Chapter Seven

 

 

Schuster’s Schnitzel, Berlin, Germany

June 16, 9:35 p.m.

 

The black foldable sign outside the restaurant boasted that Schuster’s Schnitzel served the “best schnitzel in Berlin” and so far, Justin wholeheartedly agreed with the statement. Fried to perfection, the golden-brown crust of his Schweineschnitzel, “pork cutlet,” was crackling with every small bite. The pounded loin meat inside the sheath of flour, breadcrumbs, and eggs was tender and juicy, with just a splash of lemon.

Across the table and leaning against the black rail alongside the Spree River bank, Carrie was also savoring her supper. She had chosen Jägerschnitzel, “hunter’s cutlet,” and was slicing and dipping every morsel in the thick mushroom sauce poured generously on her plate.

They were sitting in one of the riverside restaurants in Berlin, enjoying the cool breeze of the night. After the tiresome operation and the confrontation with Reinhardt, it was one of their rare chances to take a breather and relax for a short time. They were in between missions, since McClain had been called off to an urgent briefing with the Canadian minister of public safety and national security advisor. Justin was in the dark about the details of that meeting, but from his experience, such meetings were never a good sign, especially after what had transpired in Berlin.

He cast his eyes on the dark, velvety surface of the river and for a few moments followed the flickering lights of a small tour boat. Still gliding down the meandering river, the boat offered tourists a spectacular view of Berlin at night. Justin wished he and Carrie could have taken a short sightseeing tour of the city where they had spent the last week, but had never had a sufficiently long and quiet stretch of time. They worked nonstop and often deep into the night, surviving on four or five hours of sleep and catching catnaps whenever they had a few spare minutes. Even now, they were expecting McClain’s phone call, which could arrive at any moment and drag them away from their meal. Justin had already paid their bill and had left a thirty percent tip for the redheaded waitress with a big-toothed smile.

He brought his gaze to the satellite phone in the middle of the table, then glanced over Carrie’s shoulders and scanned the sidewalk and the street beyond the restaurant’s perimeter. They had been extremely careful after leaving the BND headquarters and had triple-checked to make sure they were not being followed. They employed the usual counter-surveillance tactics of their tradecraft and relied on their instincts and experience. They took a couple of abrupt shortcuts through narrow alleys with little foot traffic, then cut through a mall and darted through a few parking lots. If someone was tailing them, Justin and Carrie had definitely lost them. Their behavior could be considered borderline paranoia, but the last thing they wanted was the BND eavesdropping on their conversation with their boss. And Schuster’s Schnitzel fit extremely well in their plan. The restaurant was half full and the next two tables were empty, offering a considerable amount of privacy. There were two entrances and two exits—excluding the emergency fire exit—and if bullets started to fly, there was a twenty-foot drop to the Spree River’s dark waters.

“Mhhhh,” Carrie said. “This is so scrumptious.” She licked her fork, then stabbed another piece of her cutlet. “Excellent choice, Justin.”

He smiled. They had stumbled upon the restaurant, but he was glad the food was so delicious. He took a sip of his lemon water and puckered his lips. He wanted to try an Original Schlenkerla Smokebeer, Aecht Schlenkerla Rauchbier, and taste the smoky flavor of the dark brew flowing from Bamberg in Franconia. He wanted to find out for himself whether the second bottle tasted better than the first. But he needed to stay sober and sharp. So instead of beer he had ordered a large cup of strong black coffee.

Carrie wiped her lips with her red-checkered napkin that matched the tablecloth, then asked, “What do you think McClain will say?”

“He’ll order us home. Reinhardt will certainly report us—well, me—for my ‘collaboration with terrorists,’ and demand we’re kicked out of the country. But I don’t blame him. I just wish we could share the intel with the BND and avoid these complications.”

“Me too. But the SIS’s stubbornness is crippling us.”

“Their asset, their rules.”

“But we’re the ones paying the hefty price and suffering the consequences.”

“For now. But the confrontation at the park changed the game. Now we have something the SIS doesn’t have, and that will force them to change their position.”

Carrie threw a sideways glance at Justin. “How is that knowledge useful if we’re forbidden from operating in Germany?”

Justin picked up one of the crispy curly fries, dipped it into the mustard dip dish, then took a small bite. “The informant is long gone. He’d be a fool if he tried to hide in Germany or in another European country with good strong cooperative intel services. I had a good look at his face, so he has lost his advantage. And he knows that. He knows he’s no longer a ghost.”

