Soul Intent Read online

  “The depositary has no records of any activity.”

  I scratched my head. “A soul line collection was broken into sometime in the last sixty-four years, and you want me to solve it?”

  “I want you to find out who broke in and how they did it, and then make sure they cannot do it again,” he said.

  I glanced at Dad as I spoke into the phone. “You do realize how cold the trail could be.”

  A big sigh over the speaker. “Of course I do. But you must realize how important this is. Please come to Sterling, Scott. I need your help.”

  He did pay the bills, and a depositary break-in, no matter how long ago it happened, sounded interesting. “How about we fly up in the morning?” I asked.

  “I will await your arrival,” he said, the relief evident in his voice.

  I disconnected and turned to Dad. “I never would have guessed that Soul Identity deposited Nazi money,” I said.

  “You’d better not tell Lester.”

  Val came down the dock. “Have you seen the girls?” she asked.

  I cupped my hands around my eyes to reduce the glare bouncing off the water, and I tracked the closest boat heading south from the Bay Bridge. “That’s them coming now.”

  “You let them use your boat?” Dad asked.

  “They needed to get their diving credentials re-certified,” I said. “They’ve been taking it out all week.”

  “Let’s hope they sail better than they cook,” he said. He got up and lowered the boatlift into the water.

  While Dad readied the lift, I told Val about Archie’s call. “He’s acting kind of strange,” I said. “I told him we’d fly up tomorrow.”

  She smiled. “I’d love to meet with my team again before our big launch.”

  “Then I’ll book us a room at the guest house.”

  Rose and Marie waved to us and brought the boat close to the dock. Rose sat in the cockpit, and Marie stood at the bow, a coil of rope in her hands. The twins wore huge sunglasses and tiny bikinis. They each sported an official company baseball hat, their long dark hair pulled back into ponytails through the hats’ fasteners.

  “That’s quite the summer uniform,” Dad said. “What if we distributed a company calendar featuring the twins? It would be great advertising for the business.”

  Rose and Marie worked part-time with us, mostly on weekend assignments, as this fit into their freshman-year university schedule. Their exotic Gypsy beauty, happy laughter, and earnest acting made them perfect for their assignments.

  Rose steered the boat into the slip, and Dad raised the boatlift.

  Marie jumped onto the dock. “Sorry we’re late, Scott,” she said. “We had to drive Grandma to the airport this morning.”

  “She’s taking a vacation?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Mr. Morgan asked her to come up to Sterling. Some problem with an old account from the forties that they both worked on.”

  Madame Flora, the twins’ grandmother, operated a palm reading joint here on Kent Island. She recruited Soul Identity members, earning commissions when they matched existing soul lines. My parents and I met her and the twins last year as we started our Soul Identity work.

  Madame Flora’s involvement in Archie’s current predicament didn’t surprise me. The old Gypsy lady’s entanglements with the organization appeared to run deep.

  “Your grandmother’s been working with Archie for a long time,” I said.

  Rose hopped onto the deck. “She told us she first met Mr. Morgan in Germany, right after World War II,” she said.

  “It’s amazing how everybody’s so connected,” Val said to me.

  “What did you girls make for the picnic?” Dad asked.

  “Pasta salad,” Rose said. “Only Marie forgot to peel the onions before she chopped them up.”

  “I was pulling out the little bits of onion paper all morning, bawling my eyes out,” Marie said.

  “And I soaked the pasta all night long, but it never did get soft,” Rose said. “Good thing salad’s supposed to be crunchy.”

  I looked down at the dock, biting my lip and trying not to laugh. Then Rose poked Marie, and the two burst out in giggles.

  “What’s the joke?” I asked.

  “We know you guys never trust our cooking,” Marie said. “We didn’t really make a pasta salad. We ordered pizza.”

  And our fourth annual company picnic was a success. Rose and Marie whipped us all at badminton, Dad and I held court at the barbeque, and Mom and Val cooked up a storm. We sat out under a large maple and told stories about the adventures we had over the past year. When we all were full, Dad got us arranged into a semicircle and handed each of us a red folder.

