1 Amy
7:30AM
June 2, 1958
Morehead City, North Carolina
Three years before Martin Kellner shot himself, and not that far from where I had lived for the first 16 years of my life, Amy Brand only had a week and a half of school before summer break; and she was more than ready for it when she stepped out of the narrow frame house at 814 8th Street to walk the two blocks to Morehead City High School.
It was certainly more boring without her best friend, Maryanne Tolbert, who was out sick with a mysterious case of food poisoning.
To Amy, everything meant something deeper than what most folks saw on the surface.
She didn't want to have a negative attitude. That was about the worst thing a young girl could have, because guys didn't care for that too much. And if she ever hoped to one day get married and lead a perfect life she really needed to get it together and stop being so dark.
At least that's what her mother and all of her friends told her—including Maryanne; and she was the smartest person Amy knew.
But darn it, she thought. For Maryanne to be the only one in a household of five to come down with food poisoning just seemed implausible—a word Amy could not remember ever having heard or used in a spoken sentence or even thought. But implausible was the only rational explanation for a girl like Maryanne Tolbert to get food poisoning. The girl had an iron stomach, never ever having so much as a stomach ache no matter how many stale cookies she ate.
Later, Amy would wonder if she had known what awaited her up ahead on that bright sunny morning would she have turned around? The question would occupy her mind for years, because she really had no answer.
Would she have marched back to her house and told her mother she was sick?
Or continued to walk right into the inevitable—a word Amy had heard long ago but never used herself.
The little voice in her head loved to use fancy words.
Now that little voice was blasting like a loudspeaker at a football game.
Inevitable.
Inevitable.
This was just one of the things on Amy's mind as she walked to school that humid morning. Over the past few months, her always active imagination had seemed to operate on some other frenzied level.
Sometimes, she was convinced she could actually read the thoughts of people around her. And that was a curse—whether actually happening or not—that would mess up the mind of a sixteen year old girl.
Later, she would also wonder whether to blame herself for being distracted by these idle thoughts while she was obviously being hunted by dangerous people.
As she approached Arendell Street, she saw the same black Chevy, with the same rust spot near the back passenger door, she had seen one too many times over the past week. The car stood out to her but that wasn't enough to get her father involved. He had enough on his mind with his job as a police officer in Carteret County.
Lots of racial fights had kept him busy. No way she was going to tell her dad she had seen a strange car around town. Lots of people drove through to get to the beach. What was one more unknown car?
The Chevy had been parked in a nearly empty parking lot when she passed it. The driver wasn't even in it.
It's just a car, she thought.
Not just a car, the voice said. You'll see.
Then the Chevy passed her with its windows down and All I Have To Do Is Dream playing on the radio. The driver wore dark sunglasses.
Without thinking she memorized the license plate: NC-4471. The numbers burned in her mind like a brand, though she couldn't say why she was certain she'd never get the chance to report them.
You won't get the chance to report it, the voice said.
Amy was now in the heart of Morehead City's commercial district. She paused at the corner. The railroad tracks gleamed dully in the morning sun, running straight down the center of the street like a steel spine. To her left, the marquee of the City Theatre blazed with black letters against white: "NOW SHOWING - TOUCH OF EVIL - ORSON WELLES."
She passed Murphy's Five & Dime—the same song playing inside. Mr. Murphy must have gotten in early.
It seemed completely normal. But it wasn't.
She turned right, walking east along Arendell for half a block before the school's route would take her back south. That's when she saw the car again: idling at the far end of the street near the fish houses, its engine running. Waiting.
The attack came faster than anything Amy had yet experienced in her short life. One moment she was looking at the safety of the school's brick entrance; the next, big powerful hands came from behind and grabbed her by the skull, pushing her toward the waiting vehicle. Helpless to scream, stop, or even fight back.
The most horrible sight—what she would always remember as the moment she lost all hope—was the trunk of the car. It was popped open just for her.
A rag went over her mouth as she was being lifted and then tossed. Right before she lost consciousness—as her morning ended before even starting—she heard her body making a tiny thud as she landed in the open trunk. And one word kept flashing through her mind in ugly red letters: INEVITABLE.
Maryanne Tolbert wouldn't be the only absence that day. In fact, the entire town would be plunged into a mystery that wouldn't be resolved until I became involved.
But that would take years.
2 Club Swanky
11 PM
June 19, 1961
Berlin Station Parking lot
Fasanenstraße 12
Charlottenburg, Berlin
Criminals always leave something behind. It's up to the investigator to do two things. Find what was left behind and tie it back to the perpetrator.
Locard's Exchange Principle
Suicides in the Wild West days of Berlin Station were always tricky. Were they real or murder?
Martin Kellner (aka Freddie) had supposedly shot himself in a crowded club. We had one witness who had come forward with that story.
The Stasi only said he was dead. And the body was missing.
