27
Seattle, Washington / Salzburg, Austria
September 22, 1:00 a.m. PDT
After midnight, while Guy and Isabeth slept, I pulled on a coat and boots and went outside. The night was dark and filled with stars, the prickly silhouettes of western hemlocks swaying in the salt-laden breeze. I seated myself on the porch stairs where I’d found Guy earlier.
I thought for a time about Singapore and Dai Shujun’s threat on the boat. George had told me that Dai would disappear like smoke once Red Dragon was delivered. I was sure he believed it. But after seeing the Guóānbù agent tonight, I realized that if Ocean House expanded into Asia, Dai Shujun and men like him would always be there, waiting and watching.
I had no answers, of course. I knew only that Ocean House, if she were to survive and grow, needed Asia. And I was tired of being intimidated. Tired of running and looking over my shoulder. It was time to get into the game, even if I had no idea what that would look like.
After a while I put aside those thoughts as having no immediate solution. I took the brooch out of my pocket and studied Sisi’s portrait in the faint light while I rolled around my father’s words as if I were a Greek Sisyphus laboring to push a grudging boulder up a hill.
My great-grandfather was a Nazi. And not a casual one. An early joiner. Enthusiastic. Eager. Willing to risk prison for the cause. Guy’s words had stripped away my long-ago memories of Pop as a hardworking, frugal, but kind man, and a different person had emerged. In my adult eyes, Pop’s warm gaze chilled to brutal steel; his broad shoulders and knotted laborer’s hands became tools of a vast killing machine. The Sisyphean task with which I labored was conflating the great-grandfather of my childhood—with his offerings of warm slices of streuselkuchen, his bags of Mozart-Bonbons, and our outings to zoos and butterfly gardens—with a Nazi who stood by while soldiers shuttled women and children to their deaths.
I pocketed the brooch, then laced a hand around one knee and braced my spine against the stairs.
How well do we ever know anyone?
How well did I know myself?
Before Singapore, I’d been confident. I was educated, smart, attractive. Able to meet billionaires where they stood and convince them to buy a multimillion-dollar toy. Even Guy’s drowning game, cruel though some might see it, had convinced me that I could survive and help others survive.
But Cass’s death and Connor’s invitation to the spy world had blasted me.
What if, I now thought, I was more defined by other aspects of my personality—my fear of flying and spiders, my refusal to bear a tattoo artist’s needle until after Cass died. Even my lifelong willingness to accept family secrets without question?
And—especially—my terrified bolt from Singapore.
Cass had said it herself, and now I had the tattoo on my shoulder to prove it: I was Yin, soft and feminine. Willing to yield to stronger forces.
Wind whistled through the eaves. Shivering in the cold, I took stock and recognized that something inside me had to change. At some point I would be master of Ocean House. I would guide her destiny. How well could I lead if I couldn’t hold a tarantula—metaphorical or real—in my palm?
I decided that next week’s yacht show in Monaco—the glitziest show of the year—would be where I’d make my first mark as the heir of Ocean House. We were up for several design awards against Paxton Yachts. The ceremony would be my best opportunity to own our past. And to forge a new path.
I glanced at my phone. It was now Monday in Austria, the respectable hour of 10:00 a.m. Time to put teeth into my developing plan to liberate Ocean House from the past. I would do it for pragmatic reasons, so that men like Phil Weber couldn’t blackmail us. But also for moral ones, because we must own who we were and are. Guy had said he didn’t know our entire story. Rob might, but I wasn’t willing to count on him telling me the truth. The only way forward was to do my own due diligence. I dialed the number for the Salzburger Landesarchiv—the Salzburg Provincial Archives.
A man answered in German. “Salzburger Landesarchiv. Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?” How may I help you?
I stumbled through my high school German. “Gibt es jemanden, der Englisch spricht und etwas im Archiv für mich überprüfen kann?” Is there someone who speaks English and can check something in the archives for me?
The man switched to English. “Yes, of course. You want one of our archivists. I will transfer you to Frau Hinterleitner.”
When the woman came on the line, I told her that my sister had been researching our family history but that she had recently passed away. I wanted to continue her work. Cassandra had planned to visit Salzburger Landesarchiv. I was curious to know if she had followed through.
