Presence of Mine Enemies

by Stephen England

  12:02 P.M.

  Hotel Adlon

  Berlin, Germany

  “Gerhardt,” Thomas Dwyer greeted warmly, rising from his seat as his counterpart came up to the table. “Thanks for joining me today. I haven’t yet had opportunity to congratulate you on your promotion.”

  “You are too kind, Thomas,” General Gerhardt Müller smiled, doffing the grey Bergmütze denoting his prior service with the alpine Gebirgsjäger as he took the offered seat. “I fear my brother Andreas is not so pleased. He’s grown far too accustomed to outranking me, you see.”

  Dwyer laughed. Müller had been a colonel like himself when he’d first arrived in Berlin two years earlier, serving on the command staff of the USAEUR—the United States Army Europe.

  His primary liaison point with the Germans, Müller had done much to show him the ropes of the Bundeswehr command structure in his first months as defense attache.

  Now he’d been promoted from Oberst to Brigade-General, serving at the Kommando Heer, the Germany Army Command in Strausberg.

  “So tell me, Thomas,” Müller began, leaning back in his seat. “What’s the purpose of our meeting here today? You ask me here, on the day of your national holiday. . .why?”

  12:09 P.M.

  Mitte District

  Berlin

  I seek refuge in Allah from Satan the accursed, Anas thought, murmuring the words of the dua beneath his breath as the sedan crept forward in the heavy traffic choking the city center—his eyes flickering to the bridge just ahead, a seventy-three meter span crossing the Spree.

  The car had been just where the man had told them they’d find it, the trunk welded shut. Just as he’d said.

  “Insh’allah,” he whispered, his palms slick with sweat, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. Not as that man had said—that unbeliever—but as God Himself had willed.

  He swore angrily, willing the traffic ahead to move faster, feeling as though the walls of the car itself were closing in around him. Trapping him within, crushing him.

  He had to remain calm, had to get hold of himself. If the Polizei saw any reason to stop him. . .

  Just a few more miles.

  He’d only just been learning to drive when the civil war broke out in Syria, driving the car of his father—a dentist—around the streets of their town.

  But he could do this. He was but a tool, in the hand of God. He could do this.

  12:09 P.M.

  Masjid Al-Rahma

  Sint-Jans-Molenbeek, Belgium

  “O our Lord,” Harry breathed, raising his hands as he straightened, repeating the words of the salat in unison with his fellow worshipers. “All praise is for you. Allahu akbar!”

  God is greatest. A hundred voices in Arabic swelling in the sound of the takbir, resounding through the prayer hall. A rough, yet somehow melodious sound.

  He couldn’t remember the first time he had attended prayers at a mosque, but it had been before 9/11. Before he’d joined the CIA.

  Just a student of the Middle East, back then. Seeking a deeper understanding of his subject. There was something of peace in the ritual, he had found, a calm that remained even in this moment—despite all that the intervening years had brought.

  Despite his present reality, he thought, catching a glimpse of Yassin at his side out of the corner of his eye as he sank to his knees, prostrating himself toward Mecca.

  The darkness which lurked in the midst of these who had gathered here for prayer.

  “Glory to my Lord, the Most High,” he whispered, his forehead touching the prayer rug, the Arabic rolling freely from his tongue, “the Most Praiseworthy. Allahu akbar!”

  12:15 P.M.

  Hotel Adlon

  Berlin, Germany

  “. . .our intelligence reports concur with those of your agencies,” Müller nodded, seeming to mull over Dwyer’s words. “The Russians moved yet another motorized rifle brigade into Kaliningrad a month ago, the 5th Guards Tamanskaya.”

  Crack troops, the American officer thought—a reconstituted unit which had taken on the name of a legendary Soviet-era division awarded the Order of the Red Banner during the Second World War. The Russians were building up their presence in the Kaliningrad salient, that narrow spit of former German land between Poland and Lithuania. That much couldn’t be disputed. But why?

  The question that all their intelligence reports couldn’t answer to anyone's satisfaction.

  “Why?” he asked, choosing to give voice to his uncertainty. His eyes never leaving his counterpart's face. “What is their purpose in doing so?”

  Müller smiled, shaking his head.

  “Thomas, Thomas. . .you can hardly think me so rash as to attempt to discern the secret will of the Kremlin. However, I will say this. Königsberg,” he continued, pointedly using the old German name for Kaliningrad like the Prussian he was, “was, in the days of the USSR, the most heavily fortified piece of land in all of Europe, even surpassing our own preparations at the Fulda Gap. It cannot have escaped either of us how reminiscent this build-up is of those dark days, even if the purpose is now more opaque. If the Federation should choose to move against one of their former client states, the, how would you put it. . .'escalatory advantage' will be all on one side. Theirs.”

  Everyone's worst fear. And a legitimate one, as strange as that would have seemed a mere five years before. Dwyer hesitated a moment before replying, picking at the food on his plate. “And if something of that nature should happen—what will be the stance of the Bundeswehr?”

  The smile was long gone.