One of our men had seen a body in the morgue. It wasn't Kellner.
Then, one day after talking to us, the witness to this suicide—Gunter (aka MANTLE)—walked into the apartment he shared with his sister, pulled out his revolver, shot her, his nephew, and then turned the gun on himself.
Case closed?
Even though lately the city seemed to be suffering an epidemic of self inflicted headshots, Gunter had seemed no more jumpy than the average fellow when we met. Sure, I sensed a certain degree of fear, but he would have been nuts to not be afraid of the Stasi picking him up.
Dead ends?
It didn't matter to me. I was being sent back to the states. And so was Gunter's first handler, Dwight Anderson, who was unceremoniously being retired.
Apparently, someone wanted no loose ends on this case.
I didn't dare try to contact Viktor Brenner—had to assume he had already heard about my teaching assignment at Duke.
Not reporting the number Viktor Brenner had given me was a violation, but with Davidson around there was no way I was tipping my hand.
I didn't want to be the next suicide victim.
There were so many doubts keeping my conspiracy-believing mind busy. Who else knew Viktor's secret?
Every moment I had left at Berlin Station was spent burying Brenner's number deeper in my mind.
On my last night, Taylor and I met for drinks in what we had taken to calling Cafe Swanky; it consisted of us sharing vodka in a deserted parking lot.
We were still being watched, but we had ways of creating ambient noise. Turning up both car radios to Voice of America, which created a stereo effect, was a favorite.
I chose my words carefully.
"I don't get it," I said. "Davidson is a suit. Why is he running field work in the hottest spot on Earth?"
"I don't know, it seems North Carolina is pretty hot right now," Taylor said.
I gave him a sideways look. "You know what I mean."
"Davidson does the dirty work for the agency—the stuff nobody talks about; doesn't end up in any reports."
"Don't you think it's odd we have such a strange situation and this guy comes in and gets rid of me?"
"I do. And there is nothing—I mean nothing—we can do about it."
"I Don't trust this guy" I said. "He is out of control, going to report what he wants. I'm worried. We both have short wave radios."
"We could send each other secret messages?" He took a drink. "Look, Yellow, you are not allowed to worry about me."
After a few drinks, Taylor had the annoying habit of calling me Yellow. The name was a code name used throw off anyone trying to trace who was sending out cables.
Sometimes I wondered if actually thought that was my actual my first name.
"This place is getting more dangerous everyday."
We both knew I was no safer in the states than Berlin. The danger was likely worse.
And Taylor only knew the part about my going to spy on college professors. He knew nothing about my search for what Viktor Brenner wanted me to know about him. It was the kind of research that would definitely get me fired if discovered.
Finishing off my glass, I brought up one last piece of information—something I was sure Taylor had to be considering.
"The sister, Ellen, she had to have known something."
He was back to the bad sigh, thinking back to our lunch with Gunter. "Yeah, I know."
"Knowing too much about that place is a death sentence, my friend."
"Do me a favor," I said. "I know you have to officially close out the file on MANTLE, but you should quietly snoop around Kontra. There is something there. Bad."
"Got it, boss," Taylor said, laughing. "Just stay out of trouble and do a good job so you can get back here in a few months."
"I'm dead serious. And only use sources you and I have vetted. None of the usual company contacts. And if Anderson brings in a contact... "
"Yellow, your distrust of the system is truly impressive. Besides, I know a little about field work."
"Just watch your back," I said.
Taking a swig straight from the bottle, he nodded, knowing I was right to be worried.
3 Awake
Late afternoon
June 2, 1958
Safe house, Chinatown, NYC
Amy woke with a headache so bad she wanted to vomit. Expecting to see the darkness of the trunk of the car they had thrown her in before she lost consciousness, she wasn't prepared to find herself lying on a bed in a dimly lit bedroom.
She was confused. Had she imagined being kidnapped? Was she in the school's sick room? It sure wasn't her bedroom.
She was on top of a bed in a room with lights so dim it was a moment before she realized the silhouette of someone sitting in the corner. The only light was the orange tip of their cigarette.
"Please don't hurt me," she said.
"Hurt you? I could never hurt you. I only want to help you."
Later, she told me it was in his calm steady voice where she finally almost lost all control.
Now she was terrified, as she fought to not cry—something she had yet to do.
"Who are you? Why can't I see your face? I want to go home."
"I wouldn't concern yourself with my face. One day... maybe."
At that moment a wave of emotion followed by dizziness hit her right between the eyes.
Flashes of light—like fireworks—filled her peripheral vision. Then everything was coming in flashes.
Her abduction was replaying in her mind.
She saw the school entrance—and she was almost there. Then the stopped car. The open trunk. The violent push from behind.
Amy was tumbling through space—and it would seem time—waking up in another room—a hospital. But it couldn't be real. She had only been to the hospital exactly one time in her life.
