She pulled her coat on, opened the door to the sound of rain on the driveway, then stepped through and shut it behind her. Seconds later, the engine of her Ford Explorer rumbled to life, followed by the sound of her backing out and up the hill onto River Road.
Kurt stared at the empty space for a minute. With a gulp, he finished the drink and wavered on whether to pour himself another. He put the tumbler down. It didn’t help much anyway.
Instead of another drink, he walked through the living room and slid open the Arcadia door that led out onto the deck. The rain was relentless, beading up on the freshly stained wood like quicksilver in a lab tray. The river was covered in dancing droplets just like the sea in his dream.
Why did it matter?
He walked to the railing. As the rain soaked him, it seemed to draw some of the agony out. Far to the left he saw the red taillights of Anna’s Ford as she drove off.
Why did he try harder and harder to see the truth each time the dream started?
He knew the answer to this mystery, it had come to him weeks ago, but he kept it to himself. He couldn’t tell anyone, certainly not his therapist.
Soaking wet, he stepped back inside, grabbed a towel to dry his hands and face, and dropped into the chair at his desk.
Tossing the towel aside, he flicked on the computer and waited as the screen lit up. After typing in his main password, he clicked an icon that required a second password. It brought up a series of encrypted e-mails.
The latest had been sent by a former Mossad agent whom Kurt knew through a third party. Money had been wired and received, and the man agreed to investigate a rumor.
The e-mail read rather matter-of-factly.
Can neither confirm nor deny the presence of Sienna Westgate in Mashhad or surrounding area.
Mashhad was a city in northern Iran, suspected of being the headquarters of a new technical group working for the Iranian military. No one was certain just what they were up to, but the Iranians were believed to be desperately upgrading their cybersecurity and attack force. Embittered that the U.S. had somehow gotten a virus
known as Stuxnet into their nuclear-processing facilities and caused a thousand high-priced centrifuges to spin out of control until they exploded, the Iranians were not only looking to protect themselves, they were planning to hit back.
Part of that effort seemed to involve foreigners who’d been spotted shuffling in and out of Mashhad, sometimes under guard.
Kurt read the rest of the e-mail.
On good authority, I’ve been informed that three Western persons, two male, one female, were in Mashhad for some time. They were present for at least nineteen and possibly as many as thirty days. It’s unclear if these individuals were captives or paid experts. Description of the female matches Mrs. Westgate in size and approximate age but not hair color. No photographs are available. Subject did not appear to be injured or to favor either hand in daily activities.
She was seen arriving and leaving the suspected defense building in northern Mashhad under light security. No coercion was evident. No mistreatment detected.
All three individuals were spotted departing via small aircraft twenty one days ago. No information has been uncovered to accurately suggest the destination of that aircraft or the current whereabouts or welfare of the persons on board.
Kurt closed the file.
Why did it matter what he saw in the dreams? Because, despite all evidence to the contrary, he’d become convinced that Sienna was alive. And if she was alive, he could think of only one reason she’d be doing work for the Iranians: her children, Tanner and Elise. Someone had to be holding them hostage and using them as leverage against her.
He knew it was a stretch of logic, supposition piled upon supposition. Considering the facts, it was irrational and unreasonable, and yet he felt it with every fiber of his being. Only the dreams made him doubt.
If the empty salon and the abandoned yacht were the true memories, then he had reason to believe, to hope, and to trust his instincts.
But if he had witnessed Sienna and her daughter drown—
and was trying subconsciously to rewrite his memories and replace what he knew with what he wanted reality to be—then he was balancing on the very edge of madness, one misstep from tumbling into the abyss.
June 2014
Western Madagascar
The woman on horseback moved slowly, materializing like an apparition through the shimmer of the midday heat. Young and fit, in her late twenties, she held the reins of a spotted Appaloosa with quiet confidence as it trotted slowly along the sand at the edge of a muddy river.
She wore black from head to toe, stylish riding boots, and a caballero’s wide-brimmed hat to keep her pale skin from the sun.
She guided the horse effortlessly, passing through a narrow section, keeping her eyes on the water’s edge in case any crocodiles were lurking. As the gorge widened out, she came upon a group of zebus—Brahman cattle with sharp V-shaped horns and distinctively humped shoulders.