“So where is he hiding?”

“Some place he can blend in easily and feel protected. Somewhere he believes he’s beyond anyone’s reach. A couple of Balkan countries come to mind. Then there’s the black hole of the Middle East, where a thousand terrorists can vanish every day without a trace.”

“Do you think he’ll contact the SIS?”

“If he does, I hope it’s right away, in the next twenty-four hours at the most. But I don’t think he will. It’s one thing being a secret informant hiding in the shadows, and quite another thing participating in a terrorist attack and having your identity exposed.”

“But he sent the text message asking for help?”

“If we interpret it that way. What if he wanted us to soften our response against the gunmen in the van?”

Carrie nodded. “Yes, you may be right. And we can’t know for sure if the attackers didn’t blow up the van because they somehow botched their attempt or because the informant sabotaged their plan.”

“True, until we ask him those questions. The same about dropping his rifle. He did not take a shot at me, but was it because he was afraid of missing the target, or he truly didn’t want to kill me?”

“We’ll have a long chat when we get to him. We still don’t have his name, but we’re off to a good start. There aren’t many blue-eyed, light-skinned Palestinian men who also have a large burn scar on the left side of their face.”

“We don’t know for sure he’s Palestinian.”

“Right, but we can safely presuppose that. The other two attackers belonged to a Palestinian militant group, which had vowed revenge for the Israeli shelling of the Hamas-ruled Gaza Strip. If he’s not Palestinian, I’m sure he has been in Palestine or Israel, in order to meet with these militants, win their trust, and establish such close ties.”

“What about the woman?”

Carrie shrugged. “A supporter of the Palestinian cause. Someone they were able to convince she was doing the right thing by blowing herself up. She’s not in our or the German records.”

Justin returned to his schnitzel and cut a small piece. He chewed it slowly, then loaded a fork full of the cabbage salad.

Carrie said, “Once all intel agencies have the informant’s description, we should be able to locate him. The scar and his crooked nose should be dead giveaways. The way you described his nose made me think of that blond actor that plays in romantic comedies, what’s his name?”

“Eh, I don’t know. I don’t watch chick flicks.”

“What? Anna doesn’t make you snuggle with her and watch romances?”

The corners of Justin’s lips lifted. “No . . . well, sometimes. I love cuddling with a warm blanket, but you know I don’t like watching other people’s romances, be they true or fake. I’d rather live them with my fiancée.”

“Yes, I know, I know.” Her voice lost some of its warmth and playfulness and her eyes grew distant.

Justin and Carrie had dated a few years back, but their relationship had not worked out, in part because of their clashing personalities, not to mention that their field operations consumed all their time and depleted their energies. At the end of the day, they discovered they were better off being good friends.

“How are things going with Thomas?” Justin asked, eager to change the subject.

The mention of her fiancé’s name brought Carrie back from her emotional cloud. She reached for her teacup, took a small sip, then said, “Oh, okay. Still getting nowhere with our wedding plans, but I’m getting used to that idea. I’m trying to convince him to elope and I think I’m gaining some ground.”

“How so?”

“Well, perhaps we can compromise on a sort of hybrid eloping. Not the three hundred guests Thomas wants, but also not just the two of us, which would be my preferred option and would make me very happy. A beach wedding on a tropical island. Warm sand under our bare feet. A stunning sunset in the background. Candlelit reception with the gentle backsplash of the ocean waves.”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement and she flashed Justin a big smile.

“Who knows, it might happen. You may be able to persuade him.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Carrie shrugged. She changed the conversation. “How is Anna liking field work?”

“It’s much different than being an attorney. She describes it as more demanding and requiring more cunning. And it leaves us very little time for, you know, cuddles and movies. Now that Anna is back in the field, I can’t remember the last time we both had a day to ourselves.”

Carrie nodded. “I know the feeling.”

“But Anna likes it. Actually, she loves it and lives for it. Of course, I don’t know the details of all her ops but she tells me she wants to be an intel operative. She still needs to complete her year as a surveillant but she wants to develop assets, rather than just conduct physical surveillance and draft post-op reports.”

“We’ve all started there and made our way up the ranks. Anna is smart and a hard worker. She’ll make a good operative. Any particular area of the world in her mind?”

“She’s working for the Central Africa Section, but they haven’t sent her on an overseas mission yet. I’ve suggested Europe, but as we just witnessed, European countries can be as deadly as some rogue African states.”

