Berlin, Germany: Sunday 25 October 1:00 P.M. local time
“I’m sorry, Mr. Aldrich,” said the unsmiling young woman behind the check-in desk at the Berlin Royal Hotel. “We have no record of your reservation.”
Jax slid the reservation number across the desk. “Yes, you do.” He’d called Langley from the airport and had them book the room as soon as he heard Aeroflot was canceling their only flight of the day to Kaliningrad. It was standard procedure, but Jax should have known better than to follow it. Langley was always screwing up this kind of thing.
The hotel clerk pecked at her computer terminal with Teutonic efficiency and frowned. “The name on this reservation is James Aiden Xavier Alexander.”
“That’s it,” said Jax. “The Company is always making that mistake.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t—”
He kept his smile in place. “Yes, you can. Call the number that made the reservation.”
“But—”
“Just call it.”
Ten minutes later, room key in hand, Jax crossed the lobby’s polished marble floor toward the elevators. Out of habit, he was aware of the people around him without in any way appearing to be watchful. Two teenaged American girls in low-slung jeans walked toward him, their heads together, laughing. A svelte blonde with pouty lips hung on the arm of an aging Greek with a tanned, lined face who was waiting for his car to be brought around. A bony man in a tweed jacket read a newspaper in one of the upholstered chairs near the bar. When Jax passed, the guy in the tweed jacket folded his newspaper and stood.
As Jax waited for the elevator, the man in the tweed jacket came to stand beside him. Jax studied the guy’s reflection in the elevator’s shiny doors. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with dark hair, a prominent nose, and sharp features that might have been Slavic. He carried his newspaper tucked under his left arm and he wasn’t looking at Jax.
The two teenaged girls, still giggling, pushed past Jax as soon as the elevator doors opened. Jax and the man in the tweed coat entered behind them. Jax pressed 6. The girls hit 10. The man in the tweed jacket maneuvered so that he was behind Jax and stood with his gaze fixed on the doors as they snapped shut.
It was one of the dictates they taught you in spy school: always stay behind the man you’re tailing. Simple, useful information.
With a polite ding, the elevator whirled up to the sixth floor. Jax stepped out. The bony man in the tweed coat followed.
Jax felt his pulse beating in his neck.
The man followed Jax down the hall, dropping back slightly.
Setting down his carry-on bag outside room 615, Jax inserted his key card in the lock and heard it buzz open. Pushing down the handle with one hand, he was reaching for his bag when the man in the tweed coat closed on him, a suppressed Walther in his hand.
Jax felt the man’s left hand in the small of his back and understood how the next few seconds were meant to play out: the assassin would shove Jax into his room and then shoot him in the back.
But Jax was already bending for his carry-on bag. He closed his left hand around the handles of the bag and just kept bending, reaching between his ankles with his other hand to grab a fistful of the guy’s pant leg and jerk it up. The assassin had two choices: he could either let Jax dislocate his knee, or go down.
He went down. Jax heard the man’s breath leave his chest in a little huff as his back slammed into the carpet. Jax spun around, the guy’s ankle clamped between his two legs. The gunman swore, his body rolling involuntarily to one side, gun hand down.
He squeezed off two suppressed shots. The first went wild, shattering an overhead light and raining down broken glass. The second round thudded into the wall beside them.
“You sonofabitch,” swore Jax, slamming his carry-on bag into the guy’s right hand. The gun clattered away, spinning some two or three feet.
The killer rolled onto his stomach, scrambling after the gun. Jax dropped with a knee in the guy’s back and grabbed a fistful of dark hair. Yanking the guy’s head up with one hand, he closed his left hand on the guy’s chin, jerked his head back—
And heard his neck snap.
“Shit,” whispered Jax.
For a moment he stilled, his knee in the guy’s back, his breath coming in quick pants. If he’d kept the guy alive, he could have asked him some very important questions. Like, Who sent you? And, How did you know I was here? Instead, he had no answers to his questions and a dead body to deal with.
Looking up, he stared at the security camera at the far end of the hall and said, “Shit,” again.
Pushing to his feet, Jax opened the door to room 615. Propping open the door with his bag, he grabbed the body by the feet and dragged it into the room. He ducked back out into the hall for the Walther and the guy’s newspaper, then quickly shut the door.
Jerking out his phone, he went to sit on the edge of the bed and punched in the number for the American embassy.
“I’d like to speak to Peter Davidson, please,” he said. “Peter Davidson” was the code name for the CIA Operations Officer on duty at the embassy. The CIA loved to play these little cloak-and-dagger games.
There was a pause as the person at the other end of the phone drew in a quick breath. “Did you say, ‘Peter Davidson’?”
“Why? Did they change the code?”
There was a clucking noise. The voice said, “Just a moment, please.”
A minute ticked past. Two. A woman came on the line. “This is Petra Davidson. May I help you?”
Jax squeezed his eyes shut. “Jason Aldrich here. I’ve just flown in from Washington and I need a list of agricultural contacts in Bavaria.” You had to wonder who came up with this stuff. “I need a list of agricultural contacts in Bavaria” was code for There’s a dead body I need you to make go away.
The other end of the phone went silent.
“Hello? Miss Davidson?”
“I’m here,” she said in a heavy Bronx twang. “I think I can come up with that. Where would you like it delivered?”
“The Royal Berlin. Room 615.”
“You should have it in a few hours.”
“Hours? How many hours are we talking about here?”
“What you’re asking for is complicated,” she snapped.
“Complicated, but urgent,” he said patiently. “There’s a security camera that needs to be taken care of.”
“Where?”
“In the corridor.”
“At the Royal? Those suckers haven’t worked for months.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s my job.”
“But complicated.”
There was a long pause. She said, “You want the list of agricultural contacts in Bavaria, or not?”
Jax looked at the guy in the tweed coat sprawled in an ungainly heap across the hotel-room floor. “Yes, please.”
“Then I’ll see you in a few hours,” she said and hung up.
“Great,” said Jax, his gaze still on the silent corpse. “Looks like you and I are going to be keeping company for a while.” He reached for the folded newspaper, curious to see which edition Tweed Coat had been reading. As he picked it up, a printout of a photograph of Jax fluttered to his feet.
Jax froze. This was no anonymous snapshot captured with a telephoto lens. This was an official photograph taken shortly after Jax’s incident in Colombia for inclusion in his file at Langley.
Jax’s gaze traveled from the photograph to the dead assassin’s impassive face. The implications were beyond ominous.
“How the hell did you get that?”