by Alex Carlson
He was locked in.
Chapter Seven
Berlitec’s main building was covered with glass and displayed a large, bright logo that projected the image of a company that could navigate the future. The adjacent laboratory, though functional in layout, was not without aesthetic considerations. The architect made an effort to ensure the style of the two buildings flowed in a unified direction. Together, the two buildings projected modernity, competence, and reliability. The entire grounds were free of graffiti, an impressive accomplishment in the graffiti capital of the world. It all told Rhys that Berlitec had no business being mentioned in a seedy mosque located next to an U-Bahn station.
The ride from Prenzlauer Berg had been cold, but the well-travelled streets were dry, so Rhys wasn’t worried about sliding under a city bus whenever he leaned through a turn. He had headed east to Reinickendorfer Strasse and then north up to Frohnau, the northernmost part of the city, where Berlitec was located. The cold wind had found its way into his collar and up his sleeves and by the time he got there his neck and wrists were numb and his balls had shriveled up and found refuge in his body.
Rhys was used to riding year-round. As a kid, only snow and ice kept him off his bike. His father had bought him his first motorcycle, a 125 cc Honda, when he was thirteen. It was a well-made bike, but he quickly outgrew its size and power and he got a 250 two years later.
All the kids had motorcycles, none had licenses, and no one cared. Most were taught to ride by their fathers and were told to ride safe or they’d wind up dead. Rhys was relatively responsible, but his youth naturally pushed his limits as he rode along Dixville Notch’s dirt roads, logging trails, and mountain ridges. Sure, he crashed from time to time, but he was spared those heartbreaking spinal cord injuries that are so possible on a motorcycle.
Dixville Notch was hardly a village in the true sense. The few people who lived there appreciated their privacy, so they built houses that were far apart. Still, there was some sense of community. In addition to the silly first-in-the-nation voting ritual, nearly everyone who lived in the area was somehow involved with the region’s one hotel, a grand hotel that had attracted visitors for over a century. All the locals were grounds men or cleaners or maids or wait staff, some full time, others part time. Rhys’ own father was the head groundskeeper and he knew just about everything there was to know about simple landscaping and horticulture. Moreover, he knew the forests, the mountains, the hunting hides, and could read the weather without a barometer.
Rhys’ mother was, as they say in the region, from away. She was more intellectual than the locals, which caused many to think she was standoffish. She’d been a professor of English at a college in Vermont and had only by chance met her future husband when he attended a gardening conference at the Woodstock Inn. He was sitting in the sun on a bench next to the hotel’s putting green. He looked so out of place in his plaid shirt tucked into a pair of navy blue Dickies that she was surprised to see him reading Aldo Leopold.
“Oh,” she said, stopping cold. “Are you a fan?”
He looked up her, squinting in the sun behind her. “More of a critic, really. Beautiful writing, I s’ppose, but I sometimes get the feeling we humans are superfluous in his world.”
“I teach English, so I’m more interested in the prose. I’ve assigned A Sand County Almanac in classes.”
“He’s written better ones,” he said. In his own modest style, he went on to suggest a few titles and she fell in love before he finished speaking, struck by his earthiness, his confidence, and his seeming utter indifference to her.
The romance took place both inside and outside of the bedroom and his knowledge of the land and surroundings so humbled her intellectual superiority that she dropped everything and moved further into the sticks across the state line.
Rhys, above all, had been an observant child. His father took him on walks through the woods and taught him about plants, animals, the land, the weather, and about hunting and woodcraft. Rhys shot his first deer at age nine and immediately regretted what he had done. His father tracked down the animal and prepared it and Rhys didn’t hunt again for two years. During that hiatus from hunting, he honed his power of observation. He could scan the horizon and identify threats or anomalies or stare at a single object for what seemed like hours, penetrating the thing until it revealed its secrets. A hole? The size indicated a woodchuck. Broken twig? A racing deer had a fright. Clouds? Yes, but it wouldn’t rain, not with clouds in that formation.
He showed an early talent for reading. By six, he was phrase-reading and taking in strings of words at a time. Local schools were insufficient for such a precocious child and the couple decided to have him homeschooled. They were reluctant to do so, as their understanding of homeschooling inevitably involved religious freaks and maladjusted kids. But they were wrong. They found networks of “normal” homeschoolers and were able to provide a balanced and deep education that met his needs. Socially, Rhys had strong connections with a couple boys in the area and never needed much more.
His speed-reading accelerated without any drop in comprehension. His mother pushed him and soon he could digest a page of an adult book in about fifteen seconds. Books became the core of his education and he read voraciously. There were just never enough. He quickly read all the children’s books in the local library and started into the young adult section. His mother taught correspondent courses for the University of New Hampshire, but did so less for the extra money than for the generous inter-library loans privileges. She ordered books from all over the world: biographies (athletes, generals, inventors, politicians), history books, classics, political science, science, mysteries, fantasy, science fiction, and westerns. He read it all. His focus was comparable to his observation in the woods. He just read and read, more or less a book per day. Often his mother forced him outside, where he rode his dirt bike through the mountain trails. Sometimes he snuck a pocketbook into his jacket.
