FIFTY-SIX
Court climbed off the U-Bahn at Spandau station, then walked back in the direction of his apartment, making a few movements around the neighborhood first to be certain he hadn’t picked up a tail. He arrived back at his place just after two p.m. and immediately sat down on the floor by his laptop and attached his camera via a Lightning port.
Minutes later he realized he had captured reasonably good images of each of the men who met with Annika Dittenhofer. He took still images from the best parts of the video, then looked at both men carefully.
He didn’t recognize either.
And this meant there was only one thing for him to do. He pulled out his phone and dialed his handler.
“Brewer.”
“Violator. Alpha, Mike, Mike, two, eight, Lima.”
“Go ahead.”
“Sending you two images for analysis.”
“Ready to receive.”
Court waited several seconds, then heard, “I don’t need to run the first one. That is Rudolf Spangler. CEO of Shrike International Group. Our intelligence from Berlin station indicates he no longer holds an active role in the day-to-day actions of the company.”
“Dittenhofer hauled ass to him this afternoon for a meeting, all the way across central Berlin. My guess is it was work related.”
“Anything’s possible.”
“What about the other dude?”
“I don’t know. Stand by, I’ll run it.”
Court went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. While he waited for Brewer to return, he pulled pain pills from his backpack and took one, and then something extra for his fever, which seemed to be creeping back up.
He still was under some of the effects of the Adderall he’d taken in the morning, so he opted against another amphetamine.
He looked out his little window idly, then went back to the living room, where he sat on the bare wicker sofa, in the exact spot where Zoya had sat when she was here.
He closed his eyes and thought of her.
He told himself that someday the two of them would see each other in a place where nobody was killing anyone, and they weren’t being chased or hunted.
And then he opened his eyes, looked around, and told himself the truth.
In truth, he doubted there would ever come a day when all this would end and they would live in peace. He’d die on the job, and she would, too, and that would be that.
Brewer’s curt voice startled him. “Transferring you.”
He tried to catch her. “Transferring me where?”
But she clicked off before responding. He took a sip of water, but this time he only had to wait a few seconds to be connected.
Matt Hanley’s voice boomed over the phone; he sounded especially stressed. “Violator, that image. That is real time?”
“Negative. Forty-five minutes ago.”
“Are they still in the same location?”
“Unknown. I didn’t want to get made. I’ve got a tracker on Dittenhofer’s surveillance victor so I can pick her back up when I need to.”
Court could hear Hanley breathing into the phone.
Court said, “Standing by for orders, boss.”
The DDO spoke in a low, grave voice now, almost threatening. “Listen very carefully. I give you a lot of latitude in a lot of ways, but I need you to do exactly what I tell you to do right now. No back talk, no lone singleton-with-a-conscience bullshit, no trying to outthink me on this one. Do what I fucking say. You got it?”
It was a weird ask of Hanley, Court thought, because Hanley knew Court was always going to do things his way. Still, he said, “Sure, Matt.”
“I need you to break off coverage of Dittenhofer, of Spangler, and of anyone else with Shrike Group. No coverage of anyone. Just back . . . the fuck . . . away . . . from the op right now.”
Whoa, Court thought. “Shit, boss. Who the hell is this guy?”
As surprised as Court already was, Hanley stunned him with his next comment. “I’m on the way as soon as I can get a Gulfstream tasked to me. Expect me there by dawn. You, in the meantime, cease all surveillance operations. Get back to your safe house, and sit there until we speak again.”
Court was already sitting in his safe house, but now wasn’t the time to quibble. “Yes, sir. Understood.” Court was his own man, but there were notes of both terror and menace in the normally controlled voice of Matthew Hanley that he found unmistakable and deeply troubling.
He hung up the phone, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Zoya was gone. His mission had been pulled right out from under him. Checking his watch, he saw that Dr. Kaya wouldn’t be off work for another six hours, so there was no sense in going to her for his infusion now.
Court Gentry was a man wholly unaccustomed to free time.
He stood up from the sofa, deciding to walk down to the street to find some food and a beer.