  “Officially,” the general began, his voice tight, “Germany stands ready to support its NATO allies, as it has always. And I would like to observe that, despite the murmuring insinuations of your political leadership regarding the one-sidedness of the alliance, in actual historical practice, it has been us coming to your aid—not the other way around.”

  “I understand that, Gerhardt, I simply—”

  “Unofficially,” Müller continued, going on as if he hadn't spoken, “any chancellor who committed the force of the Bundeswehr to armed conflict against the Russian Federation would be forced from the office.”

  12:17 P.M.

  Almost there. Anas caught a glimpse of the Brandenburg Gate ahead through the cover of the trees overshadowing the boulevard as he accelerated around a slower car, the monument seeming strangely small amidst the more modern buildings surrounding it. As well it should.

  A godless monument to victory past.

  Now to bear mute witness to a defeat. A blow against the governments which had enabled the slaughter of his people.

  It seemed strange, knowing he was about to die, and yet. . .was that not itself a gift from Allah? The ability to choose the time, the place of his death. To know.

  The bus in front of him turned, and he turned with it—catching sight of the restaurant even as he did so. It was time.

  His hands clenched tight around the steering wheel as he accelerated, his eyes shining with tears as he repeated the takbir beneath his breath.

  God is greatest.

  12:18 P.M.

  Hotel Adlon

  Müller leaned back in his seat, his eyes growing cold, distant as he regarded his American colleague. “We are both veterans of your 'war on terror', you and I. . .let us be honest with the realities. When your nation invoked Article V following 9/11, Germany did not hesitate to step to your side, but our country never truly accepted the idea that we were at war. Coming home from Afghanistan, I found that our people far preferred to think that I had spent my time digging wells—teaching schoolchildren to read—not killing terrorists, hunting guerrillas through the mountains. That was something they were simply not prepared to accept—and the distance enabled them not to have to. Choosing to engage in a conflict on our very borders, against one of our most powerful neighbors? That's not our reality. Germany will not sacrifice her young men and women to defend the sovereignty of the Slavs. It's not going to happen, Thomas.” />
  The cold, brutal reality no one wanted to face. Whether in Berlin or Washington. That the alliance which had protected Europe's eastern front for sixty-odd years now effectively remained only on paper.

  “But Lithuania and Estonia are NATO allies,” Dwyer said, offering what he could in way of protest. “A failure to defend them would shatter the alliance, permanently. We cannot allow—”

  It took the American officer a moment to realize Müller was no longer listening to him, the general's eyes fixed on a space behind his head—out the window onto the boulevard, even as his brain registered the sounds of people screaming, the squeal of automobile tires against the pavement.

  A dark, nameless fear seizing hold of him. Memories of Iraq, flooding back.

  Colonel Thomas Dwyer made it to his feet, even as the building shuddered from the impact of the vehicle slamming into the wall twenty feet to their rear.

  His mouth opened to shout a warning, but it was too late—far too late—his voice drowned out as the world erupted around him, the café suddenly drowned in flame and flying rubble.

  And everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  12:27 P.M.

  DGSE Headquarters

  Paris, France

  “. . .make sure you collate those reports and get them to my desk as soon as possible,” Anaïs Brunet ordered, handing the folder back to one of her threat analysts. “I want to be kept apprised of anything the DGSI should develop from Marseilles.”

  Another day, and as ever, more potential threats than one could keep track of, she thought, suddenly distracted by a low murmur running through the room—her eyes coming up just in time to see first one, then another and another of the television screens on the opposite wall cut away from their coverage of the protests outside the American Embassy to reveal footage from a helicopter circling over a city—a black, deathly pall of fire and smoke rising from the devastated facade of an ornate building.

  “. . .now breaking from Berlin, where a massive explosion has taken place at the Hotel Adlon. Das Erste news cameras are live from the scene as we endeavor to learn. . .”

  My God, she breathed—seemingly frozen in place for a few seconds. It was happening. Now.

  Her shock lasted only a few seconds and then she reached out, grabbing the arm of her deputy director, Nicolas Murat, as he walked by.

  “I want you to reach out to Heinrich Köhler,” she ordered crisply, referencing the director of the BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany’s principal intelligence service. Forcing herself to focus, to distance herself from the tragedy of what was unfolding. “Offer him our condolences and any support he may require. And have our people scour the ‘Net, look for chatter—anything we might have that might indicate a similar attack in progress here. Do it now.”

  12:36 P.M.

  Masjid Al-Rahma

  Sint-Jans-Molenbeek, Belgium

  “. . .have to go to class right now, but I’ll catch you later, man,” Reza said, clasping Harry’s hand as they left the prayer hall together, joining in the crowd of worshippers flowing from the mosque as the zhuhr ended.

  “Insh’allah, brother,” he responded, forcing a smile as his young friend turned away, a young woman in a hijab approaching from behind them. Nora, Harry thought, recognizing her despite the covering. Reza’s girl. He shook his head. This was all going to be over, soon enough. Just had to get through the next week. Just had to—

  “Look at this,” he heard Yassin exclaim suddenly, his voice trembling with excitement as he extended his phone toward Harry. “There was a blast at a hotel—in Berlin.”