“My condolences, Miss Brenner. I remember your sister. She visited our archives in July, almost two months ago. She spent an afternoon researching Josef Rudolf Brenner. A family member, I presume?”
A weight settled onto my shoulders. But also, a strange release. Cass felt close.
“He was our great-grandfather,” I said, wondering whether it was a coincidence that Cass’s odd behavior in Singapore had coincided with her trip to Salzburg.
“ Ja. We have files on Herr Brenner, his life in Mattsee. The files themselves have a curious story. They were stolen from the archives in 1995 and only returned last year, after a woman found them in her mother’s possessions.”
Stolen. That added a twist. Perhaps Phil Weber had taken the files as part of his deal with Rob to hide Josef’s past. If the woman he’d entrusted them to had also died, her daughter might have returned them, not knowing of Weber’s request.
Hinterleitner said, “The files are in German, of course, so your sister asked to have them translated. She promised she would return when the translations were ready and pay whatever fees she’d accrued. The translator finished his work a week ago. And now, sadly, I understand why your sister hasn’t returned my calls.”
“He translated everything?” I asked.
“Everything we have. It’s all on paper, as your sister requested. No digital.” She hesitated. “The translator must still be paid. And I need to know what to do with the papers. Should I mail them to you?”
I picked at a splinter in the stairs as I pondered what to do. My half-hatched plan was burning a path through my mind. I didn’t want any surprises. No omitted details, no slippery facts.
“I’ll fly to Salzburg this week to collect the papers and pay your translator. Will that work?”
“That would be excellent, Miss Brenner.” Her crisp voice turned soft. “Your sister could read enough German to understand a few things. Did she tell you anything about the contents of the file?”
“She—no. There wasn’t time.”
“Then you should prepare yourself, Miss Brenner. You might not like what you learn.”
On that, she wished me a good day and hung up.
I gazed past the old-growth pines encircling our property—lean giants tilted from their seasonal battles with the wind. The dark water of Puget Sound was a shadowy promise barely visible between the trunks.
You might not like what you learn.
Could it be worse than what I already knew?
“History,” I whispered, “isn’t destiny.”
The next morning, I decided discretion was the better part of valor. I informed my parents I was flying out a few days early for the Monaco Yacht Show. I’d oversee the final setup of Ocean House’s exhibits and make sure our boats were perfectly showcased. I’d also meet with current and potential clients who were arriving early.
Isabeth—who had reserved the room next to mine at the H?tel Métropole Monte-Carlo—said she looked forward to meeting up with me there in a few days. Then, perhaps sensing unspoken words between myself and Guy, she hugged me and left the room.
Guy studied me through weary eyes—twin pools lying sluggish in shadowed recesses. The rejuvenation he’d gained from sailing on Redemption had vanished with the news of Cass’s murder. Now his body was almost indistinguishable from the recliner in which he sat, he and it mere soft lines in a room that smelled of vinegar and sweat and last night’s dinner.
“Take a bodyguard,” he said.
I hugged him and pretended to agree. A personal bodyguard wasn’t affordable, given what Rob had said about our finances. I would rely on vigilance and luck. “As you wish. I’ll see you when I get home from Monaco.”
His frail silence followed me out the door, giving lie to my optimism.
I flew alone to Salzburg aboard Matthew’s private jet. Matthew was still hunkered down somewhere near Boston and told me his plane was sitting in a hangar, gathering dust. I might as well use it—he’d fly it home after we met up in Monaco. Given what I’d told him about being followed in Singapore, he arranged for someone to meet me at the W. A. Mozart Airport. The man would be my shadow in Austria and then escort me to Monaco. From Monaco, he would accompany me back to Seattle and stay with me until Red Dragon was delivered.
And, Matthew pressed, if I decided to return to Singapore, the security consultant would remain at my side, up to and including through the sea trials. Lukas was discreet, highly skilled, and vetted. He would keep Matthew quietly informed of my activities should any intercession be required on my behalf.
I wondered what Matthew meant by intercession . But I didn’t argue. Dai Shujun weighed on my mind. Gratefully, I accepted Matthew’s offer.
I landed in Salzburg in the early-morning hours and was greeted on the tarmac by a bearded, taciturn security professional who introduced himself as Lukas Pichler.
