22
Changi Airport
August 30, 5:30 a.m. SGT
Rob and I arrived at Changi Airport three hours before our 8:45 a.m. departure. Dawn was still an hour and a half away, the coming day’s heat only a promise in the soft air. Faint stars shone in a milky sky as we disembarked with our luggage and headed inside.
We were met at customs by a woman from the funeral home, who assured us that Cassandra would be well cared for during the flight. We signed additional paperwork with a customs official, then watched as airport attendants rolled away her casket.
Rob put his arm around my shoulders. He didn’t look as if he’d slept any better than I had. He was still on Seattle time, which meant the night was just starting for him. We settled in the United Airlines lounge, ordered breakfast, and watched the sky grow light. While Rob was pouring coffee, I opened my laptop and typed “Phillip Weber” in the search field and then narrowed my query down to “Phillip Weber of the CIA in Singapore.” I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just operating on a hunch—something about Weber antagonized Rob. And Rob had lied about how long it had been since they’d seen each other.
I hoped information would pop up since Weber was a declared officer. But there wasn’t anything, not even a photo on the embassy website.
There was also very little information about Weber’s most recent years, which made sense given he worked for one of the most secretive intelligence agencies in the world. But according to a variety of articles and profiles, he had spent the first twenty years of his adulthood hunting Nazis, with a focus on Austrians who had been involved in the Final Solution. This wasn’t an insignificant number; according to websites, 70 percent of those heading up concentration camps were Austrian. And most Austrians had welcomed the Nazi invasion of Austria.
The skin on my shoulders tingled, as if someone had opened a door to a cold Austrian winter. My great-grandparents had lived out the war in the town of Mattsee before immigrating to America. Josef Brenner had been a master craftsman and operations manager for a successful shipbuilding firm—there were a great many lakes and rivers in landlocked Austria.
What if the great family secret wasn’t that Pop and Nana were Jews hiding behind a protective mask of Catholicism? What if instead of the hunted, they were the hunters? It would certainly explain Rob’s antagonism toward Weber. On the other hand, if Pop had been a Nazi collaborator, why hadn’t Weber exposed him?
I told myself I was overreacting. Making mountains out of molehills, as Rob often said. But I couldn’t shake off my unease. The only thing our parents got right is that family is the most important thing, Cass had written, and for that reason we owe ourselves the truth.
Frantically, like a squirrel looking for its lost stash of nuts and acorns, I started entering search queries, using Boolean operators to be as specific as possible:
Josef Brenner AND Nazi Party AND Austria
Josef Brenner AND Nazis
Phillip Weber AND Josef Brenner OR Robert Brenner
The last query—Phillip Weber and Robert Brenner—led me to an article in the Yale Alumni Magazine that featured both men. A Yale journalism student had tracked down the former top players on the Bulldogs tennis team to get their thoughts on how their years as tennis aces had impacted their careers. Weber and Rob had been the stars on a team from the top-ranked Ivy League school. They had alternated as captain for their first three undergraduate years, and both claimed to have learned teamwork and leadership skills that had served them well in their careers.
Before their fourth year, Uncle Rob had dropped off the team.
In the interview, Weber spoke about his remarkable time as a Nazi hunter, saying, “The Webers suffered terribly during the war. Most of my grandmother’s family in Austria were murdered. I decided to set myself up as a lone crusader for justice. Of course, I had some help.” Here, according to the journalist, Weber had winked.
I looked up from my laptop. “Rob? What kind of law enforcement was Phil Weber in?”
Rob didn’t look up from his phone. “Not sure. Interpol, maybe?”
Rob didn’t know. I took that as a good sign and returned to my screen.
Weber had certainly had success. Over the twenty years he’d spent tracking down former SS members, Nazi officers, and collaborators, he’d assisted local authorities in South Africa, Canada, and Venezuela in arresting and detaining six of the Nazi Party’s cruelest instruments of the Final Solution. A seventh had died under mysterious circumstances, and Weber was briefly questioned by the police in Rio.
I bookmarked the article and kept probing, moving from one search engine to another.
Forty minutes later, I sat back with relief. For a moment I’d been terrified that my great-grandfather had been on the wrong side in the modern world’s greatest moral battle. But I’d found nothing to suggest Josef should be on Weber’s list of former Nazis and collaborators.
Maybe Cass’s theory was right: Pop and Nana were Jews who’d decided to conceal their identities.
I looked up at Rob again. “How did you and Weber meet?”
Rob sipped his coffee and held the ceramic mug in both hands. “What’s the fascination with Weber?” His voice had taken on the rasp of burred metal.
I turned my laptop to show him the screen with the article on the Yale tennis team.
Rob rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we both attended Yale. And we played tennis together. What about it?”
“Articles about Weber say his family was originally from Austria. You two must have talked about the old country and your families.”
“Weber talked. His family was important. Wealthy. Politically connected until the war and then again, years later. My grandfather was a mere boatman, far beneath the notice of people like the Webers.”
A bitter note undergirded Rob’s usually smooth demeanor. “Is that why you left the team?” I asked.
“I left because of a torn ACL. I had surgery two weeks before the start of the season.”
“I’m sorry.”
He set down his coffee and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s ancient history. Look, my dear, we need to focus. I can’t stay in Seattle for more than a week. Two at the most. Our delivery date is coming up fast. The first sea trial is scheduled for October eighteenth. That’s seven weeks away.”
I drew in my breath. Time for my pitch. “I need you to stay in Seattle with me, Rob. The family should be together. Owen Ewing and Andrew Declough are first rate—having them in Singapore allows us to manage Red Dragon from Seattle.”
“You really are turning into your father.” The burr had sharpened.