  “Why so formal?” I asked.

  “It’s our annual report,” Mom said. “Your father worked on it most of the night.”

  Dad had us flip to the first page. “Look at the graph,” he said. “Our business grew by seventeen hundred percent this year.”

  “Your Soul Identity work made up almost half the increase,” Mom said. “But my testing business did even better.”

  Last fall Mom and the twins established a girls-only penetration testing service. The three went out on weekends to various banks and government facilities. They used low-tech hacking to break in, and they held seminars on making security improvements. Every now and then they’d invite Val, Dad, and me to join them on their escapades. Mom had made friends with a bunch of commercial insurance underwriters, and those guys fiercely promoted her services.

  I flipped the page. “How about our costs, Dad?”

  “That’s even better news,” he said. “Our profits are way up. Even after tripling our bonuses, paying taxes, and buying new equipment, our five person company has a little over a million dollars in cash reserves.”

  Smiles all around.

  Val raised her hand. “Have you thought about donating to charity? It’s a great way to give something back to the community.”

  I shrugged. “Honestly, no.” I wasn’t that thrilled with the idea, either. I looked around the circle. “What do you guys think?”

  “It sounds like a good idea,” Mom said, and everybody nodded.

  “If we do this, it has to be a charity that actually uses the money wisely,” I said. “Not some group that eats it up in administrative costs.”

  “You could give us each fifty grand, and let us choose where to donate it,” Dad said.

  Everybody nodded again.

  “I know Grandma gives money to help the Roma in Croatia,” Marie said. “That’s where she grew up.”

  “Those Gypsies don’t waste a dime,” Rose said. “We spent the summer after our junior year over there, helping them build a community center.”

  “Rose and I will donate our portions to Grandma’s fund,” Marie said.

  Rose nodded.

  “I can support that,” Mom said. She nudged Dad with her elbow. “So can you.”

  “It appears I can too,” Dad said.

  I looked at Val, and she nodded. “Let’s make it unanimous,” I said. I turned to the girls. “Find out from your Grandma where we should send the check.”

  “And see if you can get them to write us a press release,” Dad said. “A quarter of a million should buy us some good will.”

  three

  Present Day

  Kent Island, Maryland

  The next morning Val and I caught the early flight from Baltimore to Providence. Ninety minutes later I drove the rental car up to the Soul Identity headquarters gates in Sterling, Massachusetts and whipped out my shiny gold membership card.

  “It’s my first time using this,” I said to the guard.

  After dragging my feet for almost a year, I had finally signed on as a full-fledged Soul Identity member. Bob, our local Soul Identity delivery person, dropped off my membership card and welcome package just last week.

  Val reached out and straightened my collar. “But you’re still wearing black.”

  “Because i
t pays so much more.” At headquarters, employees wore green and contractors wore black. My agreement had Soul Identity paying my outrageously high contractor wages around the clock while I was on assignment. “And because I look better in black,” I added.

  “Don’t you feel guilty, now that you’re a member?”

  Val and I had been having this conversation for the past few months. She felt I was taking advantage of the organization.

  I thought they owed it to me. “I consider it hazard pay,” I said. Last year Andre Feret’s henchmen had blown up our guesthouse in Sterling, shot at us in Maryland, and almost suffocated us in India. Feret himself had threatened to kill us in Venice.

  “Good point,” she said. She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Maybe this assignment will be nice and boring, and then you’ll start wearing green to work.”

  “Let’s hope not.” I parked the car in the underground garage of the three-story, giant yellow clapboard building that was Soul Identity’s world headquarters.

  I punched the “3” on the elevator panel. James’s stool stood empty and dusty in the corner, so I wiped it off, climbed on it, and shouted, “All aboard—next stop overseer floor and depositary!”

  “You do sound like him,” Val said. “I wonder if he’s enjoying his retirement.”

