TWENTY-TWO
PRESENT DAY
Court left his flat at six ten a.m., the weight of the hour wearing on him more than usual in his weakened state. He’d taken more tablets, but he hadn’t reached for the heavier painkillers, preferring instead a small handful of anti-inflammatories he’d brought with him from Aruba. He’d get drugs from Dr. Kaya tonight, but for now he knew he just had to power through.
Tonight seemed like a long way off.
His HK VP9 was positioned inside his waistband, jammed into his appendix. Additionally, he carried a small and cheap black duffel bag he’d bought the evening before in a street-front shop, where he also bought a pair of I ♥ Berlin sweatshirts. The sweatshirts gave bulk to the otherwise empty bag, and now it swung over his shoulder along with his movements.
Soon he climbed aboard a train at the U-Bahn station in the Spandau Altstadt, destination east.
At seven Court was five miles from his apartment, sitting on a bench next to a pond in the Gardens of Charlottenburg Palace, eating a fluffy coffee cake and drinking a tall cup of black coffee. He checked his watch, took a few more bites, then tore the last third of the pastry into tiny pieces and tossed them to the ducks milling on the shoreline.
He stood, finished his coffee before throwing the cup into a bin nearby, and began walking along a narrow asphalt pathway, winding through statues and trees.
There was no one in sight at first, but soon he noticed a dark-skinned man heading in his direction.
Court eyed him for just an instant, then turned his gaze away, looking back out to the pond. He’d seen the stranger carrying a small black duffel bag over his shoulder; it was identical to Court’s, and he appreciated the fact that the man’s timing had been perfect.
The two neared each other, did not look at each other, nor did they slow or stop in the path. They merely passed, but while doing so both men let their duffels slip off their shoulders to their hands, then they reached across their bodies and took the duffel from the other man’s hands, letting their own go.
An instant later Court had the new duffel on his right shoulder, just where the other one had been, and he had no doubt that the man behind him had done exactly the same.
The two-way brush pass had been executed flawlessly, and Court found himself impressed, if only mildly so, with the skill of this CIA Berlin station case officer.
Court had asked Hanley to have a list of items for him here in Berlin. He decided he’d risk the small chance of compromise by getting the items directly from the CIA, but he hadn’t lived this long as an assassin by not being careful, so he did a thirty-minute surveillance detection route, climbing on and off streetcars and underground rail cars, even taking an Uber to the Reichstag, where he immediately bladed his body and moved through the day’s first tourists clambering to get pictures of the German Bundestag building, and then he climbed into a taxi that whisked him away, towards the former East Berlin.
At a quarter till nine he pulled out his phone while walking through Alexanderplatz, having just completed his SDR. He opened Signal, his end-to-end encryption app, selected a preloaded number, and surveilled the area while he waited for the call to be answered.
Finally, he heard a familiar voice. “Brewer.”
Court had spent the last couple of minutes mentally preparing himself for this call. He would rather not have been in comms with Suzanne Brewer at all, but since he needed information from her, it was necessary. His secondary intent, however, was to avoid giving Brewer any information about him and his whereabouts.
He answered with, “Violator. Iden code Lima, Yankee, Papa, fiver, one, Golf.”
“Iden confirmed. I take it you got the package?”
“Affirmative. I need to know where Anthem is.”
“I don’t have a fix on her at present.”
Court imagined that Suzanne Brewer had practically blown her top when Matt Hanley told her that he would be involved in this operation, even if only in a countersurveillance role. He’d expected her to be short and caustic with him—such was their relationship—but he didn’t think she’d dare defy Hanley’s order that she lead him to Anthem.
“Why don’t you know?”
“She hasn’t checked in since last night. I can vector you to where she is staying, or I can vector you to her target at Shrike International Group, but as far as where you will find her, well, I guess you’ll just have to go looking for her.”
“Who’s the target?”
“Javad Sasani. He’s suspected Iranian foreign intelligence, relatively midlevel, no personal security. A pretty easy mark. Boring work, from what she says.”
“Then why does Shrike have Anthem following him?”
“She’s only been with the company a couple of weeks. She figures they are just giving her something mundane at first.” Brewer gave Court Sasani’s address.
“Got it,” he said, memorizing the information. And then, “Where is she staying?”
“She has a suite at the Adlon. 405.”
“Near the Brandenburg Gate?”
“Yes. And that means it’s also near the U.S. embassy. Don’t show your face on the west side of the hotel; American cams might pick it up and ID you through facial recognition. Remember, the CIA is still officially hunting you.”
“How could I forget?”
“Hanley did stress to you how important it is that no one suspects Anthem has people working with her, didn’t he?”
“Nobody will know I’m there.”
“Entire cities have burned down where you’ve said that before.”
Court felt like this was a serious exaggeration, but the point was not without some validity. This time, he told himself, he would err on the side of his own operational security so that Zoya would not be outed as a supposedly solo act who, for some reason, possessed countersurveillance assets watching her back.
He was here to help her, not to get her killed.
Soon he was off the phone with Brewer and on his way to the home of Javad Sasani.