The F800GS he now rode outside Berlitec’s facilities had the feel of his old dirt bikes, but it was comfortable and capable on city streets and even on the Autobahn. The tires weren’t knobbies, so it would be worthless in dirt, but at least the ride was smooth.
The street on which Berlitec was located was probably busy during the day, but it was empty in the middle of the night save for a solitary old Volkswagen parked across the street. Rhys turned his head as he passed Berlitec’s entrance and saw a single darkened car, a shiny new Audi, under a light in the parking lot. In the building, a single lit window on the third floor stood out from the darkened glass around it.
He didn’t stop or even slow down. He rode past the building, casually looking for security cameras, and then turned left at the first intersection, hoping to circle the building with two more lefts.
He completed his circle and was prepared to make a right and return into the city. He had just wanted to see the place, nothing more. It helped his thinking. But something nagged at him. What’s wrong with this picture? Something was out of whack. Was it the Audi in the lot or the light on in the building? Probably some poor accountant who had to submit a balance sheet in the morning. Or an executive finishing a report for government regulators. A custodian, perhaps, vacuuming the floors and emptying the trash bins one room at a time.
But then he noticed the whiff of exhaust sputtering from the tailpipe of the white VW across the street. Cold night, someone inside trying to stay warm. He did a U-turn in the street and quickly made three right turns in a reverse circle of the block. Back on Reinickendorfer Strasse, he accelerated and was now facing the front of the car. As he drove by he observed two men inside, comfortably sitting back for a long night in the car. The face of one was illuminated by a mobile phone. The other guy was yapping away, animatedly entertaining his partner. The car was parked in a way to observe the entrance to Berlitec’s parking lot as well as the lit window above.
Stakeout, thought Rhys. Somebody was watching whoever was inside. Now who else might be in
terested in Berlitec?
He didn’t want to drive by again. A motorcycle in the middle of winter gets attention. But he had so focused on who was inside that he didn’t read the plate. So he continued down the street, well into the distance and around a corner. Then he made a left and another and drove back on a street parallel to Reinickendorfer Strasse. He pulled over, kicked the stand down, and dismounted. He slowly approached the VW at an angle, staying in the mirrors’ blind spots, until he was close enough to read the license plate. He put it to memory.
The vibration startled him. He hadn’t felt it in a long time. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his vibrating phone. It could only be Lucinda Stirewalt and he immediately feared she might be a micromanager. He pushed the little green phone on the display and held the phone to his ear.
“Yeah?”
“Adler?
“Yeah.”
“Something’s come up. I need you. Now.”
Chapter Eight
McClellum aggressively worked the door, hoping the problem was his inexperience with those funny European door handles. He wiggled it, pushed it, pulled it, he even screamed at it, but it didn’t budge. Now what the hell is this, he thought, trying to impose reason on his aggravated state. He knocked, but there was little chance of being heard over the din coming from the lounge. He pounded wildly on the door.
Not knowing what to do, he then walked to the bed and sat down. Tereza would surely be back soon with an explanation. He’d just wait until she came and then get the hell out of the place.
The city outside was alive. He heard cars driving along Potsdamer Strasse. A train clamored through the Kurfürstenstrasse U-Bahn station a block away. If he concentrated, he could hear individual voices coming from the lounge, and sometimes an occasional cackle pierced the air when a woman laughed. McClellum could tell from where he sat that the laugh was forced, probably alcohol induced.
Then the general buzz in the lounge quieted as though the atmosphere had changed. Through the near silence he heard a man’s voice grow loud, an exhortation of some sort. Probably two drunks fighting over the attention of a woman or a perceived slight. Then he heard a grunt, followed immediately by a crash and he felt the floor vibrate as though something had slammed to the ground. McClellum couldn’t help himself. He walked to the door and put his ear to it, but whatever had happened was over. He heard silence.
Then pandemonium broke out. He heard tables being shoved aside and women fleeing past his door. Then a thick, guttural voice boomed in German, but since he didn’t understand the language, he couldn’t even guess what was said. A calmer voice answered, and McClellum assumed the situation was being brought under control.
Boom! It sounded like a firecracker exploding in a confined space. McClellum jumped back from the door. A second blast echoed down the hall and he knew he was hearing gunshots. He jumped across the room and ducked behind the bed.
After a silent pause, a long string of gunshots rang out. He covered his ears and through his hands he heard a single shot. He prayed it was the last.
He was reduced to whimpering. His heart raced and his mouth fumbled through words only he could hear. “I need to leave, I need to get out, I need to leave, I need to get out.” He controlled his breathing with short, shallow puffs of air as he crawled to his jacket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled down the display for Colin’s number.
He couldn’t find it and wondered whom he could call.
Outside the room, it was quiet again, and McClellum decided to return to his original plan: sit and wait for Tereza. Whatever is going on out there, it is their concern. Just sit and wait for Tereza. She’ll come and escort me out, preferably out the back door. That would be best. His ambassadorship had barely begun, and if this got out, he’d be an embarrassment to the president at the start of a new administration. And McClellum had such plans for his ambassadorship. He wanted to show he was serious, despite being a political appointee, to show he could make it on the world stage. He’d be a player, someone with real power. He’d—
The door exploded and splinters showered through the room. A man stepped through the shattered door. He wasn’t someone you provoked or opposed.