  It was a terrorist attack, Harry realized, struggling to control his face as he scanned the news alert, Yassin’s cry of exultation ringing hollowly in his ears—Reza pressing forward beside him. Assessing the damage with an all-too-practiced eye, the flames billowing from the destroyed façade of the hotel, smoke obscuring the scene. It had to have been a VBIED, and a sizable one. There was no other way to account for it.

  He’d spent his life trying to stop such attacks, trying to hunt down those responsible. Tracking them through the dark shadows of the world, losing so much of himself in the process. His country, his faith. . .his very soul.

  For what is a man profited. . .

  “Alhamdulillah,” he whispered fiercely, clapping Reza on the shoulder as he handed the phone back to Yassin. May God be praised.

  “Allahu akbar,” the young man replied, his eyes burning with a zealous fervor. “As they have bombed, so they will be bombed—so God will revisit their sins upon their heads, bring violence to their streets.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Harry spat urgently, glancing past Yassin's shoulder to see a middle-aged Muslim man standing there glaring at them as if he had heard, seeming on the point of speaking—anger distorting his features.

  He met the man's eyes, staring unflinchingly into them until the man quailed, spitting out a single word as he turned away.

  “Kwarijite.”

  The apostates of prophesy. Those who had risen in rebellion in the days of the Prophet, declaring takfir on their fellow Muslims and setting themselves up as the arbiters of God's will. The spiritual ancestors of al-Qaeda, of the Islamic State, accursed themselves of their Prophet.

  “No,” Harry said, placing his hand on Yassin's arm as he moved to go after the man, “let him go.”

  “But he is a blasphemer, and he must—”

  “Be dealt with,” he replied gently, his voice low, “and he will be, but in Allah's time. Not before. He—”

  “Yassin!” he heard another voice exclaim, turning to find Marwan and one of the other young men from the boxing club standing there in the hall, only a few feet away.

  “It's been too long, man,” the young Arab said, clasping Yassin's hand as he came up to them. His eyes met Harry’s briefly, acknowledging him with a murmured “Salaam alaikum” before turning back to his friend. “Haven't seen you at the club these last few days. Have you heard? Have you seen the news?”

  “Just now,” came the excited response from Reza's lips. “It's a beautiful thing, isn't it?”

  “They say there are over a hundred dead,” Marwan went on, his face radiant as Harry searched his eyes for any sign of duplicity—any hint that he might be an informer—and found nothing.

  Even worse. It meant he was either very well-trained, beyond his years—or a true believer.

  It was hard to say which of those he feared more.

  “Mash'allah,” Yassin breathed in reply, sharing in his friend's enthusiasm. How beautiful.

  The slaughter of the innocent.

  Harry caught his eye then, shooting him a meaningful look. Remember.

  “You two stopping by the club later on?” Marwan asked, placing his hand on Reza’s shoulder as he turned to leave.

  Yassin hesitated a moment too long, looking over as Harry gave him an imperceptible nod. “Yeah. . .yeah, we should be able to. Insh’allah.”

  “Insh’allah,” the young Arab repeated, smiling. “Salaam alaikum.”

  They were three blocks from the mosque before Yassin spoke, turning toward Harry as they paused before a crosswalk, traffic flashing past them on the street. As if nothing had happened, as if it were just. . .a normal day.

  “I thought you said—” he began, stopping short as Harry held up a hand to cut him off.

  “I know what I said. And if we could have avoided crossing paths with him again until you were safely on your way to the Philippines,” Harry continued, turning to his young friend, “it would have been far better. But Allah has not so willed, and it would be best not to rouse his suspicions.”

  Another car went by, and then the symbol above the crosswalk changed. Walk.

  Time for them to part ways.

  Yassin to the house of a friend, him to. . .well, elsewhere. He reached out, placing a hand on the young man’s arm as he turned to leave.

  “Go,” he said, his fingers digging into yielding flesh—hard enough
to leave marks. His eyes flashing a warning. “But be careful.”

  7:04 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Looking at the footage streaming out of Berlin—the images of dazed and bloodied survivors staggering away from the devastated Hotel Adlon. . .it brought everything back. All the memories of watching television of the attack in Vegas that dark night.

  Not knowing then that his own daughter was among the dead.

  “Please accept my most heartfelt condolences, Heinrich,” David Lay said, clearing his throat as he stared at the photo sitting on his desk. A beautiful young woman, with azure-blue eyes the color of the sea. Just like her mother’s. “On behalf of myself and my country, please know that our thoughts and prayers are with you in the wake of this attack. My agency and I stand ready to do. . .whatever we can to assist you.”

  “Thank you,” came Köhler’s reply finally, following a pause so long that the CIA director almost thought he’d been disconnected from his German counterpart. “You have known such tragic loss of your own, David—I know your sympathy to be genuine. And I accept your offer of help. We are following up what leads we have, though details remain few.”

  “I will be on the phone with my Chief of Station in Berlin within the hour,” Lay promised, his eyes never leaving his daughter’s face. “He’ll be instructed to give you whatever cooperation you require.”

  Within reason, he thought, a caveat both men were professional enough to know went without saying. No intelligence agency was ever going to be completely open with another, not even an ally. Especially not an ally.