STAG YEARNED FOR sleep. He stared at the luxuriously made bed in his room at the Hotel Adlon but knew it would have to wait. He was in a hurry. Much to his anxiety, he’d had to register in his own name because the Adlon required ID. He didn’t know how much time he would have before someone got a bead on him. Now, curiosity and rage demanded he go right away to scout out the Dresdenhof. Harry was dead. Someone had murdered him. He wanted to know what was waiting there.
All the impotent fury with his wife’s killing, his frustration over the three years of senseless bullshit over the Settlement—the depositions of who was at fault when Clarence the Nut Job at Starbucks went postal, shot him, Holly, five others, and then ultimately himself; and then the endless back-and-forth over the monetary worth of his entire world—it all now bubbled over with Harry’s killing. He’d crawled back, wounded, to Wuttke to be with the only family he’d had left in the world: Harry. The kid who’d insisted his parents foster his friend when the juvenile authorities were getting ready to take him away. With Harry murdered, he had no one. No one. So he was willing to shove aside his weariness and fear. Unlike Holly and the bad choices of his parents, there was a target this time. Harry’s death couldn’t be shrugged off as fate, or the sad case of an undiagnosed mental disorder. Now, for the first time in what was forever, he had a focus, a purpose. The enemy would be a ghost no longer. He would find out about the circumstances that got Harry murdered, if it took his final breath. He was an unreasonable man with absolutely nothing to lose.
He adjusted the Polish P-83 handgun into the dip at the small of his back. It wasn’t the best, but he was lucky to have gotten it at all. The cabdriver at the airport directed him to the Marzahn neighborhood, where his journalistic skills paid off in the discovery of an underground network of Turkish document makers and gun dealers. A pile of euros and not a question asked. He had no doubt the serial number had been filed away probably as early as 1984. The piece was a product of the Cold War, and now on the open market, a product of creeping democracy. Still, he was pretty sure it would fire. His knowledge of guns went that far.
Stealth was not in his nature. He had to force himself to think and proceed with caution. He paid in cash for a new iPad and several disposable GoFones for future use. He didn’t want to be traced even if he was another continent away. If he had to keep ditching numbers and phones, he would. The one thing that was crystal clear was the fact that whoever was in control of that apartment had the money and organization to find him unless he was careful.
His research during the flight showed the Dresdenhof had been taken over by the Swedish government for its diplomatic corps in the 1920s. That was what was behind the building’s long-held notion of foreign jurisdiction. But the public records in 1946 showed the building went to an international security corporation named Tarnhelm. Further research showed Tarnhelm to be a private corporation that seemed a mix of Blackwater meets janitorial services. All their work was under the umbrella of “security services.” If this Tarnhelm was the link to Heydrich’s SD, it had grown and metastasized over the decades to be something ferocious in its own right. It was a security operation that had subsidiaries all around the world. It boasted its own private military that even the US government used in several Middle East operations. Going against Tarnhelm was insane. But then again, clearly, sanity was no longer his strong point.
He left his room and went downstairs, where the concierge had his new SIM card ready for his phone. Walking by the Victorian grotesque black elephant fountain in the lobby, he made a promise to himself to enjoy a glass of champagne right there if he survived this clusterfuck.
Outside, the Pariserplatz was empty. Nothing blighted the pavement but a stray paper napkin that blew toward the Tiergarten, surreal in its loneliness. In the park in the distance, patches of snow could be seen here and there among the budding linden trees, along with the rare early-morning stroller.
He made his way toward the Brandenburg Tor. Spring was tipping in the warmth of the sun on his forehead, but an icy wind cut through his new jacket. He hardly noticed either. He was driven. By fear and curiosity. Holly’s death had been the Big Unanswerable, but Harry’s death had a reason. Now adrenaline and caffeine propelled him—and, perhaps, too, if he was truthful, a bit of his own illogical madness.
The Dresdenhof was within walking distance. Near the Memorial of the Murdered Jews of Europe. He wondered bitterly if Harry—though not Jewish—could qualify to be added to them. He himself might eventually need to be too. Truth be known, he was getting in over his head. He was a goddamned writer. The fiercest foe he’d ever encountered was a paper cut. A plan would be better than a hot temper and an old Polish firearm, but it couldn’t be helped. This was an ad hoc operation. And until he knew what he was up against, the P-83 was staying right where it was.
From a distance, a woman in a vibrant red coat walked toward him from beneath the gate. She was swathed in the scarlet hood like a fairy-tale figure. Beneath it peeked a lock of blond hair. Her hands were encased in pale blue leather gloves.
It was a strangely unsettling combination.
She walked toward him almost with a purpose. The hackles rose on his neck. Perhaps it was the stare. Cool, slate-blue eyes fixed on him, their expression at once dismissive, and yet oddly enticing.
Paranoia slowed his walk. He stared at the woman, stared until she went past him, slightly brushing his sleeve. She murmured an apology, smiled at him, then ducked beneath the canopy of the Hotel Adlon Kempinski.
False alarm. But it served as a warning. He had to stay aware. He didn’t know what he was walking into. He knew none of the players in this deadly game. Everyone was suspect. If he was going to get any information, he had to be careful. He was facing a towering opponent. But even if the outcome was dubious, he knew he would spend his last dollar and his last breath to get to the truth. He was the man who’d lost everything. He wasn’t going to lose this one without a fight. Because of his mother, because of Holly, because of the fucking Nazis that Harry feared he might have come from, he wasn’t going to let this go. His whole life seemed driven to this very mission. And while he was an impotent nobody with no connections and no power, Harry’s murder was the last of the fuel to the ice fire that had eaten up his heart. His anger made him incandescent.
He set his jaw. The four-horse chariot, the Quadriga of Victory, built on top of the Tor as a symbol of peace in the 18th century, now looked apocalyptic, galloping above him. He shook off the vision and continued to walk toward the Dresdenhof, the hitch in his gait more pronounced from the long hours traveling. Exhausted and afraid—even wondering if he was a little suicidal—he lied to himself that it was more of a swagger than a limp.