And she had... Heard. The. Same. Voice.
4 Broken Bones
12 years earlier
Morehead City, North Carolina
Amy had been riding patrol with her father—a rare treat since he seemed always on duty lately—when the red truck had run through the stop sign without even slowing down; she had been sitting in the front passenger seat.
The absolute violence of the crash would stay with her for the rest of her life.
An old Ford truck served as one of the city ambulances that transported her to Carteret General Hospital. She had a broken nose, from slamming into a dashboard and a small cut that would require a stitch; it would be a scar—a reminder.
Both her legs had been broken, meaning a week in the hospital, and a miserable summer wearing casts.
At first, she hadn't minded the stay at all. The people were nice, and they served her a steady diet of ice cream and jello.
But on the second day there was a very young doctor who was visiting for some reason. All the nurses said he was dreamy. She saw darkness—danger.
For weeks after going home, she had the same dream of trying to warn everyone this doctor—who they all loved—was really a monster.
Even at four she knew. Even if she couldn't remember his face now, she remembered the feeling.
She remembered a thought. Suave. Sophisticated. Rich. That can sometimes mask being insane.
It was a strange thought for a four year old.
And the voice. He had a southern accent—but it was sophisticated. She didn't know what that meant; only that it was unforgettable.
But the little voice in her head knew what it meant. It screamed the same word, over and over.
Inevitable.
5 Realization
Late afternoon
June 2, 1958
Safe house, Chinatown, NYC
Sitting in this dark room, hearing that voice speaking to her across fourteen years, she remembered.
"I know who you are," she said. "You're the creep from the hospital."
Through the darkness, she felt him smiling at her.
And something else—so strange it took her breath away. He seemed pleased she remembered him.
6 Food
A man brought Amy a burger and grape Nehi. He had not given her his name, but she somehow knew it was Sully Brown, a guy who worked for the doctor. Sully had a weak mind, and that's why she knew his name. Knew he was terrified of her.
He had put something in the grape soda.
She was starving, having not eaten anything since leaving her home for school.
How long had that even been?
She ate the burger, ignored the Nehi—usually her favorite.
Then her thirst started to grow. She asked for water.
Weak-minded-Sully brought her a giant glass of ice cold water. She ignored that also.
Finally, someone else brought her a new grape Nehi, and this time no alarm bells went off in her head.
Feeling like she had won a small battle she gulped down every drop of it.
Nothing weird happened to her, so she sat and waited for the inevitable to happen.
7 Travel
6 PM Local Time
June 19, 1961
Keflavik, Iceland
The day felt like it was never going to end. I had started traveling at 10 AM, but looking up at the sun hanging in the Keflavik sky, it still seemed like mid-afternoon.
So far, no one had tried to kill me yet, but I was still a long way from home. At least I had a chance to breathe fresh air, after being stuck on transports all day. They were bumpy, noisy, and I had a headache from the odor of aviation fuel.
Living as a spy means living under a microscope, never feeling completely alone—never free to do something without being watched.
The trip back to the states came with risks, since I had no idea who might be watching me. My whole life, a sixth sense had guided me; let me know when danger was near. In my seat, cruising home, I felt sure there were no professionals watching me.
The job called for me to assume the worst; to never fully trust my gut. Even the most powerful intuition was sometimes wrong.
This was an uncompromising business where it only took one time being wrong to end it all.
Forty more minutes before refueling was done and we were wheels up again.
For all my mental complaining, military travel offered a hundred times less exposure than flying commercial, but the thought of climbing back into the aluminum tube that was the C-135—now loaded with twenty-five contractors and regular military rotating home—was discouraging.
I trusted the military; not the contractors.
8 Observation
Late evening
June 3, 1958
Safe house, Chinatown, NYC
Hardy had been watching Amy the entire time through a closed circuit camera.
"She knows the ones that are drugged," he said, "Impressive."
"And she remembers you," Sully said. "How is that even possible? Maybe we shouldn't be messing around with... "
"With what?" Hardy cut him off. "If you're going to build a bomb, you have to work with explosive materials."
"I'm just saying this is starting to feel like a bad idea. She scares me."
"Stop being a baby. Good God, you're the one who threw her into the trunk of a car."
"That's before I knew what she was."
"And what exactly is she?"
"Dangerous."
"Everybody is dangerous. Some more so than others."
"Okay, then. She's lots more dangerous than others."
Hardy looked up from what he was reading.
"Is it money, Sul? Is that your problem?"
"The money is fine." Sully already had enough money. This girl scared him when she looked at him. Scared him bad.
Her eyes tore into his brain—soul—and he was sure eventually they would drive him insane. To him, it seemed inevitable.
Keep going:
Part 4 Welcome To The Inevitable
Monthly
Former Fortune 500 consultant. Published in The Federalist. Now writing the Cold War Sci-Fi Thriller Ghost Station.