Pichler drove me to the Hotel Goldener Hirsch in Salzburg’s Old Town and checked us into a suite. I took the bedroom, while Pichler—“Please, ma’am, call me Lukas”—insisted he needed nothing more than the foldaway in the outer room. When I peered out sometime toward morning, he was dozing in an armchair he’d dragged near the door. In his lap was a handgun, and my stomach tightened; the gun was oddly jarring juxtaposed, as it was, with the bouquet of white roses that had been delivered earlier in Matthew’s name.
But then I relaxed. The gun and the flowers complemented each other—opposite swings of a pendulum I hoped would soon come to rest.
I rose early. Lukas was already dressed and ready to go. I ordered room service—semmel with butter, smoked bacon, ham, and coffee—and then, at my insistence, we skipped the car and walked along the west bank of the Salzach to the archives, a thirty-minute stroll. Lukas protested that I would be safer in a car. But I’d woken that morning straining for freedom, a songbird who has seen the door briefly open. I hoped, believed , that—soon and forever—the family ghosts would be exposed and then laid to rest. Then, in a matter of weeks, Red Dragon would be commissioned to George Mèng and a deadly chapter would close. Red Dragon would become little more than a feather in the Brenners’ cap, a boast for potential clients. Have you seen our expedition yacht Red Dragon ? The best in the world in luxury and technology.
It was a bright, mild day, and as we walked out the hotel’s front door, I knew I was following in Cass’s footsteps here in the city of Mozart’s birth. It comforted me to know that she had been here before me, that she had likely walked this very path. She would have noted the gloriously rugged mountains, the bright-green foothills. The pink bricks of the Mozart Residence. The gleaming white walls of the eleventh-century hilltop stronghold Fortress Hohensalzburg.
She would have loved it all.
The Salzburg Provincial Archives were located a few blocks from the river in a modern, almost industrial-looking building. In the lobby I approached the desk and asked for Frau Hinterleitner.
The man behind the counter—bald, wizened, and exuding good cheer—gestured toward a pair of chairs near the window and asked us to kindly please wait and would we like tea or coffee or perhaps a Kopenhagener Plunder ?
We declined the drinks and the Danish. I paid the man for the translations, then took a seat and watched sunlight cast pale, tilted pillars across the polished floor. Lukas remained standing.
A short time later, an older woman appeared, trim and neat, her white hair bobbed at the chin, the skin of her small-boned face nearly smooth. Only her heavily veined hands and the color of her hair suggested she was anything north of fifty. She carried two large manila envelopes.
“Miss Brenner,” she said in accented English. “You look just like your sister.”
I stood. “Thank you, Frau Hinterleitner.”
“Maria, please.” She held out the envelopes.
I stared at them. “That’s a lot of information.”
“Josef Brenner was a busy man.”
I opened my hands, and she nestled the envelopes into the crook of my arm as if she were handing me a baby. I glanced toward the stairs. “Would it be possible for me to see the archives where my sister spent her time?”
“I misspoke on the phone. She wasn’t really in the archives. Only employees have access. But I can show you the room she used when she went through the records. Perhaps you would like to begin your own reading there? It’s a pleasant place.”
Maria had Lukas and me sign in, then led us up to the second floor. While Lukas waited in the hall, the woman ushered me inside, then left me alone.
I set the envelopes on the nearest table and rubbed my arms, feeling a chill. The truth was close. And once the genie was out of the bottle, I would have no way to put it back.
Three reading tables took up the bulk of the space. A single chair sat at each. The shutters were pulled closed on the windows, but the place was bright with ceiling lights and task lamps. Framed landscapes enlivened the walls.
I picked up the envelopes. My shoes made sharp clicks on the wooden floor as I walked to the farthest table and sat with my back to the door. After a moment I stood and carried the chair around to the other side so that the door was in my line of sight.
The envelopes were marked with Cassandra’s name and the numbers “Eins” and “Zwei.” I opened the first one— eins —and gently slid the contents onto the table. Out came copies of Josef’s birth certificate, his education records, a marriage certificate, and property deeds. All the usual printed detritus of a human life spread out before me, with copies of both the original documents and the English translations.
I stared at the pile, momentarily overwhelmed. The Germans and the Austrians were meticulous record keepers. And while a lot of documents had gone up in smoke when the tide of the war turned, clearly plenty had remained.