  James had been Soul Identity’s elevator operator until he retired and left for Florida last year. He had provided Val and me with some crucial help and comic relief as we fought against Feret’s shenanigans.

  “My guess is he got bored and took a job on the Disney train,” I said.

  We walked into Archie’s office and saw him sitting around his coffee table with Berry, Ann, and Madame Flora. Berry, once my neighbor on Kent Island, was now Soul Identity’s other overseer. Ann ran the depositary. Madame Flora, still a palm reader, was Rose and Marie’s grandmother and the person who shot Feret. These four made up the organization’s leadership.

  After we greeted everybody, I looked at Ann. “So your impregnable depositary has finally cracked. Somebody broke in?”

  “Back up, Scott,” she said. She sat with her arms crossed and her forehead wrinkled by her scowl. “All our records are in order. There’s been no break-in.”

  “But you know the gold is gone and the documents are missing,” Archie said. His bowtie hung askew, and tufts of his usually neat and trim white hair pointed in all directions. “Tell them, Flora—you were there when we deposited it.”

  “I was there, but all I know is what you told me,” Madame Flora said. “As you will recall, that wasn’t much at all.”

  The two of them glared at each other.

  After a minute of silence, Berry turned to face me. “These three have been going at it all morning. Mr. Morgan says somebody robbed a soul line collection, and Ann says there’s no way anybody broke in. Flora’s acting mysterious as usual.” He let out a sigh and stood up. “Glad you made it, Scott. You can get to the bottom of this, and I can get back to my work.”

  Val patted me on the shoulder. “I’m going too—my team’s waiting in the dungeon.”

  As the door closed behind them, I took Berry’s chair and looked at Ann. “Whose soul line collection was it?” I asked.

  “We’ve been waiting for you to get here so he’d start spilling the beans,” she said.

  Madame Flora gripped the arms of her chair, and I could see her wiry arm muscles straining against her wrinkled forearms. “There should be no bean-spilling,” she said. “I strongly suggest that we let those sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Relax, Flora,” Archie said. “Scott will perform his investigation with discretion.” He looked at me.

  “You have my word on it,” I said.

  Archie nodded. “Then I shall start at the point where I stepped off the Swiss ferry and entered post-war Germany.”

  four

  July 1946

  Freidrichshafen, Occupied Germany

  Archibald Morgan hopped onto the hot front seat of the green Willys-Overland Jeep. His green bowtie, white shirt, and green slacks were still spotless, but badly wrinkled, after three days of travel.

  He rocked back and forth until the springs fit properly against his legs and back. The map showed a three hundred kilometer journey from the shores of Lake Bodensee to Nuremberg, and with Germany’s vaunted autobahns still a mess, he expected the trip to last most of the day.

  The driver tossed Morgan’s luggage into the back of the Jeep. Then he buttoned the tarp and climbed behind the steering wheel. He wiped his brow, smoothed the wrinkles out of his green uniform, and jabbed the starter button. “We’re all set, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “Next stop, Nuremberg.”

  Morgan cocked his head at the driver. “It appears you worked for the railroads before the war.”

  “Assistant conductor on the Toledo—Cleveland line until forty-one, when I joined Soul Identity.” The driver stuck out his hand. “First Sergeant James Little, Mr. Morgan.”

  Morgan looked at his hand. “First Sergeant?”

  The driver’s eyes widened. Then he shook his head and chuckled. “I’ve got to remember I’m back to deliveries now that the war’s over. James Little, sir. My own line’s got fifty-six years of service.”

  They shook hands.

  “How long a drive is it, Mr. Little?” Morgan asked.

  “It’s James, sir,” he said. “Four hours, if there’s no truck accidents, so call it six to be safe.”

  “That is faster than I had hoped for.”

  James shook his head. “And then we have two more hours for the American checkpoint.”

  Morgan nodded. “We had better get going then.”