“Ambassador,” the man said, calmly. “Come with me. Now.”
Rhys had made a mad dash to Maxime’s, arriving stiffly cold twenty minutes after Stirewalt had called him. He saw Colin standing against the front fender of the ambassador’s car. He steered toward the vehicle and parked on the sidewalk next to it.
“You’re driving now?” Rhys asked as soon as his helmet was off. His tone conveyed incredulity.
“His security, actually,” said Colin. “Driving him around is part of the job description. Colin appeared relaxed. But then again, Colin was always relaxed.
Rhys knew him from the days before he left the Agency. Colin had been a rising star, and Rhys had him pegged to become the next deputy chief of station. He was a level head when an operation fell apart. He wasn’t necessarily the guy you wanted behind a gun when aggression was called for, but he calmly facilitated others in the middle of a shit storm, and that was a useful role. Driving an asshole ambassador around the city was a waste of his talents.
“They went into Maxime’s about an hour ago.”
“Why’d you let that happen?”
“Couldn’t stop him.”
Maxime’s, Adler knew, was connected to the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the Sluzhba vneshney razvedki. The SVR had perfected a modus operendi in which they’d record johns having their fun and then pop in the room to blackmail them. German bureaucrats were the usual targets, but the Russians weren’t averse to ensnaring foreigners as well. And now they have the American ambassador, thought Rhys. He must be as much an idiot as Stirewalt had suggested.
“We were tailed from the Russian embassy, but the car pulled off as we approached. A few minutes after McClellum and Tereza went in, the car returned and parked out front.”
“SVR?”
“More or less.”
“Anyone we know?”
“I think it was Andrei and Yevgeni. They were in no rush. They smoked a couple cigarettes by the car, got a call, then got all business-like and went in.”
Rhys knew the two. They weren’t officially SVR and they weren’t terribly professional, but they were effective, succeeding through aggression and intimidation. They also had ties to the Russian mafia and were involved with a number of scams going on the side. They were scum and Rhys didn’t mind going up against them.
“You got a piece for me?”
“Glove compartment.”
Rhys opened the driver’s door, leaned across the dashboard, and reached inside the glove compartment. The familiar weight and grip told him it was a Glock 17. He knew the matte-black handgun well and was thankful for its reliability. Rhys ejected the clip, saw it was loaded full, and slammed it in again. He confirmed that the safety was on and tucked it into his waistband in the small of his back.
“Alright. Be ready to roll. Tell station we’ll be coming in hot.”
Everyone looks up when someone enters a whorehouse and those at Maxime’s were no exception. The whores looked at Rhys, of course, checking out a potential new client, and at least one seemed pleased that he wasn’t old and fat. The middle-aged men in the room also looked at him. They had no qualms about being seen there and were less concerned about his presence than in the whores’ interest in him.
Rhys’ eyes scanned the room. The lighting was dim and freakishly red and he knew his eyes would take a moment to adjust. The women were scantily dressed, most wearing the smallest of panties with some kind of negligee over them. It revealed everything but gave them the illusion of being dressed. They didn’t seem to care, though. They probably considered it a uniform. They were older than Rhys would guess. All had something attractive about them, but they were no beauties. Most had ample flesh and had imperfections in their skin. They looked more like women in a sauna or on a nude beach with their nu
dity more natural than sexual. In fact, Rhys couldn’t imagine how anyone could be aroused by them.
He started toward the bar, knowing that the man behind it was the one to talk to. A woman, maybe fifty years old and doing a fairly good job at holding on to her sex appeal, approached him. She had some sort of authority and Rhys figured she might be Maxime herself.
“Welcome, Sweetie,” she said, her eyes lighting up and doing her best to keep his attention. “What are you looking for?”
Rhys said nothing.
“We have anything you are looking for. Would you like to see the girls available or do you have someone in mind?”
Rhys felt sorry for her and rest of the women there. He could tell they weren’t German. Most were probably far, far from home and they couldn’t be living the lives they had hoped for. He figured most were Russian, and all were certainly from somewhere in Eastern European.
“Can we get you a drink?” Maxime asked.
“I’m looking for a friend,” he said as his eyes scanned the room.
“Who is she, Schatz? Some girls are busy at the moment.”
“He’s with a girl named Tereza. Arrived about an hour ago.”
“Well I’m sure Tereza is taking good care of your friend. Have a seat and a drink and I’ll have someone come by to keep you company while you wait.”
“He needs to leave now.” He continued toward the bar, pushing her out of the way with his shoulder.
A man sitting on the couch didn’t like the way Rhys had pushed her aside and rose, puffing up his chest as he walked toward Rhys. “Time to go, friend,” he said, stepping between Rhys and the bar.
“I will, but not without who I came for.”
“No, you’ll go now,” the man said, reaching up to push Rhys back.