One hour later Matt Hanley sat in the back of an armored Chevy Tahoe, one of three in a convoy that raced along the Potomac River, on its way east towards Reagan National Airport. The traffic was typically heavy for a morning drive in the D.C. area, but the big black vehicles had government plates, flashing lights on the grille, sirens, and drivers who’d driven much rougher roads than the George Washington Memorial Parkway, so the deputy director for operations knew he’d get to his aircraft in good time and in one piece.
While the motorcade raced down the shoulder at forty miles an hour, Hanley fielded calls, desperately trying to organize his workspace so that he could take an impromptu intercontinental trip. It was chaos, and in the twenty minutes they’d been on the road he’d spoken with the director of the Special Activities Center, the White House, his chief of staff twice, and Suzanne Brewer three times.
He’d just hung up with the Pentagon when his line beeped again. “Yeah?”
This time, it was his secretary. “Sir, I have a call for you. He didn’t give a name, but it’s a number from your approved list.”
“Send it over, Estelle, and call the director. Tell him I should be back by Friday at the latest.”
“Yes, sir.”
The motorcade was waved through an open gate to the DCA tarmac, then headed at speed towards a white Gulfstream G400. Hanley looked out the window and saw two big Chevy Yukons parked closer to the aircraft, and a group of men pulling gear from the back.
Finally, the call came through, and Hanley heard a familiar voice, though he couldn’t place it. “Matthew?”
“Speaking.”
“Matthew. It is al-Habsi. I hope you are well, my friend.”
It took a lot to excite Matt Hanley, but he felt his heart pound now, and a fresh anger welling within him. Affecting a calm countenance in his voice, he said, “Oh, hi, Sultan. How is your father?”
“He is hanging on, for now, my thanks to Allah.”
“I wish him all the best. What can I do for you?”
“My friend, I have just uncovered something distressing. I had to inform you directly. Time is of the essence.”
“By all means. What is it?”
“I just received a call from a trusted contact in Yemen with knowledge of an upcoming attack in Berlin. A sleeper cell of Quds Force operatives is about to strike the United States embassy there. We expect it to be an attack of very low sophistication, small arms only.” He added, “I believe my sources to be excellent. I am sorry that I don’t have more information for you, but I thought it best to notify you immediately.”
Hanley steadied himself before speaking, fighting to keep his tone measured. “When will this attack take place?”
“I am also very sorry I didn’t have more time to warn you.”
“When?”
There was a slight pause, then the Emirati said, “Only twenty-five minutes from now. Five p.m. local time.”
Hanley responded quickly. “Thank you for the information. Where are you now? Dubai?”
“No, I am in Abu Dhabi, but, as I said, the attack will take place in Berlin.” When Hanley did not reply, he said, “I am having meetings at the palace today. The same place where you and I had dinner together last year.”
Hanley’s pause was short now. “I need to contact the Marine guard at the embassy.”
“Good luck, my friend.”
Hanley hung up, then placed yet another call, this time to his chief of staff. “Impending small-arms attack on U.S. embassy, Berlin. Time, twenty minutes.”
“My God. I’m on it.”
Hanley knew the Marines would be warned in Berlin, so he hung up and turned his attention back to his surroundings.
The motorcade pulled to a stop at the nose of the Gulfstream, and Hanley didn’t wait for his security man to open his door. Instead he climbed out and marched over towards the group of men hauling gear out of the Yukons. When he was still twenty yards away, he shouted, “Travers, on me.”
Chris Travers was the team leader of this eight-man cell of CIA Special Activities Center (Ground Branch) operators. Young for the job at thirty-five, he’d proven himself to Hanley numerous times. He raced over to the DDO now while the others moved to load the aircraft cargo hold with huge duffel bags and backpacks.
“Sir.”
“You and your men will replace my security staff for a hop over to Berlin. I’ve got word of an impending attack in the next few minutes, but I’m speculating there’s gonna be more trouble to come.”
“Understood, sir,” Travers said, and then he added, “I, I can’t say I understand why the DDO is coming along for the ride, though.”
“I’ve got a man to see over there.”
“Is it the kind of thing where you might need us to see him, too?”
Hanley looked at the bearded operator. “It might be that kind of a thing, Chris. I’ll let you know.”
“Solid copy, sir.” Travers helped his men with the last of the load while Hanley headed for the jet stairs.