  “Yes sir.” James pulled the Jeep onto the road and steered around the potholes. He reached behind the bench and brought out a dull green steel case the size of a lunchbox. A small brass padlock dangled from the front of it. “Mr. Morgan, this package arrived in the Nuremberg office yesterday afternoon.”

  Morgan took the case and examined it. It weighed only a pound or so. The wax seal covering the padlock’s keyhole showed no signs of tampering, and he carefully peeled it off.

  Morgan unknotted his bowtie, unbuttoned his collar, reached inside his shirt, and withdrew a key on a long chain necklace. He unlocked the padlock, then turned and used his body to shield the case from James. The hinges screeched as he opened the lid. He took a deep breath, then reached inside and pulled out a green velvet cloth bag.

  A tap on his shoulder caused Morgan to whirl around and slam the lid shut. “Mr. Little, I must request privacy.” His words cut through the stifling hot air.

  James pulled back and frowned. “Sorry, Mr. Morgan. I’m supposed to watch you at all times.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Watch from a distance.” He turned back to examine the contents.

  five

  Present Day

  Sterling, Massachusetts

  “And that was how my first European overseer assignment started,” Archie said.

  I thought about the last few wars we fought, and how long it took for the violence to quell even after we declared it over. “Germany must have been a mess in 1946,” I said.

  He nodded. “James told me that when he arrived in Nuremberg that June, the local resistance still strung telephone wires across the highways at night. They decapitated many of our soldiers before they were caught.”

  I remembered learning about Nuremberg in school. The Allies held the Nazi war crimes trials there because the city’s courthouse was one of the few to survive the Allied bombings.

  “Why would Soul Identity send an overseer to collect a deposit?” I asked. “Especially to such a dangerous place.”

  “The size of the deposit and the significance of the member,” Archie said. He frowned. “Also, I was the youngest, and I suppose the most expendable, overseer.”

  That made sense. Now on to the driver. “Is First Sergeant Little also known as James the elevator man?”

  Archie smiled. “The one and the same.”

&nbs
p; “After he was injured in Nuremberg,” Madame Flora said, “Archibald let him run the elevator. He rode that little box-cage up and down until he retired last year.”

  Archie frowned. “Please, Flora, your out-of-sequence comments only serve to complicate my story.”

  I hoped she’d continue. Fortunately she appeared to agree with me.

  “Complicate your story?” she asked. “You’re about to bore us with your long road trip and introduce us to each pothole James drove you through.” She pointed at him. “Maybe you’re right—Scott can help us with a thorough investigation. I’ll tell the next part.”

  six

  July 1946

  Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

  Flora straddled the window sill, sitting where the glass would have been if the house hadn’t been bombed. She let her right leg dangle out over the patch of scorched earth below. Her left leg rested inside, her foot on top of the remaining glass shards she had plucked out of the frame.

  While she waited, she leafed through the pages of an overseas January issue of Life Magazine that she had found at the last refugee camp. “Baba, you wouldn’t believe what they’re saying here,” she said.

  Baba sat on the dirty floor in the corner of the room with her head tucked tight against her chest. She had been dozing much more often since they reached Germany. Her heart just couldn’t keep up, and even on this stifling hot summer day, she shivered in her sleep.

  She’d just have to keep shivering until the overseer finally arrived and the suspicious housekeeper across the street let them inside the big house.

  If the overseer actually did arrive. It had taken four weeks for Flora and her grandmother to stumble their way from the Istrian city of Umag to Nuremberg—and though Baba still claimed they would eventually make it to America, Flora remained convinced they were chasing yet another broken dream.

  Just a week ago their last hope of finding Flora’s father had been dashed at Dachau. The bearer of the dreaded news: a now-imprisoned concentration camp guard. He gleefully told them how a Nazi doctor and an SS officer had killed a hundred Jews and Gypsies to better understand how downed Luftwaffe pilots could survive a prolonged ice-water submersion. Apparently the method they used for Papa’s resuscitation failed, and he was gone. Unfixable. Just like the glass pane in whose space she now sat.