“I have my reasons. Please, Rob. Promise me you’ll at least consider it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What if Mèng gets cold feet because we’ve run away and decides to hire Paxton to finish Red Dragon ?”
“This late in the game? He won’t.” I couldn’t tell Rob the truth: that by going to Paxton, Mèng knew he would be walking into a trap. “But even if he does, we’ll get paid for our work, and we’ll get credit for the design. Then we move on to other billionaires, starting with Matthew Hoffman. We will land on our feet. But I need you with me. Guy is ...” Dying, I almost said. Maybe it was time to break my deal with my father and tell Rob that in a matter of months—already shorn of Cass—we would go from four to three. Time to batten down the hatches.
But Rob’s gaze had turned inward; he didn’t seem to be listening.
My phone pinged. A message from United Airlines.
“It’s almost time to board,” I said. I would tell Rob about Guy on the plane.
We stood, gathered our belongings, then walked to the gate. As we waited for the announcement for priority boarding, Rob touched my sleeve.
“Old man’s bladder. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll watch your carry-on.” Rob had left most of his belongings in storage at Raffles for his planned return.
He shook his head. “I need something in there. Go ahead and board and order a scotch on the rocks for me. I won’t be a minute.”
I boarded and settled in and watched the stream of passengers moving toward the economy section. I felt bad for these travelers—I’d done enough international travel in economy to know how miserable it could be.
I pulled my laptop out of my carry-on and slid it into the seat pocket. Then I dug through my purse for my phone and checked my messages. I answered two from Emily and another from Owen Ewing.
By the time I was finished, Rob still hadn’t reappeared. But the plane would be boarding for at least another half hour. I opened my laptop and forced myself to focus on Red Dragon ’s scheduling details. I shot off an email to Andrew, requesting that he close a task and asking him to keep me apprised.
I looked up when the pilot introduced himself over the speaker and said that we’d be departing shortly. I dialed Rob but got no answer. When a flight attendant walked past, I stopped him.
“I’m concerned,” I said. “My uncle hasn’t boarded.”
The attendant checked his iPad. “Robert Brenner? We’ve made an announcement for him at the gate.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep trying to reach him.”
“I’ll speak with the pilot,” the attendant said. “But we can’t give him more than ten minutes.”
“I understand.” But my heart pounded. I recalled the way he’d grabbed his chest when Weber appeared at our table. What if he’d collapsed in the bathroom? I unbuckled my seat belt, grabbed my belongings, and headed toward the exit.
And ran headlong into Dai Shujun.
Our eyes met; the tiger tattoo on his neck rippled as Dai looked down at me.
A wild card, Connor had called Dai. Brutal, Charlie Han had said. Affiliated with crime syndicates, according to Phil Weber.
I didn’t think Dai was here to protect me from the Second Department.
The flight attendant returned. “I’m sorry, Ms. Brenner. No word from your uncle, but we can’t wait any longer. I need you to return to your seat.” He glanced at Dai. “You as well, sir.”
I pointed at Dai. “This man has been stalking me. Can you please tell him that after we land, I’m going to report him to the authorities if I see him again outside baggage claim?”
The attendant’s expression grew stern. He turned to Dai and spoke rapidly in what I presumed was Mandarin. Dai replied, and the attendant turned back to me.
“He says he is so sorry to alarm you. It is a misunderstanding. He has business and family in San Jose. But I’ll mention him to airport personnel on the ground in San Francisco. For now, please return to your seat.”
But I leaned toward Dai. “I’d better find out that you’re on this flight because your beloved granny lives in San Francisco. If you follow me to my hometown, I’ll report you to the FBI. Am I clear?”
Dai’s expression didn’t change. I held his gaze. My hands were shaking.
“Ms. Brenner,” the flight attendant said.
Dai squeezed past me and headed toward the back of the plane.
“I’m getting off,” I said.
Just then my phone pinged. I glanced down.
I am sorry to abandon you, my darling Nadia. But we must see Red Dragon through. I will be with you in spirit as you and your parents bury our Cassandra. Home soon. DON’T WORRY!
Sudden pain sliced through me. It wasn’t like Rob to abandon both of his nieces.
“Damn it, Rob.” I hovered, undecided. I couldn’t leave Cassandra. Nor could I let Robert face whatever was happening in Singapore alone.
The attendant said, “The door is closing, Ms. Brenner. Are you staying or going?”
Reluctantly, I returned to my seat.
You’re in danger , I texted Rob. Talk to Connor McGrath. Tell him you need protection.
I have Weber. The old bastard will protect me.
Weber???
Yes. Three dots floated on my screen, indicating Rob was still typing. Then, It’s on the Q.T. darling. Forgive my evasiveness but I know the score. Weber has got my back. No worries. I’ll explain all later.
I stabbed at the keyboard. Explain now.
C in on it. We made a deal. We need this for OH. Don’t tell Guy. I love you.
You made a deal with Phil? What deal?
I stared at the green rectangles on my screen. The three dots had disappeared. Rob had gone silent on me.
The plane’s exterior door closed. The flight attendant appeared at my shoulder. “Ms. Brenner, I need you to stow your laptop.”
I tucked the computer in my briefcase and nudged it under the seat. I switched my phone to airplane mode. Around me, passengers donned headsets and began scrolling through the movie options. I swallowed a pill for my usual flight anxiety and watched out the window as the island of Singapore dropped away and the waters of the South China Sea spread below, its rippling blue surface hummocked with distant islands.
Cass and Rob had made a deal with Phil Weber. Weber worked for the CIA. Which meant Rob had known all along the danger Cass was in. And he’d let her face it without him.
I’m responsible for Cass’s death, he’d told me.
Cass had written on her postcard: Remember what Guy used to tell us about trust?
To the vanishing island of Singapore I whispered, “Trust no one.”