I made a neat stack of the formal documents and opened the second envelope— zwei. Again, there were copies of the original German-language documents along with English translations. Immediately I knew these were the records Cass would have been looking for: the first paper was a copy of Josef Brenner’s signed membership card for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, dated August 5, 1931.
It was a crack in the story Guy knew—he thought Josef had joined the Nazi Party after he was hired by the Kleins in 1932, out of frustration at not being promoted.
As I thumbed through the top layers—reports, news articles, even journal pages—document after document revealed some of what Guy had already told me. Josef’s work for Klein Marine. His time in the party. Guy hadn’t mentioned Josef’s prison sentence for conducting illegal Nazi activities and a brief flight to Munich when there was a crackdown on the party.
Josef had returned, and after the Anschluss came the Aryanization of Klein Marine. At some point, according to the handwritten note pinned to a bill of sale, the Kleins—father and sons—had died. Had they perished from disease? Been murdered in the camps?
I lifted my head and pushed away from the table. The chair legs squealed on the floor.
I walked to a window and raised the shade.
I couldn’t do this. I didn’t want to know. What if Pop had played more than a passive role in the Kleins’ deaths? What if he’d sent Asher, Ethan, and Elias to Mauthausen?
There came a knock. The door opened, and Lukas peered inside.
“You should take a break to eat,” he said.
I stared at him blankly.
“Gotta keep up your strength,” he added.
His words came as if from another world. A normal one, where people ate and slept and made love and lived .
“Give me one minute,” I said.
When he’d closed the door again, I lowered the shade and returned to the table. I placed the papers back in the envelopes. I wouldn’t read any more. Not yet.
The room had become a prison. A dungeon.
A crematorium.
Lukas and I ate lunch in the hotel restaurant, taking a booth for privacy. He scrolled on his phone while I went through the rest of Josef’s paperwork. We then retreated to the lounge. While Lukas made himself little more than a shadow watching the door, I sat at the bar and, in defiance of my father’s insistence that the only drinkable whisky is from Scotland, ordered Hakushu, a Japanese whisky. Lemon twist, hold the ice. Make it two.
I’d skimmed through all the papers, but I had not fully processed the contents. The story contained in the papers was far worse than I’d feared or imagined, and whenever I turned my mind to it, my thoughts scattered into screeds of denial. It’s not possible. Couldn’t have happened. Pop was not evil.
I was sure psychologists had a term for my behavior: denial, cognitive avoidance, disassociation. Even a form of toxic positivity.
But I knew myself well enough to realize that the information I refused to absorb would return again and again until it wedged its way in and took up permanent residence. What I felt now was merely the dazed interval between knowledge and acceptance, a numbness pushed along by the Hakushu.
Tears filmed my eyes. There had been a child ...
I blinked. Signaled for another whisky.
What does the world deserve from the people who populate it? What do we owe each other? What do we inherit from each other? How far down from parent to child to grandchild to great-grandchild is culpability carried?
I lifted my palms and studied them as if—like Lady Macbeth—I carried invisible stains I could never scrub away.
Inheritance is out of our control. What we do have is the future.
Someday I would be at the helm of Ocean House, responsible not only for our reputation but also for our employees. For the quality of our builds. For our relationship with our clients. For our impact on the climate. I could not, I knew as I sat in this cozy bar in Salzburg nursing both a whisky and a headache, lead anyone or anything unless I and Ocean House were worthy.
And we would never be worthy if we highlighted the royal blood we allegedly carried but buried the evil Josef had committed.
It was all or nothing.
Lukas was suddenly standing at my elbow. I turned. Two Asian men had entered the bar and seated themselves at a nearby table. Both had eyes on me. Lukas leaned in until his lips brushed my ear.
“Time to go,” he said.
I downed most of the third whisky and staggered to my feet. I leaned on Lukas as he escorted me from the bar.
In the lobby, I turned to face him, bracing myself against a wall. “We’re going shopping.”
He kept his face straight save for a cocked eyebrow. “You can hardly stand.”
“We’ll stop for coffee. I need to buy a gown.” I raised a hand to my reeling head and knew that some private time in a bathroom would also be required.
“A gown,” Lukas echoed.
“Versace. The most eye-catching one I can find.”