“At least in Africa one can carry an AK or PK or RPG in plain view and never attract a second glance. Not here.”

Justin was all of a sudden conscious of the SIG pistol resting in his holster and weighing against his hip. Reinhardt might boot them out of the country, but Justin was not going to allow him to take away their guns. He shifted in his seat and resisted the urge to readjust the holster. He took a sweeping gaze at the patrons at the nearest table, a quiet couple in their sixties exchanging a discreet kiss and holding hands. He wondered whether he and Anna would grow old and ever enjoy a romantic evening somewhere in riverside Berlin or Paris.

“More coffee, sir?” The waitress had noticed his gaze and approached their table.

Justin’s cup was half full. He hooked his finger on the cup handle and downed the rest of the coffee. He licked his lips, then stretched his hand toward the waitress carrying the carafe. “Sure, why not?”

“What about you, madam? Would you like more tea?”

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” Carrie said.

“And are you done with your meal?” The waitress pointed at Justin’s plate, where a few small fries sat alongside a single piece of cutlet and some breadcrumbs.

“No, still working on it. Thanks for the coffee.”

The waitress smiled back. “Wonderful. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Justin said, “For sure.”

He took a big swig of his coffee. The hot liquid that poured down his throat perked his senses, already on overdrive because of the constant caffeine boost. Then he scooped up a couple of fries.

Carrie cut again into her cutlet. She stabbed a small morsel and brought it to her mouth. Then she shook her head and put the fork down.

“What is it?” Justin asked.

“I wasn’t going to bring this up until we had some truly quiet time, but it’s eating me up.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s about my dad.”

“Oh. You’ve read more of the intel files.”

Carrie nodded. “Enough to know the codename of the defector my dad was bringing out of the Soviet Union.”

Carrie’s father had vanished during a covert mission in the Soviet Union in the late eighties. Last December, a former CIS agent had provided Carrie with classified reports of that mission’s objective. The defector was suspected to be an influential man near the top of that country’s Communist Party.

“Who is he?”

“Reports identify him as ‘Makarov.’ No other references to a real name.”

Justin scratched his chin and the brush of his day-old beard. “Just ‘Makarov,’ like the pistol? That’s not a lot.”

“I have more details about his character, his assignments, and his office at the time, which can help us identify him. So far, I’ve come up with at least three potential suspects. All of them are alive, and all three of them live in Russia. Of course, I need to do more in-depth research and investigation before drawing any—”

Justin’s satellite phone vibrated on the table and clanged against his coffee cup. He picked it up and checked the caller ID. “McClain.”

Carrie nodded and tapped the tiny Bluetooth headset in her left ear. One of the CIS electronic experts had paired Justin’s and Carrie’s headsets so they could both listen to and participate in the same phone call. Discreet and secure, the pairing removed the need for speakerphones and kept their hands free at all times.

Justin stood up and gestured with his head toward the exit. “Hello, sir. This is Justin. How are you doing?”

“Fine, fine. Well, better than how you’re faring in Berlin. Is Carrie there?”

“Yes, sir. I hear you loud and clear.” Carrie walked in front of Justin and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Just give us a couple of moments, sir, so we can get to a safer location.”

Justin turned left and they cut across a narrow street. A crowd of tourists were snapping pictures near the Spree River banks, so Justin led Carrie toward a dimly lit park a block away. They stopped near a black wooden bench away from anyone’s earshot. He swung his head in all directions and noticed no one. The park was empty.

“We’re good now,” he whispered.

“So, I just got off the phone with Reinhardt. I explained to him the intricacies of this operation and how our hands were tied because of the SIS controlling the use of the informant and his intel. Reinhardt was adamant, borderline stubborn, and obnoxious, that they should have been read in from the beginning about the existence of this informant. He took grave offense to the fact we kept them in the dark about the text message, and went ballistic when I informed him of what truly transpired at the park.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Justin said.

He had heard McClain very well, because his high-tech headset cancelled out ambient noises, and there was very little traffic or other external sounds interfering with their conversation. But McClain’s revelation had made Justin’s assertion in Reinhardt’s office that evening false, confirming the German intelligence director’s suspicion that all this time Justin was lying to him.

