hand lightly grip hers and squeeze. Without looking down at him, she squeezed it back then wound her way through the orchestra to the concert grand. It was time. She bowed and looked into the first row of seats where Cade beamed with something close to victory.

This would be the first time she had publicly performed Tchaikovsky’s
Grand Sonata
since her Harvard music professor Schell Devoe buried a code in a fateful copy of it.

Now, Cade’s words returned to her:
It’s time she chased off its demons.
The sonata had been the grappling hook that had dragged her, and later Max, into something they were still trying to escape. Was it finally time?