The Day After Tomorrow

85

“YOU SEE no sign of struggle and no evidence of foul play. The perimeter fences are monitored by video and have been checked by foot patrol with dogs. There is no evidence that security has been compromised.” Georg Springer, the slim, balding, head of security for Anlegeplatz, crossed Elton Lybarger’s huge bedroom glancing at his slept-in but now empty bed, listening to an armed security officer. It was 3:25, Thursday morning.

Springer had been wakened just after three and informed that Lybarger was missing from his room. Immediately he’d contacted central security, whose cameras monitored the main gate, the twenty miles of perimeter fencing and the only other ingresses, the guarded service entrance near the garage and a maintenance facility a half mile up a winding road to the rear. In the preceding four hours, no one had passed in or out.

Springer gave Lybarger’s room one last glance, then started for the door. “He could have become ill and wandered off in search of help, or he could be in some state of sleep where he doesn’t know where he is. How many personnel are on duty?” .

“Seventeen.”

“Get them all. Search the grounds carefully, including every room and bedroom. I don’t care if people are sleeping or not. I’ll waken Salettl.”

Elton Lybarger sat in a straight-backed chair watching Joanna. In five minutes she hadn’t moved. If it weren’t for the minor heave of her breasts under her nightgown, he would have taken the chance and called for help for fear she was ill.

It had been less than an hour since he’d found the video. Unable to sleep, he’d gone into his library for something to read. Lately, sleep had not been easy. And the little he’d had had been fitful, filled with strange dreams where he wandered alone among an array of people and places he thought were familiar but had no real fix on. And the times through which he passed were as distinctly different as the people, varying from prewar Europe to incidents as recent as that morning.

In his library he’d thumbed through several magazines and newspapers. Still sleepless, he’d wandered out onto the grounds. A light was on in the bungalow kept by his nephews Eric and Edward. Going to the door, he’d knocked. When no one answered he let himself in.

The luxurious main room, dwarfed by a massive stone fireplace and filled with expensive furniture, state of the art audio and video equipment, and shelf upon shelf of athletic trophies, was empty. The doors to the rear bedrooms were closed.

Assuming his nephews were asleep, Lybarger was turning to go when he saw a large envelope lying on a shelf near the door, probably left there for a messenger. On it was written “Uncle Lybarger.” Thinking it was for him, he opened it and found a video cassette inside. Curious, he’d taken it and gone back to his study where he put it into his video deck, turned on his TV and sat back to watch whatever it was the boys had been about to send him.

What he saw was a tape of himself kicking a soccer ball with Eric and Edward, a political talk he had given that had been carefully coached by his speech therapist, a drama professor at the University of Zurich. And then— shockingly—a sequence showing himself and Joanna in bed, with all kinds of numbers running on the screen, and Von Holden standing by, naked as the moment he was born.

Joanna was his friend and companion. She was like his sister, even his daughter. What he’d seen had horrified him. How could it be? How had this happened? He had no memory of it whatsoever. Something, he knew, was terribly wrong.

The question was: Did Joanna know about it? Was this some kind of sick game she was playing with Von Holden? Filled with shock and anger, he’d gone immediately to her room. Waking her from a deep sleep, he’d loudly and indignantly demanded she look at the tape immediately.

Confused and more than a little upset by his manner and his presence in her bedroom, she’d done as he asked. And now, as the tape unspooled, she was as unnerved as he. Her terrifying dream of a few nights earlier had been no nightmare at all, but instead a vivid remembrance of what had actually taken place.

When it was done, Joanna shut off the machine and turned to face Lybarger. He was pale and trembling, as drained as she.

“You didn’t know, did you? You had no idea that had happened?” she said.

“Nor you—”

“No, Mr. Lybarger. I most certainly did not.”

Suddenly there was a sharp rap at her door. It opened immediately and Frieda Vossler, a square-jawed, twenty-five-year-old member of Anlegeplatz’s security force entered.

Salettl and security chief Springer came into Joanna’s room several minutes later to find an indignant Lybarger hammering the video into the palm of his hand and screaming at guard Vossler, demanding to know the meaning of such an outrage.

Calmly Salettl had taken away the video and asked Lybarger to relax, warning him that what he was doing could bring on a second stroke. Leaving Joanna in the company of the security force, Salettl had seen Lybarger back to his room, taken his blood pressure and put him to bed, giving him a strong sedative laced with a mild psychedelic drug. Lybarger would sleep for some time and the sleep would be filled with surreal and fanciful dreams. Dreams, Salettl trusted, Lybarger would confuse with the incident of the video and his visit to Joanna’s room,

Joanna, on the other hand, had been less cooperative, and when Salettl returned to her room, he considered firing her on the spot and sending her back to America on the first flight available. But he realized her absence might be even more disruptive. Lybarger was used to her, trusted her for his physical well-being. She had brought him this far, even to the point of getting him to walk confidently without aid of a cane, and there was no way to tell what he would do if she were no longer there. No, Salettl had decided, firing her was out of the question. It was vitally important she accompany Lybarger to Berlin and stay with him until he left to give his speech. Politely he had prevailed upon her, for Lybarger’s sake, to. return to bed. That an explanation of what she had seen would be given her in the morning.

Frightened, angry and emotionally drained, Joanna had had the presence of mind not to press it.

“Just tell me,” she’d said. “Who knew about it besides Pascal? Who took the damn pictures?”

“I don’t know, Joanna. I certainly haven’t viewed it so I’m not certain what it even is. That’s why I ask you to wait until morning when I can give you a conclusive answer.”

“All right,” she’d said, then waited for them to leave before closing the door behind them and locking it.

Outside, Salettl had immediately posted security agent Frieda Vossler at her door with instructions that no one was to enter or exit without his permission.

Five minutes later he sat down at his office desk. It was already Thursday morning. In less than thirty-six hours, Lybarger would be in Berlin about to be presented at Charlottenburg Palace. After everything, and so close to the hour, that something could go wrong in Anlegeplatz was a circumstance none of them had even considered. Picking up the phone, he dialed Uta Baur in Berlin. Expecting to wake her, he was transferred to her office.

“Guten Morgen,” her voice was crisp and alert. At 4:00 A.M., she was already at work for the day.

“I think you should know . . . there has been some confusion here at Anlegeplatz.”