“It had to be done, Justin.” McClain’s voice turned softer and warmer, his only admission of any misstep in disclosing that piece of intelligence. “First, it wasn’t my decision, but that of the Foreign Intelligence Committee. Second, Reinhardt was threatening to release the video and blame foreign operatives—well, you and Carrie—for the botched operation and the casualties. I’m sure he was bluffing, but our senior politicians at the intel committee decided not to take any chances. Nobody likes negative publicity and we were running the risk of you and Carrie having your covers blown.”

Justin nodded. He agreed with McClain’s assessment that Reinhardt was making empty threats, shifting blame, and trying to do some damage control. Ten people had lost their lives, and scores of others were wounded in the blast at the train station and during the subsequent car chase and the shootout. It had happened on his watch and his reaction was understandable.

McClain continued, “And third, we need the BND’s assistance to capture the informant. Now he most likely boarded the first plane out of Berlin and could be hiding anywhere in the world. But perhaps his associates in Germany or in other countries where the BND has connections may be able to give us some clues.”

Justin swallowed a snarky comment. “Fine.”

“Well, I’m glad you approve.” McClain’s tone was a blend of sarcasm and a suggestion that this was, in fact, a good move. “And on the topic of clues and smart decisions, we’re reaching out to all our partner services to tighten the screws and find the informant. Since you’re already persona non grata with the German authorities, I want you to board the next flight for Tel Aviv. We’re meeting with Mossad to brief them on the latest developments in Berlin. And this will also serve as a chance to patch up our relations with Mossad. I’ll meet you in Tel Aviv tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll do that, sir.”

“Excellent. Anything to report since our last contact?”

Justin looked at Carrie.

She said, “Not from me, but I have a question: Have we informed the SIS about what we have on their informant?”

“Yes, I talked to them earlier today. They were less than enthusiastic, for they anticipated a huge backlash from the BND. And after getting an earful from Reinhardt, it’s safe to say their fears are warranted.”

Justin thought he sensed a tiny hint of satisfaction in McClain’s voice. Misery loves company. Or maybe he believes the SIS really deserved a good flogging for holding back intel.

“Any special preps for our trip to Tel Aviv?” he asked.

“No, not really. This is a series of intel-sharing meetings and I’m only planning for a two-day stay. But read up on country briefs and the security situation in the region. There has been some activity on the ground, a new ceasefire brokered by Egypt, and a new round of peace negotiations.”

Justin said, “Will they go anywhere? The peace talks, I mean.”

“If I were a betting man, I’d put all my chips on a fragile, yet stable peace. The people, both Israelis and Palestinians, are tired of war, of burying their dead and living their lives in constant terror. There have been some minor clashes, but the majority of their leaders have been willing to sit down and consider a less than favorable compromise. Nobody gets everything they want, but they all get something they can live with. In peace.”

Justin nodded, then looked at Carrie. She shook her head, then said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Anything else?” Justin said.

“No, that’s all.”

“Good. Thanks for the update, sir.”

“Have a safe trip. We’ll meet at the Ben Gurion Airport.” McClain ended his call.

Justin pressed the “End” button on his satellite phone.

“Considerable change of scenery,” Carrie said while observing their surroundings.

Justin did the same, but spotted no unusual activity around the park. A couple was walking hand in hand at the far end. The group of tourists had thinned out, but the remaining few were more boisterous than before. Or was it because Justin’s concentration had been focused solely on his conversation with McClain?

“Oh, yes, and I don’t know if it’s for good or bad.”

Carrie stepped closer to Justin. “Because of our history with Mossad?”

Justin nodded. “Mossad is not known for their kind and forgiving spirit. I’m sure the past is still very present in their minds. It is in mine. In ours.”

“Yes. But all our actions were justified and most of them in self-defense. In Sudan, the Mossad chopper almost blew us up, yet we still saved their operative, albeit after some rough handling. And in Yemen, we rewarded their hailstorm of bullets on our positions with treatment for their wounded agents. You even called in a favor with the Saudis. Mossad doesn’t have much reason to hold a grudge.”

“You’re right, they shouldn’t, but they probably do. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing.”

She reached for his left arm, patted it, and gave Justin a reassuring smile. “I’d rather plan for the worst and have it never happen than get caught off guard. Let’s consider Tel Aviv as hostile territory and rely only on ourselves. And McClain.”

Justin nodded. “And have an exit strategy in place. I’ll contact an old asset. He’ll find us a safe house, an emergency pack, and a getaway vehicle, in case we need to make a fast escape.”

Carrie’s eyes glowed with anticipation. “I have a feeling this will turn out to be more than just an intel-sharing meeting. And I’m already liking it.”